Miroslav Penkov - East of the West

XI.

“One evening, just when my great-grandmother is about to breast-feed the baby, the earth begins to tremble. The sun is still an hour away from setting and Ali is still out with the herd. My great-grandmother, the baby in her arms, runs out to the meadow.

“A black wave eats the hills in the distance and approaches quickly. As it moves closer, my great-grandmother realizes soldiers are marching toward her. Five thousand janissaries, the great sultan in the lead, riding on three horses tied to one another with golden ropes so as to carry his enormous weight. And on a horse in front of the sultan, she sees Ali Ibrahim, disfigured, beaten nearly to death. His hands are tied, and bloody tears roll down from his blinded eyes.

“Panic seizes my great-grandmother. The baby sleeps in her trembling arms and only mewls quietly from time to time. The forest, the peaks, the gorges, are all too far away; the meadow spreads under the cloudy sky. My great-grandmother understands that she can never outrun the soldiers, so back in the house she lays the baby in the crib and kisses her farewell. She opens the seven locks that chain the chest and takes out Ali’s sword. Again — the chill, the painful cries. Just then, Ali calls out from the meadow.

“ ‘Run to the Mountain!’ he shouts. ‘Take the baby and run!’

“Light like the morning mist, my great-grandmother steps out of the hut. She stands before the sultan, before the five thousand soldiers, before Ali, who has fallen from the horse and now weeps in pain. The tall grass reaches up to her waist, the dark clouds crawl across the sky, the wind smells of dust.

“My great-grandmother plants the yataghan in the ground, then gathers her hair and ties it behind so her face is uncovered.

“ ‘ Az bez boy se ne davam!’ she says to the sultan: ‘I will not let myself go without a fight!’ She grasps the sword handle again with both hands and lifts the weapon. Instantly, the sultan waves at the soldiers to seize his prize. But the soldiers cannot move. They have seen my great-grandmother’s face and now those lustful pyres burn them.

“Five thousand men — all madly in love. So much want in one place turns the clouds to rock, and they fall upon the army in solid, glassy chunks. When all the clouds have fallen, silence descends upon the meadow.

“Ali writhes before the sultan’s horses. Even though most of the janissaries have been crushed to death, there are still enough left to take my great-grandmother away.

“ ‘Seize her!’ the sultan shouts, and kicks one of the soldiers, a jannissary. The man stumbles forward, breathing heavily, sweat running down his cheeks. My great-grandmother holds tight to the yataghan, whose tip now dances in the air with every tremor of her arms. The jannissary steps closer, almost touches her apron — then falls at her feet.

“My great-grandmother raises the sword. Slay him , it whispers, thirsty. But then another voice whispers. It is your blood you spill as you kill him. Bulgarian blood . My great-grandmother drops to her knees. At last two dazzled soldiers pick her up amid the mad shouts of the sultan. ‘Bring me my bird!’ he screams. ‘Bring me my prize, my trophy, my bride!’

“Then the Mountain wakes up.

“The wind stops blowing. The soldiers pull hard on my great-grandmother but can’t move her — she is fixed to the ground. The Mountain is holding her back. Thick, supple stalks of grass have entwined with each other, in living chains that twist around her feet and waist, her chest and shoulders.

“ ‘Give me my prize!’ the sultan shouts. With great effort he dismounts his horses. But when he pulls on my great-grandmother, the Mountain pulls back. He pulls hard; the Mountain pulls back harder. The sultan takes Ali’s sword and cuts the living chains. When he is done, he grabs my great-grandmother and throws her over his shoulder. He passes Ali in the dirt and spits in his blood-washed face, then seats my great-grandmother on the riderless horse.

“ ‘Let’s see what the most beautiful woman in the world looks like,’ the sultan says, pulling back her hair, once again loose.

“Two empty eyes stare at him from a pale and empty face. The lips have no color, the cheeks have lost their rosy shade. The Mountain has drunk her beauty away, to preserve it.

“ ‘So much ado for this?’ The sultan frowns. He mounts his three horses with assistance and spurs them on. ‘Lead her to the palace,’ he commands. ‘Bathe her in rose water and milk. Then I’ll look at her again.’ ”

•

“No one knows why the soldiers never set the house on fire. I’ve heard on a few occasions that they did try. Yet, every time they brought a burning torch to the thatch roof, a strong wind blew from nowhere and snuffed the flames.

“They leave Ali Ibrahim lying broken in front of the hut, an easy prey for wolves and a feast for the crows. The baby cries fitfully inside, but the soldiers abandon her, too.

“Then silence descends upon the Mountain. For a while, not even the barking of dogs can be heard as the nearest houses are more than a day’s walk away. When the sun has finally gone behind the peaks, the baby starts crying again. Ali crawls his way through the meadow. Bright spots twist before his blinded eyes; the scent of his beloved woman is still in the air. At the threshold he lets his head fall on his chest. He feels death on his lips.

“The sheep start bleating. Their bells sing in the night, and the tall grass rustles under light steps. A bucket splashes: someone has milked a sheep and is bringing the milk toward the hut. Distant whispers. Dancing shadows. A cold hand rests upon Ali’s shoulder.

“ ‘Come, my child. Come, Sunshine. Let’s go inside. The baby is hungry.’ ”

•

“And so this story ends. Many have told it before and many have sung about it. It is in the air and in the water, in the valleys and in the steep hills. And up in the Mountain you can still hear that lulling — the voice of a woman, soothing her children in times of despair, in times of darkness.”

I must thank, in somewhat chronological order, the following people, without whom neither this book nor its author would have been possible:

Agop Melkonian, who read my first stories, saw something in them and from then on treated me not as the sixteen-year-old geek I was but as his equal, a writer. I wish he could see this book.

My English-language teachers at the First English Language School in Sofia: Mrs. Yordanova, Mrs. Stoeva, Mrs. Vasseva. And Ms. Boyadjieva, who, during our first lesson, asked me to form a sentence in English: “The apple is on the table.” But she could have asked me to compose a sestina and I might have done a better job.

Mrs. Marie Lavallard and the Foundation for the International Exchange of Students at the University of Arkansas, without whose support I could have never afforded to study in the United States.

Ellen Gilchrist, who has always been a champion of me and my writing and who first taught me that “writing is rewriting.” My first creative writing teachers: Adam Prince and Mary Morrissy. Chuck Argo, without whom I might never have thought of writing about Bulgaria. John DuVal, whose friendship and wisdom helped me through difficult times. Davis McCombs, for his kindness. Molly Giles, for her generosity and editorial honesty. Donald “Skip” Hays, who taught me much about story, structure, character, and served as a minister at my wedding. His wife, Patty, who so generously hosted the ceremony. Kathleen and Collin Condray, Beth and Peter Horton, for their hospitality. Dr. Slattery, who never made me teach a morning class! My psychology professors Dr. Lohr and Dr. Freund. My old boss Mike Williams.