Field of Blackbirds - Clayton Jeppsen & Lindsey Jeppsen (me reader txt) 📗

Field of Blackbirds


-Prologue-


Kosovo Pojla, the Battlefield, 1389


Prince Lazar had made his decision, made his promise. Embrace the new kingdom, relinquish the old. Surrender pride in exchange for a place at the round table of Gods.
The Gray Falcon, prudent and wise, stretched its wings leaving Lazar in the clearing of trees. The bird assented, higher and higher, finally disappearing into the western sunset. Redemption, thought Lazar. Like an exorcism of his soul, he felt years of hatred, bloodshed and death, physically leaving his body. He stood and ambled through the rolling Serbian grass. Armor clanked as he remounted his horse. The bellowing roar of his men, the tapping sound they made with sword against shied, to Lazar, it was like a dagger twisting under his ribs; they knew nothing. A tear swelled at the corner of his eye. Gravity tugged it downward over his scarred, weathered face before it splashed on the hilt of his sword.
The Serbian Army grew louder as Lazar galloped in front of them, ready to command a secret and unsanctioned exodus. He unsheathed his sword and thrust it skyward, as if to remind them in which direction they might find heaven.
Sweat rolled down Lazar’s face. “For the love of Serbia,” he yelled, igniting the ready and the anxious.
He yelled again, this time, louder, “Salvation.”
Lazar charged the Sultans. Life thickened around him, each second measured. This was the end, yet euphoria toppled his soul. His marriage to the Gods was about to be consummated. The indignation of Serbia and the fate of a nation weighed mightily against the benevolence of one prince.
The wild mass of men tumbled toward Lazar like a distorted smudge over the earth. But one man was born of the mass, the man who would reap his kingdom, his taker, he who would mistake Lazar’s nobility for cowardice. Lightning tore through the Serbian sky, giving a sip of emotion for what was about to take place. With his sword still held high, Lazar began to release one finger at a time and at last, his sword fell to the earth with the sound of thunder. Life became motionless. He was face to face with the Ottoman king. The canvas, splashed with silent valor, then forgiveness, and then came the clash.
The battle was fierce, and the thrill, redolent, but the sound of cold steel meeting the Prince’s warm flesh, was haunting. And the Serbs would never forget it. The Prince disappeared and the entire Serbian army crumbled to dust. All one could see was the hopping blackness that smothered the bodies.
Today, you can find the battlefield on any Serbian map. It is called; Kosovo Pojia, or in English, Field of Blackbirds.


Chapter 1 – In the Mouth of a Cub


Belgrade, Serbia 1981

Lazar’s throat burned. But he sucked in the dry air anyway. He couldn’t stop now. The sun was diving fast in his wake, throwing his long misshapen shadow to the cobblestone before him. The bridge, wrought with civil war, stretched over the Danube River and shot into the old city. The black, rushing water beneath him curled with angst. Halfway over the bridge, there were clover shaped patterns cut from the stone guard rails. Lazar was just tall enough to see out of them.
Burning little calves over tiptoes, Lazar peered through the clover as though it were a telescope on a pirate ship. Mr. Nowak’s shop lights were still on.
“Arrr!” he said out loud. “The light house be lit. Lower me starboard, Mateys’. We’ll be eaten’ good tonight.”
The shop was nestled between the National Bank of Serbia and the Old Church; the one that pierced the sky with a prideful, jutting spire. Lazar saw the dim lights of the shop flickering onto the street. The discovery energized him.
Lazar cut through the market square. Old Town was busy. People squawked and pecked like chickens as they pushed each other around for late afternoon deals. As always, he let the smell of fresh bread and sausages drag him through the food court. Sometimes, if he paced a little, vendors would toss him samples.
At the far end of the market, across the street, he could see that same women in the same place. She was a Gipsy from Romania, an older woman. She placed her crutches across her lap and a picture of Mother Mary at her feet and a small can for donations. He avoided her eyes, but felt the searing burns they left on him. He was embarrassed to pass her with nothing to give.
Before the guilt consumed too much of him, he was there. Over the entrance to the shop, an old wooden, hand-painted sign read; ‘The Time Machine’. He could see the small water eroded cracks in the door, could smell the oldness of the wood. When he went in, Mr. Nowak was still working. The blue light flashed in the back room. He was using his jewelry torch. Mr. Nowak came around the corner lifting up his light mask. He pushed away sweat from his forehead.
“I didn’t think you were coming tonight.” he said.
“Dejana is sick. I had to stay with her while my mother went to the market for medicine.”
Dejana was Lazar’s eight-year-old sister and Jovanka, Lazar’s mother, struggled to make a living for the three of them.
“Does your mother need any help?” asked Mr. Nowak.
“Mom is a very strong woman.” said Lazar.
“I know she is, but if I can help, I want to.”
Lazar just nodded. Mr. Nowak was like a father to Lazar. His real father, Vlado, died in Macedonia fighting off an Albanian uprising three years earlier. Jovanka had a special watch made for Vlado before he left. The watch was hand-made at the ‘The Time Machine’. When Mr. Nowak got the news of Vlado’s death, he duplicated the same watch and gave it to Lazar; something to remember his father by. It was the most valuable possession Lazar had.
Mr. Nowak dipped the rims of his glasses and noticed Lazar was still wearing shoes four sizes too big and his socks were mismatched. One nearly went all the way to his knobby, dirt stained knee and the other stopped mid calf.
Mr. Nowak started wiping the glass on his display cases. Lazar grabbed a broom and began to sweep the shop. He always tried to make it in time to help Mr. Nowak close up business. The shop was humid this time of year. The air condenser kick on. It sounded like a ninety-year-old man waking from hibernation and trying to stretch. It put a mustiness in the air that Lazar would always relate to Mr. Nowak.
“When you’re done with that, it’s your move.” Mr. Nowak sat a small wooden table with two chairs.
Lazar and Mr. Nowak had a game of chess going over the past three weeks. They were almost an even match; at least Mr. Nowak let Lazar feel that way. When Lazar sat down, he took a bishop with his horse. The bishop was guarding a castle, so Lazar knew it would be a one-for-one trade. Players who were confident didn’t mind trading pieces. It was a way to show they were fearless.
Lazar waited for Mr. Nowak to make his move. He looked up into the old man’s work weary eyes as they scoured the board. His king and queen rested safely in the reflection of his glasses on the end of his large, straight nose. Streaks of white swept through his ash-gray hair. He had deep creases around his mouth, proving that he was once the center of a very happy life. He doesn’t talk about that time anymore, at least not with Lazar. Mr. Nowak wore a handsome mask over his loneliness, always repelling any concern directed at him. He was modest and self-controlled. He was wise, but didn’t impart answers freely. He’d bring you along on a journey of insight so you felt like you were discovering the answer for yourself. Mr. Nowak was thoughtful of others, a selfless man.
Mr. Nowak brought his heavy hand behind his neck, gave it a rub. “Lazar, I know I have told you before, but I really do appreciate your help around the shop.” he said. “You always do a good job. You can learn a lot through hard work. You’re turning out to be a fine young man.”
Lazar looked embarrassed and didn’t respond.
“You know you have a big name to live up to.” added Mr. Nowak, finally taking Lazar’s horse with his castle.
Lazar didn’t know anybody else with his name. It was an old name found in history books, not on the playground. He was named after Prince Lazar, the Prince of Serbia in 1389. Lazar felt funny about his name. Sometimes his friends would laugh and have fun with it. But Mr. Nowak’s history lessons always brought virtue and life to his name.
“Mr. Nowak,” Lazar said, with a hint of shyness in his voice, “tell me about Prince Lazar again”.
Mr. Nowak reached for a peppermint from the candy dish and then passed the dish to Lazar. The peppermint sugar wet his throat. Mr. Nowak cast his view through the uneven window panes to the naked limbs of the Gingko trees and then beyond to the century old buildings that lined the Danube. The last sliver of sunlight fell. He pretended to ignore the look of anticipation for a discourse both knew would be recounted. It was each their favorite story, never tiring for the great orator or the audience of one.
“Well, in 1389 Lazar was the leader of Serbia, and the Commander of the Serb Army.” Mr. Nowak looked over the rim of his glasses and nodded to Lazar. As if ‘Commander of the Serb Army’ was impressive enough. “He was the last hope that stood between freedom and years of Ottoman rule. On the morning of the great battle, a gray falcon flew from Jerusalem to Kosovo Pojie with one mission, to find the Prince. After a seemingly endless