As the Poppies Bloomed Page 6

  Vartan barely hesitated. He knew what should be done. Lifetimes of pacification had come and gone.

  “You are the merchant’s boy, are you not?”

  Daron nodded.

  Vartan put his right hand on Daron’s shoulder and began his instructions. When finished, he watched Daron cross the field back to the village and did not allow himself to reflect on his decision.

  C H A P T E R 12

  Mihran was mentally attempting to appropriate just one short minute of time to wipe his dripping brow when he felt a still shadow of a presence at the entrance to his forge. It puzzled him so he turned to face the distraction fully. It was Mgro’s boy, Daron, and he was empty-handed.

  Only broken farm tools or animal harnesses would bring agitated villagers rushing to his stall at midday and Daron was not rushing at him like the others. Mihran was opening his mouth to question the boy when he caught the expression in his eyes.

  The two men waiting for their tools roared at him when he waved them away without completing their work. “Am I to blame if my mother-in-law insists on feeding me her pickled cabbage? There is a battle going on in my belly and I cannot be expected to end it here on this spot, can I?” He had roared right back at them and cleared the stall. They grumblingly retreated, faces harshened by the weather and the worry of passing a morning away from their crops.

  “But this is foolish child’s play.” Mihran shook his head in frustration once Daron had told all. Nuzan Bey, the head of the Kurdish clan who never seemed to forego an opportunity to raid and plunder Salor, would never waste time with such subtleties strewn here and there as those discovered today.

  Mihran shouted at his apprentice to mind the stall, and a short while later, Daron led Mihran up the grazing slopes to where the shepherds waited.

  The young men sprang to their feet at the sight of the most powerfully built man in their village. And the one man they knew whose mother had been a Kurd.

  They stood straight for the first time that day. Avo felt he could even smile a little when Mihran’s bushy eyebrows separated in the middle as he took in the sight of them. The shepherds stood like soldiers waiting for orders as Mihran eyed them.

  A substantial breeze had started blowing through the hills late that morning, cool and persistent. The only sound was the rustling of the oak tree they stood under. And a faint clucking noise.

  Avo’s eyes met Daron’s for a wild second, and Daron looked quickly away.

  Along with the clucking, there was now the faint sound of shuffling.

  “What is that?” a younger shepherd demanded.

  Mihran stepped in closer to the group and the clucking was all that could be heard now. He swung his body slightly to one side so that the boys could see a knapsack tied to his back, with rolling movements of protest inside causing the sack to bulge in places.

  Mihran watched the young men’s eyes suddenly dim. They looked to Daron for one last confirmation, and their spines seemed to curve in defeat. There would be no justice today, either, and any attempts to argue were futile, not with those great hens strapped to Mihran’s back.

  The shepherds watched the ironsmith’s back until he disappeared around a ledge. The hens’ squawks could be heard for many minutes longer and then, finally, there was just the rustling of the leaves.

  “What was in that knapsack, Daron?” Avo asked.

  “A jar of his best honey.”

  “And?” Avo persisted.

  “His two best red hens. He said the honey was to remind Nuzan Bey who his mother had been. The hens were to remind him that there were things to be eaten other than lamb.”

  Avo wordlessly picked up his staff and moved toward his flock. The others did the same, moving slower than ever, as if their movements caused them bodily pain.

  C H A P T E R 13

  Aram had not found the first two days of travel too tedious. He had left the region of Kars with a companion. But then they had parted ways and Aram had chosen to walk many of the miles to Sassoun at sporadic times of the day and night. He had crept through plains and grasslands in the dark, urging three skittish donkeys each step of the way. The hills and mountains he had rounded during the day, keeping hiding places within sight where possible. Traveling singly, it was easier to remain unseen, but almost impossible to defend himself and save his precious cargo if attacked.

  It had bothered Raffi deeply that he would not accompany Aram for this trek, but his family had fallen under suspicion, and he had been forced to stay behind.

  Aram’s only luxury had been staring into the vivid night sky and allowing himself to think of Lucine. He pictured her as a girl, her head bent to needlework, her scent as she whirled around her father’s small home, serving her brothers, the clear green of her eyes. He remembered how he and Raffi had returned that one day, after many weeks of absence, to find that she was betrothed and the date of marriage had been set. Yeraz had looked back into their stony faces, confused as to why her news had not brought forth joy. Aram had reacted first. He had kissed Yeraz’s hand and congratulated her and the family. Lucine, standing somewhere close behind Yeraz, had become a blur. He had not been able to say anything more. Leaving the house, he had not seen Lucine again until her wedding day.

  He would see her again, soon, he thought. He could content himself with just that. He wondered how she might have changed. Had her hair grown even longer? She was most likely working even harder than ever now, as the youngest bride to join the family. But she would be matriarch someday. And the Avedissians’ large sheepfolds and hemp fields were well envied.

  Dusk had fallen, and Aram secured and tightened the loads one last time before slapping the rump of the lead donkey. The guns made no sound as they swung to and fro in their sacks. Raffi had instructed Aram to roll and wrap them individually at the onset of his trek.

  He followed a trail now that seemed to have been forged by a horse and wagon. There was no shortage of ditches and dips here, but the body of the wagon had shaved the grass so that they walked with relative ease in its wake. On either side of them, the tall grass formed twin walls of protection.

  “Raffi, my brother,” Aram had said before leaving Salor, “I shall bring in three donkey loads of weapons and ammunition. I shall bring in however many they say. But how will a tiny band of men such as ourselves, with nothing but the guns we can smuggle, protect our people from the whole of the Turkish army?”

  “We will protect whoever we can, one load at a time,” Raffi had answered.

  Vrej’s head snapped to the left. He had seen movement. He was certain of it. He desperately tried to still the animals. But the middle donkey startled and brayed. Aram peered through the grass to see three men turned in his direction.

  Aram gave a low curse. He knew what had to be done. At all costs, they must not approach him and discover his load. He left the donkeys behind and moved toward the men. He prayed the donkeys would busy themselves pulling at the grass and not give themselves away.

  The Turks were on foot and seemed as disheveled and worn as he was. Aram’s mind worked furiously as he walked toward them. He decided to feign confusion and ask for directions. He carried nothing of any value and his pockets were empty. Perhaps the Muslims would lose interest in him straight away.

  As he moved closer he realized how wrong he had been. All three men were drunk. But now they had seen him and he could not turn back.

  “Giaour!” Christian dog was their greeting to him.

  Aram stood glued to his spot on the road, expressionless and silent.

  “What is your name?”

  “What business have you on the road?”

  Aram created short answers to their questions and tried to still his breathing. He watched them look him over, knowing they were assessing the quality of his jacket and shoes. Their eyes were blurred with drink, and dusk had deepened so quickly that they squinted at him. Aram knew he must try only to leave. At the first pause in their questioning, he ventured, “Well, I shall move on now
to avoid the roads at dark.” He started to turn away.

  A large fist caught him on the arm and he whirled around to face the Turk who had struck him.

  “Christian dog,” he heard again from somewhere.

  “Faithless dog. You learn nothing.”

  Outnumbered, Aram was dragged forward. He fought and kicked and scratched at their eyes and brought two Turks down with him. He heard himself shout just before his head was slammed hard against the dry dirt road.

  His vision blurred but he felt his arms pinned above him. He fought and bucked as he felt his trousers pulled down to his ankles. Powerless as the weight of the men held him in place, all he knew were his screams as one brought a blade down between his legs.

  His eyes burned with pain and fury and he watched them cry out praises to Mohammed and swing the bloodied, jagged blade triumphantly in the air.

  C H A P T E R 14

  Old Mariam sat cross-legged on the straw mats that covered the earthen floor. She rested her rounded back against the mud-brick wall in one far corner and blew into the chipped china cup. In her lap lay her two-month-old great-granddaughter, crying with discontent.

  It always seemed as if the anise seed would never boil when there was a colicky baby present, Mariam thought to herself. Twin boys giggled and snuggled closer to Mariam’s knees to watch their tiny cousin.

  “Keep yourselves away from that teacup!” their father called to them sharply from the far side of the room.

  Once the anise brew was ready, the baby was soon quieted and contentedly tucked into her cradle. Mariam cautiously began to unfold her legs, inches at a time, giving her muscles and joints time to respond. She listened to the silence.

  The room was already dark. When the men had come in from the fields that day, their dark silhouettes were outlined against a quickly falling dusk. They would be needing to burn more candles now.

  “Mama? Mama?”

  Her head popped away from the wall as she realized that she was being called. There was a scurry and the front door opened just a crack at first and then all the way. Her daughters-in-law appeared from an inner room and smiled widely in pleasure when they saw that their visitors were women. Mgro’s mother and his brother’s wife stood in the shadows of the short hallway. Almost reluctantly, Mgro’s brother Manuel followed.

  Mariam’s eyes narrowed slightly. Her son called out to his male guest to join him and Manuel eagerly disappeared into a smaller, smoke-filled room.

  “Well, either help me up, one of you, or bring a candle along with those cushions,” Mariam called out, finally.

  The younger women helped Mariam slowly make her way toward the divan to sit near Mgro’s mother, Nevart. The older women grasped and patted each other’s hands in greeting, gripping each other for support as they eased their backsides onto the rug-covered plank.

  “Prepare some tea for us, Hars,” Mariam instructed the babe’s mother, who sat a bit behind the women.

  Nevart opened the conversation. “The days are short again. My bones feel the cold already.” She removed the brown scarf that had enveloped her head and throat.

  “Oh, but Mama, let us forget that for a moment.” Naomi scooted to the edge of her cushion. “We have Old Mariam’s attention, let me tell her about my dream!”

  And without waiting for the customary permission, she plunged into her story. Mariam chuckled to herself. Nevart never did have the proper control over anyone in her family, least of all this energetic, lively bride who had come to her home almost nineteen years ago.

  “Oh! I was shivering. The water was like the melted ice coming off the mountains!” And now, Naomi lowered her voice before continuing.

  “And I was naked. Completely. Naked.” She nodded once at Mariam, who was looking steadily into Naomi’s eyes. “But not bathing properly,” she added quickly. “Because the water was dirty! I was bathing in dirty water, Sister Mariam!”

  Naomi’s spine was as straight as a stake. She tried to read Mariam’s thoughts but could not. “Is this bad or good? Or not so bad?” She coaxed meekly now, fearing Mariam’s continued silence.

  Mariam took a breath.

  “I will tell you, dirty water is never good,” she offered slowly. She never lied when asked to interpret a dream, but she often softened its delivery.

  She watched the guests’ expressions as they received this bad news. It did not matter to them that Naomi was the one who had the dream. Whatever was to happen would likely affect them all. When Mgro’s wife had died in childbirth, they had all, immediately, acquired the full-time care of two small children, had they not? They waited, hardly breathing, for Mariam to continue.

  “It does not matter whether you are bathing in the water or simply washing your hands in it. But,” Mariam shrugged, “it is an inconvenience. The dirty water shows that your way will be murky. Clouded. It is an inconvenience. I cannot say that it is much more than that.”

  “Well,” Nevart turned encouragingly to Naomi, “if that is all—”

  “What life is not full of inconvenience?” Mariam interrupted. “That, and trouble will come whether you have had a dream such as this or not. Do not think much of it,” and she leaned her heavy back against the wall once more. She had not liked what she had heard and wanted to erase the images coming to her.

  Eager to cheer their friends, the younger women started chatting. Nevart lowered her voice to say, “Mariam, I have something of importance to ask you.”

  So, it has finally come, Mariam thought to herself. Since that day at the well, she had been waiting for something to occur. She was not surprised to have the first steps taken under her own roof. Her earliest life memories included Vartan’s mother, her crystal blue eyes catching hers with mischief.

  The tea was served. Mariam wrapped her hands around her cup. Her fingers, no longer supple, slowly unwound and the rounded knuckles hugged the heat of its curve.

  “We have come to speak for my grandson, Daron.”

  Mariam remained expressionless and Nevart continued.

  “It is his father’s and our family’s wish that he be married. We have given much thought to headman Vartan’s younger daughter, Anno, and believe they would be suitable for one another.”

  It is certainly not you who think them to be suitable, Mariam thought to herself. She studied the pattern of the rug she sat on for a moment while choosing her real response.

  “Anno,” she acknowledged aloud with slow nods and continued. “I am fond of that child. Although it is Lucine who most resembles her grandmother and carries her name, Anno is the one who carries her spirit.”

  Suddenly, it was as if her friend Lucine were beside her again, urging Mariam on.

  They had been nearly eleven years old, hiding behind some prickly bushes while their neighbors washed their laundry in the river. The clean clothes were spread out on the bushes to dry. Just beyond their reach were two pairs of newly washed men’s underdrawers.

  “Snatch them, Mairo!” Lucine had hissed, always calling Mariam by her nickname.

  They had snatched them both and then choked back their laughter for nearly a quarter of an hour while the poor woman who had laid them there silently searched for them. Confused, she had looked again through her pile of soiled clothes, then, she hoped, unobtrusively through her neighbors’, and then back again toward the bushes. Unable to bring herself to actually ask aloud if anyone had seen her father-in-law’s underdrawers, she had kept silent. And finally, Mariam and Lucine, afraid that they would soon wet their own underpants from the strain of suppressed hysterics, had escaped unseen back through the bushes to a clearing where they fell onto the crackled and leaf-covered ground in laughter.

  A smile had come to Mariam’s face with the memory of that afternoon, but she turned to see that Nevart had her arm extended toward her, offering her handkerchief. She warmly patted Mariam’s hand, understanding where her friend’s thoughts must have wandered. Mariam shook her head and pulled her own handkerchief out from under her sleeve.
She blew her nose and looked fully at Nevart.

  “Shall I be the go-between, then?” she asked pointedly.

  “What? Well, yes.” Nevart was startled by Mariam’s sudden directness.

  “Daron is a good boy, and from what we have understood from him, Anno would be agreeable as well. If, that is, her parents do not have,” Nevart hesitated, “other plans for the girl.”

  “I, myself, do not know of any,” Mariam offered. And remembering the day by the well again, she added, “I will go to speak to Yeraz soon.” Before those two do something truly foolish, she thought only to herself.

  C H A P T E R 15

  Anno had her arms wrapped around the roughened bellies of both water jugs. Her mother had given up trying to convince her to just fill one at a time.

  “They are too heavy when full. If not tomorrow, then the next day you will be a bride, and what good will you be for childbearing with a weak back?” Yeraz used to say.

  But Yeraz had stopped making references like that for some time now. Anno had pushed away the memory of her mother’s expression that day by Daron’s family’s vegetable garden. Anno had received no scolding from Yeraz, but she felt her mother pitied her and was disappointed in her youngest daughter.

  Anno hurried along the stream’s edge. She searched ahead, hoping to catch sight of Lucine, and her face lit with joy when she saw her, slim and graceful, waving one arm above her head to catch Anno’s attention.

  Anno smiled as she hurried to reach her sister. Even when only collecting water, Lucine resembled a graceful dancer. She gently dropped her jugs to the ground and ran to embrace her. With squeals of happiness they wrapped their arms fully around each other and Anno buried her face in her sister’s hair.