STONE

STONE

The roads are like strings, leading to somewhere... But when you see mixed footprints you don’t know where to search for life.

The people were running away and were going all over the world. They couldn’t go any further that that. Married to their grief they constantly had thoughts about their homeland, their corner of the world, their place of birth… and as the old man said: “Their hearth where they were born...”

The passengers had already taken their seats in the semi-dark cars as departing time for the train was approaching.

A black locomotive just arrived on the track next to us and the passengers who were headed for Skopje were quickly transferring over their suitcases, some through the windows, rushing to get on the train before it left. Under the window I saw a thin old man scratching his beard with one hand and holding onto an elegant suitcase with the other.

When he entered the car he accidentally bumped into me and when our eyes met I said: “Please, go ahead”. The old man thanked me with the words: “Thank you very much,” in English and then sat down.

While wiping the sweat on his face and deep wrinkles on his forehead, he looked at me and asked: “Are you a fellow countryman?” “Yes,” I replied. The train began to move heading in the direction of Skopje.

“That’s good, my son… thank you very much!” he said and offered me an Australian cigarette. He then began to tell me his life’s story, his fate that had been woven for him for the last sixty years… some things were beautiful but most things were shocking.

“I am looking for the living, my son; I want to ask them... I had a wife and son. My son would have been about your age now, but they are both ashes.

He took a long puff from his Australian cigarette and cast his eyes on me. He kept them there for a long time. “Ashes… yes ashes… it is difficult to know that they are ashes… It is even more difficult to try and find them… a sign of them…” he said.

He then looked away and said: “I finally managed to pry myself away from that desolate place… I just got here… I came here directly from there…”

The old man spent a long time telling me about the devastation, about the graves and about the ruins. His old skin quivered with sorrow as he told me things he had seen with his own eyes.

“The people from the valley have disappeared… long grass is growing on the roads… but I kept going…” he said and exhaled deeply as if a large rock was placed on his chest.

“Many years have passed, my son...” he said and counted the decades on his fingers. He then again began to speak, quietly and painfully telling me his story.

“The beauty is gone... everything is ugly now… what else can you call the desolation…?” he said and looked at me for approval. His face turned red as great sadness and pain overwhelmed him. “The war had ruined everything… had turned the soil black… had swallowed the people… the graves are without tombstones, without epitaphs…” he said. The poor man got chills with every step he took in that desolate place he visited. I could see that in his eyes. He had no idea how many were buried in each grave… one… more… many more? I looked at his face… at his wrinkles… at his old hands… but all I wanted to see was his soul...

Words, unspoken words, simmered deep down in this old man’s chest. He left when he was young and left behind his love, his child and his heart. And now, hunchbacked from years of torment, sadness and from the guilt he has carried on his shoulders, he has returned to visit what he loved most and to shed his last tears for what he lost.

He walked down the brush infested road with no expectations as to what he was going to find at his place of birth, but the scenery kept grabbing at his heart, reminding him of the countless times he had walked this very same path, of its beauty when he lived here as a young man. The lush tall mountain, full of pride, which stood there for many centuries, suddenly appeared before his eyes. He remembered the fog that poured through the gorge. His avid gaze was struggling to overcome his thoughts of the past and to focus on the long unseen sights but his heart was gripping at his throat and his soul continued to feel ill. He felt a deep pain as if someone had stabbed his heart and drops of blood were dripping from it. He squeezed his eyes tight when he entered the place where he was born. He heard something whisper to him from the depths of his soul:

“No, there is no need for tears when you have blood...” it said. Then, when he first set foot on his native land, a painful tear dropped like it was a drop of blood. He was face to face with the tall old tree and he was petrified. The fate beneath it all was the same for the entire family; the pain of separation cut like a saber through his heart... The old man sat silent by the tree for a long time… thoughts running through his mind… leaves rustling in the breeze as if they were whispering, sounding like they were crying for him… feeling his pain. The old man stood there feeling the breeze on his face and breathing the aroma that came with it. It was a fresh flowery scent that brought even more tears to his eyes… tears that needed to be shed for his family. The old man lowered his hands, placed them on his knees and again looked into my eyes.

“Separation is terrible, my son, it could tear your soul apart...”

The old man fell silent again. I waited a long time for him to say something. He had a lot of grief built up in his chest, enough to leave me breathless. His grief was overpowering me. I felt many chills run down my spine.

He took a dry puff of smoke from his cigarette. It seemed like it soothed his sorrow; the strong sadness that had overpowered him. It was both pleasant and painful to have returned back to the old country; to the place of birth, especially after it was devastated by

war and neglect and everything was lost. And so the old man, step by step, visited the place where he was born, looking at the devastation and listening to the river water rolling down the hill and vanishing down the valley, reverberating with a certain pleasant ring. The road the old man took led him out of the valley and around a wide curve. Beyond that, a little further along the straight road was the old man’s house.

It was built with stone and mud and it was customary to bury a gold coin along with 300 prayers in its foundation in order to keep the bad magic away and to protect the home from evil because, as they used to say: “There are bad people in this world...”

“It was customary for us to kiss the stones that were used to build the foundation…” he said. It was even more difficult for the old man to speak about his home. He sighed deeply.

“I left when I was young and took to foreign shores… I left with nothing...” he said.

“There were no letters sent or received for years… It was war, my son… No one cares during a war... Dzvezda and I built our house… from which there are only ashes left now…

When I saw it destroyed, I could not gather enough strength to step over the threshold. My heart trembled… I was petrified...” he said.

His separation from his family and home was hard on the old man. It wore him down and made him wither prematurely. A man lives to be happy. But happiness is easily forgotten… not misery. When a bad thought enters a sick heart a man feels pain and misery runs through his veins.

The old man lit another cigarette and said:

“I lived during my young years. I then left my life. And now instead of living... all I feel is sadness…”

His eyes were focused on the devastation. His forehead swam in sweat as he tried to take a few more steps through the rubble. Then, from the depth of the rubble, he heard a little bird chirp.

He looked for it and stroked it with his silent gaze. His heart felt like he was putting his hand over his dear deceased child... whose grave he had not yet found. With his heart he begged the bird: “Wait little bird, let me kiss you because you are mine, you live in my home, in this wilderness...” and as he took another step the bird flew away leaving him all alone, exposed and frowning in the ruins. The ruins mocked him… laughed at his loneliness and weakened his poor soul... But the smouldering desire to find the grave kept him alive… kept him going…

The ruins were illuminated by the warm spring sun… but he… he felt like he was covered in darkness and not even sunlight could penetrate his soul. He came out from the ruins and, as he put his foot on the street, he was reminded of the days when two children grabbed him by the hand and ran with him… the thought made him feel good...

He kept walking down the desolate streets, devoid of people… There was no one there… no old people to tell him what had happened here… no one to tell him the whole story…

We both stood on the train looking out of the window. The train was moving fast. The old man grabbed and opened his suitcase. He removed something. He held a couple of smoke-laden stones in his hand and caressed them with his fingers like they were living beings. I thought the stones were coloured quart, but the old man made me think differently.

“When I was in the ruins I picked up these stones from the ashes… what was left over from my home… there was nothing else…”

The old man stuck his gaze on the rocks.

“Ash and stones...” he said and then lifted his hand and, with his fingers, rubbed his eyes.

“Only ash… ash from blood and bones… that’s all that is left from my life… I will keep these until my death,” he said.

The old man then squeezed the stones against one another in his hand until they made a grinding sound… as if speaking to him. The stones were burnt and darkened by smoke. Ashes had penetrated their pores and cracks… just like the old man’s life.

“These will keep my soul warm on the foreign shores,” he said, brought them closer to his face and wept over them.

Stones are durable and will have no problem being taken oversees. Other people will look at them and they too will weep over them. When they see stones from someone else’s hearth they will weep for the loss of their own. These people love their homeland, their place of birth… Fate has also struck them with the same fist. These stones have a strong heart and will withstand the sadness of the people when the old man tells them of his own home’s fate.

The old man wrapped the stones in a white handkerchief and put them back in his heavy suitcase.