As the Poppies Bloomed

by Maral Boyadjian

  “Let us shroud her,” Yeraz said from Anno’s side.

  It was left to Yeraz and Marie to prepare the shroud for Turgay, while Mariam produced an untiring line of heated stones to place around Anno’s body.

  Yeraz produced the white cotton cloth, and Marie set to work stitching the edges. Turgay’s family could do what they wished once she was with them again.

  “Shall we wash her, then, Sister Mariam?” Marie asked as she worked.

  Mariam nodded. “We shall not ignore their rules. At least they cannot say we did not respect their ways.”

  Vrej held up a blanket and behind it the women washed Turgay. Their backs and arms ached, but they did not stop until even her hair was brushed, freeing it of the river’s traces. She had no veil with which to cover her head. They did not dwell on where it had been lost. They braided and coiled her hair neatly and put her own wet clothes back on her. At last, she lay cleaned and shielded in white.

  SEVERAL HOURS OF darkness remained. Anno’s temple was bandaged and all agreed that her color was better. The toneer’s fire was kept hot and strong, rapidly burning the discs of dung and hay that had been prepared for their long winter confinement.

  As Daron watched Anno, a more distinct picture of her lying in the river came to him. It was no longer a stream by the time he and Kevork had arrived. The rushing current was licking and bouncing off her body, and eventually it would have risen until it drowned her. He, like Yeraz, continuously exhaled to relieve the pressure on his chest.

  Vartan’s gaze was on him always. He had not been asked to leave, and that was a type of victory. But Daron did not presume and he did not assert himself in the least. Merely being in the same room with Anno must be enough. He did not move from his place on the floor again. He tried to be invisible.

  Lucine’s old mattress was drawn out and pulled close to Anno’s. She spoke into her sister’s ear as incessantly as the string of heated stones was brought to her bedside, hoping to draw her out of her unconscious world. Vrej soon joined her, appropriating a generous corner of Lucine’s mattress for himself.

  Leaning into Anno’s ear, he threatened. If she did not awaken soon, he would begin snipping the ends of her hair, he warned. He would do this bit by bit until she did awaken and he did not care if she soon resembled a little boy. He even scrambled off to find Yeraz’s sewing basket and returned to snap the scissors widely next to her face. Lucine swatted him away, but then, both gasped as Anno’s head made its first restless movement.

  Lucine squealed and everyone in the room jolted upright. They waited.

  They heard a cough, faint and ineffective. They watched. Underneath the layers of blankets, Anno’s arms moved.

  Mariam’s lips tightened. She would waste no time. Seated on the hard floor, she bent her legs and set herself into a sideways rocking motion. She swung herself to the left and brought herself to her knees, her upper body resting on her knuckles. She drew a breath and waited for someone to rush over to help, as someone always did. It was Vrej. He pulled her to her feet. Not waiting for her back to straighten, she partially addressed the floor.

  “My dear, she will awaken soon. I shall go bring my grasses.”

  They all watched the door close behind Old Mariam with dread. What was it she suspected?

  Anno’s head tossed. Voices coaxed her to consciousness. Again, her cough, barely audible, her eyes screwed against the pain. Her arms struggled against the heavy covers and fought their way out, pale and slim and bare. Daron saw her shoulders for the first time, the upward sweep of her collarbones where they met the twin cups of her shoulders.

  He shrunk back.

  Needing to move, he tossed more discs in to fuel the toneer.

  Anno’s eyes opened in confusion and clutched at the wide binding on her head. Too quick, she tugged it off. Groans of protest, and laughter, and claps of relief as she concentrated on the faces peering down at her. Yeraz demanded more cloth as Anno’s temple bled again.

  Daron moved in closer, as close as he dared, and came abruptly eye to eye with Vartan. He dropped his gaze, but only slightly. He would leave now if told to, but Vartan said nothing. He only moved away and went to kneel between his daughters, pulling Anno’s blankets tenderly but fully to her chin.

  C H A P T E R 25

  Languid shafts of sunlight dawned over the ridges of Mt. Maratuk. The clouds rollicked densely by in the same shades of chalk and silver as the thick fog that met the ground beneath Uncle Hagop’s boots, whose goatskin had thinned and molded itself closely to his feet.

  Uncle Hagop’s eyes, grainy and wilted, had not seen a pillow that night. Nor had any of the other men. He had plodded to the door, as was his self-appointed morning task, to gaze at his mountain and give his forecast. But this morning, although Anno coughed and wheezed valiantly in her corner, there was death in the house.

  It was first light now and time to deliver the news. Turgay must be buried by sundown.

  Several pairs of eyes lifted as he closed the door and turned back into the room. He could not forecast this day.

  “How are you to do this, then?” he asked of Vartan.

  Vartan gazed at his uncle and wondered at the way his whole being seemed to hang. His thick, scraggly brows shaded downturned eyes. His drooping moustache covered a grim, downturned mouth. Then there were the shoulders bent from an existence of worry and toil and yielding.

  He is the mirror of myself, Vartan thought, of us all.

  “Leave that to us,” he answered gently. “Haig and I shall go slowly.”

  Yeraz’s hand shook as she spooned warm tea into Anno’s mouth. Marie took the spoon and cup from her hand.

  Mariam had retrieved dried hollyhock and other grasses from their containers in the grain room. It struck her that it was the same hollyhock she had gathered the afternoon of Lucine’s wedding, when Anno had flung herself into that old well. She fingered it incredulously and raised her eyes upward. “My God, let Your plan be for the good.”

  Anno’s temperature had risen steadily these past four hours.

  Yeraz could be of no help to Vartan and Haig in this day’s task, but she would spare nothing to help Anno back to health. And that included forgetfulness regarding Daron’s presence, until this morning’s sunrise.

  Yeraz had no doubt that Anno was aware of him. Her eyes had followed him several times, before closing against the fever. Each time, she had seemed to question whether he was really there, doubting her own wakeful state. Yeraz did not have to turn to know that behind her, Daron’s eyes locked with Anno’s. She could feel their black depths calling to her daughter. She could see Anno struggle to respond, then melt back into herself.

  Vartan’s eyes passed over the long, rectangular room. The flickers from the candles and oil lamps, not yet extinguished, showed Yeraz’s silhouette, bending and straightening near their youngest child. Lucine slept rock-like, on her side, her mouth fallen slightly open as if to speak. Mariam had propped herself against a wall behind Yeraz, facing Anno. Her head dipped to one side and her snores deepened.

  Vrej ached to accompany his father, but knew it was an impossibility. Vartan would not expose his son. Daron, in turn, watched Vartan and Haig.

  “It is like this when you allow them to elect you village leader,” Haig commented, pulling on his coat. “Otherwise, we could have thrown this task on someone else’s shoulders by now.”

  Vartan grunted. He again heard the telling sound of apricot seeds tossed into a hat as votes were collected. Again, he accepted the position of diplomat, peacemaker, negotiator.

  He called Daron. “I wish to know where you found them. The exact spot. You remember it?”

  “Yes,” Daron answered simply. He could never forget it.

  “Then let us go.”

  Bowed against the cold and the anticipation of the task before them, Vartan, Haig and Daron did not care to take in the newly washed walls and roofs of the houses to the left and right of them. Nor did they lift their faces to the shrub
s and trees winking in the morning light, vital and freed at last of the dragging layers of dust and sap.

  The rain had ceased completely and their lungs exhaled great white clouds as they strode sharply toward the church square, with Daron a scarce step ahead of Vartan and Haig. The lanes, filled with puddles formed by the ruts and imprints left by animals and wagons, made it impossible to walk a straight line. Daron walked along the edges of the lane, sure-footed and alert.

  He is like my own two sons, Vartan admitted to himself. And then, frustrated, he remembered Mgro.

  They were no longer alone once they neared the square. Craftsmen and shepherds were busied already and quickly gathered around Vartan, asking after Anno and Turgay. Seeing Haig at his side was a common thing, but they eyed Daron curiously. Vartan pushed by quickly, an old tactic of his to minimize panic and rumor, and the villagers felt strangely optimistic watching them all walk away, although they could not say why.

  They trod across the same flatland Anno had coaxed Turgay over. The men realized where Daron was leading them. It was not at all the way he and Kevork had traveled the night before, but it was the quickest way.

  All the stream’s crossings were precisely known to the men. Minute and detailed knowledge of their land had been one particular reason for their salvation. Following Daron, they realized that Anno had headed to the crossing that was closest to the village, and the narrowest. Soon they heard the full, bursting rush of the current. At its narrowest, the stream rose and overflowed with ferocity. Topping the ridges of its banks, the three stared down into the water and Daron pointed to where Anno and Turgay had lain. The boulders were submerged and lost, and the water still frothed and thrust its way to the river beyond.

  Gone was the smell of sweet, dry grass and dust. The earth had at last filled its spiny, thirsty cracks. This, now, was the face of their winter, and it had always been welcome and familiar. But now, they only saw the depth and breadth of the water, with their Anno drowning in it.

  Haig’s arm reached out and he clapped Daron heavily on his shoulders. “However did you find them, boy?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Long life to you.”

  Daron did not know the answer to this himself. It was just as well that he was not expected to answer. Vartan’s eyes were on him with a warmth he had seen turned only on the headman’s own family members.

  “Now go home. We shall do the rest.”

  It was not the dry, final dismissal Daron had been expecting from Vartan this past night.

  Daron closed his mouth against the urge to speak. It was not the time to question. He would have gladly plunged into the icy water again if it meant that he could accompany them across to the Kurdish camp, if it meant that he would be allowed to speak, to ask, why had he been rejected? He had begun to hope that he would be allowed once they had come this far. Instead, he dropped his eyes again before his elders.

  “I shall go then. God be with you.” Daron falteringly turned. Steps away, he stopped and watched Vartan and Haig travel upstream until they disappeared from sight. He knew where they were going. About a quarter-mile away was a crossing that had been formed decades ago by their own people. The stream did not narrow there as much as the crossing Anno had chosen. Instead, boulders of all sizes were settled one atop the other, so high that they topped the surface of the water even in the deepest of winter and weakened the river’s flow. The crossing was called “the waist of the stream.”

  It would have been an ideal place for the women to do their laundry, and had been, until years ago, before Anno was born. Several women of the same clan had gathered to do their washing when they were stung by scorpions that nested there in the dozens. All the women had died over a span of a few days, and since then, that spot had been allowed to become overgrown with brush, never to be used again.

  Vartan and Haig located this bridge of rocks and passed over it quickly. Their boots, having only begun to dry, were soaked again thoroughly, but they continued on, paying no heed.

  They walked a full mile and more and caught sight of the mud huts under a quickly clearing sky. They had always lived peacefully beside this Kurdish tribe. Perhaps, at the time of Turgay’s kidnapping, it was the Sassountzis’ sincere wish to keep their relations peaceful, and so unusually close was their proximity that no one had intervened for her return. Vartan and Haig did not know. They did not question the judgment of those who came before them.

  The Kurds’ camp was quiet. It was most probably time for their morning prayer. Vartan and Haig did not go near until they saw a sign of movement. Shouts and calls were heard, and then the men moved forward.

  Vartan remembered vaguely in which direction they should head. They walked past the curious eyes, gave their morning greetings and asked for Turgay’s family. They could feel fingers pointing and deep stares. They hardly lifted their heads and looked hard at the ground when they saw the skirts of a woman.

  There was no mosque or town square, just a collection of huts. Haig, following close behind Vartan, was relieved to see him slow. All the dwellings were alike, with the roofs cone-shaped to let in light and let smoke out. Smoke drifted out the peak of this hut now.

  They could hear voices from inside, speaking too quickly for them to understand. Men spoke at once. Vartan and Haig could only catch stray words. No one saw them standing outside, as they stood a good distance from the door. They were reluctant to enter and reluctant to give their news, so still they hesitated. The men’s voices lowered and stopped. Vartan cleared his throat.

  “S’ara hava kherbe,” he ventured a good morning in Kurdish.

  A like reply came from inside and the hut flap was drawn wide. A young man stood there, of about thirty years. His head wrapping was coiled and completely covered his head, but his thick moustache, free of gray, was a gleaming black that matched his brows and eyes.

  “We have come to speak to Arsad, if it is possible,” Vartan said, asking for Turgay’s oldest son.

  The young man’s eyes traveled in detail over the Armenians. Queries came from inside the dark dwelling.

  “Would you tell him that Mixtar Vartan asks for him?”

  The man turned around and called out.

  Arsad appeared but his son did not move far away.

  “Arsad,” Vartan greeted him. “We have come to speak of your mother.”

  Something of relief flickered in Arsad’s eyes. His head was uncovered and shafts of gray had grown in his brown hair and beard that Vartan did not remember seeing at their last meeting. A brightly designed wide woolen vest reached below his knees to meet woolen boots.

  Arsad called over his shoulder and then motioned for Haig and Vartan to enter. He would prefer for them all to discuss Turgay in private away from his neighbors’ eyes and ears. They stepped into a room emptied of women and children. Half a dozen men of different ages seated on carpets looked expectantly back at them. No introductions were made. They all knew who Vartan was, and their mother had been missing all night.

  Seeing their solemn faces, Vartan spoke immediately.

  “Yesterday, at sunset, the rain had begun to fall, if you recall. The women of our household were busy with the delivery of a baby, so it was some time later that we discovered our youngest daughter, a child, was not at home. Concerned for her well-being, about sixty men searched for her within our village and around it.”

  The Kurds were as still as statues.

  “We do not know what occurred precisely, but one to two hours later, my daughter and your respected mother, Turgay, were found in the stream. It seems they had crossed the river to the opposite bank but got no further. We believe my daughter was leading Turgay Dade back here. To her family.”

  The Kurds moved now, exchanging looks, and gasps came from beyond where the women listened.

  Vartan continued. “Once found, they were both carried to my home, but Turgay Dade was no longer alive.”

  The men murmured to each other, but it was of no importance what their reactions might be. Vartan
and Haig watched Arsad.

  He blinked several times. His eyes, too, were bloodshot and his skin colorless from a sleepless night.

  “And your daughter?” Arsad asked tonelessly.

  “Our daughter awakens now and then, but lies next to your mother with a rising fever,” Vartan answered, his voice equally toneless.

  The rustles and cries from the storage room grew. Vartan and Arsad’s eyes never left each other’s faces. Vartan’s face showed no trace of guilt and he offered no apologies. Turgay’s wanderings had nearly been the cause of Anno’s death; they might still be. And this entire Kurdish clan would have preferred their mother wander all night alone rather than risk her cries and yearnings being heard in their camp.

  Vartan’s disgust grew as he stood. Haig, anxious to move on, spoke. “We believe she passed just hours ago, four or five at the most. We came at first light to call you, as you can see.”

  “Yes. Yes.” Arsad shook himself. He spoke to the men watching him. There was much to do.

  His son, who had greeted them at the door, and another man with similar features rose to dress in coats of shaggy fur while Arsad wrapped his head. The man who might have been Turgay’s husband was not there. Vartan wondered if he had died, but did not ask.

  Once outside the hut, Vartan and Haig followed Arsad and his two sons through the village. Seeing the two Christians, the neighbors asked Arsad in passing if all was well. To this he replied truthfully. “It seems not. We must prepare for a burial. It is for my mother.” He would divert their many questions when they returned with her body.

  They walked in silence the distance to the stream. Vartan believed that if his sons were not present, Arsad would have burst forth with questions. The man’s discomfort was close to the surface. Let him live with his questions, Vartan thought. He had already guessed at most of the answers. He wondered if it would be easier now, with Turgay’s death, for them to live with their sin.

  By now, all of Salor knew of Turgay’s death and none were surprised to watch her family march through the lanes with Vartan and Haig. They cleared a wide path at their approach.