Windsor Magazine/A Blackbird's Song

by Flora Annie Steel

A BLACKBIRD'S SONG

 

By F. A. STEEL*

 

"HURRY up! The children are cold," said Keloo Obilic to the group who were loading a rough pony with household goods.

It was winter—winter in Serbia, that great natural fortress of high plains and higher hills, which for centuries on centuries had stood sentinel for the Cross against the recurring onslaughts of the Crescent. One has but to glance at the history of Christianity to recognise the superlative merits of this paladin amongst principalities, ever ready to do battle for light against darkness. More than five hundred years back it had vainly fought the good fight on the plain of Kossovo, and now once again, defeated but not subdued by that invasion of Turks, Teutons, and Mongol-Bulgarians, rendered possible by the failure of other Christian nations to "watch" as well as pray, its inhabitants were taking to the hills from which so many times before had come their help. There, as many a time before, they would both watch and pray, waiting till the chance came of once more striking a blow for their king, their country, their homes, their hopes—briefly, for this world and the next.

"Hurry up, I pray thee," urged Keloo fussily. "And Marko—where is Marko?"

"Marko hath refused to come," almost sobbed the boy's mother, "and he hath hidden himself away, and cannot be found. We have called and called. He saith he must feed the blackbirds. Nay, husband," she went on, deprecating the gathering wrath on Keloo's brow, "be not angry with the child. He is not as other boys, and he hath fed the birds ever since grand-dam—thy mother, Keloo, not mine-taught him the old ballads and bid him do it. He means no harm—he doth not understand."

"He shall understand to obey," quoth Keloo, raising his voice. "Marko! I say, Marko! Come hither, thou imp of darkness, or 'twill be the worse for thee!"

One of the small haystacks in the yard began to quiver, and after a while gave up the body of a boy, small for his ten years, delicate of frame, who came forward reluctantly, yet defiantly.

"I must feed the blackbirds on Kossovo," he said, and the cadences of his sweet young voice were almost those of a song. "Grand-dam bid me never forget till I was big enough to fight other ways, and I am not big enough yet."

The last word came regretfully, with a glance at his younger brother of nine, who overtopped him by a foot. Something in his tone seemed to appease his father's anger; indeed, it was not easy to be stern with that beautiful childish face, its mouth set firm, its eyes a-glitter with unshed tears.

"Lucky thou wert not burnt with the hay, lad," growled Keloo Obilic grimly, "for I leave naught for the cursed conquerors. And there be other ways of help save fighting. See, the bread-bag be thy portion. Nay, not all the loaves, wife—that were too heavy a burden—six are enough. So! Shoulder that, my boy, and no more about the feeding of blackbirds!"

Marko Obilic stood for a moment irresolute, despite his determination. Then a sudden smile irradiated his face, making it shine like a seraph's.

"Yea, father, I will carry the bread for king and country!"

So the little cortège set out, the women weeping and wailing, the men morose and glum. It is no light thing for the Serbian peasant, soldier by birth and feeling, to run before his enemy; but when promised help has not come, when even ammunition is withheld, what is to be done save seek shelter in the bosom of the Black Mount, the kindly yet rugged bosom that has shielded so many in the past?

"We shall have snow to-night," said Karo Milovitch, shivering. "God help the starving soldiers in the mountain passes!"

Little Marko was walking close beside the man as he spoke, but the child did not hear—he was in one of his dreams. Those strange eyes of his were literally blazing with liquid light, for he was poet and visionary born.

Below the little party, in the mists that come with a cold sun-setting, lay the plain of Kossovo, the battleground of Serbia, "The Plain of the Blackbirds," so named from the thousands of these sweet songsters that frequent its wide stretches of tufted grass, so quaintly dotted with quartz stones. The women turned to look with tears for what they could no longer see; the men trudged on with sore hearts, realising that they had said good-bye—perhaps for this life—to things familiar.

But Marko smiled. He still saw what he had seen so often—the blackbirds, scores on scores of little winged angels of song rising from every bush, every tuft of grass, and perching so confidently on the quartz stones, as if they were indeed bread.

Grand-dam had told him that was what they had been in the beginning—bread that the poor Christians had had to fling away when the Turks overwhelmed them—bread that the good God had turned to stones, so that the Infidels should go hungry. And she had hinted that mayhap the good God reversed the process at nights, so that His birds might feast in the dawn time; but this was only a hint, and did not do away with his duty of feeding them, and so keeping them from flying away. And what would dear Serbia do without the song of the blackbirds?

As Marko limped along—for the child was a little lame; indeed, there were not wanting commonplace folk who held the boy simple, because of the light in his eyes, the dreams in his brain—he had quite made up his mind what he was going to do. That night, when the others were asleep, he would take the six loaves back to the plain and feed the birds. And he would sing them a little song of his own, telling them that they must make those six loaves last a long, long time, for he could do no more; that is to say, if he could sing all he meant, though that was not often. For his own tunes, his own words, came with such a rush that they made him sit silent. That was why he generally sang the old ballads grand-dam had taught him about the heroes of old time; they thrilled him through and through, as they thrill all Serbians.

So while the little party rested for some hours, a few miles on their way, Marko slipped away with his bag of bread, and limped back along the road he had come. He could easily, he told himself, be back by dawn, and if his father beat him for the lost loaves, what matter? He would have done his best to keep the blackbirds and their songs.

It was cold with one's face to the north wind, but it would be more sheltered in the valley. And it was. By the light of the rising moon he could see a mist-shroud lying thick over the plain. Now that he was in it, all things were hidden as by a veil, save the sparse grass at his feet, dotted by the bits of quartz that had once been bread. The good God had not turned them again this night, anyhow; but the blackbirds would not be hungry, for all that.

He had taken out his loaves, and was about to break them in bits, when out of the grey mist something showed, dim, mysterious, silent.

It was a tall man, armed, carrying a lance with a pennon to it, and he rode a piebald horse.

Marko's brain, brimful of heroes, recognised him at once. This must be his name-hero, the great Marko Kralvejic, who had done—what had he not done? It could be none other. Was he not riding Sarac, his famous piebald horse?

The child was on his knees in an instant, his face radiant.

"Ah, great sir," he cried, "I am so glad my lord has awakened and left the cavern at last! Now, as grand-dam said, we shall beat the Infidels, shan't we?"

The man's face was spent and weary; he looked almost alarmed at the little figure half seen in the pale light that glimmered through the mist veil. Then he said—

"I hope so, little lad. But who art thou? What dost thou here alone at midnight?"

The voice was kind, sympathetic; it acted like a charm on the child's confidence.

"I come to feed God's blackbirds, because I don't want their song forgotten. It is a lovely song. Sometimes I try to put it into words, but they tumble over one another, and there is no sense."

The man slacked his bridle and looked down on the eyes that were blazing with that strange inward light.

"Tell me what the song is about," he said.

"About everything—everything that is good, I mean—the King, and Serbia, and all the heroes and beautiful dead faces, and—and sunsets, and"—Marko paused—"and my mother."

The cadence of his voice ceased, and there was silence. The mist-cloud seemed to grow thickly it condensed on every leaf of herbage. One big drop fell on the man's hand—or was it a tear?

"If I asked thee to give that bread to me," said the man suddenly, "so that I might keep the blackbirds of Kossovo singing their song for ever and ever and aye, wouldst thou give it?"

[Illustration: "'Lo! child, there are thy blackbirds!'"]

"I will give Marko Kralvejic anything he asks," cried the boy, "anything, everything, for he is a hero!"

Slowly the man dismounted. Weary and spent as he was, his eyes blazed like the boy's as he knelt beside him. "Lo! child," he said, and his voice shook, "it shall be as a sacrament between us." Then he called: "Forward, men!" And from the mist came a score or so of shadowy forms—men on horses, armed, carrying pennons, closing in round the boy.

"Dismount and kneel!" came the order, and the voice shook still more. "Lo! child, there are thy blackbirds! Thou dost more for Serbia than thou dost dream of."

Then with his strong hands he broke the loaves in pieces, and gave a portion to each kneeling trooper with the words: "Take, eat, and live for King and country."

So he strained the wondering child to his breast, and kissed and blessed him.

"It is such as thou that make us invincible, child," he said briefly, as, mounting his horse, he gave the word of command. There was a jingling through the mist, and little Marko was alone.

He did not understand, altogether, but his hero—his name-hero—had bidden him give the blackbirds bread, and he had obeyed.

So he limped back again, and took his beating bravely, knowing he had done his duty. He was more cheerful, indeed, than usual, and kept telling everybody that the Turks would surely be beaten, since Marko Kralvejic had waked from his sleep at last and come out of the cavern. And what that meant, all men knew.

Some men did, anyhow. For as the months sped on to spring, there were four-and-twenty troopers safe sheltered against that future light which shall once and for all settle the long battles of centuries, who each garnered a tiny crust of the blackbirds' bread, in memory of the vow they took when they knelt on the plain of Kossovo.

* Flora Annie Steel