by Jenny White
Vera went to check on Gabriel. He was barely conscious. She took the cloth from the woman caring for him and wiped the sweat from his forehead. She trickled water between his cracked lips. “Gabriel,” she whispered, “I’m here, but I have work to do.” She kissed his mouth. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back.” With tears in her eyes, she lowered his head back onto the quilt and took up her gun.
“I taught some of the women to use these,” she complained to Siranoush Ana, thinking about all the idle weapons in the storage room, “but Apollo says they’re not needed.” Several hundred women and children were crowded into the central hall. “Maybe he’s right. There are so many children.”
“Why should we wait?” The old woman stamped her foot. “We have eyes and we have hands. What do breasts have to do with it? Others can watch the children.” She summoned her daughters.
They assembled about forty able-bodied women. Vera demonstrated the basics of using a rifle and pistol, then grouped the inexperienced women around those she had trained in the villages. Men passing through the hall stopped in startled contemplation of a troop of armed women, but no one spoke against it.
Siranoush Ana held out her hand for a rifle. “My eyes are as sharp as a hawk’s.”
KAMIL TRIED to stay near Elif during the battle but lost sight of her in the pandemonium. The tribesmen had set up a ladder against the outer wall. One of the comrades was killed as he pushed it away, but it was immediately set back in place. A face with a large mustache under a red-checked turban appeared over the wall. That’s when Kamil saw Elif again, as she swung her curved sword and neatly severed the Kurd’s head.
Stunned, Kamil stared at her. She saw him and flushed, then ran at him with her sword. He steeled himself, then felt a movement behind him and swung around just as Elif’s sword sliced into the arm of a man attacking him. Elif’s eyes met Kamil’s, and he shuddered at what he thought he had seen there. Bloodlust? Yet was hers any different from the faces of the men around him? He watched Omar gleefully kill one man after another, as if he were on holiday.
Other invaders were dashing down the stairs from the battlements now, their dun-colored cloaks billowing about them, rifles and daggers in hand. Their faces too had a look of satisfaction. Kamil wondered how they had scaled the wall, but the monastery was so old that they might well have clambered up some of the rubble surrounding it. He looked for someone who was commanding the invaders but saw only a maelstrom of jagged motion, glinting steel, and the startling crimson of fresh blood. Despite the frenetic activity, the air seemed caught up in silence, the shouts and screams of anguish background notes to a timeless hush.
Kamil took aim at a man running along the top of the wall toward Omar, an ax in his left hand, a knife in his right. His shot missed, but it alerted Omar, who spun around and ducked the ax. Grabbing his rifle by the barrel, he swung it at the man’s head. In a corner of the courtyard, Victor was kneeling over a wounded man, bandaging his arm, while Alicia held a cup to the man’s mouth. A Kurd appeared behind Victor, knife in hand. Kamil raised his rifle, aimed, and shot him. Victor jumped up and grabbed his rifle, placing himself in the path of three other men approaching, their eyes on Alicia.
To Kamil’s surprise, just then the monastery door opened and a troop of armed women emerged, grim-faced, others hesitant. A few glanced back, panicked, at the sound of the key locking them out to protect those still inside. Then they opened fire on the Kurds. Those who were too close or too inexperienced used the rifles as clubs. They were cut down by the amused tribesmen, but not before inflicting damage of their own. The stairs and courtyard were slippery with blood and blocked by bodies of men and women, some still alive but too weak to move out of the way.
The diminutive Siranoush Ana and her daughter leaned their rifles against a piece of masonry, firing their weapons over and over, as the younger daughter reloaded for them. When the eldest daugher was cut down, the old woman turned her gun on the attacker. He took hold of the barrel to wrench the gun out of her hands, but found her hold firmer than he expected. In that instant, she pulled the trigger and his blood spattered over her. Her other daughter ripped the scarf from her head and laid it over her fallen sister’s face, then wiped her mother’s gun clean and reloaded it.
Omar was rolling some of the enemy’s bodies over the side of the wall to clear a space for fighting. Kamil saw him jerk back and fall. He raced up the stairs. An axe protruded from Omar’s upper thigh.
The police chief grinned at him and joked, “Those dogs can’t aim.”
Kamil used his knife to cut Omar’s trousers away, then tore a long piece of linen from his own shirt, which he tightened around the top of Omar’s leg.
“Ready?” he asked.
“What are you waiting for?”
When Kamil pulled the ax out of Omar’s leg, the wound started to bleed heavily. Omar tried to get up, but his face turned white and he passed out, crashing to the ground. Kamil shouted down into the courtyard but couldn’t get Victor’s attention.
He pushed his shoulder under Omar’s chest and grabbed his leg. The police chief was short but stout. Kamil staggered to his feet, with Omar balanced precariously over his shoulder. He made his way down the stairs, trying not to slip on the blood, some of which flowed from Omar’s leg.
AMID THE desperate hand-to-hand fighting in the courtyard, Vera moved among the women, helping them load their weapons, comforting the wounded, and trying to pull them to the side so they weren’t trampled. Guns had given way to knives and bludgeons. One woman ran at a tribesman with a stick from the latrine. She managed to shove it into his eye before he shot her down. Vera stopped to help a girl of no more than thirteen in a torn shalvar, whose face was swollen from bruises. Her gun had jammed, and she was pulling blindly at the trigger. Vera took it from her hands and laid it aside. She recognized the rage and pleading in the girl’s eyes and handed over her own gun, showing her how to make sure it didn’t jam again.
Vera turned to see Apollo and Kamil open the gate leading into the courtyard. She ran over, shouting a warning, wondering whether they had gone mad. Why were they letting the enemy in?
As Levon and his son, Taniel, galloped through the gate at the head of a small army of villagers, Vera bent over, dizzy with relief. The riders who were wounded clutched at their mounts so they wouldn’t fall. Those who were able jumped from their horses into the fight, wielding axes and swords, unable to use their firearms at such close range. Before long, the remaining Kurdish tribesmen fled through the gate. When the firing stopped, Vera dared to hope they had driven off the Kurds.
Levon’s men searched among those lying on the ground for members of their families. Levon embraced his wife and daughter, and Taniel reverently kissed his mother’s hand. The gate closed onto cries and imprecations to God from the lips of men who had found their loved ones.
As soon as the monastery door was unlocked, Vera ran inside to see Gabriel. His eyelids fluttered. She leaned over and pressed her lips to his. His breath smelled of hyacinths. “Gabriel,” she whispered. His lips moved, and she pressed her ear to his mouth. “I love you.” Had she heard him say that? Or had it been her voice? His breath rattled. She could no longer see his chest move. “No. Don’t go.” She wrapped her arms around him and, pressing her face to his, rocked back and forth.
After a while, she realized that Apollo was kneeling beside her. He pushed her away gently and checked the pulse at Gabriel’s neck. He laid his hand over the dead man’s eyes and murmured a prayer. Vera had no prayer in her heart, just a scream that she could not release.
86
KAMIL TRIED TO ORGANIZE a united defense in case the tribesmen returned, but to his frustration the villagers answered only to Levon. Kamil wasn’t surprised they were suspicious of him. After all, he was an envoy from the same sultan who had sent the Kurdish troops.
The women and the wounded were inside the monastery, while the men had organized a watch and were taking turns sleeping. Of Kamil’s thirty men,
sixteen were dead, three others severely wounded. Victor had sutured Omar’s wound and told him to remain still so it wouldn’t reopen, but the police chief fashioned a cane from a branch and used it to climb the stairs to the top of the wall. Levon’s men spread out across the battlements. Kamil had been impressed by their ferocity during battle.
Kamil invited Levon to sit with him by a small fire in the courtyard and, to gain the man’s trust, tried to explain why he was there, that he had been sent to discover whether the commune was the center of an armed rebellion or an experiment in communal living.
“Does it matter?” Levon responded, breaking a stick of firewood in his hands and feeding it bit by bit to the flames. “White dogs, black dogs, they’re all the same. These people”—he spit out the word—“have brought disaster to our valley. If you represent the sultan as you claim, why don’t you stop these bastards?” His voice was hostile.
“They ignored the regimental standard. Did you expect me to walk out there with a letter of invitation?”
“Talk to their commander.”
“It was impossible to tell who was in command. Have you learned anything about their leader?” Kamil asked.
“He’s a coward, stays at the back. But he wears a uniform.”
“Describe it.” Kamil was prepared for the answer.
“Black greatcoat, black uniform, imperial army issue. A kalpak with some kind of gold insignia on the front.” Levon’s eyes fastened onto Kamil’s. “Maybe we should just kill him and blame it on you. Or kill you and blame it on him. Black dog, white dog.” He chuckled, then got up and went back to his men.
THAT NIGHT the Kurds returned. One of the first casualties was Taniel, shot in the head as he looked out from behind the wall to take aim. Levon rushed over. He carried his son’s body down the stairs and laid it on the ground beside the fountain. Kamil watched, sick with pity, as Levon scooped up a handful of water and let it flow across the young man’s shattered forehead, unrolled his turban, and draped it across his son’s face. He then returned to his post.
Kamil aimed his field glasses out into the night but saw only the occasional flash of a face as a torch was lit. As the night wore on, the Kurds shot many defenders on the wall but, hampered by darkness, proved unable to reenter the monastery. Omar had propped himself in a corner, his weight on his good leg, and shot one tribesman after another. Noting Omar’s skill, Levon sent a young farmer over with a second rifle that he reloaded while Omar fired.
By the time this battle was over and the Kurds retreated in the early hours of the morning, Kamil had lost three more soldiers. Levon’s daughter also lay dead. Stroking her hair, Vera told Kamil that she had been among the best shots. Their mother threw herself wailing across the bodies of her children, but Levon seemed preternaturally calm, speaking to his men and seeing to those who were wounded. Yet he shouted at Victor to hurry up—the first time Kamil had seen Levon lose control.
Kamil took the loss of his soldiers hard, but found an odd comfort in Omar’s steady stream of curses as they prepared the bodies of the fresh-faced young men for burial at the back of the courtyard. Kamil added their identity documents to the twelve that were already neatly folded in a leather envelope he kept in an inside pocket of his coat against his heart.
The hall echoed with the sound of weeping. He looked for Elif and found her asleep in a dark corner of the monastery. The desire to lie down beside her was overpowering. Instead he let his hand rest on her shoulder. It came away sticky with blood. He lit a flare and in its light examined her. Although covered in blood, he saw no obvious wounds, and she seemed not to be in distress. He extinguished the light and kissed her cheek. “Sleep,” he whispered. “I’ll come back later.” It had been enough just to see her. He saddled his horse and, opening the gate, slipped out.
The path was slick with mud, but the stars bright enough that he could follow the churned tracks left by the attackers’ horses. He heard hoofbeats behind him and pulled up, gun drawn, until Omar’s familiar bulk materialized beside him.
“Running away, Magistrate?” Omar asked.
“Levon saw a man in uniform giving orders. I’m going to find him.”
“And do what. Make him apologize? It’s too late.”
“I have my own plans.”
“I’m coming with you.” As Omar spurred his horse forward, his face turned white and he almost slipped from the saddle.
“Go back, Omar,” Kamil pleaded. “You can’t ride with that leg. You’ll just be in my way.”
Omar sat hunched over, panting with pain. “You’ll get in trouble.”
“I’m only going to observe. I want to know what this commander plans to do next.”
“We gave those bastards a good beating today,” Omar commented.
“Yes, we did. Now go back.” Kamil waited for Omar to turn his horse before riding into the darkness.
87
VERA WAS HOLDING UP a small flare to guide Alicia as she examined the wound on Apollo’s shoulder that had reopened. Omar had returned and sat beside them, tense and silent, his eyes on the gate. No one had lit torches, unsure of what attention the flames might attract. The courtyard was illuminated only by a brilliant cover of stars that flowed like an icy river across the sky.
“Look how bright the stars are,” Vera said in order to distract Apollo from his pain and herself from the memory of Gabriel’s death that accompanied her everywhere.
Apollo leaned his head back and gazed upward. “That’s Hartacol, the Straw Thief’s Way,” he told her. “According to the legend, the god Vahagn stole some straw from the Assyrian king Barsham and brought it to Armenia to protect the people from a cold winter, just like this one. When he fled across the heavens, he spilled some of the straw along the way.”
“So Vahagn stole the straw but managed to drop most of it along the way? What a useless deity!” Vera exclaimed, her voice bitter. She extinguished the flare now that Alicia had finished bandaging Apollo’s shoulder, and they all sat back to gaze at the stars.
“In another legend,” Apollo continued, “the straw was dropped by Saint Venus after she was stolen from Saint Peter. And an even earlier legend says that the stars are corn ears dropped by Isis in her flight from Typhon. It’s an ancient name. The Arabs call it Darb al-Tabanin, the Path of the Chopped Straw Carriers, or Tarik al-Tibn, the Straw Road. The Persians call it Rah Kakeshan. And even in China, it’s called the Yellow Road, from the color of the dropped straw.”
“We call it the Milky Way, as if a cow had knocked over a pail,” Alicia said. “To me, though, it looks like a field of diamonds. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many stars at once.”
“All those clumsy gods and heroes, where are they now?” Vera complained.
“When we need their help,” Apollo added softly, scraping up a handful of straw from the ground and scattering it in the air.
“Do you know all those languages, Apollo?” Alicia asked admiringly, getting up to help Victor tend to the other wounded.
“I’m a philosopher, my dear. We collect the cream clotted at the rim of every civilization. We don’t need to see it milked and churned.”
88
KAMIL FOLLOWED THE TRAIL of the Kurdish tribesmen to the nearby village of Karakaya, the scene of one of the massacres. He tied up his horse and walked through the forest to the edge of the village, his boots of special soft leather making no sound. He heard their voices and saw a fire in the village square. He edged his way through the forest until he had a better view. The men had opened a barrel of wine and were feasting on the carcass of an animal, part of which still hung in tatters from a spit over the fire. From the size of the pile of bones and trash, Kamil guessed they had camped in this village for days. Why hadn’t they attacked the monastery sooner?
He waited for a while, changing position every so often to get a better view, and was about to give up and return to the monastery when he was rooted to the spot by a woman’s high-pitched wail. It ended abruptly. The men ar
ound the fire laughed uneasily. The sound had come from one of the houses—the headman’s house, to judge by its size. The door opened onto the square where the men were sitting. Kamil ran silently to the back of the house and crept up to a window. He lifted a corner of the hide that covered the opening and peered inside.
The room was brightly lit by a lamp. A naked girl of around fifteen was splayed out on the floor, her arms and the inside of her thighs sheathed in blood. A thatch of hair had fallen over her face. A man in a black uniform knelt hunched over her, knife in hand. Kamil couldn’t see his face, but he knew. Vahid raised a fistful of the girl’s hair and cut it off. She moaned and turned her head.
Vahid wrapped the hair in a piece of cloth and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Then he turned his attention back to the girl, as if wondering what to do next.
Kamil thought furiously. How could he save the girl with an army of Kurds at the doorstep? He drew his pistol and hoisted himself through the window. He landed on his feet, gun aimed at Vahid. The Akrep commander was still on his knees. His gun was pointed at the girl’s temple.
“You are so predictable, Kamil Pasha.” Vahid smiled. “Look.” Vahid ran his free hand over the girl’s breasts and then, to Kamil’s outrage, plunged it between her legs. She bucked but seemed unable to move. Kamil wondered if she was drugged. As long as Vahid had his revolver pointed at the girl’s head, he could do nothing.
“Would you like a turn?” Vahid grinned at him. “No?” He moved the gun from the girl’s head but kept it trained on her body. “That’s too bad.” Vahid shoved the mouth of the revolver between the girl’s legs. “Because no one will know whether you did or not.”