By The buyer had a well seasoned merchant’s spirit. He had seen through and out the other man’s troubles and was not going to give a better offer. He was getting the whole herd practically for nothing, and he hadn’t the slightest remorse. The seller almost lost his temper and was ready to send him away, sell him nothing. This was a bargain gone wrong. He gazed at the animals grazing in the field and it seemed to him that the ram, the leader of the herd, moved his horns in approval.
“Well done my friend! Your day finally is here!” he said, full of anger to the buyer, a fifty-year-old maybe, but looking much older due to the harsh sun tan and the exploiter’s shadow that befell him.
“My day! There is no profit in this kind of business! I should just leave, go to Germany, or Greece, rather than look after sheep for a few dollars,” replied the buyer, pretending to sound uninterested while getting a handful of banknotes out of the inside pocket of his jacket and counting them.
“It’s not profitable, but they bring milk, butter and cheese to the table, meat and wool for a few pairs of sweaters and socks, a cloak and a rug to sit by the fire. A little dairy to take to the market. If it wasn’t for this misery…” he stopped and bit his tongue, being aware these words weren’t to his advantage. The other guy was going to take full advantage of his weakness. Of course he knew that these villages would have no water very soon. A monstrous creature was cutting the river flow and they had no strength or means to stop it.
His great grandparents had fought for water, too. Their legendary battles were passed mouth to mouth, from generation to generation. They had fought with beasts and dragons, the prize had been high, their lives and blood, but they had won over them. They had killed the beasts that drank up the water and life continued to flow on those ancient lands, thousands years old.
But this time, the beast was made of iron with many heads, and it got its strength far from there. How could they cut out this beast’s real head? Who would be the Hercules that could fight such a beast?
****
A loud noise broke the morning’s peace. Some kind of heavy equipment was passing by, maybe, but the pounding noise was getting louder and louder instead of dissipating, shaking the ground. Within a few minutes, those few inhabitants that remained on those parts had gone out of their houses, running in the direction the noise was coming, by the river.
A great shock awaited them there. Construction equipment and bulldozers started their work, clearly to cut the way and change the river’s bed.
Of course, people didn’t cross their arms idly. They grabbed stakes, stones, whatever came in handy and tried to stop them.
They petitioned, taking all legal actions and even going to court; but, it was evident they weren’t going to win. The iron hydra was going to take away the river and send it somewhere else, on top of Palas, to fill up a huge fancy pool where the nude gods of a new cult were going to bathe, given that its power came from a collective orgy among all ranks and circles.
The protest achieved all that could be achieved momentarily and people spread out to their houses and troubles.
“Don’t despair,’ said one geologist to him, “the measurements clearly show that Shushica doesn’t have half the volume of water they pretend to have available. We’ll represent these data to court. Like this, fifty villages will burn out and there won’t be even a drop of water left to drip into Vjosa’s bed. That would be the total destruction of the National Park! The government, the law can’t allow this to happen!”
But somehow, his words didn’t really warm his heart. With heavy thoughts he went home. His wife set the dinner table while his aged parents watched the news, sitting on an old Ottoman sofa covered in sheep skin. He kept eating instinctively with no desire, while his brain processed the heated arguments he had during the day with workers and local government representatives.
There! The local news chronicle started and he saw his face on the TV screen among the protesters. Food got stuck in his throat, and he was unable to swallow. He drank some water to wash it down.
The journalist, daughter of that region, was sounding as emotional as the habitants and the ecosystem activists as she addressed the severe situation present since the break of the water supply systems that left the fields barren, forcing the habitants of these thirty-seven villages, once fertile lands, to leave, stressing even more on the great irrecoverable ecological damage National Vjosa Park would suffer as the result of river’s bed change.
Ten minutes air time. That was it. His father shut off the TV. No one in the room objected to his action. They didn’t need senseless noise. He finished his meal and sat with his parents on the sofa. Father and son lit their rolled up cigars and his wife brought them Turkish coffee shortly after.
“Well, my son,” started his father with a steady tone while grabbing his coffee cup, “in my grandfather’s time when the beasts would show up and get hold of the rivers, we would try to appease them with a sacrifice, a lamb or sheep. If they weren’t appeased the stronger boy would seek the oracle’s advice on how to fight it best, how to defeat it. The beasts had their weakness as well, a hidden spot where you could attack them and defeat them. You needed wisdom as well as strength and bravery. Too many fine young men have lost their lives. The springs keep gushing, because they are filled with their blood.”
The old man took a short break, put his lips on the cup’s edge, gulped a little coffee and without even looking at his son continued even more calmly.
“Now listen to your oracle, this old man that has lived a long life and has seen a lot. With this kind of a beast you cannot win. Sacrifices and war are of no help at all. All these heads you see around are just pawns. She can even cut them herself and throw them to the dogs with no care at all, for she can grow two or three others in their place instantly. The real one is somewhere safe, unreachable. The world would be reaching its end before this head falls. ‘Don’t play with fire and government’ as the old saying goes…”
“You mean, leave the land and everything and go. Take care of the Greeks’ herd, work their lands, pick up their oranges and leave mine here to rot and dry out!” He broke out, quite upset.
The old man smiled bitterly, shaking his head. Of course his son wasn’t immature or naive. He just hadn’t fully evaluated the situation.
“Well, my son, you don’t understand the state’s power. The state’s hand is behind all this misery. Didn’t the state lower the price of milk? Leave the crap aside: free economy, free trade. The state’s long hands stretch all along from dairy factories to customs, allowing imported foods, hundreds of trucks each day, with zero tariffs. Go, sell your milk now for the same price you sold before! Is anyone going to buy it?”
Irony and anger rose gradually in his voice while his son couldn’t even object to any of his remarks.
“See, the State has you in his hand. It squeezes you as hard as it pleases it, and when you are no longer valuable, it tosses you in a corner of the world.”
A heavy silence filled the room. All four of them kept their eyes down at their coffee cups, the dark rings on their edges and the thick sediment on the bottom. They had nothing to say or add.
“Sell the sheep! My heart aches to say this but go, my son! Go join your brothers abroad. I can’t keep you hostage here. Take your wife and children and go! They have suffered enough here. Winter is coming. No water, no light. Their school is so far away, too far to walk. Go, my son!
He hadn’t managed to put a word in. His father’s words weighed so heavily on his heart. Sell the sheep, take his wife and kids and go, just like his brothers. No, he had sworn he would never do that. He would never leave his parents alone. He knew there was no chance they would leave their house, their village, and go after their children in a foreign land. No, this would never happen. He would stay there until their eyes would close to never open again. As the younger son, he was supposed to take care of them and he was going to fulfill his duty. He would never abandon them. They would make do somehow.
For days, his father’s words ground him down. All drained, he tried to reason himself out, taking both sides of the argument. His wife, thank goodness, didn’t push the conversation. She didn’t say a single word, neither stayed nor went. It pained her to see him toss and turn all night in bed. In that little sleep he managed to get, he would see himself immersed to his waist in blood, fighting beasts and hydras, smoke and fog and unclear endings. He couldn’t remember if he killed them or if they killed him. He would’ve liked for times to go back so he could have in front of him a real beast, a beast in flesh and blood. A beast he could possibly kill with the help of the oracle’s wisdom and his father’s blessing. And if he didn’t succeed, another fine brave man would and the village would have water again, and life would go on. But in such times as they lived there were no more real oracles and no real beasts.
****
When hell breaks loose! The river that summer had very little water, forcing him to take the herd even further out to drink. He was gone from morning to night. He was wearing out commuting such long distances, which was no good for the animals either. They couldn’t gain weight as they kept losing so much energy on the back and forth. It would be better to sell them and go to his brothers in Belgium. See with his own eyes how life was there. Couldn’t be worse than here or they would have returned. “Gosh, even when they come to visit once a year, they hardly give a hundred euros to the old folks. They gave some money in the beginning when they first settled out there, and after that the account books closed. They don’t care that their pensions as farmers are the lowest in the country. They don’t even ask if they can afford their medications! How could they be so stingy! Are their wives to blame? That’s why there is a saying in some parts, ‘Choose women and cows from your own village’ They took Belgium wives! Mixed our blood! God damn it!”
From morning to night he kept changing his mind so many times, unable to decide what to do. A summer had gone and another was on its way. Even though the case was taken to the high court, waiting for a hearing date, the beast had sent out again the excavators and bulldozers ready to grind alive even their bodies if they got in the way.
His old man had been right, one thousand percent. This beast was unstoppable. Useless for him to stay. Gone all the time, drained completely, he was no good as husband or a father.
*****
The buyer took his time to count the money which ended up being the exact amount as the settled price. Not a dollar more. “That means he had made up his mind really well before even coming here. Good, I’m used to the rope around my neck too. I will teach this son of a bitch, this dirty opportunist a lesson he’ll remember,” he thought while measuring the guy with his eyes.
“Leave it. It can’t be done. I won’t sell for such a low price,” he spoke firmly and showed him the way. The buyer was shocked, as he assumed the deal was made already.
“Only half of such a good breed of herd is worth the amount you are offering and as a well seasoned man in the business you know it very well. Go! I have nothing to sell you.”
“But that’s all I can afford. I have no more money. I travelled all the way here!” said the buyer, not happy at all. He couldn’t understand why this deal was wrecked suddenly.
“Ok. Since you travelled all the way here, to be fair, I will give you what that amount can buy. I am going to keep the ram, those three sheep and that pied goat over there,” he pointed them out while checking the other man’s reaction with the corner of his eye.
“That’s too much you are keeping!” came the whining complaint of the buyer.
“As you wish. You don’t like the deal, leave it! I have no rush to sell. I will wait for a better price.”
The buyer was processing again what a man from this same village had told him: “He has the rope tight on his neck. He is going to sell everything, land and animals, and is going to immigrate to Belgium where his brothers are.” It seemed like he was not rushed to go, but what was he going to do here without any water at all? They didn’t even have drinking water anymore, and were forced to load it onto horses and donkeys to bring it home from the springs.
He weighed it to consider whether or not but he already saw the answer written on the young man’s face: “I will slaughter them, dry the meat in the sun, make nice pastrami to last for seven years and give you nothing.” He put his anger aside and evaluated the situation again, the new bargain. The animals were truly a very nice breed, healthy and good for reproduction and dairy. It was still a very good bargain and he shouldn’t be so greedy and let it sleep through his fingers.
“Ok. Deal! Good luck to both of us! You can keep what you pointed out.”
***
He felt a spear go through his heart as he closed the ram, the three sheep and the pied goat in the barn. Of course! It pained him to see what he had worked so hard for since his youth vanished with no trace on earth, just a handful of money that couldn’t even resolve a quarter of the problems he had.
The house needed a new roof and the car wasn’t worth the repairs anymore, but he had to deal with it for the time being because he couldn’t afford to buy a newer one or have nothing. School was starting soon and it took the kids an hour and half, not to say two, each way, all the way down to the city, Vlora. His old parents had a list of illnesses and meds they needed. He had to open a well. So at least they could have drinking water at home. He was going to fetch a lead bullet, tie it on a rope and follow its lead. He will open the well at the spot where the vibrations would be stronger. He had no money to hire geologs for that. He would rely on his grandparents’ methods that never failed.
Thoughts were rushing in his head with such eagerness like a strong river, returning to his bed after a long absence. He wasn’t going to leave. He would find a job in the city and slowly grow his herd again.
“God will come to our aid and bless us again,” he gave courage to himself. “Maybe we’ll be lucky and you pregnant pied one will birth three kids this time. Until you multiply and grow in numbers, who knows what God has in store for us. Maybe He’ll strike them with a thunderbolt or an earthquake there in their lavish pool, and wipe out with one blow their kind entirely for good!” He added out loud while laying fresh new straw for the animals.
Then he patted those creatures down, one by one, that had become even dearer now, took the electric lamp, closed the door behind, and started out to the house where his wife, kids and his old parents were waiting for him. The lights coming from there warmed up his heart.
Surprisingly he felt better, lighter now that he had decided to stay. At least we will survive, just with their milk alone. We’ll survive. God knows what He has in store for his people.
He lifted up his head to search for confirmation that his prayer was heard up there and saw the bloody moon that had arrived over the village. “Let the beasts eat each others’ heads!” He cursed out loud, remembering his elders’ words anytime a bloody moon was up in the sky, and the regurgitation of the journalist and analyst that predicted nothing else other than the possibility of a third world war.
“The Water Beast”: A Story by Armenida Qyqja
Armenida Qyqja is the author of eight poetry collections and two storybooks, including Golden Armor (Transcendent Zero Press, 2025).
