Peaks of Shala

by Rose Wilder Lane

It was only a fragment—the last song of all the songs about that great war of the dragon and the drangojt above the Dukaghini mountains. The strangely pitched twang of the wire accompanied the words, chanted in a wild rhythm to the rain-filled valley of the Lumi Shala:

“The ora of Shala came from the deathless forest,
From the wood that is always green beyond the Mali Nicaj.
The ora of Shala saw the war in the air above the forest,
She saw the war in the air above the crashing peaks,
She saw the blood of the dragon spilled on the rocks.
Ho lo! Ho la! The head of the dragon falls!
Ho lo! Ho la! Two heads of the dragon are dead!
Ho lo! Ho la! Three heads of the dragon fall on the rocks!
The men of the earth are saved!
The ora of Shala screamed the word that the earth was saved.
Three times the ora of Shala screamed,
And her scream was heard on the Mali Nicaj,
Her voice was heard on the Chafa Morines,
And the Lumi Shala ran through the valley of Shala.
Three times the ora of Shala called,
And the ora of all the mountains came to her call,
They came like sparks from a fire to the ora of Shala.
‘Oh, my sisters, this is the word from the battle.
The dragon is dead and the world is saved!
The brave drangojt have saved the world.
The mountains stand without moving forevermore,
And the waters go back to their places,
For the brave drangojt have saved the world.
We will make a feasting for the saviors of the world.
My sister, go to the field for grain,
Cut it and thresh it and grind it,
Make bread and bake it well.
My sister, go to the mountains among the flocks,
Find a sheep with a lamb beside her,
Ask the sheep to give you her milk,
For we make a feast for the brave drangojt.
My sister, go to the tree that is hollow,
To the tree where the honey is made,
And ask the bees for their yellow honey.
My sister, here is a knife that is sharp;
Strike true, strike deep, strike quickly,
And bake the meat in a heated pit.’
The first ora came with bread on her head,
The second ora came with a sack of milk,
A milk sack made from the skin of trees.
The third ora came with her hands full of honey.
The fourth ora came with two roasted animals,
Large roasted animals, hot and brown.
Now we can go to our brave drangojt.
The hair of the ora was unbound,
And their heads were crowned with flowers,
And the beauty of the world was their garment.
The ora of Shala came first to the Mali Riges,
The ora of Shala came to the camp of the drangojt.
‘I hope we find you well, heroes of the earth,
Long may you live, the courage of the world.’
Then rose and spoke Lleshi of Lleshi,
Chief of the tribe of the Merdite drangojt.
‘Welcome to you from wherever you come.
Where have you been hiding your beauty?’
‘I am the sister of the ora of the Merdite,
She who is guarding the Mali Mundelles.
I am the ora of Shala.
Long live the heroes who have killed the dragon,
Long live the warriors who have saved the world.’
Then on the grass they sat for the feasting.
All the ora turned back their sleeves,
Making ready to serve the heroes.
The first ora broke the round loaf of bread,
The second ora brought the hot roasted meat,
The third ora brought the bowl of yellow honey,
The fourth ora poured the milk from the sack.
All the ora brought good water from the spring,
And the drangojt drank from the cup of their hands.
When the feasting was ended they left that place,
They washed their hands in flowing water,
They lay by a fire on a carpet of leaves,
And they spoke of many things pleasant to hear.
They spoke till the star of the dawn came out
Above the peaks of the Mali Mundelles.
The star of the daylight came out,
For the power of the dragon was broken.
This was the feast of the Merdite drangojt
After the last great war with the dragon.”

The player ran his finger down the wire in a final weird whine, and the instrument lay silent on his knees. “That is all I know of that one,” he said. “But if the American zonyas would like to hear other songs, I can sing them, for I am a bandit.”

I cannot describe the shock we felt at those simple words. “Jam comitadj.” Yes, he had said them. Or had he?

“Comitadj?” said I, noticing a strange stiffness in my lower jaw. “Nuk comitadj?”

“Po,” said he, quite calmly. And the modesty which reveals too great pride touched his voice as he added, “I have been a bandit for many years.”

Automatically my eyes sought Frances’s. Hers were widely open, and expressed only a shock as great as mine. We both turned a fascinated gaze upon the bandit, who had laid aside his musical instrument and rested a fond hand on his rifle. “For many years,” he repeated.

“Do you like it?” said I, weakly. “Do you like—banditing?”

I had read of bandits in the Balkans, and I had heard of them, and I had even thought how self-possessed and cool I would be if I encountered one of them. “Certainly,” I would say, with dignity. “Take my money if you like; it is very little; you are welcome. But there will be no use whatever in your holding me for ransom, because——” I suppose everyone falls into these absurdities of imagined and impossible conversations. The lure of them is their offer of escape from reality. Certainly I had never believed that a real, living bandit would step out of that fantastic realm and be a solid figure in the daylight. I, I in a bandit’s cave! Such things didn’t happen; they were only in books. So I said, meekly, timidly, quite inadequately, “Do you like—banditing?”