Off we go!
My cousin Danko and I (my name is Miljan) were spending the summer at Grandpa and Grandma’s and had been there for a month already. Grandpa took us fishing every day, after the fried eggs we’d brought from the chicken coop and fresh goat’s milk Grandma filtered through cheesecloth. In the evening we came back through the forest carrying plastic buckets filled with whitefish and a few trout that Grandpa, as he always boasted, caught fly fishing. Grandma would wait for us with a white tablecloth spread over the table and fresh young cheese we dipped in honey. A few minutes later, the scent of our catch would waft through the kitchen, sizzling in olive oil and corn meal. At the end of dinner, they would even let us have a splash of homemade blackberry wine, after which we got up and staggered off to bed.
Our summer vacation had long since begun to fall into a sort of monotony; the days were like one egg to another. That is, until one afternoon when Grandpa said:
“So, tonight we’re going to catch a bat.”
Our jaws dropped, and we could barely speak:
“A bat!? Whaaa . . . a . . . bat?”
“Slow now . . . you’ll see,” laughed Grandpa. “Go get some rest and be downstairs at midnight.” Lying on his mattress and staring at the ceiling, Danko said that a bat, when it spreads its wings, is about half a metre wide.
“I saw on television how when they caught them in a cave, one guy held the left wing, the other the right. The bat started to screech and bared its teeth like a werewolf.”
“Half a metre, come on! Twenty centimetres max . . .” I protested.
“At least half a metre! At least . . .” went on Danko. “Grandpa will definitely have a huge net ready for catching it.”
The windows were open. We listened to the crickets, said nothing and waited for the big wooden clock to strike midnight so we could fly down the stairs. As the night grew darker, between our beds crept uncertainty and a fear of creatures whose wingspans reached almost a whole metre. The shadows cast by the trees made us think we could see huge, bulging bat eyes, and, in our heads, the small incisors became sharp fangs that might at any moment sink into our necks. The deep and lazy swing of the pendulum shook us from our reverie and in a flash, we were out in the yard.
Grandpa had thrown his old sheepskin vest over his shoulders, and he wasn’t holding a net, but rather a plastic ten-litre jug used for wine. Turning my gaze from the jug, I looked at Danko whose eyes were saying, “There, see, I told you so . . .”
“Listen up, you two,” we heard Grandpa’s voice. “Now we’re going into Jovan’s Canyon. That is where the most bats are, they hide in a cave. When I yell, ‘Down!’, you two lie down, clear? I don’t want to have to come back without you.”
He didn’t have to tell us twice. We blazed through the underbrush in the pitch black, the dry twigs snapping beneath our feet as we made our way. Danko and I kept our eyes on the white fur of Grandpa’s collar, to get our bearings in the dark. After about twenty minutes he stopped us and whispered:
“There’s the cave. Find two branches and aim for the top. The thicker the better.”
We spun around, bumped into each other, groped through the dewy twigs. Finally, we managed to find two thickish clubs among the rocks. Tiptoeing and counting down we approached the cave—three, two, one . . . we flung them up to the very top. That second our feet brought us back to Grandpa. Terrified, crouching, we waited for what was coming next. But nothing happened. A minute, two . . . like an eternity. And the silence. Then . . . it was as if hundreds of swarms stirred and decided to attack us. A terrifying sound spilled through Jovan’s Canyon, we pulled our jackets up over our heads and hunkered down. It seemed as if thousands of the critters were screeching and flying overhead, out to destroy us. At one moment we heard something knock against the plastic jug and Grandpa’s brief shout, “Aha!” and then:
“Up! Get up! Run! Get up! Faster! Faster!”
We ran as fast as our fear could carry us, the bats buffeted around our heads, we fell and scraped our shins on the rocks. After we tumbled down the hill, we heard Grandpa wheeze:
“It’s okay. . . . Stop. . . . Stop.”
The three of us could hardly catch our breaths. I felt my heart pounding in my throat, but we managed to get away from the bats. As sweat dripped down our necks, we looked over at Grandpa and heard several thumps from inside the jug. We knew we weren’t going home empty-handed. Grandpa pulled out his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette, and after each drag of smoke he slowly exhaled. Then he stubbed out the last ember, rubbing it on a rock, and we slowly trod homeward.
Danko and I kept glancing over at Grandpa’s catch, which was swinging in his grip. We no longer heard the thumps from inside.
“Grandpa, it might faint if you swing it like that . . . ,” started Danko.
“Haha! Faint! Haha! This creature will outlive us all.” Grandpa’s voice carried through the forest.
When we arrived in front of the house, Grandpa left the jug below the stairs and called us to the water pump. He pressed a little switch hanging off the grapevine trellis and a faint light bulb lit up. He chuckled again when he saw us all torn and scraped and poured a little dish soap into our hands. We scrubbed, washing off the dirt that reached almost up to our elbows, rinsed off and then ran back to the plastic jug. We watched it, listening when the bat suddenly spread its wings apart and, with all its strength, knocked the jug towards us.
“Aaa!” we screamed, jumping aside.
Grandpa approached, picked up the jug and headed for the cellar. “Good night!”
“But Grandpa . . . !”
“Time for bed! It’s late . . . The bat will be here in the morning. I still need to battle with the beast . . . ”
We knew Grandpa’s word was final, and, disappointed, Danko and I dragged ourselves upstairs. We put on our pyjamas and pulled up the covers, and Danko was the first to speak. In a whisper.
“What if it gets away?”
“It won’t . . . It looks like he’s caught them before.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know, just seems that way.” I said. And then deep, deep sleep overtook us.
Around seven o’clock, when Grandma usually went to milk the goats, we heard the rattle of the milk can. I roused Danko and we flew down and out the door, faster than if we’d been scalded. We could barely wait to see last night’s catch. To see with our own eyes the Scary. Big. Black. Bat.
But what a disappointment! In a glass pickle jar that Grandpa had put on a wooden stool in the middle of the yard, we saw something all crumpled and curled up, about the size of my fist. We kneeled down and observed it. Where the big sharp fangs were supposed to be there was a little snout, and it was as if its eyes and ears weren’t there at all. Its body was black but marked by silverish lines. The wings we had so eagerly imagined, hoping they’d flash and blot out the sun with their span, looked as if they were barely glued onto its puny body. Grandpa approached, took the pickle jar, shook it and only then did we see that the minuscule, hunched creature was alive. It struck the glass a few more times, showing us its miserly little wings, and once more became no more than a black bundle.
Danko and I said nothing. The only thing that changed was the twenty kids who came to our yard every day. Entranced, they danced around the jar, asking if they could open it, each of them telling stories in which the bats devoured those they attacked, at the very least, and we took advantage of the other kids being around to invent new games. Our popularity in the village continued until one day the bat breathed its last breath. Shaking the jar didn’t help, it gave no sign of life. The kids came less often, the jar was moved to a corner under the grapevines. As if the bat were wrapped in cobwebs.
One afternoon, Grandpa told us: “Time to get rid of the critter. Throw it in the trash. Or down the ravine.”
We took the jar and went behind the house. The feeling, despite everything, was a mixture of pride at having had such a monster and the knowledge that the time had come to part with it. We reached the ravine and I unscrewed the lid. A stench hit me, so bad that it was the worst I ever smelled. The smell of a corpse. We knelt down, I took a stick, and started to poke at the bat.
“He didn’t have enough air . . . that’s why he shrivelled up . . . ,” ventured Danko.
I had nothing to say, but then I suddenly had an idea, “Let’s spread his wings!”
Danko grabbed his left wing, I took the right and before our eyes a perfect, dark web of millions of interconnected lines was revealed. Perfection, from God’s own hand, harmony.
“Maybe we caught a young one. An older bat would surely be . . . ,” continued Danko.
“Hey!” I whooped. “Remember when we were watching that film at your place?! Where they kill the monster?! The part where they chased it towards the lake? They couldn’t see it until they got those special night vision scopes. Just like this!”
I lifted the bat wings up and we both cocked our heads and looked at the hills and woods through the dark limbs of the critter, geometrically patterned and precise.
“Wow!”
“We’ll make scopes,” I whooped. With a stick I struck it a few times where the wings grew out of the body and snapped them off. We each grabbed one, put them in our pockets and headed back, no longer thinking of the monster. Now we were preoccupied with our SECRET MISSION.
We went down to the cellar, locked ourselves in and put scissors, pliers, wire and the bat wings on the table. At hand were wood rifles we’d brought from the city. We saw them for sale one afternoon while walking with our fathers, and refused to move until they pulled out their wallets. We made square frames from the wire and inserted a carefully cut piece of bat wing.
We managed to glue them together, and there on our rifles, just like in the movie, we had genuine sniper night vision scopes. We agreed right away to plan an operation that evening. As soon as night fell, we worked on our plan in the basement—we were the Black Ravens and our mission was to begin the gradual elimination of enemy forces in the area. From house to house, target to target. We covered our tracks and went into action.
“Raven 1! Come in!” yelled Danko, taking cover behind a wall.
“Raven 1 copy! Raven 2 confirm your position!” I responded as I crawled across the ground with my rifle.
“I can see two targets ahead! Older male, carrying a car tyre. Ahead of him, a female. Next to the clothes line. Authorizing action, Raven 1! Copy. You have authorization!
“Mission accepted! Roger that, mission accepted,” I said sharply and took aim.
I looked through the bat-wing scope and saw my target bend down, taking a blanket out of a wash tub and throwing it over the clothes line. I squinted, focused, and yelled “Bam! Bam! Bam! Raven 2, target down!” Then I aimed at the male leaning into the trunk of a Fiat and decided on a headshot. I rested my finger on the plastic trigger and when he straightened up I shot him directly in the forehead. “Bam!”
Then I took over as scout and climbed into a tree. I noticed a cluster of people at the village cafe. More than I had ever seen before. When we had snuck in close enough, I told Danko, “Raven 2, do you see the one in the red sweater?” “Raven 1, I see him.” “Fire immediately.”
“Bam! Bam! Bam!” The man in the red sweater fell, and then the man next to him in a blue shirt, a moustachioed man on an idling moped, a waiter in a white apron serving his patrons . . . “Bam! Bam! Bam!”
According to our estimates, we eliminated thirty per cent of the targets in the village and agreed that the next day we would finish off the village library, vineyards, post office and, if we could manage it, the rail station too. The scopes were so well mounted that they didn’t even move a millimetre.
“Ha! They’re done for!” Danko exclaimed.
“I think my aim was a little off with the waiter,” I said.
We threw our rifles over our shoulders and, full of bravado, walking taller than RoboCop and with the resolve of Rambo, we headed down the dusty road back home.
“We could infiltrate the neighbouring village too . . . ,” suggested tireless Danko.
Arriving at the house, we headed for the basement to stow our weapons, and then we noticed that my uncle’s car was parked under the grapevines. He wasn’t supposed to pick us up for another twenty days. We ran into the dining room and saw him sitting with Grandma and Grandpa in silence. He stood with a forced smile and said quietly, “Let’s go, get ready, we’ll be off.”
No one wanted to explain what was happening, but when we came back downstairs with our bags and wooden rifles, Grandma burst into tears, Grandpa stroked our heads; Danko’s dad just gestured for us to get into the car.
I was furious that we were leaving, that we wouldn’t be able to continue our secret mission. It bothered me that my uncle wasn’t saying a word and Danko didn’t want to ask him anything. The car started. Full of pain, confusion, fear and anger at how Grandma and Grandpa had just inexplicably let us be whisked away, I raised my rifle, aimed through the back window and, watching them wave to us from the gate, I quickly barked, “Bam! Bam!”
By the next morning, everything was clear.
The television was on all day, Mother was crying and ran for the phone every minute. The screen showed columns of tanks, howitzers and troops. My older sister, in high school, sat and silently watched the chaos, but outside, through the open window, it was as if I could smell goat cheese. And something heavy. Indescribably heavy. People were saying war would start soon.
That evening, Father showed up too. He came back late from work, and when the phone suddenly rang we all went quiet. He went to the phone, picked up the receiver, and after a few moments he fell to his knees. They were calling him from the village.
*
We have been in Slovenia now for two years. We escaped after two days, but Danko and his family stayed in the city. The Slovenes placed us in a housing complex with the rest of the refugees, in uniform row houses. Father found a job in his field, Mother makes lunch, my sister studies at the university and I am finishing grade school in the Slovenian language.
Apart from my classmates, I don’t have a single friend or even anyone my age in the neighbourhood. They are all older. But my sister brings a dozen or so friends over practically every day who laugh like crazy, shriek and tease me. A girl, Erna, bothers me more than the others. She’s a witch. She always wears black, and in her bag there are books of spells, prayer beads, tarot cards and photographs. Whenever she walks by me she pinches my cheeks or ears so hard they’re sore all day. I have frequently prayed she would disappear.
One day, when my sister brought her friends over, I had nothing better to do so I crept up to the door and eavesdropped. My sister was saying, “I don’t think he notices me at all. He didn’t even look at me all day yesterday . . . ”
“What do you mean!? He did, too . . . You know . . . Didn’t you see when he . . . ?” the other girls clucked.
“You are all so clueless. If you listened to me, I could cast a spell over him and make him yours forever,” said Erna calmly.
“How?! What . . . ? How? How?” They jumped up and surrounded Erna.
She grabbed her bag and pulled out a small black leather-bound book and as if lecturing them she started, “A bat wing! Yes, of course, why so surprised? A bat wing. The thing is that I'm not sure where to find one, there aren’t bats here in the plains. I've used this before with phenomenal results. Here’s what it says: “To take control of someone’s consciousness and emotions, to wield control over a person, it is best to take the wing of a bat and look at the person through the wing. Afterwards, not only will you control them, you can be said with certainty to have killed that person, snatched their every thought and forever subjugated them. They can no longer be considered a living being. Ensure that you use . . .”
A cold sweat broke out all over me. I ran to the living room, grabbed the phone and dialled Uncle’s number. Danko answered the phone.
“Miljan?”
“Tell me . . . ,” I could hardly breathe, “who died in the village when the war started?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Tell me please! You went there with your Dad the next day . . . try to remember . . . !”
“Well . . . ” He held back a moment, but then, as if he had all the names written down, he poured them into the receiver, “Jovanka and Željo (the man by the trunk of the car and the woman at the clothes line), Savo (in the red sweater), Danilo (on the moped), Radenko, Zoran . . . ” And another twenty names of those killed, the people we’d had in our sights that day. “We found Grandma and Grandpa with their throats slit by the gate.”
“And yes! Luka, the bartender, he was still groaning when they lifted him up. Someone had just grazed him with a bullet, didn’t hit him squarely . . . ,” he added.
I put down the phone. Danko and I have never spoken again. Ever since then, I have kept my distance from people. I cross the street when I see anyone with a briefcase who might be a lawyer, judge or police officer. I never speak with people who are from where we come from, so I would like to ask all of you who read this: do not tell this story to anyone, especially to someone who can send me to prison.
Actually, it would be best if you forgot this story altogether.
