Singing Waters

by Ann Bridge

  When all the bowls were half-full the Princess laid down her gourd, went out into the courtyard, and returned with a handful of small chips of wood; with these she made the round of the uneven hand-hammered bowls, pushing a sliver or two in under each of them till they stood steady and level—then, flinging the remaining chips out through the door with a bowler’s vigour and accuracy, she took up the gourd and resumed her pouring, this time filling each bowl to the brim. Gloire watched, fascinated; she loved using her own body with skill, and would have liked to try her hand at pouring from that impossible gourd—but as she could not ask if she might she merely sat and looked on, smoking.

  As the second pouring neared its end people began to flock into the dairy. Lisa and Marte appeared, and the household women—all with cups in their hands. The two men who had brought in the cauldron reappeared with a slatted wooden tray piled with square flat loaves of yellow maize bread, barely two inches thick; Mme. Lek-Gionaj sent one of them away again and from the tray held by the other broke pieces off the loaves, which she gave to her daughters and to the women, and then filled their cups with what was left of the milk in the cauldron. The second man now reappeared with a cup and another slab of bread; Mme. Lek-Gionaj filled the cup and gave it to Gloire, with a piece of the loaf—this was wheaten bread, evidently reserved for guests. Gloire was hungry, and the hot milk and saltless bread tasted delicious; perched on her stool, sipping and munching, she watched the rest of the household being given the first meal of the day. As their cups were filled the women and girls moved off, and others took their places; then it was the men’s turn. They too came forward cup in hand; with them came Fran, the teamsters from the caravan, and the two gendarmes. All were fed, bowed their thanks, and moved off in their turn—Mme. Lek-Gionaj had a word for each, usually of a humorous nature, it seemed, for the dark faces broke into smiles, teeth flashed in laughter. Valentino appeared with several cups and took them away, filled, with a dish of the wheaten bread—doubtless to feed her companions, Gloire thought.

  She looked round the dairy. The wooden ceiling was literally black with flies, and that mass of milk was unscreened, there was no sign of an ice-box to keep it in. Yet all those men and women, who presumably lived on it, and on the kous now setting in the bowls, looked perfectly healthy. Most extraordinary. Gloire was in fact strangely impressed by the scene she had just witnessed. “I can’t see it,” she had said in the night; now, in that dairy, she had seen—seen something, she felt wonderingly, of what Larsen had meant her to see.

  But she ran away from her impression. Springing up with a smile and a nod to her hostess, she went out into the courtyard, and there encountered Miss Glanfield and Mrs. Robinson. Mme. Lek-Gionaj followed her, and greetings were exchanged—Mme. Lek-Gionaj’s, as Mrs. Robinson subsequently told them, took the singular form of:

  “Did you suffer?”

  They decided to spend the day in an expedition up Mali Shënjt: Miss Glanfield could not see a mountain without wishing to go up it, and hoped for alpine flowers—Gloire was all for going up any mountain too. Since they were to leave next morning on their further journey they set off almost at once, in the rather faint hope that a return in the afternoon might produce the evening meal earlier than 11 P. M.; they took Fran, and Miss Glanfield’s pony for the lunch—their gendarme escort of course accompanied them.

  Mali Shënjt consists, as has been said, of a long ridge of mountain with pine-covered slopes rising to screes and open pastures, topped by a line of cliffs and pinnacles of bare rock. Their route led them by a good path through pine woods up to the pass at the head of the valley; there they turned left, and climbed over pastures and through more woods, till they came out above the tree-line on open slopes, half pasture and half screes fallen from the rocks above. As they climbed up over these, now in great heat, Colonel Robinson pointed out some small stone buildings in a hollow by a stream—“That’s where they come in summer.”

  “Who come?” Miss Glanfield asked.

  “The Lek-Gionajs and the whole outfit, with the sheep and so on; they bring them up for the summer pasturing, and make cheese up here and hay lower down.”

  “Oh, just like the Senns in Switzerland,” said Miss Glanfield, who was darting here and there, putting small bright flowers away in the short-cake tin.

  “It would be rather fun to come up here then, wouldn’t it?” Gloire observed, sniffing the keen mountain air like a dog, and looking round her with satisfaction.

  “Shouldn’t think it would suit you,” the Colonel gibed; “it’s a luxury down at the house compared to what you’d get up here.”

  They lunched right on the top of the ridge; Miss Glanfield, who had given Fran her flower-press to bring along, spent most of the meal arranging her newest finds in it. Afterwards she suggested to Gloire that they should look for a suitable piece of cliff and get some scrambling; the Robinsons found a patch of shade in which to snooze and settled down, the Colonel calling out that they ought to start back in an hour and a half, and not to do anything reckless—“We don’t want any broken legs up here—damned awkward place for that sort of thing.”

  Gloire and Miss Glanfield kept along the crest for about half a mile, enjoying the vast view of tumbled country which extended in all directions, blue and white under the strong sun, till they reached a point where a big castle-like group of pinnacles jutted out from the main ridge. The rock looked pretty good, and they sat and examined possible routes up it. Having settled on a particular rib, they found a way down to its foot by a scree-filled gully, and then started to climb, Miss Glanfield leading. All went well for the first few minutes; the rocks were not difficult, and seemed fairly sound. But presently they reached a point where a bulge above made it necessary to traverse to the left towards another gulley, along a rather awkward ledge. It was not a dangerous place by mountaineering standards—the drop to the gully was only some thirty feet. Miss Glanfield moved carefully out along the ledge, testing each hand- and foot-hold—she reached with her left hand to a projecting leaf of rock, tried it, pulled on it, and then moved her left foot to a fresh hold; followed with her right, and cautiously transferring her right hand to the same hold, stretched out her left to feel for a further one. At that moment, with all her balance depending on one hand, the piece of rock came away in it, and before Gloire’s horrified eyes her body swayed outwards, heeled over, and somersaulted down into the gully.

  Gloire, who had been standing in a reasonably safe and comfortable position, watching the writer negotiating the traverse, turned quite sick; she found herself clutching the rock in front and felt her knees trembling under her; involuntarily she shut her eyes. Oh, but this wouldn’t do, she thought, loosening her grip on the rock and trying to relax her muscles; she must pull herself together and go down. As she opened her eyes Miss Glanfield’s voice called out—“Are you all right?”

  “Yes” Gloire responded rather faintly; and now, looking down, she saw her companion lying on the rocks in the gully, with blood pouring down her forehead.

  “Well, stay where you are a minute, and have a cigarette—it’s beastly seeing anyone fall. When you feel quite steady come down. Do you think you can manage?”

  “Yes, I’m sure I can,” said Gloire more firmly, lighting a cigarette as she was told; she noticed with disgust that her hands were trembling. “Are you much hurt?” she called out.

  “I don’t know yet. I’ve cut my head. Damn this filthy blood!” Miss Glanfield also was trying to light a cigarette, and the blood was running down into her mouth.

  Gloire, purely from shock, giggled. But the older woman’s composure restored her nerves—tossing away her cigarette, she started down the rib, circumspectly at first, then very fast; at the bottom she ran round to the foot of the further gully, scrambled up over the loose stones, and in a few minutes stood at Miss Glanfield’s side. By this time the writer had shifted into a sitting position, and was rather ruefully examining her right leg, from which she had rolled up the blue trouser; th
ere was a larcerated purplish patch half-way up it, from which a knob protruded horribly under the discoloured skin—Miss Glanfield prodded it gingerly with her thumb. Gloire felt sick again.

  “I’ve broken the wretched thing, that’s what I’ve done,” the novelist said. “What an appalling bore!”

  “What shall I do?” Gloire asked.

  “Tie up this disgusting hole that bleeds, first,” said Miss Glanfield, pulling a clean handkerchief out of her pocket, and taking the scarf from her neck. “Have a look at it, will you? It’s up under my hair, I think.”

  Gloire dabbed away the blood with her own handkerchief, and gingerly pushed up the clotted hair; there was a large ugly wound in the scalp. She laid the clean handkerchief on it and tied it in position with the scarf.

  “Good—thanks. Now you’d better go and tell the others. How furious Dick will be! If they bring the pony along here I expect I can ride it home.”

  “You’re sure it’s all right to leave you?” Gloire asked.—Miss Glanfield, in spite of her matter-of-factness, looked very white.

  “Yes, perfectly. Tell Dick I’m sorry,” Miss Glanfield called after her, as Gloire began to scramble down the gully.

  When Mrs. Thurston, flushed and breathless, panted out her news to the Robinsons, the Colonel was at first incredulous. “How does she know she’s broken her leg?”

  “You can see the stump sticking up.”

  “Oh Lord.”

  “Susan would know, anyhow—she’s done masses of First Aid,” said his wife. “But we must have a splint on it to get her down.” She called to Fran and gave him some instructions; he promptly set off for the summer huts a little way below them, while Mrs. Robinson collected the pony. It had only a pack-saddle, but that would have to do.

  “Let’s send one of the chaps down for a pony with a proper saddle; it can come up and meet us on the pass,” the Colonel suggested. This also was done, and without waiting for Fran the Robinsons and Gloire set off towards the gulley. Gloire as she ran had marked down a small sheep- or goat-path across the screes, rather lower than the way she had come, and along this the little procession made its way. They were soon overtaken by Fran, bearing a small narrow board about three feet long, and a piece of clean coarse cheese-cloth. “What a sensible feller that is,” the Colonel commented.

  Gloire was worrying about how they were to get Miss Glanfield down the gully, which was steep, narrow, and full of loose rocks—the most awkward place imaginable in which to carry anyone; but when they reached the foot they saw that athletic and self-reliant woman making her way down it alone—on her back, walking on her hands and one foot, her injured leg stuck out in front of her, she had worked herself almost to the bottom.

  While Mrs. Robinson padded the improvised splint with the Colonel’s jacket and bound the leg to it with the cheese-cloth and everyone’s handkerchiefs, Miss Glanfield apologised.

  “I am sorry, Dick. A hand-hold came clean away. I had tested it, and it seemed perfectly good.”

  “You’re the sufferer,” said Colonel Robinson blandly. “But what licks me is how we’re going to get you back to Rësheni. We can get an ambulance up there easily, of course.”

  “We must wait and see what Dr. Crowninshield says,” said Mrs. Robinson. “What a mercy she’s here. Now, Susan, how does that feel? Do you think you can manage like that?”

  Miss Glanfield thought that she could—but in any case she had obviously got to. The Colonel and Fran carried her down the last few yards and she was somehow hoisted on to the pack-saddle; they set out, Fran leading the pony, and Mrs. Robinson, Gloire, and the Colonel taking it in turns to support the end of the broken leg. Some distance below the pass they met two of Lek-Gionaj’s men and a saddled pony, and the transfer was made; Miss Glanfield proclaimed herself much more comfortable, but she was evidently in considerable pain, and they were all thankful when they mounted the ramp into Lek-Gionaj’s courtyard, and the patient was lifted off and carried upstairs. Dr. Crowninshield came briskly in.

  “Oh, so you are the casualty, are you?” she said coming over to the bed. “How far did you fall?”

  “About seven yards,” Gloire said.

  “Un-huh. Well, first you’ll have some of this,” she said, pouring something into a medicine glass—“and then we’ll have a look.”

  Most of the female members of the Lek-Gionaj family had come into the guest-room; Dr. Crowninshield, with good-natured firmness, turned out everyone but Mrs. Robinson, Gloire, and Zannell, her manservant, who brought in a large metal case of dressings and some enamelled trays. Quietly, expertly, with Zannell assisting, the old woman first attended to the head wound, shaving away the hair, disinfecting it, and putting in several stitches. “This will hurt, but I can’t give you a local,” she observed before doing so. “Oh well,” said Miss Glanfield resignedly, and bore the stitches unflinchingly. Then it was the leg’s turn. Yes, a broken tibia, Dr. Crowninshield pronounced—but she hardly spoke at all as she set the limb, using a light splint, Zannell all the while assisting her with the silent expertness of a well-trained theatre sister. Finally she took a hypodermic from a smaller metal case, and prepared to give an injection.

  “What’s that?” Miss Glanfield asked.

  “Anti-tetanus. I’m sorry, it will make you feel horribly. That’s why I couldn’t give you a local. But we have to do it with flesh wounds in this country. Zannell!” She and the Albanian raised the writer, gave her a lumbar injection, and then laid her down again.

  “There!” Dr. Crowninshield said, dipping her hands in a basin of spirit held out by Zannell, and wiping them on a piece of gauze.

  “Thank you very much,” said Miss Glanfield, rather exhaustedly. She lay and closed her eyes—the shock, the ride down, and the rigid control she had exercised during the stitching and setting had pretty well worn her out.

  “That’s right—have a nap,” said Dr. Crowninshield comfortably, and with a glance swept Mrs. Robinson and Gloire from the room.

  “Well, how is she? And when can we take her down?” Robina said, when they were outside.

  “She’s been lucky,” the old Doctor replied, lighting a cigarette. “If she fell thirty feet onto rocks—was it rocks?”—she turned to Gloire, who nodded—“Well, she was mighty lucky. She hasn’t fractured her skull, and there’s no sign of concussion yet; and that tibia is a reasonably straightforward break. I should say in about a month she might risk riding down to Rësheni, and get back to Durazzo by car.”

  “A month!—but my goodness, Dick has to be back in five days at the outside.”

  “So he may,” the old lady said tranquilly—“but she can’t go with him! We have to see if there is delayed concussion; there often is, with some people—and I want to start that leg right. Properly, of course, she should stay put for six weeks.”

  “But I must get back too,” said Mrs. Robinson, much concerned.

  “Well, you get right along back, my dear, whenever you want to. Zannell and I will look after her—she won’t be our first patient.”

  “No, only that will mean such a fearful lot of extra work for you—her meals and everything; and she can’t speak a word of Albanian, remember.”

  “I guess we’ll manage,” said the Doctor.

  Here Gloire, who had been listening in silence, spoke.

  “If it would be the least use I’ll stay and help look after her,” she said abruptly. “I could carry up her meals and all that, and do odds and ends.” She spoke in her most casual manner. The old Doctor eyed her shrewdly.

  “Why, that would be fine,” she said. “That would be a lot of help.”

  Mrs. Robinson also looked at Mrs. Thurston, astonished and sceptical.

  “But are you sure you’d want to? I mean, wouldn’t you be miserable, with the flies, and no baths, and everything?” She was thinking that Gloire, uncomfortable and grumbling, might be more of a liability than an asset.

  “No—I’d like to stay,” said Gloire flatly. The picture of Mme. Lek-Gio
naj in the dairy was in her mind as she spoke. There were other reasons too for a decision which surprised even herself, but uppermost was a desire to go on seeing what she had begun to see. “I’m not wedded to flies,” she went on, “but I can put up with them for a month, I suppose.”

  “Well, that’s settled then,” said Dr. Crowninshield with finality. She gave Gloire’s arm a little pat. “I’m glad—you’ll help a lot. You can keep her company when I’m busy.”

  “How is Pieter’s wife, by the way?” Robina asked.

  “Badly,” said Dr. Crowninshield briefly.

  Colonel Robinson was as sceptical as his wife when he learned that Miss Glanfield would have to stay at Torosh for at least a month, and that Mrs. Thurston proposed to remain too. But Dr. Emmeline, who had somehow taken charge of the whole situation, seemed to have no doubts, and by the evening was already sending Gloire on errands downstairs, and telling her the Albanian word for this and that. Since the Robinsons had to return, it was evident that the sooner they left Torosh the better; the guest-room with five people in it was not much of a sick-room. Accordingly they set out next morning to return to Rësheni by another route. They took the gendarmes, Fran, and the caravan with them; Dr. Crowninshield was quite competent to organise fresh transport when the time came, and the Colonel undertook to leave word that an escort was to be furnished when required.