Then it’s gone, decomposed into thinner wind, into sky and field. It begins to rain again, large drops that splash against the windshield and then bounce off it, because they’ve hardened in midair and turned to hail. Chunks the size of walnuts. They slam against the truck top, crack the windshield up in the corner.
And with the ice chunks, a black crow slams on the hood, and then another, and we watch, frozen, as a flock of dead crows rain around us, their bodies splashing mud and water on the road.
This is the craziest thing we have seen, there is no doubt about that. But like before, we aren’t scared — not even Elli, who’s climbed on the dashboard and her face, flattened against the glass that divides them, is just inches away from the crow on the hood.
When the hail lets up, I step out into the rain, and Elli follows and then John Martin. We poke the crows with our feet, their necks at awful angles, their wings broken like the spines of little umbrellas. We keep moving, quiet with each other. I kick a crow lightly, like a football, and the crow, neck droopy, suddenly flaps its wings, three-four mighty flaps in the mud. I pounce back, trip on my own foot, and land flat on my ass.
Elli, of course, starts screaming. But soon, strangely, her screaming turns to laughter. John Martin, too, is laughing beside me, his big belly shaking. So, just to amuse them I run down the road, and kick my own heel. I land in the mud again and sit there for a while with the rain pounding, with my daughter laughing, with my hands up at the sky, waiting for something. Maybe a whistle.
I know that Elli wants to call her mother and tell her all about the rain and the tornado. Thank God there’s no reception. But what about my mother? There are no tornadoes in Bulgaria, and that’s a fact, so surely she’ll fail to understand me. But I can try to make her feel at least. How cold the wind was, how shiny the feathers of the crows. It’s true, she hasn’t seen the Texas sky, but I have seen it. It’s true her hair was never soaked with Texas rain, but mine is dripping rivers. She doesn’t need her eyes to see my world. Neither do I to see the things she sees. My blood runs in her veins and hers in mine. Blood will make us see.
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.