Island of The World

by Michael D. O'Brien

  “Before he died, my grandfather once told me there was a way into the north from Rajska Polja. I thought his mind was failing.”

  “His memory may not have been clear, Petar, but what he told you was true.”

  Fra Anto folds the map and stuffs it inside his shirt. Standing, he smiles with satisfaction: “Well, should we go down and see the pass that does not exist?”

  It takes a good while to descend because they must step carefully among the boulders and the sliding scree, added to the fact that descent is always harder on the legs than climbing. The slope eventually spills them out onto a roughly horizontal gully, level with the valley floor. Turning to face the wall of mountain, they find that in the shadow of a ravine deeper than the others lies a tumble of huge rocks. Fra Anto leads the way into the shadow and comes to a stop against a pile of boulders. The rubble blocking the pass is about ten meters high. Clearly no horse or military equipment could be brought through here. Even so, a man could climb. This they now proceed to do—even Saša, who is half carried up and over some treacherous spots by his brother. He asks to be put down; he can do it himself, he says.

  Reaching the top, they progress along the ravine a hundred meters or so, stepping from boulder to boulder. In a sense, it is a pathway, though at all times uneven. In many places, it is possible to go only in single file. Soon the boulders are fewer in number, and they begin to descend. It is like a staircase now, leading them downward to the other side. When they reach the bottom, they find themselves standing in a narrow stretch of ravine on the north side of the barrier. The ground underfoot is flat, covered with natural pebbles and light debris that have slid down from the mountain slopes. Dusty bushes grow here and there. The soil is parched and hardly anything is growing in it, except for some prickly shrubs and tufts of sallow grass. It might be good enough for goats to live on, but not for sheep, and certainly not for men.

  “Well, should we go back?” Fra Anto asks with raised eyebrows, waiting for their response.

  “No, no!” come the unified cries, “Let’s go on! A little farther!”

  And so they go on. The walking is fairly easy now, after all the climbing. The ravine never changes in appearance, though the route twists and turns sharply or meanders gradually, only to return to its irregular pattern. Whoever traveled here in times past would need to have much patience, for this is not as the crow flies. After half an hour, they stop to drink from their water-skins and eat some bread and sausage. Their appetites are keen, and most of the food is soon gone.

  “Should we go back?” Fra Anto asks. This time there is some indecision. Saša and Marko are worried about reaching home in time for supper, though they are willing to go on a little farther.

  “Half an hour more”, says Fra Anto with a smile. “There is another surprise.”

  That settles it. They continue on their way, the minutes seem to fly, and not long afterward the ravine widens to about twice its prior size. A miniature valley lies before them, about fifteen meters across and just as long. At the far end, it narrows again and resumes its former course. The glen is covered in thick blue-green grass. Scattered here and there are a few late-blooming alpine blossoms that have escaped the frost. In the middle of the glen lies a pool of clear water, fed by a trickle that falls down from the cliffs above, making a spray where it strikes a rock beside the pool. In the spray is a rainbow.

  “The water is good”, says Fra Anto. “You can drink it.”

  The young people run forward and throw themselves onto their knees. Then they lie down and thrust their lips into the pool. It is about three meters in diameter, a meter deep. The bottom is white stone, clean, with no weeds or slime. The water is cold and flavored pleasantly with minerals. The pool is ringed by grass with a rim of damp gravel. As the young people continue to drink at the pool, Fra Anto happens to glance down at a strip of gravel. He sees there the prints of deer. Then he sees the imprint of a boot. He stares at it for a minute or two, then he says in a quiet voice:

  “Let’s go home.”

  BLOOD

  5

  The snow lies thick on Rajska Polja. Christmas has come and gone. The festivities have been unusually merry this year, with generous gifts exchanged between families throughout the twelve holy days. People sense the war will soon be over and peace restored in the land. Though there is still some concern about what kind of peace this will be, they are praying for the Allies to establish a free Yugoslavia. In their most hopeful moments, they think it possible that an independent Croatia will emerge, a new country composed of all the regions where Croats are the majority, including Herzegovina. This nation existed in times long past and more recently in artificial forms under Austrians and Italians. Why not again?

  It is the last day of the year 1944. A group of men are standing together in the lane outside the church. The women and children have all gone to their homes to prepare meals. A few older boys have been permitted to hang on at the edge of the discussion. Josip, unseen, is among them.

  Miro Lasta cautions that it is optimistic to hope for a democratic Croatia at this time because the Partisans have now grown to such strength of numbers that they have organized into a regular army and call themselves the legitimate army of Yugoslavia. Rumors have filtered south that this Partisan army is slowly pushing the Home-Guard and remnants of the Axis ever closer to the borders of Austria. They are heading for Zagreb, though they are meeting much resistance along the way. If they win, they will make a new government in Belgrade.

  The other men of the village are certain that when the Allies come, they will stop the Partisan and Chetnik outrages and throw all the perpetrators into prison. Fra Anto says this will not happen because the Allies are supporting the new army.

  “Support the Communists!” the men reply. “They would never do that.”

  “They are already doing it”, says Fra Anto with a dark look. “And where it will end, none can tell.”

  Josip makes a Christmas gift for Josipa. On the feast of the Mother of God, he will give it to her. It will be late because some of the skills needed in its making are difficult. He borrows Mamica’s paints and in the privacy of his loft, by candlelight, brushes a face on the largest acorn he can find—very pretty. He gets Mamica to teach him how to braid strands of blond hairs plucked from Svez’s mane. “For what are you learning this, Josip?” she asks him with a laugh.

  “I will help you braid the garlic next autumn”, he replies with a masked expression. Of course she knows this expression well and can see right through it, but she decides to leave it alone.

  Using a paste of chalk and gum from boiled rabbit skin, he glues the braids onto the doll’s head. Then, after the braids, a body and arms of oat straw tied into the right shape by twine. A twig is inserted into the head; then it is popped into the bundle of straw and secured by a dab of glue. Finally, a remnant of blue cloth from Mamica’s sewing basket, not quite like Josipa’s dress, but close. A borrowing of needle and thread, and the masterpiece is complete!

  He goes to the church early on the morning of the feast, the first day of January. No other people have arrived yet. He knows where she always sits with the blacksmith’s family for Mass, the exact spot on the precise pew. He has wrapped the doll in an old newspaper and tied it with red thread. He has painted her name on it. He leaves it in the place where she sits, returns to his family’s pew, and kneels. He can feel the current, but whether it is Christ or purely the thought of Josipa, he does not know, does not ask.

  She arrives with her aunt and uncle and cousins. His eyes hurt with the effort of watching her without turning his head. She sees the package, her face lights up, and her eyes instantly flicker toward him and smile. The glance of the swallows. She holds it against her chest throughout the Mass, even when she goes up to receive Communion. As she returns to her seat after receiving, she does not look up. Her face is reposed, looking inward, though her arms press the package close to her heart.

  After Mass they do not meet, do not
have a chance to speak, not even with the eyes.

  Late in the afternoon, as Mamica is preparing a chicken to go into the broiler for supper, cutting vegetables for the pot, and sprinkling her secret spices, there comes a knock at the door.

  Josip’s father closes the Bible he has been reading, removes his eye glasses, and gets up to answer it. Standing there on the porch is Josipa.

  His voice booms with hearty greeting, “Ah, Josipa!”

  Up in the loft, Josip hears this and his heart begins to hammer. Suddenly, he can hardly breathe. He has been lying on the floor reading a book about the creatures of the sea. Now, without thinking, he slides toward the ladder and scrambles down it hand over hand, flipping near the bottom, and landing on his feet. Fortunately, no one has seen this extraordinary behavior because Mamica has bustled to the door and is brushing snow from the shoulders of Josipa’s coat, whisking off the girl’s kerchief, and sweeping her boots with the twig broom.

  “This is so nice, such a surprise!” exclaims Mamica. “Come in now and have a bite.”

  Wordlessly, Josipa smiles, bobs her head, and seats herself at the kitchen table. Josip’s father is standing near her and is asking if she has finished reading the book he gave her. Since last autumn he has been lending Josipa books to take home from school to read. They are his own books, and they have developed a habit of discussing each one after classes while Josip and Petar are wrestling with other boys out in the snow of the school yard.

  Josipa says shyly that she likes the Austrian fairy tales very much but thinks the Croatian ones are better. He asks her why she thinks this.

  She explains, and adds that she does not like the tales by the brothers Grimm.

  Mamica is rummaging about in the cupboard in search of the remains of the Christmas bread, with raisins, dried cherries, and sugar dust on top. She is slicing it now to bring to the table. Then a dish of butter, a jug of goat’s milk, and a glass.

  As Josip’s father and the visitor talk about the book—which she has brought to the house to return—Josip remains paralyzed at the foot of the ladder. He does not reflect on what he must look like to the others. He is merely there—a consciousness. His mouth hangs open, his chest is heaving, his eyes are moist, and his hands dangle by his sides, with arms spread a little as if on the verge of flexing and carrying him into the sky. He is aware of nothing regarding himself, save for a heart banging so hard it threatens to shake all of him into pieces.

  “Josip!” his mother exclaims. “Don’t be rude. Come and greet our guest. You know each other, don’t you?”

  Of course they know each other, of course—as no other souls on earth know each other. This, above all other truths, must remain unspoken.

  Josip moves his legs woodenly toward the kitchen and slowly seats himself in the chair opposite her. He scrapes the chair forward. By an act of the will, he is able to fold his hands on the table top and nod a greeting. As if he is indifferent to her presence.

  She nods in return.

  “Josip, close your mouth!” says Mamica.

  He closes his mouth.

  “Lost in the clouds”, she explains to Josipa. “What were you reading up there?”

  “Ab-bout the-the-the s-sea”, he stammers. His parents glance at him curiously.

  “Have some bread, Joshko”, says father with a small smile.

  Josip’s parents and the girl eat and chat. Josip says nothing. Josipa says little. She finishes her bread, drinks a glass of milk, and then rises.

  “I have to go back to my auntie”, she says with a smile. “We are bathing the baby tonight.”

  “Ah, good”, says Mamica. “That is a fine baby. Your aunt and uncle are blessed to have a houseful of such beautiful girls.”

  Josipa smiles again and dons her outside clothing. Mamica wraps the last of the Christmas bread in a cloth and gives it to her to take to her aunt.

  Josip’s father and mother accompany the girl to the door. Josip is still frozen to his chair, and his mouth has dropped open again. The door is now open. Outside it is dark and heavier snow is falling.

  “Josip,” says his father, “go along with Josipa. It’s hard to see in this dark, and it would be easy to slip on the icy patches. Besides, I have books to lend her, too heavy for her to carry.”

  “Too heavy?” says Mamica, with a raised eyebrow.

  Josip’s father goes to his bookshelves and selects three volumes. Josip has now put on his boots and his outside coat over his sweater. His father gives him the books to stuff inside his coat, so the snow will not stain the covers.

  The little gray cat is sitting in the snow, waiting, mewing plaintively. Josipa scoops it up in her arms and the two young people set out, side by side into blinding snowfall. Their feet know where they are going. They are silent. The glance of the swallows is impossible in the dark, nor would they dare the brush of an arm against arm, yet Josip feels the presence of her soul. She feels the presence of his. They both know this, and know it as one.

  Who are you? Where have you come from? Where are you going?

  They already know the answers. The questions are merely a trusted form through which the more real thing can pass between them.

  No longer do I see you, Josip thinks without words, but you are here.

  If you were to speak at last, what would you say? she replies. And if I were to speak at last, what would I say?

  I am here, his soul cries, I am here, I am here.

  There is no need to say this; it is already spoken.

  On the doorstep of her home, he gives her the books. She removes a package from within her coat and gives it to him. Then, at the same moment, they turn from each other and part.

  Upon returning home, Josip carries the package unseen to the loft. He notices that his name has been penciled on the paper. Carefully, he unwraps it.

  Inside is a twig about six inches in length. He turns it this way and that. It is a thin stem of wood with two smaller branches rising at an angle from it, like a tiny body with raised arms. Looking closer, he sees that she has scratched the shape of a man onto it. There are holes in the hands and the feet and the side. Now he understands what it is. Tucked horizontally between the arms and the center pole, crossing behind the head, is a brilliant blue feather.

  He drops to his knees and rolls over onto his back, accidentally kicking over the candlestick. He pays no notice. Its flame snuffs out, but the flame within him flares. He rolls around on the floor, holding the gift to his lips, kissing and kissing and kissing Jesus, Josipa, the swallow.

  A month has passed. There have been killings in villages to the north and to the east, mostly in regions beyond Sarajevo and Mostar. Word has reached Fra Anto that Partisan brigades are responsible. In addition, they have been firing their rifles and, occasionally, mortar shells at the great shrine of Široki Brijeg, from which all the students have been sent home. The Franciscans remain, though their provincial in Mostar has encouraged them to consider coming into the city, where there is some protection. He has suggested that the seminarian friars return to their families, but none have chosen to do so. Even so, there have been raids in Mostar, political assassinations, and isolated atrocities. Though the war appears to be nearing an end, vicious fighting between rival groups has not abated in many regions of Yugoslavia. For the most part, the factions have merged with the Partisan army, yet they continue to terrorize all the countryside. It is impossible to know where they will strike next.

  It is now the first week of February. A difficult birth is taking place in the village. A woman who lives in the house beside Petar’s is delivering her first child. She is young, married to an older man whose name is Josip. Close to forty years of age, he is a farmer, and one of the most devout people in the village. When he was a boy, it is said, he wanted to become a priest but did not have the intelligence for it. He remained a bachelor until last year and even now is considered to be something of a home-grown saint, for never has an unkind word crossed his lips, though it must be admi
tted that, on occasion, a sip of slivovica has crossed those lips. He is liked by all, and everyone rejoices that he and his wife have been blessed with a child. His wife—whose name is Tereza and who is a cousin of Petar’s family—is from the next village beyond the end of the valley, a place fifteen kilometers away along the trail to the south. The couple has been very happy together this past year. Yet the baby is coming a month early, and the woman has begun to bleed.

  Her screams can be heard throughout the village whenever a contraction comes. Some of the men decide to take a stroll in the forest despite the depth of the snow, and they invite the worried husband to go with them. They tell him: What can you do here! You will worry yourself sick! But the man refuses to leave his wife’s side. Mamica and Petar’s mother are in the couple’s bedroom, stroking Tereza’s forehead, rubbing her belly gently, and whispering reassurances. A few old women are also in the room, among them one who was the village midwife for two generations until she went blind. Though her blindness is not a great impediment, she must rely on what the other women describe, or what her arthritic fingers can feel.

  “It does not look good”, she murmurs.

  The others can tell very well that the situation is not good because the bleeding does not stop, no matter how many cloths full of ice chips they place on her belly and beneath her lower back. So far, there has not been a great loss of blood, yet it steadily increases over the passing hours, and the baby is still no lower in the canal. It is alive, the old midwife declares. She can feel its tiny heartbeat through her fingers; it flutters like a bird, she says, as her eyes stare into space with two white moons in them, her fingers seeing better than any eyes in the room, blind or otherwise.

  Petar has retreated to Josip’s loft where they are working on their mathematics problems, trying not to hear the screams from the other end of the village.

  “It’s hard to be a woman”, Petar sighs at one point and throws down his pencil.