“What if we become priests?” asks one of the boys.
“Do you all want to become priests?” Fra Anto says with a big smile that they know is his expression for half-joking, half-serious. “All of you! That will make the bishop very happy.”
They laugh again.
His face grows serious: “I pray that some of you will become priests, if it is God’s will. Usually few are called to this path. For most, it is the other holy path, to bring new life, to make families, and to build a place on earth where we all can live.”
“Rajska Polja”, someone murmurs.
“The fields of heaven”, Fra Anto smiles pensively. “Whether it is here or elsewhere, you must carry the fields of heaven within you.”
“But Fra Anto,” says a younger boy, “what do you do with those powers you’re talking about if you aren’t going to have a wife?”
His brow furrows a little. The boys can tell he is thinking about how to express it.
“It remains within you as a strength. It is always part of what makes you a man. Yet what truly makes you a man is your moral strength—your decision every day to leave this power unused. Then this power is absorbed into your heart and your heart grows. You give it to God, and he gives back to you many children.”
“How?”
“In the heart of the soul”, says Fra Anto. Then, after a pause, a big grin, a glance of warm affection: “You are my children!”
The boys return his grin. They like this. They like Fra Anto a lot. He’s not their father, but he is like a father to them. So they are like sons.
“Is it nice, having no wife?” someone asks.
“The meals aren’t so great”, says Fra Anto.
They laugh.
“How soon can I get married?” asks Petar.
“Give it a few years yet, Petar Dučić”, grins Fra Anto.
More laughter. Petar gets his shoulders poked by the boys beside him.
“Don’t you get lonely, Fra Anto?” asks one.
“Yes, sometimes. But everyone feels lonely now and then, even husbands and wives who love each other very much.”
Silence, as the boys absorb this. They are thinking about their parents.
He gives them a minute or two to ponder, then concludes, “In this world are many people who do not master their bodies. Such people say that no one can tell them what to do, not even God, and they think that in this way they have no master. In the end they become slaves to anything.”
“Like the Turks.”
“Well, I suppose a bit like the Turks when they stole our young people and made them into slaves.”
“Fra Anto,” pipes Josip, “you mean we mustn’t let our bodies be Turks over our souls?”
“That’s right”, says the priest. “You are free men. But to remain free you must work hard.”
Josip is alone in the church before the Blessed Sacrament. He has knelt a long time, praying in the ways he has learned to pray from childhood. Mostly words. But there is something new: the current that has awoken in his heart. It’s what he feels for Josipa. Yet he is not thinking about her exactly. The current contains her but is not her. This is perplexing. What does it mean? What is this current? He felt it with the swallow by the sea, on the mountain with Josipa, and now here alone in the church. He does not need to think overmuch to realize that it is the presence in this church, the Body and Blood of Jesus. He knows this. He has felt it before: a flash on the day of his First Holy Communion, another flash on the day of his Confirmation, when the bishop came to Rajska Polja. Now it is here again. And it is lingering, swelling, fading, rising again. And this time it is not just because Josipa is in his thoughts.
So, he gets up off his knees and simply sits in the pew, soaking in the peace of the church, gazing fondly at the red cloth covering the tabernacle, glancing from time to time at the flickering vigil light, the crucifix over the tabernacle, and the glow of colors fading in the stained-glass windows that depict scenes from St. Francis’ life. He is preaching to the birds. He is opening his arms to receive the wounds of Christ in his hands. He is taming a wolf. Josip sighs and closes his eyes. Here is the exact center of the fields of heaven. Here is the source.
Usually, almost always, he does not stay long after Mass, or the Rosary, or other parish events that take place in the church. The impulses of his body fling him out of the pew like the other boys, and he must command his limbs sternly in order to bring them under control, to genuflect, to walk slowly and reverently to the door and out into the village street. Now he doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stay and stay and stay forever. Eventually, he hears his mother’s voice calling him. He gets up and goes out the door to find that it is completely dark outside. When he had entered, only moments ago it seems, the sun was lowering in the sky, but sunset was still far off. Has he been inside the church all this time?
Mamica is annoyed with him. She has been searching everywhere. He has had no supper. She slaps him lightly on the back of his head, and he stumbles forward. She catches him and kisses the spot she has slapped. Is he feeling ill? He shakes his head. Is anything making him sad? He shakes his head again. They go home with their arms around each other. He climbs the ladder to the loft and falls instantly asleep.
It is autumn now, a tide of red and yellow slowly washing across the upper slopes, the oaks tuning purple and brown. On blustery days, the wind threshes the seeds from their branches and scatters them onto the forest floor. The days are fine and clear, the evening sky is crowded with stars. There is frost at night, and the grass around the houses is covered with a film of crystals each morning. The cockerel crowing in the dawn rings clearer than it has all summer.
Josip and Petar are working in the field with Petar’s father. The Dučić family owns a tract of land to the north of the village, not far from where the valley narrows and ends, sealed by the two ranges that border it. Miro Lasta is with the boys, forking hay into a cart. The hay was cut three days ago with sickle and scythe and has been drying in the sun. Petar’s father will give the Lastas some of this hay for Svez’s winter feed. The men are chatting as they work side by side. Josip and Petar do the same. All morning and throughout the early afternoon they work in this manner. Miro stops from time to time to drink from a water-skin, wipe the sweat from his brow, and check the blisters on the palms of his hands. He has bandaged them with rags. He does not complain. Load after load of hay is hauled by Petar’s donkey cart to the barn beside the Dučić’s home. The final load of the day is taken to the Lastas’ shed.
Mamica has been busy with some village women, packing vegetables into the root cellar behind the house. Potatoes, carrots, cabbage, turnips, beets. Their tasks completed, Mamica has spread a checkered red and white cloth on the grass, and the women are sitting around it, eating bread and butter and sipping from glasses of red wine, which one of the other mothers has brought. It’s a wonderful feeling, this sitting in the late afternoon sun with the barns and the cellars full. They are ready for winter. Firewood is stacked by the kitchen door, though they could use a little more in case the approaching winter is severe. Mamica has a fire going in the kitchen cook stove, and the breeze occasionally pushes gusts of smoke down among them. She intends to make bread later with the fresh grain that is now spilling over the top of the storage bins. For the moment she is content, working even as she rests, joking with the other women as they braid garlic stems and tie up bunches of onions that will hang from the rafters of their kitchens.
“Done for the day?” she asks Miro as he flings himself down onto the grass beside her. Nodding, he lays his head on his wife’s lap. A neighbor woman fills a cup with wine and hands it to him. He takes it gingerly, because of his blisters, and sips with pleasure. There are smiles and banter all around.
Without warning, a gunshot echoes across the valley. First Petar and then Josip jump to their feet and stare toward the end of the fields—no, not precisely to the end, rather to the northeast slopes. The boys are thinking, is it the secret
gun owned by Petar’s father? But they do not say anything about this.
No, it cannot be his gun. The sounds are too far away, and besides, there he is, Mr. Dučić, a small figure standing at the end of the valley with nothing in his hands. He too is staring up the slopes. There are more gunshots, all distant, fading and fading. And then there are no more.
“It’s just hunters”, says Mamica, though her eyes reveal her worry that it is a different kind of hunter from those who seek the alpine deer.
“Perhaps”, says Miro, standing now, staring toward the mountains without blinking, his body completely still. There is no more conversation; there are no more shots. The adults look away and set about gathering up the food and dishes. The tension departs as swiftly as it came, and everyone goes about his business.
Josip and Petar are left alone with their thoughts. They exchange glances, turn, and stride up the slope toward the trees. By unspoken agreement, they will visit the castle. They are halfway to the edge of the forest when a shriek comes from below. It is Josip’s mother standing by the kitchen door. He has never before heard this tone from her.
“Come down here!” she cries, beckoning frantically with her arms.
“We’re going to get more firewood!” Josip shouts back. “No, come now, Josip! Petar, you too!”
Groaning, they obey. The world is ruled by anxious mothers!
When they arrive at the house, Josip asks: “What’s the matter, Mamica? We were just going up to the trees to get dead wood.”
“You do not go anywhere from now on, unless you first ask me or your father”, she says emphatically, with a wild look in her eyes that is, again, something he has never before seen in her. This is sobering, and he nods.
“I won’t, Mamica.”
“Good. Now go help your father in the shed. He is trying to pitch the hay into Svez’s loft with those hands of his. Petar, will you help too?”
“Yes, Gospodja Lasta”, he bobs his head humbly.
“Good, and stop into the kitchen before you go home. I have a little cake to send to your mother.”
This is worth a grudging smile from both boys. They head off to the barn smartly, and before they know it another day draws to a close.
Sunday morning, two or three weeks after the gunshots. Mass has ended and people are pouring out of the church. The first snow fell during the night but has melted away. The sun is shining brightly, and it promises to be a warm day.
The men have their heads together, worried. Yesterday there was a thick fog in the valley and wolves came down from the heights and attacked the flock. There are five small flocks in the village that usually graze together, guarded by a single shepherd. The families take turns watching over them. Petar was on duty. When he heard the sudden panic of sheep bells and the braying of the donkey, he knew there was trouble somewhere on the outer perimeter of the flock. Gripping his staff, he strode through the mist toward the commotion and stumbled upon a dead ewe and lamb. The faces and feet had been ripped off. His donkey stood nearby, screaming with fright. Usually wolves will attack a donkey first, which is why one of these poor decoys is always with the flock.
Petar now tells the men that he saw a brown animal slinking away into the fog. Winter wolves are black or dark gray, summer wolves are brown. The men discuss this—the color indicates that the marauders came from lower in the mountains, where winter arrives later than it does in Rajska Polja. The implications are now analyzed in detail.
“Damn!” exclaims one of the shepherds. “If only we had our guns!”
Petar and his father exchange a look.
Fra Anto comes out onto the front steps, as he usually does, to chat with parishioners who linger in the dooryard. He is in an energetic mood and suggests to some of the parents that he and the altar boys take a hike in the hills. Not far, just to the end of the valley and back, through the forest rim, not on the valley floor. No one has any objections, though there is more hesitation than usual.
A walk with Fra Anto is always an adventure. Even so, today there are few young people interested. Some have schoolwork to complete, some are nervous about wolves, and some have unfinished chores in preparation for winter. For various other reasons, only a ragtag group of disciples sets out with him an hour later. Josip, Petar, an older lad named Marko, and his little brother, Sasa. The latter is slightly built and not yet seven years old. Fra Anto has doubts about the boy’s ability to climb with them. Sasa pleads desperately, however, leaning every gram of energy into his body and facial expression, and Fra Anto gives in. He cannot bear to disappoint him, though he knows he will probably be carrying Sasa on his shoulders before the day is over.
Fra Anto has packed a rucksack full of bread and cheese, also smoked sausage (gifts from people who have killed their pigs). He is dressed for a hardy trek: rough trousers, shirt, a woolen sweater, and sandals, though sockless.
So, off they go! Straight up the slope of the pasture and into the trees. Turning to the left, they proceed in a northwesterly direction through the sparse undergrowth beneath the oaks. Fra Anto has to bend not to get hit in the eye. Acorns are everywhere underfoot. Birds and small animals flee as the hikers approach, and you can hear them rustling away through the bushes. The sun bakes a wonderful smell from the ground beneath pine trees. The higher the hikers go, the more pines there are, stunted, bristling with green cones, and dripping sap.
Little by little, the trees thin out, and the going is easier. Sassa asks for a break. They stop and drink water. Fra Anto passes around a bag of small candies, one for each person. Where has he obtained such a treasure! It is ecstasy. Petar crunches and swallows. Josip remembers to let it melt slowly. Marko does the same. Sassa simply gulps his down and licks his lips. He takes Fra Anto’s hand and stares up at him with adulation. The priest laughs and says, “You are a strong fellow, Sassa! I am proud of you!” The boy beams and dances on the spot.
“Let’s get going”, says Fra Anto, “We have a long way to go, and I have a big surprise for you.”
A surprise! Now everyone is hooked; they will not lag behind for anything.
Another hour passes during which they pick their way through a stretch of sharp white stones that have fallen down from the peaks above. The slope of the mountain is bending sharply around to the west, where it meets its counterpart. Now they have arrived at the end of the valley. Far behind and below is the little smudge of Rajska Polja resting in the green sliver of its pastures. It is hard to believe that their village is so small, nothing at all really. An airplane flying overhead could not spot it, unless it were looking for it. It seems you could toss a stone from one side of the valley to the other.
Indeed, at the spot they are now standing, they could do just that, for the mountain walls have closed in here, prohibiting passage into the interior. There is no pass, no road, not even a goat track.
“Now the surprise”, says Fra Anto with a cunning smile.
He leads them through the stones and stunted oaks to the crest of a fold in the mountain. The fold is little more than a vertical ridge among other such ridges scoring the cul-de-sac.
“Look down”, says Fra Anto.
Their eyes wander down to the bottom of the fold, and they see that it works itself deep into the body of the mountain—deeper than is visible at first from any other direction.
“There was once a narrow pass here”, says Fra Anto. “Long ago, more than a century ago.”
“But where is it?” Petar asks.
“It’s here, buried beneath those boulders at the bottom. No army, no cannons, no vehicles could come this way now, but in times past it was not so. That is why there was a Turkish fort here.”
“Ah”, says Petar with excitement.
“Your grandfathers’ grandfathers would have seen it as it was before it was blocked.”
“But who blocked it?” asks Josip.
“The Turks. When the Austrians advanced and began to push them from our land, the Turkish overlords saw that they could not ho
ld all passages to the south. This pass was never important, not even before the invasions, but it was a danger to the Turks because it was a backdoor into their territory. I should say, it was a backdoor leading to another backdoor. The main routes were well guarded, but in the end, as they lost ground, they tried to seal all gates. So, they brought their cannons here and blasted the mountains above the pass until it was filled with rubble.”
“But why have our people not remembered it?” Petar asks with a frown.
“I do not know why they have forgotten, but it may be because the pass was rarely used at any time in ages past. Then the Austrians took it all into their empire, and peace was enforced. The Turks, our greatest enemy, were cast out. There had never been much need for the people of Rajska Polja to take this route, for there are thousands of kilometers of barren hills in this direction, while the paths to the city were open at the other end of the valley.” Fra Anto goes down on his knees and withdraws a map from inside his shirt. He opens it on the ground, and the children kneel to hold it flat against the breeze.
“See here”, he says, pointing to a hairline among a sea of wriggling lines that represent the mountains and ranges of Bosnia-Herzegovina. “This is the valley of Rajska Polja. Beyond us there is little human habitation. But there are routes, leading to other routes, that will bring your feet to roads a hundred kilometers north of here, and from there into Slavonija, and beyond into Austria and Hungary. If an army had a map, or a guide, many soldiers and horse-drawn cannons could be brought quietly this way, close to the cities of the south, without the Turks knowing it.”
“That is why the fort is here”, murmurs Petar.
“Yes, though it was really no more than a watchtower. All of that ended when the Turks withdrew.”
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