As the Poppies Bloomed Read online

  “Tooh!” he made a last disgusted spitting noise in her direction and left the tiny house.

  He walked down the road a bit and halted. He had forgotten his fez, and he preferred to keep his balding head protected from the weather. But it did not matter. He would need a better reason than a head covering to go back to that bunch just now.

  He rubbed his temples. Why had he not had a drop of luck in his lifetime, he wondered for the hundredth time?

  This part of the village was empty now and quiet. Far away, he heard singing and loud shouts from the wedding celebration. His children, Aram and Takoush, were there, and most of his neighbors. It was why he had been able to empty his heart a little without being heard. But he did not feel better for having done it. Still, it was necessary.

  He and his wife would soon have to make their own way to the church square, as well, to join the party. Vartan was a good man, and had been a friend to him, but he could not go just now. He must find some peace first. Mihran moved off the road and slipped through a narrow opening between the walls of two houses.

  He paused, thinking he heard his wife call after him, but moved on again. It was only the barking of a dog.

  These narrow passages could be found here and there throughout the entire village. They were narrow enough for a person to fit through, but never horses or field animals. Running along the width of the houses, they served the villagers as escape routes or for relaying messages. He used one now as a shortcut.

  Once among the trees that ringed the village, he put his hands behind his back and listened for the familiar hum. And scent.

  The trunks of the pines around him were thick and solid. The needles crunched and bent under his feet and he felt awkward, as always, disturbing the silence and serenity here. He weaved slowly through the trees. The wide branches cooled the air as well as his temper. He liked to trail his fingertips along the rough bark as he walked past. It was his silent greeting and his grateful acknowledgment of their acceptance.

  He would not have to go far now. He sniffed the air. Which would he detect first? The scent or the hum? It was a game he remembered playing long ago, with his mother, before she died. The skin on his scalp and forearms tingled happily. He heard them.

  Still on the edges of the wooded area where light filtered abundantly through the branches of the pine, fir, and oaks, Mihran stood before a cluster of hives. This year, there were six thriving colonies, all firmly built into the hollows and crevices of the proud trees. Many of the villagers kept hives near their homes. Honey was a staple for them and their favorite sweetener. But these wild forest hives were Mihran’s own special discovery.

  It was time to harvest, but not today. He had wandered here for solace only. He moved closer and stood only a foot away from one of the hives. He had built his immunity to stings months ago, in the early spring. He had quickly rubbed cool mud on them, over his arms and neck. Once, he remembered well, he had had to drop his shalvar down to his ankles and slap away the young bee clinging to his inner thigh. No amount of cool mud had eased that sting for hours.

  The worker bees moved in and around the cells of the hive, hundreds at a time. The large queen, Mihran knew, was somewhere about. Where else would she be, impervious and proud? Mihran eyed the drones concernedly. It was a dangerous time for them, for the drones were the only males of the colony and their sole reason for existence was to mate with the queen. The mating, Mihran knew, took place somewhere in midair, and immediately afterwards, the drone would fall paralyzed to his death.

  “Huh,” Mihran thought, as he remembered his own box-shaped wife and her thin, pursed lips. The only matings he had ever known had been like death.

  For the drones, time was running out. Soon, they would be thrown out of the hive to die.

  Mihran took a step back suddenly and forced his thoughts away from the luckless drones. He was not like them at all, he realized, as he remembered his brave, healthy son. Aram and Takoush were his reason for surviving in that household whose women would never let him forget that he was a dan pesa, a penniless groom. He had been an orphan for so long, sheltering under this roof and then that. He had had no hope of acquiring a house of his own, so he had come to live in the house of his bride, something that was almost never done in any Armenian village. It had been almost twenty years now, and they had pecked and needled him about it, nearly every day. And every day, he had swallowed their poisonous words and carried on with his work, because of his children. And now, it was time to harvest more honey for trade.

  C H A P T E R 6

  Daron kicked up straw as he nervously paced up and down their small stable. He appreciated the cool darkness inside. He could not stop perspiring, and the hens stopped to peck at him suspiciously now and then. It had been two hours since he had seen Anno at the well and his shirt was soaked down his back and under his arms. He kept picturing Anno’s fingers finally releasing their hold on the blocks, grasping at nothing but the gravelly belly of the well and then falling, endlessly falling.

  He would speak to his father today and put an end to their risk taking.

  He was practicing different ways of introducing this subject.

  “Hayrig,” he thought he would use the formal way of addressing his father. “Baba” sounded childish just now. “Have I not done well in helping you with your trade and in the fields? Do you not think I could continue to do well on my own soon? I could ease your burden then.”

  No. Daron shook his head. His father would dislike this roundabout way. They did not need to speak of livelihood. Buying, selling, trading was what his father had always done, and his grandfather before him. This was not the problem. The problem was that Anno was the village headman’s daughter and Daron’s family was not well known to them. And that, Daron decided, straightening his shoulders and kicking decidedly once at the ground, was just something his father would have to cope with. Swinging around toward the house, he went in search of him.

  Daron’s father, Mgro, sat on a cushion by the cylindrical stone oven built into the ground. The top of the furnace was level with the floor of the house. In this toneer all household baking took place, and it served as a sort of central heating system as well. However, just now the toneer was not lit, but covered with a round piece of wood topped with a clean cloth and turned into a low table. There, Mgro sat with his father and younger brother and their ever-present cups of oghee. Their presence did not deter Daron.

  Their entire family shared a roof and he had learned from birth that grandparents, aunts, and uncles were as parents to him. And all the children, consequently, were equally the responsibility of all adults.

  Daron lowered himself to one knee a few feet from the table and waited in silence for his presence to be acknowledged. The men were discussing the value of traveling to Moush or Van once more to bring more goods before winter came. Their people were so self-sufficient that Mgro’s business depended on special occasions like weddings or christenings, and the season for those was nearly over. They stopped speaking when Daron approached the table. He knew it would be left to his father to deal with this interruption.

  Mgro looked at Daron. Daron resisted the urge to bow his head as he had been taught to do when speaking to an elder. He instead met Mgro’s gaze and was relieved to see good humor there.

  “Hayrig, I have something to discuss with you that is very important to me,” he began.

  Daron sensed his grandfather leaning in to better hear and wished his sweat-soaked shirt did not cling so closely.

  “I am listening,” Mgro answered evenly.

  “I have ended my seventeenth year, as you know. I have been considering for some time now that I would like to be married. I wanted to be certain before I spoke of it. Now, I am certain. I would like to marry.” Before anyone could interrupt, Daron took a step forward and continued. “I would like to marry Headman Vartan’s younger daughter.”

  Daron paused. He did not expect to glean a hint of his father’s thoughts by looking into
his face. He never had been able to. Mgro’s profession had called for one important lesson to be learned early in life and that was not to allow facial expressions to betray his true emotions. Emotions, his father had told him, were a private thing that could not be avoided. Everyone had them. They could be suppressed. Actions, however, made the man, or ruined him.

  Mgro motioned with his arm for Daron to sit down. At first, Daron thought to sit on the straw matting covering the floor, but wanting to be on the same level with the other men, he went to fetch a cushion.

  “Vartan’s younger daughter? The small, dark one?” Mgro questioned.

  Was she dark? Daron was nonplussed. He remembered comments made from his father in passing. Mgro liked fair-skinned women and Anno was small, yes… He caught himself. This was not important. He knew they both spoke of Anno and so they must continue.

  “Well, yes, that is Anno. Her hair is dark,” he conceded, “if that is what you mean.” He was about to say that her eyes were not dark at all, and in the sunlight they were a warm, golden brown, but he should not seem so familiar. This was dangerous. He drew himself up and started again, this time remembering his training. He wiped all expression from his face and spoke as if he were describing the characteristics of a tool.

  “Yes, yes,” Mgro interrupted. Daron realized Mgro knew very well of whom he spoke. Was his father perhaps simply searching for time to think?

  “Daron, there could be a problem here. Did you not think of this? A girl like her might very well already be promised to someone else. We have no close ties to that family and cannot know of any such arrangements.”

  Daron did not speak, did not dare exclaim that he already knew that there was no such arrangement and of that he was completely certain.

  “If there is such an arrangement in place, it cannot be broken,” Mgro went on. It would deeply shame the promised family. It will not be done.”

  Daron did not speak. He wished his father to continue, to hear of any other objections he might have.

  “Do you know her age?” Mgro asked.

  Daron did not pretend to hesitate. “She has entered her fifteenth year.”

  He watched the men exchange glances for the first time. They then studied their cups, but Daron saw definite smiles on their faces. Yes, of course they knew. Our boy is struck, in love, they would be thinking.

  “Daron, listen to me.” Mgro put his palms flat on the table and leaned in.

  “If you wish to marry, you will. But with this girl, it is not what you wish or what I wish. Although, at her age why she has not been betrothed yet if it were so, I do not know. The women will know.” Mgro referred to Daron’s aunt and grandmother.

  “We will do what we can. If not this girl, then another,” Mgro tried to finish tidily.

  Now Daron put both palms on the table and leaned in slowly, just as his father had done.

  “Hayrig,” Daron quietly said, using the formal term for the second time. “This girl. It is to be this girl. Not another.”

  Three pairs of widened eyes settled on Daron. He knew it was out of character for him to speak this way, especially about a decision not his to make. No one breathed as Daron and Mgro locked eyes across the table. Daron knew he could very well be thrown out of the room at this moment and all hope of his father’s help would be lost. But he had to know. Did his father fully understand and did he have his help, or would he have to go forward on his own?

  Daron did not move as his father studied him, the strain on his face, the perspiration at his temples. Mgro slowly pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dropped it near Daron’s hands. He thought he saw his father’s eyes soften and knew instantly what he was thinking.

  “You take after your mother’s side, my boy,” Mgro had told him a dozen times. “Always carry a handkerchief.”

  His mother, too, had tended to perspire along the temples. That last day, the women could not dry her temples quickly enough. The labor had been normal, Daron had learned, but the afterbirth had not come. There were physicians in Moush, to the north, and several Armenian and American physicians and more to the east in Bitlis and Van, but they were too far away to help. Daron had just entered his fourth year. His grandmother and aunt had been mothers to him and his infant sister from that day on.

  Daron knew Mgro was wishing she were here now.

  “We will see, Daron.” Mgro gave his answer kindly. “There are rules.”

  Daron nodded only, but he was relieved. “We will see” was the closest his father ever came to “Yes.” Mgro would do his part, and so the first stone was turned.

  C H A P T E R 7

  Raffi wanted to whistle, but suppressed the urge. He was happiest when riding out on his horse, and their distance today from the villages made his mind wander away from his purpose. He reached into his pocket for another dried fig. A walnut came along as well.

  He looked over his shoulder again while Meghr, his horse, trod on without any lead. He was a sure-footed mountain horse, sensible and calm. His coat was a reddish brown, always reminding Raffi of shades of glowing wood. Yeraz believed that Meghr’s ancestors came from her native Karabagh, because she claimed that her grandfather had owned a small stable full of horses with Meghr’s same sweet face.

  Raffi did not argue much with his mother. Meghr, he knew, was a perfect mix of horse breeds and a fine saddle horse and he was most fortunate to have him.

  Procuring more horses for the fedayees had been the sole reason for this journey. The information he had retrieved from a neighboring province guaranteed the gift of four steeds from a prosperous villager. Raffi would ensure their delivery at a later date.

  He had now reached the tail end of his journey and would reach Salor late the next night.

  Raffi remembered when the news had reached them that Sultan Abdul Hamid had been overthrown and the Young Turks had come into power. They were told that Turks and Christians had celebrated together for days in the capital. The Young Turks promised Armenians all over the Ottoman Empire that they would be treated as the citizens they were. This promise was to extend to the overtaxed and beaten in the faraway eastern provinces as well. The fedayees came down off their mountains as their leaders told them to believe in these new-thinking Young Turks.

  That had been five years ago. Those who believed them had been fools.

  Meghr drank from a stream and Raffi slipped off his back to stretch. He searched the cliffs for movement but thus far saw nothing threatening. On this journey he had passed camps of Kurds who had no quarrel with the Armenians. The children had stopped to stare at him, a few prepared to throw rocks, but had been called back by their elders. He had passed many villages as well. There were no lone farmhouses to be found along this way. Villages were formed around natural water sources and the homes were built close together for defense. Some of the villages were oases of beauty, green and lush with fruit orchards and fields of wheat and barley and corn. The landscape between villages, however, was dry, with rocky mountain cliffs overhanging the paths. Here, the air was cool and bright and Raffi enjoyed it, knowing that as he progressed higher to Sassoun, fog would be possible at any time.

  Two falcons glided close overhead and Raffi admired the symmetrical shades and dabbings of brown and black under their wings. The sky beyond was blue and cloudless and the sweet smell of the dry grass filled him, at last, with a moment of peace.

  From the day of his birth Raffi had begun absorbing the fact that his people were, if nothing else, tenacious. He often wondered if those of his people who finally left and emigrated to foreign countries to worship God and live without fear had found their lives acceptable. They did not live in homes that resembled small cages, perhaps, nor were their doors pounded upon in the dark night. The sight of uniforms no longer made them want to flee, and they were not called names in the streets by people mocking their religion. But what did they have now, Raffi wondered time and again, to make them feel joy?

  They could no longer pull the ripe, dusty fruit o
ff their own trees, could they? Or gather under a tree at harvest time with dozens of family members to eat their noon meal, teasing and laughing at the slower workers. And did they miss the icy mountain water that would be passed around at every meal, with the youngest drinking first, their eyes sparkling with mischief as they prolonged their moments of attention? Did they miss the echoes of the priests’ songs and hymns resonating off the damp, moss-covered walls of their churches? And the tight, muscled grip of arms linked while they danced their circle dances, whistling, dipping, leaping in unison, while the smoke from the roasting meat soaked their hair and skin. And the children, all the children, running and playing around the skirts of the women, stopped at any time by any of the mothers or grandmothers and handed a dripping piece of kebab tightly wrapped in lavash bread. Or the sight of the orchards in the early spring, blossoming in shades of pink and white and green, and the young shepherds cursing tangled flocks, tripping and slapping their sticks at the uncaring animals. Did they miss that? Raffi did not know. Perhaps they did not need all that, but for him, anything else, anything but this, was unacceptable. He would not be driven out. He did not judge those who finally left of their own free will. Perhaps if he had a wife and children to protect, he would do the same for them. But, no, he would not be driven out.

  Suddenly, Meghr’s ears straightened, his head lifted and his nostrils widened. Raffi pulled back slightly on the reins to listen. At first there was nothing, and then he heard voices, chanting in Turkish. The chants were prayers and Raffi thought he heard many different voices. He allowed Meghr to walk again, slightly faster now. With any luck, he would pass them and disappear over the next hill before their prayers ended. They were off to his right, somewhere in a cluster of shade trees, facing Mecca, away from him. He could not believe his luck. He watched their arms raised and lowered, raised and lowered. They were gendarmes, and Raffi knew he did not pass unobserved. Twenty more paces and he urged Meghr on as fast as he dared. They could not gallop just now because of the noise and the suspicion it would cause.