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  P O P P I E S

  B L O O M E D

  A N O V E L O F L O V E I N A T I M E O F F E A R

  P O P P I E S

  B L O O M E D

  M A R A L B O Y A D J I A N

  S A L O R P R E S S

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 Maral Boyadjian. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used, reproduced, translated, electronically stored, or transmitted in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in their reviews.

  For information, address:

  Salor Press

  E-mail: [email protected]

  For foreign and translation rights, contact Nigel J. Yorwerth

  E-mail: [email protected]

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014917133

  ISBN: 978-0-9911241-0-7 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-0-9911241-1-4 (ebook)

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover design: Nita Ybarra

  To the grandchildren of Krikor Haroutinian—

  Mshak, Nahreen, Krikor, Kareen, Marie, Kevo, and Tamar.

  I know that wherever you are, Dad, you are so, so proud.

  C H A P T E R 1

  Salor, Sassoun 1913

  On the same day that the village headman’s older daughter was to wed, his younger daughter hid in an abandoned well.

  Anno clung to the well’s solid top blocks. It was a well that had not been used by the villagers during her lifetime, and the bottom, she knew, was hard and dry. Her fingers pressed the edges of the blocks and she willed herself to keep her head out of sight. Her forearms were scraped, bleeding into the sleeves of her blouse, but Anno felt no pain at all. All that mattered was that she was not seen.

  And as Anno hung in the well, she felt the rise of stinging, bubbling anger. Anger that all she had planned should end like this, all because of that meddling Old Mariam.

  Anno’s arms and shoulders were burning now with exertion. She slowly, creepingly, felt around the inside of the well with her right foot, searching for something to push against to take the load from her arms. She knew she must stay there until Old Mariam passed, and Old Mariam’s pace was very, very slow.

  Tears filled her eyes when she wondered if she would even have the strength to pull herself out when it was finally safe.

  Flashes of the morning activity came to her in split seconds. She had waited until all the relatives and neighbors had focused all their attention on her sister, Lucine, the bride. She knew that she would have no more than thirty minutes from that moment until her absence was noticed, and so she had soundlessly and purposefully left through a back door. She had walked close along the outer walls of the stable and away from the cluster of village homes, then up a short dry slope to her and Daron’s meeting place, this abandoned well.

  Daron, too, would slip away as soon as he had received his signal. Takoush, Anno’s closest friend, would move outside Anno’s father’s front door to the road, casually look to her left and then to her right, seemingly searching for a stray guest, and then turn back inside.

  But Anno and Daron had had such little time to plan. They had forgotten Old Mariam’s treks to her favorite field for collecting her grasses and herbs.

  Anno’s foot rested against something solid. She pushed against it tentatively with the ball of her foot and exhaled sharply. She dared not look down, but her foot was most definitely pushing against some solid protrusion. Then she lifted her body by inches until her eyes topped the well. Looking right and left, she could no longer see Mariam’s hunched figure among the grasses. Without hesitating, she pushed herself out of the well, immediately, while she still had the strength to do so, because her arms were numbing dangerously. She slumped on the dry grass and cold perspiration streamed down her face and back.

  And it was just this way, with her mouth hanging open, hair streaking the sides of her face, slumped against the well’s wall, that Daron found her.

  Anno’s index finger shot up and lay against her lips to warn Daron not to cry out. He instinctively bent over double and ran to her side, dark brown eyes staring wildly into her face. He imagined the worst, because Anno was not one to frighten easily.

  “Old Mariam walked by. I had to hide.” She nodded behind her to the well. “There was nowhere else. I almost fell in.” She stopped a moment to breathe again. Her mouth was dry and the words came slowly. “She did not see.”

  Daron swallowed once.

  I almost fell in, she had said. She did not see. And in response he could not cry out in case someone heard, and he could not hold her, in case someone saw.

  Instead, Daron gently pushed the long, matted hair off her face and lifted her hands. They both saw the blood for the first time, and Daron took his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the red droplets, occasionally pressing down to stop the flow. For a long moment, he neither spoke nor looked up. Anno turned away from the anger in his face and watched his large olive-skinned hands working over hers.

  “This must stop,” he said finally, looking straight into her eyes.

  She nodded sadly back at him, knowing he did not mean the blood.

  “Either your father agrees or he does not. Nothing can be as bad as what happened here today. What if you had fallen in?” He gripped her shoulders. “Anno, what if you had fallen in?”

  With his words, they both imagined her arms tired, her hands and fingertips surrendering their grip as she slipped and scraped rapidly and endlessly down past the cold, forgotten walls of the well to its rock-hard bottom. And they imagined, at that moment, having lost each other, having no more reason to spare their families shame by meeting in secret places, speaking but not touching. Rising to her knees, Anno and Daron embraced for the first time, and their faces touched.

  “I will speak to my father today. Today. Do not worry,” Daron whispered. And to further prove how confident she should be in him, he kissed her slowly. First her temple, then her eyelids, and finally, her mouth.

  “Now go,” Daron said, pulling Anno slowly to her feet. “This is not how they should find out about us, hiding behind an old well.”

  They were able to smile now, despite their own poorly made plans.

  Still feeling his kisses, Anno could not speak.

  “I will go first. Count to ten, then follow,” Daron told her, and noticing now that she was standing limply, not her true straight self, he held her arms anxiously.

  “Can you walk? Are your legs hurt?” He searched her, up and down.

  “No. No. Of course I can walk.” Anno pulled herself up. “We must return now.” She held his shoulders and slowly turned him around.

  With one last look around the dry slope, Daron left. Anno waited until she could see him no more, counted to ten and followed. Her knees were weak for a number of reasons, but her heart was happy.

  C H A P T E R 2

  Lucine, headman Vartan’s older daughter, was well accustomed to being the center of attention. But today, on the day of her wedding, things were disconcertingly different.

  As the daughter of an important family, she had learned at an early age that her behavior and manners must be above reproach at all times. She knew that even when she played or worked among family members or girls her age, she was observed. She did not mind. In fact, she enjoyed it. She expected it. Her thick, wavy hair was always neatly braided down her back,
and the wisps around her temples wound into enviable shades of golden brown. Her eyes were an unexpected green, and her skin, pale. With these unusual fair features, she would likely have been watched anyway.

  Today, however, the attentions cast upon Lucine were not silent observations and whisperings, or even heads nodding in approval. Today, the women of her own family and of her future husband’s family were critical. They were fingering her hair, her wedding dress, turning her to the left and around and volubly expressing all opinions.

  “Her headpiece has slipped once already. It will fall in her face and we will all be shamed,” someone warned.

  “That is because too many coins have been sewn on the front. And whose work was that?” her father’s sister queried loudly.

  Lucine’s face burned with embarrassment. She had insisted on the many embellishments around her face despite her mother’s warnings. She looked at her mother now.

  Yeraz, Lucine’s mother, was not tall. Nor was she particularly stout. But no one would ever say she was a small woman. In fact, with dark brown braids coiled high on her head, her back and shoulders straight, her wool skirt long and full, the people rather considered the wife of the headman to be stately. Wise and stately.

  The people of mountainous Sassoun, and their little village of Salor, had worked and fought together, celebrated, suffered, and mourned together on this land for centuries. Every person there had been part of numerous weddings, baptisms, and funerals. Yeraz Vartanian was no exception. Although Lucine was the first of her four children to wed, every aspect of the traditional betrothal and wedding was very clear and familiar to her. And so, she had thought to see her eldest daughter’s wedding celebration through quite smoothly, but instead, she found herself, on this first day, already losing patience and narrowly controlling her tongue. She purposely spoke little, not trusting herself and her temper. She knew she must appear not to mind the women and their thoughtless criticisms so that no one would have reason to gossip later. And most importantly, Lucine would become even more flustered if her mother showed any agitation, because Yeraz was rarely, if ever, agitated.

  “Marie,” Yeraz spoke to her husband’s sister. “You are the most skilled with the needle. Take Lucine’s headpiece and remove some of those coins. You will know which ones.” Yeraz passed the dishlike red velvet headpiece and it floated from hand to hand as if it were a crown.

  Marie’s bosom swelled with pride at Yeraz’s compliment. She reached for the piece with both hands.

  “It would be a sin if this headpiece hid our girl’s lovely eyes. I will fix it. All of you do something else,” she stated generously, and was further pleased to turn and find the arms of several eager young girls outstretched, offering her a wide choice of scissors, needles, and thread. She showingly chose her tools, rejecting the first two needles for no true reason, and sat down smugly to work.

  Yeraz now turned her attention to her new in-laws, khnamis. There were about a dozen various female relatives, including, of course, Lucine’s future mother- and grandmother-in-law. They were eating sweets from trays laid out before them by neighbors who had prepared and delivered them to the bride’s father’s home just as Yeraz herself had done for countless other weddings.

  Yeraz’s eyes flickered over the emptied rows of sticky trays and doubted there would be enough left to last them to the next day.

  Father Sarkis, who had arrived earlier to bless Lucine’s wedding garments, poured a bit of oghee, a local spirit made from mulberries, into his cup and sipped it with satisfaction. He clutched his cup to him and seemed pleased to be here among the women for the moment. He knew that friends and male members of the family had taken the groom, the pesa, to the bathhouse to be bathed and shaved, and that he did not need to partake in the jokes that would take place there. So for the time being, he was most content to be where he was. He would join the bride’s father and other relatives in the small, walled courtyard soon, but not just yet.

  Takoush’s voice, pensive and sweet, rose above the others’. She clasped her hands against her heart and allowed her body to sway slightly as she began a song that had been sung for centuries. First she sang the role of a young bride leaving her mother to go live in a faraway village and then that of the mother comforting the daughter with words of love and encouragement. The guests sang along and many wept for daughters who had indeed left.

  Yeraz paid no attention to the ballad at all. Lucine, blessedly, was moving exactly fourteen houses up the road to make her new home with Avo and his large family. And although it must be accepted that she would be their bride now, their hars, Yeraz knew of many opportunities that would arise, and yes, be created, to share precious moments with her eldest daughter. When she herself had left her parents’ village many years ago, she had sworn to herself that her daughters, if she were blessed with any, would never go so far.

  Yeraz, for the moment, was more concerned with her younger daughter’s whereabouts. Anno’s place should have been with her family every passing moment of this day. But a while ago she had tugged on her mother’s arm and told her that she must “run” to the outhouse. Yeraz had looked at her daughter in alarm. “Are you ill, Anno?”

  Anno, desperate to avoid questioning, had merely shaken her head and left. That had been quite some time ago.

  Yeraz thought it unwise to wait for Anno any longer, and with a sweep of her arm she indicated to the guests that it was time to place the veil on the bride’s head.

  Fingers were licked and cups were drained. Vests, velvet aprons, sleeves, and skirts were straightened as all the guests turned toward the bride.

  “Quickly now!” someone called out.

  “Gather closer. Where is the bride’s father? Call the brothers. Call the men!”

  The three village musicians who had been silent during Takoush’s song now started a lively dance tune and the men filed in singly from the garden. Some had arms already outstretched, fingers extended, entering to the tune of the music.

  “Smile, my daughter,” Yeraz whispered in Lucine’s ear. “You are lovely. Stand straight, be brave, and bring honor to your father’s home.” Yeraz kissed both Lucine’s cheeks and turned to find Anno at her side.

  Anno’s eyes filled with tears as she squeezed Lucine’s hands, kissed her and backed away.

  Outstretched arms held a long, simple white veil. Lucine stood in the middle of the room and waited. The musicians quickened the tune and all the guests formed a large circle and danced around the bride. The veil was circled atop the bride’s head three times before being placed on her head. Next came the red velvet cap, perfectly altered. The coins framed Lucine’s face but with no danger of the cap sliding askew. She smiled gratefully at her aunt. Marie smiled back and gave a large nod and wink.

  With a sudden surge of confidence Lucine whirled and, with arms outstretched and hands gracefully turning at the wrist, daintily began to dance toward her brothers. With heels marking the floor, both came forward to meet her and the threesome danced a tight circle while the crowd clapped and cheered.

  It was at this moment that Old Mariam came through the door with her two sons and their wives. Anno had just begun to breathe normally again and feel a bit of joy in the day when she saw the woman. All turned black again and she shrunk back into the wall.

  Mariam had changed from her old black skirt and blouse to a slightly newer, less faded version of the same. Her head was bare, and her long gray hair, still thick and shining with cleanliness, formed a neat bun at the back of her head. She was greeted warmly not just for her age, but because she was truly loved for herself. She was a frequent visitor to Vartan’s home and had been the midwife at the birth of all his children. But since a short hour ago, Anno had forgotten all of this. She had forgotten all the kindnesses the woman had shown her; she only saw her as one more person able to thwart her and Daron’s plans.

  “The groom is just up the road.” Mariam chuckled. “Their voices can be heard around the world.”

  Ever
yone looked to Yeraz to take the next traditional step.

  Yeraz looked at her husband. Vartan, standing close to Lucine, now waited until the room was silent and then commanded, “Lock the door.”

  Their eldest son, Raffi, went forward and turned the key loudly.

  A cheer went up and one of the women turned to Lucine and started to sing. Everyone joined in loudly. Outside, the drum and horn could be heard as the groom’s family arrived and pounded on the door.

  C H A P T E R 3

  Avo’s dagger slapped his thigh as he walked. It was unfamiliar to him, this being the only day in his life he could legally arm himself, and he reached down to still it once more as they approached Vartan’s door.

  Beside him, Avo had felt his father twist and search behind them anxiously for the dozenth time.

  Avo had enjoyed joking and laughing all morning. Each toast had centered on his and his family’s favorable and enviable qualities. He felt as if he were basking in the sun. He labored hard with the animals and the crops and felt he had been waiting for this acknowledgment for a long time.

  He had been fully scrubbed at the bathhouse, and this year’s oghee had been passed around again and again while layers of his wedding attire were presented to him to wear.

  He wore a wide blue shalvar with black and red embroidery on the sides and a matching tunic with a high, round collar. At his waist was a wide, twisted cloth over which came a single leather belt that housed his dagger. His leather boots were covered with embroidered cloth to his ankles, and were so soft he had already glanced down at his feet twice in amazement, until he had caught his father frowning at him. His head was bare and his dark, coarse hair curled unusually generously today from the steam of the bath.

  Avo had watched closely as Mihran, the ironsmith, had sharpened his dagger the previous week. When he had finished, Avo had asked him to sharpen it one more time.