by Harold Lamb
The operator was in touch with outer commands, and by his shouting Sergeant Daniel knew he was disturbed by what he was reporting. He said something about a plane and awaiting the arrival of somebody who seemed to be a colonel en route from Tiflis.
This was sufficient to decide the Assyrian, who retraced his steps to the gate and consulted with his men who were coming back from their tour of the camps. They reported that there was not an unwounded Kurd left near Araman; that they had found the Elder of Araman wounded and injured by a fall from the steps. He was dying.
"Christ have mercy on his soul," Daniel repeated mechanically, wondering what the survivors on Araman would do without their patriarch.
When he sighted the convoy of armed trucks approaching along the valley road, he told his men to get hold of what food they could, and to scatter in pairs toward the forest.
"There is nothing here but danger," he said. "If you need shelter, there is the church of Mar Giorgios,"
He waited at his post until he had seen all his Assyrians disappear beyond the tents. When the trucks pulled up at the gate and began to unload their wounded, with the heavy machine guns, Sergeant Daniel slung his rifle over his shoulder and wandered off, with blankets over his arm.
Many times in the past he had saved himself from situations like this, when invasion or starvation had harried the mountain frontiers of the Soviets after two wars. Pity in him had been exhausted, except for the suffering of his own people. He decided it would be best to appear to wander among the wounded ostensibly looking for someone until twilight closed in; after that he would steal a stray horse or even a wagon, and escape from the valley.
At the tree by the shrine Sergeant Daniel found the lame American sitting holding his arm. Prudently, the old Assyrian did not go up to Jacob. Wandering on, he searched until he found Paul, the son of Kaimars, who was tying up the body of a child in one of the tents.
Together they went back to Jacob. Without a word the man of Araman freed the American's torn arm from its clothing and bound it with a dressing, tying bands tightly around the severed artery. He wondered how much blood Jacob had lost. There would be, he knew, no possibility of a blood transfusion in the mountain? nearer than Baghdad.
"Thanks," Jacob said. "I'm going up to join Michal now." He looked around restlessly. "There isn't a thing I can do here now."
"No," Paul agreed. "But you should lie down, Mr. Ide."
Jacob laughed. It was no time to lie down. When he tried to get up his legs felt strangely numb. Only by turning around and raising himself on his good arm could he get to his knees. He shook his head to clear it of dizziness and felt Paul's hands on his shoulders, pushing him down.
"You can never climb the rock now, Mr. Ide," Paul said.
Not until then did he realize that he could not walk.
For a moment the other two watched him. And Jacob, aware of his helplessness, studied their gaunt, tired faces. He could not ask anything more of them. Sitting there at the foot of the steps, he could be no more to them than a wounded man, a nuisance. Many hundreds of others were dead or torn apart in the valley.
The Assyrian spoke in Kurdish to the man of Araman. After such a killing, he ventured, foreign witnesses would not be wanted by the military, and the military would take command. Except for the old German, the only surviving witnesses were the American man and woman, both Christians.
Paul agreed, but said that the survivors on Araman must be protected as well. There was Gopal the painter, and—he hesitated—his mother also.
To this Daniel agreed. He only added that on Araman the people were not foreigners who could return to the outer world.
Looking at Jacob, they argued in low voices. Then Sergeant Daniel laid his blankets over Jacob's knees and went off a little way to stand at the bottom step of the ascent, as if on duty there. Paul waited a moment, and then started to walk off, over the debris at the foot of the mount.
For a while he climbed swiftly among the rocks, seeking one of the lower ledges. Here two half-grown boys crouched in silence beside a figure lying on their spread cloaks. Vishtapa, the Elder of Araman, was dead. When Paul's fingers touched his cheek, the flesh was shrunken and cold; the blood had dried in his white hair and upon the scarlet tunic. Paul moved the old man's arms down to his sides and looked at him for a while. Then he said to the youths, "Stay here," and went on.
When at last the shadow of the mount spread over the camps in the valley, and even the movement of the tiny motor vehicles could no longer be seen, Michal closed her eyes and told herself resolutely that the valley had not actually changed. The dark specks lying like grains of pepper scattered over a bed of salt, out from the moving shadow, had not altered the silence of the peaks.
She told herself that, knowing it was not true; then she got to her feet, grateful for the pain that shot through her chilled limbs. The other watchers at the lookout point rose from their seats, their eyes turning to her inquiringly. Michal had to remind herself that they had understood nothing of the splintering sound of the guns, or the sight of the trucks crawling like beetles. And in all the afternoon no one had come up from the camps with word of what had happened. Michal could guess at much. Approaching
Imanya, she took the older woman's hand. "Khwasht—" she began, and stopped because the dark eyes of the mother of Paul were fastened on her with a questioning that Michal could not answer. So she held Imanya's hand while they walked back through the grove to the village.
There the people went into their houses, but they did not replenish the fires or set food on to cook. Gopal and his grandson climbed up the steps to the altar height to put some fresh fuel on the embers there. They were dazed by the sight of moving men turned into dots in the snow and tents exploded into vapor.
For the first time Michal felt herself to be alone and unheeded by the others, From the ringing of the bell and the departure of the Watchman with three young men, she had watched with Imanya, assuring herself that in the absence of the men the foreign lady must set an example to the villagers in the best colonial tradition of pukka sahibs, who dressed every evening and carried walking sticks jauntily into battle.
And all the while she had been afraid, grateful even for the presence of those silent people who understood nothing of the splintering sound of the guns that beat at her memory.
Hastily Michal began to take off her sport jacket and woolen dress. She could not keep on standing alone in a darkening cold room, peering every two minutes at her watch, and thinking that in an hour it would be dark outside and Jacob could not climb up to the summit then, as he would beyond any doubt if he could.
When she drew off the dress, she took a washrag and began to bathe her slim arms and chest and throat, even reproving herself because the surface of bones showed in her chest. Carefully she scrubbed her forehead and ears, then dried herself painstakingly, and selected the blue dress to put on for the evening. When she had laid it out on the bed she turned to comb her hair, dimly seen in the bronze wall mirror. With an uncertain impulse, she caught up the mirror of her compact and looked into it closely. Startled at the shadows under her eyes in the thin white face, she set to remedying her appearance with lipstick, pencil, and powder. For months she had not used any. She was not thinking of Jacob's coming, she told herself, but she could not let him see her looking like something under the surgeon's knife.
She thought: you could not live sheltered by money and by the devotion of admiring friends; all that broke away, until you tried to find in yourself the meaning of life and its pain.
The instant she heard the roaring in the air, her fingers stopped fluttering around her hair, which looked as well as it ever did. Hearing the reverberation mount swiftly, she ran out through the curtain into the plaza.
Overhead the sunset glow tinted the cloud banks, and she knew the valley would be shining gold where shadows did not lie. After her rapid movement and the glimpse of a radiant sky she had a wild hope that the planes might be friendly and merciful, li
ke the stray R.A.F. pursuit planes circling over Athens five years before.
Instead she saw a V formation of gray two-engined bombers turning to circle Araman.
Five she counted as the roaring beat into her ears. Coming close, they rounded the summit, then veered off to return in line. At the altar Gopal and the boy stared, transfixed.
"I suppose," Michal said to herself, "that these ordinary planes are miraculous to them as winged monsters."
As the planes passed close on the entrance side of the summit, white parachutes blossomed under them and floated down out of Michal's range of vision. The parachutes, she thought, would land on the valley floor very close to the encampment. Only by an effort of will did she restrain herself from running to the gate where the two sentries watched, to see exactly where they would land.
The planes went off to the northeast, gaining altitude as they left the valley.
In her room, with the lamps lighted, Michal put on dry evening slippers and her fur jacket, then set herself determinedly to count the cheerful things around her—Jacob's pipe on the settee, the faint caroling of the wind tower, and the benevolent bearded face of Saint Nikolka peering from his silver frame.
It was full dark when she heard the strange voices outside, and she pressed her arms tight against her chest, to wait until she should recognize one. Jacob and the Watchman and Paul, she repeated to herself, they are alive and have come back. Perhaps Dr. Anna and Major Omelko. Jacob had hoped for a miracle, and there might indeed be wanderers like winged angels dropping from the air.
Outside lights were flashing, striking against the curtained doorway. Miracles did not happen, and winged angels existed only in the pictures of children's books. If only Jacob were here in the room!
The two men who came in slowly were soldiers. Over their uniforms they wore sheepskin jackets, belted in tight, and they carried Tommy guns at the ready while they inspected the room. Then one took his stand in the center, under the wind tower, while the other searched into the recesses and corners. Short, with round heads and thin lips, they looked like Tatars. One wore the old-style military cross of Saint George.
He was the searcher, who emptied out all the suitcases on the floor, taking from the piles of clothing only Jacob's map, which he examined and pocketed. Then the glint of silver in the ikon caught his eye, and he pulled it down, studying it without expression.
Neither of the two had paid attention to Michal after a first curious glance. The man under the wind tower had been attracted by the melody of the hidden harp overhead, and had been poking around with the muzzle of his short weapon. With a word to his comrade, he fired a blast of shots up into the tower—apparently believing like Omelko, that it had a radio installed.
In that confined room the explosions tore into Michal's ears, and she whimpered, feeling a stab of agony behind her eyes. The two Siberians waited until they were certain that the machine hidden in the tower vent gave out no more sound.
Through the door Svetlov appeared, and when he observed Michal, yelled at the soldiers in anger. He ordered them outside with no trace of his customary vacillation, and he snatched the ikon away as they went, putting it back on the bed. Coming close to her, he whispered in his distorted English, "I sorry," and added, his weak eyes blinking, "pretty lady."
Shyly he touched a fold of her dress, feeling the silk, as if by touching the garment he could bring himself closer to the miraculous loveliness of the woman. His eyes wavered away and came back to her face as he explained that he would take her where she must go.
"I will stay here," Michal said at once.
Svetlov shook his head and motioned her to follow him. When she did so she found the plaza in possession of the parachutists, who worked with flashlights, their weapons slung. From the door of the armory they were carrying out the collected arms, piling them carelessly in a heap. On the altar height they were stringing wire for an aerial. Their packs had been left at the doors of the different houses. Michal saw no face familiar to her. The rays of the torches, crisscrossing the open space, sometimes came to rest on her.
"So brave a lass!" The sick Russian smiled at her. And he explained that she would be put with the village people for the night. In turn, she must try to make clear to them that they could take with them only what belongings they could carry, and no weapons. Because the next day the summit of Araman must be vacated by its inhabitants.
"But why?" Michal was startled. "They can't leave their homes."
Svetlov said that during the revolt the summit must serve for a military post—for observation and to quarter a garrison.
"Then I'm going down now!" cried Michal.
That would not be possible, in the dark, without light, the Russian pointed out, and urged her toward the steps to the street. "It is for him, this place." He nodded at the plaza and pointed to a strange officer.
"Where is Major Omelko?" asked Michal desperately.
Shrugging his shoulders, the Russian did not answer. Before coming up to the summit he had seen the Cossack deprived of his revolver by this colonel, the new commandant, and confined to the hut of the members of the mission where Anna was still weeping. How often these soldiers, returning from the fronts, made mistakes and had to be replaced by others. Besides, Omelko had been friendly with the foreigners.
"Come now," he whispered. The new commandant was walking over to them. His uniform, a fresh one, fitted him well, and it bore a colonel's star but no ribbon. Michal noticed that.
This officer, now in command of Araman, looked at her searchingly and questioned Svetlov briefly, then waved the sick Russian away and motioned her down to the village. This done, he turned on his heel as if it were unthinkable that an order should not be obeyed. Without another word Svetlov sidled off into the darkness.
What had Jacob said after their days of questing? That there was life here in Araman, and still here after all the ages. That had changed.
"It's gone now," Michal said softly.
She herself could not even go back to her house. She must go down to the huddle of people standing uncertainly in front of their doors. At that moment they looked to her like any other peasants, herding together like animals. Michal had never seen Imanya with empty hands before.
What is gone, she thought, is the garden itself, and the water wheel grinding the corn, and the children making music with their kites, and our days of loving. They were little things with no force in them except hope, but now they are gone.
When a man in uniform, half visible in the flicker of lights, approached her, Michal turned obediently to go down to the waiting villagers. With a quick intake of breath she stopped, recognizing Paul.
Then she saw that he had put on his uniform of the Levies again, without the distinctive hat.
"Your husband is injured by a fragment of shell, Miss Michal; the worst of it is that he has lost so much blood." In a few swift words Paul explained that Jacob was being watched by Sergeant Daniel and was in no immediate danger.
Michal drew a long breath. "You must take me down to the valley, Paul, quickly. I know you can."
"You? It would be dangerous for you."
Nothing could be bad for her, if only she could escape and find Jacob. She did not think beyond that. So she smiled persuasively at Paul, and her voice was gay. "It would be much more dangerous tomorrow for me, Paul. Please!"
Paul never wasted time in thought. Walking beside her, he had turned toward the altar when she whispered to him to wait, and slipped away into her doorway.
Within the room, she caught up the ikon of Saint Nikolka, and, after a second's hesitation, the small bronze Pegasus. The rosary she remembered she had given back to Father Hyacinth. Putting the two of them into her jacket pockets, she started to run out, then went back to blow out the lamps. At the last one she paused for a second, to look once around the familiar room. In the darkness she found her way out easily, and tried to make her voice steady when she explained to Paul.
"My household gods—I c
ouldn't leave them, could I?"
Without answering, he led her past the cliff carving, up the steps to the altar, where he stopped, surprised.
"Paul!" she cried.
Two of the parachutists had taken wood from the pile at the parapet and had started a fire on the stone below the altar out of the wind. To do so, they had scraped out embers from the altar hearth between the wings. There they were warming themselves and talking comfortably. The appearance of the foreign woman and the youth in a strange uniform did not disturb them. They were not on duty here, at the summit of what seemed to them to be a sheer cliff.
For the moment Michal could see nothing of the commandant in the plaza below. Casually, Paul moved, and she followed, away from the firelight along the parapet.
"Paul, the altar fire is out, isn't it?"
Swinging himself up on the parapet, he lowered himself on the outer side and motioned for her to do as he did. "If it's not out, it will be soon, after quite a few thousand years, Miss Michal."
As she was slipping down by him, he stopped her and felt her slippers with the dainty heels. Drawing them off, he thrust them into her pockets. Then, carefully, he wound a heavy cord of twisted wool strands several times around her waist, knotting the other end around his own. "We are going into darkness where there is no light," he said gravely. "It's just as well, Miss Michal, that for the moment you can't see where you are going."
At the fire, the soldiers were still loitering. Over on the observatory height, where Jacob's bronze instruments shone, the colonel and the working crew bent over their flashlights setting a large radio into place under canvas. Michal let herself slide off, with Paul's arm guiding her, until her feet touched a narrow ledge of rock.
"Paul," she strangled a hysterical laugh, "you are such a good shepherd, and I'm a nuisance of a lost lamb."
"Not a shepherd, Miss Michal. I herded goats."