The Water Diviner

by Andrew Anastasios

  Inside the carriage Connor’s heart pounds as he continues to search for something to arm himself with. Then he sees it. Wedged between one of the fallen Turks’ bodies and the side of the carriage. He hefts the man aside and grabs it. Why not?

  He hears a distressed shout from outside. ‘Anzac Bey!’ Connor looks up as Jemal locks his rueful eyes on him through the open door.

  ‘Don’t invade a country if you don’t know where it is.’

  The soldier pulls the trigger and Jemal’s lifeless body slumps forwards.

  Connor feels his legs give way beneath him. The sound of gunfire continues on the other side of the carriage, accompanied by the soggy thud of bullets penetrating flesh.

  Standing beside his fallen comrade, Hasan closes his eyes and holds his hands before him, palms turned towards the sky, murmuring a prayer for Jemal and ignoring the order to kneel. A brutal whack to the back of his legs brings him to his knees and he struggles to remain upright.

  The Greek slowly and deliberately reloads Hasan’s revolver. ‘Your head will be coming with us. It will be put on display in our headquarters.’ He presses the muzzle to the base of Hasan’s skull. ‘Less damage to your face,’ he explains.

  Hasan doesn’t flinch. Opening his eyes, he fixes his steady gaze on the partisan. He murmurs in Turkish. ‘Allah, protect my family. God is great.’

  The partisan responds with a Greek salute: ‘Long live President Venizelos!’

  There’s a sickening thud, and the soldier jerks forwards. Hasan starts, anticipating the searing impact of a bullet in his brain. Instead, the Greek collapses, spasming and bleeding from the mouth and ears, his skull caved in. The Turk sees Connor standing motionless behind the soldier, clutching the cricket bat, its edge dripping with gore and sticky clumps of black hair. Spinning as he falls, the Greek reaches out and grabs hold of his attacker’s shirtsleeve, pulling himself close. He coughs, spattering hot droplets of blood on Connor’s face, who looks into the man’s dying eyes with horror.

  The other partisan is levelling his weapon, Connor in his sights. Hasan moves like lightning, grabbing his revolver from the mortally wounded partisan’s grasp and shooting the other Greek soldier in the heart. The man drops, dead before he hits the ground. Moving quickly to Connor’s side, Hasan holds the gun to the dying man’s head and pulls the trigger.

  Connor is looking down at the bloodied cricket bat in his hands, paralysed by what he has done. Hasan grabs him by the elbow and pushes him under the train. Looking out to the other side, they see the only two remaining Turkish soldiers shot point-blank in the head, their bodies slumping to the side in the gravel.

  The sound of these last gunshots rings and echoes along the cutting. The Greeks pause. For a heartbeat, an eerie silence descends.

  Their monstrous work accomplished, the Greek commander begins to bark out new orders. ‘Gather up all their weapons and search their bags for gold. Hurry! Then get clear – we’re going to blow up the engine.’

  Crawling back out from beneath the train, Hasan glances up and down the track. Towards the rear he can see a group of horses tethered, their riders otherwise occupied on the other side of the train. Connor is going through the motions, his face white, still in shock. Slipping back under the train, Hasan elbows him in the side to get his attention. He gestures at the horses, whispers, ‘There. Wait till I signal, then we run.’ Turning, Hasan checks that the partisans are still occupied, rifling through the dead Turks’ packs and clothes. ‘Yes. Now!’

  The two men scramble out and run, crouched over, towards the horses. On Hasan’s whispered instructions, they untie them all, then grab hold of a set of reins each and swing their legs up into the saddles. As they accelerate, the Turk and the Australian scatter the other horses with slaps to their rumps, then spur their mounts up the embankment and away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Connor is mounted on a tall white stallion. He feels the horse’s muscles swell as his strong legs pump, propelling them up the steep, gravel-covered slope. Hasan is astride a stocky Anatolian bay that easily keeps pace with Connor’s horse. As they reach the top of the slope, a sharp cry rings out from below. They have been spotted.

  Bullets whiz past their ears, but as they launch themselves over the ridge and onto the plain, they are shielded from the Greek barrage. In the middle distance, a deep river valley cuts through the fields, and the two men dig their heels into the sides of their mounts and gallop at full tilt towards it.

  The sounds and smells of death are far behind them when Connor and Hasan eventually slow their mounts to a walk.

  The horses’ hooves crunch through the opalescent, smooth river pebbles that cover the floor of the valley, washed to shore by the shallow but wide, fast-running river that cuts through the chasm. Stones bumping against each other in the water sound like hail on a tin roof. Above the gurgle of the crystal-clear water Connor can hear birds warbling and the soft sound of the breeze blowing through tendrils of bright green leaves hanging from willow boughs. The beauty around them seems almost absurd in contrast to the scene they have just left.

  ‘Will they follow us?’

  Hasan has been silent, lost deep in thought. ‘Us? I do not think so. They have a whole country to plunder.’ He shortens his reins and draws his horse to a halt.

  ‘Our horses need rest.’ Leaning forward Hasan slips his feet out of the stirrups and swings his right leg over the saddle to dismount. He drops to the ground and gently feeds the reins over the horse’s ears, leading him to where the river eddies in a shallow and shady pool.

  Connor follows his lead. The horses drop their heads to the water and drink deeply, flicking at flies with their tails and stamping their feet. Bending to grab a handful of wet sand, Connor scrubs at the blood that has dried on his hands, a rosy cloud blooming in the clear water where he washes it away. Dipping his hands into the river again, he scoops up some clean water and splashes it on his face, rubbing it through his hair to sluice away the dust and dried gore.

  Connor sits heavily on the pebbly beach. As the rush of adrenaline that has sustained him begins to fade, he reels with horror at the thought of what he has done, is haunted by the dying man’s face. He looks up at Hasan. ‘His breath smelled of garlic and tobacco.’

  From the pack hanging from his horse’s saddle, Hasan produces a small bottle with a label on it, printed with heavy, black Greek script. He tosses it to Connor. ‘I carry the breath of hundreds. Wash him down with this.’

  Connor holds the glass bottle in a trembling hand and examines the clear liquid. ‘Raki?’

  ‘Ouzo. Same mother.’

  Fumbling as he uncorks the bottle, Connor throws his head back and takes a deep draught. He winces as the thick, sweet aniseed spirit burns the back of his throat. After securing the horses’ reins to a fallen branch in the shade, Hasan joins Connor on the warm pebbly beach and holds out his hand. Connor passes him the bottle and the Turk takes a swig. Then he turns to the Australian and hands the ouzo back.

  ‘If not for you, I would have died today, Connor Bey. Yet at Çanakkale you would have killed me yourself.’

  ‘I still might,’ replies Connor dryly. ‘But not before you show me how to get to Afion.’

  Connor glances at the hollow eyes and sombre expression on his companion’s face and is reminded of all the Turk has lost. He raises the bottle. ‘To Jemal.’ He takes another drink and passes the ouzo to Hasan so he can do the same.

  Hasan takes the bottle and nods his head ‘Thank you, Joshua Bey.’ Connor notes that Hasan has used his Christian name for the first time. Hasan takes a swig. ‘Buried not far from here is the man whom Jemal loved more than anyone, Nasreddin Hoca. He was a famous jester who lived hundreds of years ago. When Jemal was full of raki he would tell his jokes and laugh so much he would cry. His favourite was the story of the time the great Moghul emperor, Tamerlane, saw himself in a mirror and burst into tears when he realised how ugly he was. Everyone in the court told him how handsome he was, to
make him feel better. All except Nasreddin Hoca, who had also burst into tears and was still crying. The emperor said to him, “I had a reason to weep, I am the lord of many lands and master of many slaves. But I do not understand why you should weep like this.” Nasreddin replied, “My lord, you wept for two hours when you saw your reflection for an instant, but I have to see you all day long”.’ Hasan shakes his head. ‘It is a miracle Allah turned a blind eye to Jemal for so long.’

  ‘You believe in a heaven, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. But he is not going there.’ Hasan laughs. ‘Jemal is Allah’s one great chance to avenge himself on Satan.’ He raises the bottle to the sky before downing another mouthful. ‘Ah, Jemal. To your awful poetry.’

  The two men sit in silence as the water rushes past and dragonflies hover and dip above its surface. Soft, white clouds appear motionless in the pale blue sky, and the air smells of moss, pollen and fresh grass.

  Hasan drops his head. ‘No. Even the poetry I will miss.’

  The great, golden plain stretches out in all directions, intersected by tiny, dusty tracks and the occasional rutted road. Connor and Hasan had followed the river valley, meandering along its deep cutting as the blinding sun began to descend towards the horizon, then turned and followed a narrow shepherd’s trail as it zigzagged from the river up to the lip of the escarpment.

  The landscape before them is strangely devoid of life. In the middle distance is a small cluster of low buildings constructed from rough fieldstones and capped with thatched rooves. But no smoke spirals from the chimneys, and there are no people to be seen.

  Spurring their horses on, the two men canter along the track and cautiously enter the village. When Connor peers through the doors left ajar in the modest homes, he sees a chaotic jumble of household possessions: clothes, cutlery and bedding strewn about.

  ‘Where have they all gone?’

  ‘They knew what was coming and chose to leave before it arrived.’ Hasan dismounts his horse. ‘Come – we will find food here.’

  Connor joins Hasan as they move through houses and courtyards, gathering staples left behind when the villagers fled. Honey, a stale loaf of bread, onions, a can of olives, tomatoes growing on a small plant in an empty oil tin at someone’s doorway, and apricots and plums ripening in an orchard.

  The sun is lower on the horizon now, its rays skimming across the yellow fields. Connor turns to Hasan. ‘Should we rest here tonight?’

  ‘No. The Greeks are too close, and they are moving in this direction. This village will be a target.’ He slips his left foot into the stirrup and swings his leg across his horse’s back. ‘We should find somewhere else.’

  As Connor mounts up, Hasan nods towards a range of low wooded hills visible beyond the expansive fields. ‘Over there we will find shelter.’ Kicking their horses into a gallop, the two men race across the plain towards the distant forest.

  Connor’s head rings with the deafening buzz of a cicada chorus as he passes beneath the dark canopy of pine trees lining the roadway. His horse’s shoes clang as they strike the marble slabs that pave the ancient boulevard, crushing stands of wild thyme and oregano growing between the cracks and releasing a sweet scent into the warm, still air.

  On either side of the road, the stumps of what once were majestic columns and their bases stand; all around them, fluted column drum fragments and enormous chiselled blocks of marble lie haphazardly in the undergrowth like the discarded toys of a giant child. Visible through the trees is a monumental wall constructed of massive rectangular stone blocks, each as high as Connor’s waist. In places, olive trees with trunks so fat a man couldn’t wrap his arms around them grow from chinks in the wall.

  Connor turns to Hasan, who rides silently beside him. ‘Greek or Roman, do you think?’

  Hasan shrugs. ‘Someone’s empire.’

  A steep hill rises to the left of them. From a distance, it appears as if someone has taken a bite out of its side. As Connor moves closer, he sees rows of stone seats arranged in steep tiers around the semicircular depression. Next to him, Hasan turns his horse off the paved road and onto a narrow goat track that meanders between the fallen ruins, heading for the amphitheatre. ‘We can rest over here.’

  The men tether and unsaddle their horses and cross the cracked marble floor of what was once the stage, their boots grinding through the fallen gravel that partially covers the paving. They move around the ruins, gathering branches and pieces of timber to burn.

  The shadows are lengthening and the cool chill of night begins to cut through the heat of the day. Connor quickly builds a small fire in the lee of a fallen column drum. Hasan has a small pan taken from the village into which he chops some of the tomatoes and onions. He places the pan on the coals and sits with his back against the lowest row of seats, his legs stretched out on the paving. He offers Connor a small tin of wizened black olives after he has taken a few for himself.

  Connor shakes his head, wrinkling his nose. ‘Still haven’t developed a taste for those.’

  Chewing on the bitter olives contentedly, Hasan spits the pips onto the paving. His eyes are fixed on a faint light flickering far in the distance.

  ‘The first Australian I met – not to shoot at, to talk to – was a thief.’

  Connor laughs. ‘That’d be right. We were all convicts, you know.’

  ‘I met him at Lone Pine. This man waves a white cloth, calls out and walks straight across no-man’s land. We see he is carrying something. A thousand Turkish guns are on him, two thousand Turkish eyes. But still he walks. He reaches us and drops one of our wounded into our arms.’

  ‘Why the devil would he do that?’

  ‘He was very brave. But very stupid.’ Hasan raises his eyebrows, shrugs. ‘He and I sat on sandbags and we shared a cigarette. And then he walked back.’

  ‘And no one shot him?’

  ‘No, they were too stunned. I should have, though. It was only when he reached the Australian trenches that I realised he had stolen my cigarettes.’

  Both men laugh.

  The flickering light on the horizon is suddenly joined by others. Tiny bursts of flame bloom against the backdrop of a perfect, glowing, peach-pink sunset.

  Hasan points towards the source of the light. ‘They’re a day behind us, at the most. I will ride with you as far as Afion. But then I must go on to Ankara.’

  Connor nods.

  ‘Tell me, Joshua Bey. If by some miracle you do find your son, what will you say to him?’

  It’s a question that Connor hasn’t even considered. His only thought is to find Art. Past that, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

  ‘I suppose . . . I will tell him to come back home. It’s where he belongs.’

  Hasan nods, his brow furrowed. He changes the subject. ‘The food will be cooked now.’ He stands and moves to the edge of the fire, using a forked stick to lift the pan off the coals by its handle. He brings it back to where Connor sits and tosses him the loaf of bread. Connor tears off a fist-sized piece and breaks it into smaller morsels, dipping them into the pan of soft and sweet-smelling cooked tomatoes.

  ‘Smells good.’ The tomatoes have disintegrated into a thick and juicy sauce that soaks into the dry bread. It is delicious. Or perhaps he is hungrier than he thought.

  The two men eat in silence, scraping the pan clean with their bread. The sun has long since dipped below the horizon and night envelops the mountainside.

  Hasan passes Connor a saddle blanket. ‘Now, we rest.’ He gestures towards the ominous glow of fires on the horizon. ‘But we will not be spending long here. Tomorrow we wake at sunrise and ride to Afion. From here, it is not far.’

  Connor rolls up the saddle blanket and wedges it against the base of the amphitheatre’s lowest step, moving his body towards the heat of the campfire. He rests his head on the blanket. The smell of horsehair and sweat is comforting and familiar. As the damp of night descends, he lifts his collar to protect his neck from the chill of the stones and buttons his coa
t up to his chin.

  Although he never admitted it to Lizzie, Connor always enjoyed the times he was compelled to spend the night sleeping under the stars. If he was searching for water a long way from home and reached the end of the day without success, he would quietly rejoice when it became apparent that he would have to make a fire and roll out his swag to slumber under the expansive dome of the velvety blue night sky. The stars spun above his head and seemed to press down upon him. Lying on sand that was still warm from the sun’s searing heat, he felt utterly inconsequential, his life meaningless when measured against the immensity of the universe. Humans have barely scratched the surface of the place Connor calls home. In the great southern continent, life is an interminable battle against natural forces that seem determined to wipe humanity from its face. And he likes that. Sometimes it is good to feel as if he counts for nothing in the scheme of things.

  But here, even the sound of the night creatures is comforting. Crickets gently buzz and whirr; an owl hoots softly. Everything seems to move in concert with the deep breathing of the two men lying under the stars. People belong in this landscape, Connor thinks. Against his back, Connor feels the grooves worn into the marble by the passage of countless feet over thousands of years. The gravel that lies in drifts around the ancient stone platform is not stone crushed and weathered over millennia. Instead it is man made. He realised earlier as he bent down to gather firewood; what looked like chunks of bright orange and pale grey soil were actually fragments of ceramic. Some pieces were as tiny as match heads; other, larger pieces looked like the rims of shattered bowls or broken handles and spouts. So many people have moved through this land – discarding and abandoning so much as they passed – it is no longer possible to distinguish between the creations of man and things born of nature.

  He loves the terrible grandeur of his homeland. But here, in this fertile and abundant place that has been nurturing humans for tens of thousands of years, Connor experiences an unexpected and quite serene sense of belonging. Despite the horrors of today – trauma and violence beyond anything he could have imagined – he feels at home in this land.