Myth of Arrival

LILITH THE SAPPHO EXPERIMENT

“I've done everything the Bible says, even the stuff that contradicts the other stuff,” Ned Flanders, The Simpsons.

As religions that have helped shape the last two thousand years go a recent change within the laws of the Catholic Church got me wondering what exactly is going on behind closed doors.

The appeal of Catholicism has always been a bit of a mystery to me, though I recognize that despite its tenets not making a whole lot of sense many, many people have been happy to go along with the story about an invisible sky father and ghost and son who is sometimes a lamb and sometimes not and how we should all follow these religious laws given to us, written in stone no less, because it is what the father and ghost and son who is sometimes a lamb wants. In polite society you are not suppose to question any of this because these laws are fixed and unchanging and things in an organic world that don't change are either cancerous or divine but usually not both. So it doesn't really matter if you are cynical or a true believer since we still base large parts of our Western society and government around these laws. The Anti-Choice movement is very fond of saying that their battle to restrict the rest of us from free and safe birth control and sex education is justified because of these same laws, since without them they'd just be sex-fearing, women-hating bigots and who wants to wake up in the morning and have to admit that?

And yet here is the problem, the Pope recently did away with one of a theological concept of their faith, Limbo, claiming “it has never been a definitive truth” and that it is a “theological hypothesis.” Still, a lot of people believe in the idea, Thomas Aquinas writes about it. It was the place Dante banished the philosophers to. The place where the souls of children “go if they die before they can be baptised” and a major part of the argument the Anti-Choice proponents use to try to ban medical abortions for women, since they say it damns the unborn soul to Limbo. Except that there isn't a Limbo now and that [the] “Vatican concluded that all children who die do so in the expectation of the universal salvation … whether baptised or not.” Which means that these laws aren't fixed and unchanging. One day at the whim of an old man one belief that yesterday an entire religion claimed to be true gets thrown out the window because it is a “theological hypothesis.” What other beliefs that grossly limit our personal freedoms will one day get overturned as pure religious speculation as well? Why is Limbo wrong and a ban on gay marriage right?

Part of me knows it doesn't really matter if Catholic fine print gets changed or not. There will always be men and women who fear the human body and all its desires strong enough to use any excuse to keep it in chains. And yet part of me is also intensely curious how this will effect all those people who feel they are on first name basis with the divine mysteries of the world.

How can you un-damn damned Gallileo?
How can you get rid of Hell's first circle,
Limbo, where all the unborn children go?
One more reason to vote Pro-Choice. Menstrual
blood beats Papal Law; one never changes,
one flip-flops – Oi! mellow! it's just belief.
Who cares if the God-wad cuts whole pages
from the Catholic faith? Sure it's a relief
to say, “oops, me bad.” After all, the Fall?
Limbo? Hell? — so 3rd century zealous.
So what if you never believed in all
of this? Rule 1: never name the Nameless.
Damn! Show some respect, it's a mystery.
No ghost or lamb or law for me, just She.

"ebru in the grove" ZJC (2010)

Mariam started.

“I see that you have heard of my name or at least my poetry,” continued the stranger, but without vanity. “Yes, I am a poet from Constantinople, one of many. I was seized by Ivedik while on the way to Van. Everywhere I have traveled in our empire I have found our people being rounded up like animals, our men executed in mass graves, our women raped and marched out into the desert to die. The wastes of Der Zor are scattered with our bones. He knew who I was and he sought to silence all I had seen.”

Awat, who had been sitting near by, nodded her head.

“Rumor in Van was that the Sultan ordered all Armenian priests and writers and teachers in Constantinople executed.”

“Ah. Yes, in this case rumors did not lie.”

“What about the Holy Father, the Catholicos?” Mariam asked.

Yarjanian shook his head.

“I do not know. I was already caught when I heard news through Ivedik's spies that all my friends in the capital city were dead.”

Mariam shuddered and walked a little space out of the grove to steady his nerves. She had never deceived himself about the dangers that her people were facing, but it seemed that they would have to fight every kind of atrocity. When she returned she found Awat and Ebru spreading a blanket on the ground onto which they helped lay the wounded man and soon he fell asleep. After a while the three followed suit and soon the little grove was silent save the rattled breathing of those who had survived.

Morning came pouring a brilliant light over the desolate mountainside. Beads of water from the rain the night before sparkled a little while and then dried up. Mariam, Awat and Ebru were up though some of the rescued men still slept.

Mariam, at the suggestion of Ebru, mounted Old Tigran and rode up the embankment to a point that offered a view of the surrounding mountains. When she returned with her report she said no matter how she searched the horizon she saw only a lonesome rocky slopes or two trees shivering in the wind.

“Then we'll just take our time. There is no point pushing our new friends past the point of exhaustion,” said Ebru. “They are already there.”

As she made her way through the knots of sitting men Mariam saw Mr. Yarjanian was awake and able to pull himself up and limp about a bit. Now that Mariam saw her in the full daylight she understood more clearly why he had appeared so familiar to her the night before. Those brows and eyes belonged to a photo that graced the cover of a book of his verse sold in every Armenian enclave in the empire. They had a celebrity with them.

As she passed by the older man looked at her and said, “Is it hard to live among such dangers on a daily basis? Why do you not go to Moscow or Paris where life is safe?”

“Paris?” Mariam echoed, as if the word were totally alien to her mind. “Why would I go abroad when my people are here? I belong here with my friends. Those two,” and she nodded at Ebru and Awat who were sitting some distance away talking in low voices, “have saved my life more than once and are likely to do so again.”

Yarjanian smiled.

The two women dressed in similar travel robes of a simple Muslim woman but each was striking in her own way. Awat, with her broad face and snub nose and eyes that were almond-shaped and close-set had an almost feline appearance and Ebru, small and thin, reminded Mariam of the curved knife butchers used to gut animals.

“They are uncommon, no doubt,” said Yarjanian. “Please, if you can, tell me: are they Muslim?”

“Yes, both.”

“Then, and here I must admit my own ignorance, why are they fighting for us?”

“Because it is the right thing to do.”

Yarjanian nodded but said no more.

“It's time to start,” said Ebru as she stood and faced the small camp.

Yarjanian again mounted one of the horses and the group set off, heading south. The boy, Diradour he had been called, appeared fresh and strong after a good night rest. He and Mariam walked side by side for a while.

“How long have you three been friends?” Diradour asked Mariam, looking at Awat and Ebru. Mariam smiled at the precociousness of the child.

“I first met Awat when we were both prisoners together in the dungeon of Dalan Gez, near the city of Kars. I'd never have escaped without her. I've known Ebru ever since she was this tall,” and she indicated a height near the boy's shoulders, “back when I was her nurse maid.”

Diradour looked incredulous. He looked at Mariam's scarred hands and the long rifle on her back.

“You? A nurse maid to that woman?”

“Yes, and whole lot more.”

They were compelled to stop at noon for rather a long rest, as walking was tiresome. Mariam went back up onto the ridges to look for pursuers, but announced that she saw none, and, after an hour, they started again.

“It would seem that if Ivedik has already organized pursuit he won't waste the element of surprise by being caught following us,” Ebru said several hours later. “If I were him I'd wait until night and attack while we sleep.”

“It's likely that you're right about tonight,” agreed Awat, “but we won't be asleep. And besides the boy and Mr. Yarjanian here everyone has a rifle. We'll make it costly for anything that Ivedik might try to bring against us.”

As the afternoon wore on, they began to search for some spot to camp, something that would provide them with a bit of protection them in the dark. Before dark they found a dry stream bed cut in the rocks seven or eight feet high and a mile or so up it they came to a small grove of shrub and thorn that grew on its banks and there they made their camp.

That night half the group of men remained on guard while the other half tried to sleep. As Mariam passed him by she saw that he had placed his back to a tree and spread his injured legs upon the ground in front of him. He had been riding Old Tigran and the horse had seemed to take to him, but after the stop Mariam herself had looked after her mount.

She allowed the horse to graze a while and then she tethered him in the thickest of the shrub just behind the sleeping men. Mariam wished the horse to be as safe as possible in case there was any fighting, but everything was still in the open. Before going she stroked Tigran's nose and whispered in his ear.

“Good Tigran! Brave fellow!” she said. “We are going to have bloody times, you and I, along with everyone else, but I think we are going to ride through them safely.”

The horse whinnied softly and nuzzled Mariam's arm. Then Mariam left her, intending to take a position by the bank of the dry stream bed. On the way she passed Yarjanian, who regarded her attentively.

“I judge from what Ebru said that you are expecting an attack?” asked the poet.

“If anyone can second guess Ivedik it is Ebru,” replied Mariam.

“Of course, then,” said Yarjanian, “we can use the high sides of the bank to our advantage. The Ottomans can come up it and yet we will be protected by height and dark.”

“Most of the boys Ivedik has brought with him,” Mariam said, “are from the lowlands, farm boys who never been in rocky mountains like this before. Awat and Ebru and I were raised here and we're all fighting for something the Ottomans aren't: survival. Even our poets, like you, Mr. Yarjanian.”

The man smiled.

“I'm afraid I won't count for much in battle,” he said, “and least of all maimed as I am now. But if the worst comes to the worst I can sit here with my back to this tree and shoot. If you will kindly give me a rifle and ammunition I shall be ready for anything.”

“I think that can be arranged,” Mariam smiled in the dark. “But it is your time to sleep.”

“I don't think I can sleep,” the man said. “And as I cannot I might as well be of use to you.”

Mariam nodded and presently brought him a rifle, powder and bullets, and Yarjanian, leaning against the tree, rifle across his knees, watched all that was going on with bright eyes.

Guards were placed at the edge of the grove and Ebru and Mariam sat on opposite side of the high bank overlooking gulf cut in the rock.

Mariam found a large boulder, blown down on the mountain by some ancient tremor and as there was a comfortable seat on one side she remained there a long time. The bed itself was about ten feet wide and in the dark she was looking toward the east, about two hundred yards or more down the rocky ground to a point where it curved.

Everything was still as the wind that had been blowing all day had gone off to moan elsewhere some hours ago. It was a fair night with a fat moon and cold stars looking down. The air was full of movement and Mariam began to walk up and down again in order to keep awake. She noticed Yarjanian still sitting with eyes wide open and the rifle across his lap.

As Mariam came near in her walk the poet turned his bright eyes upon her.

“I hear,” he said, “that you have seen Jevdet Bey.”

“More than once. Several times when I was a prisoner in the castle the Turks call Dalan Gez, and again when I was recaptured.”

“What do you think of him?”

Mariam thought for a second.

“To call him a wicked man is to underestimate him. Ottoman promotion is measured in Armenian blood, as they say, but as provincial governor Jevdet Bey gained the nickname 'the horseshoe master' by nailing white-hot horseshoes onto the feet of his victims. What can you say about such a man that doesn't sound like a cliche?”

Yarjanian turned his look away and interlaced his fingers thoughtfully.

“I do not know,” he said finally. “Is this a new breed of man who revels in barbarous action? Or is this an old breed, a race traced down from Cain who live among us but we insist does not exist? My friends and I would argue late into the night on the nature of evil and we agreed how could such a thing be defined since it is always possible, no matter what atrocity a person can dream up as example, to go further by being even more atrocious to the point such terms as evil lose their meaning?”

Mariam shurgged.

“But that doesn't take into consideration what is happening around us now,” Mairam said. “The Ottomans have always been a combination of greatness and vanity and corruption. That is the building blocks of the Young Turks' government.”

“And the irony,” the poet nodded, “is that all my friends who could not come to an agreement on what evil was are dead, executed, even while they argued.”

Yarjanian lifted the rifle, put its stock to his shoulder and drew a bead in the dark.

“I do not think I shall make that mistake. Evil is evil because I say it is and I think I could hit a man at forty or fifty yards in this good moonlight and believe I was still doing good in this world,” he said.

He replaced the rifle across his knees and sighed.

Mariam nodded and moved away. She sat on her rock and kept her eyes on the deep shadows that had been cut by the stream. The rocks were dark and still in the night but it seemed to her that they were darker than they had been before. Mariam could feel her scalp tingle.

She looked attentively and saw figures moving in the dry river bed, keeping close against the sides. She waited only a moment longer to assure herself that the dark moving line was not some trick of the moonlight. She could not see faces or uniforms but she had no doubt that these were Ivedik's Raiders. Taking up her rifle, she found the foremost shape in her sights and fired.

“Down by the river! Ivedik is here!”

A salvo of bullets came from the shadows but with nothing to aim at fell far to one side or the other. In an instant Ebru, Awat, Diradour and two of the guards were by Mariam's side.

“So they thought they could sneak around the grove in the dark and come down upon us with our backs turned,” Ebru murmured in the dark. “We'll pick them off as they run, they've trapped themselves down there.”

The rifles flashed and the dark line in the rocky creek bed now broke into a desperate rush of bodies. Three fell in the first burst of gunfire, but the rest ran, tripping and stumbling through the sand and rocks, until they turned the curve.

Even as the small company began to reload they could hear rifle shots and someone screaming in pain in the dark. Ebru, calling to the others, rushed to the other side of the grove, where they were confronted by a second attack, led by Ivedik in person. Here men on horseback charged directly at the Armenians, but they were met by a fire which knocked more than two from their saddles.

Much of the charge was a blur to Mariam, a smudge of fire and smoke, of beating hoofs and of cries of pain. Glancing around her she saw Yarjanian sitting with his back against a tree calmly firing a rifle at the Turks. The poet had time for only two shots, but when he reloaded the second time he placed the rifle across his knees as before and smiled.

As the Ottoman troops turned in their charge Mariam saw a figure waving a sword and fired, but missed. The next moment the horseman was lost in the shadows. A second charge up the river bed was beaten back like the first and several Raiders were left to bleed and moan in the dark along side the bodies of their earlier companions. Two Turks got into the thickets and tried to stampede the horses but the quickness of Awat and several of the men who had been sleeping defeated their aim. One of the Turks fell there but the other escaped in the darkness.

When the charge was driven back and the horses were quieted Ebru and Awat threshed scrub and grove, in case some Ottoman sharpshooter should lie hidden among the rocks.

Nobody slept any more that night. Mariam, Diradour and Ebru kept a sharp watch upon the bed of the creek, the moon and stars fortunately aiding them. But the Turks did not venture again by that perilous path, although toward an hour or so before morning they opened a scattering fire in the gloom from below at the base of the mountain, many of their bullets whistling at random among the rocks and scrub. Some of the Armenians, crawling to the edge of the grove, replied, but they seemed to have little effect, as the Turks lay hidden behind a ridge. The attackers soon grew tired and after a while silence settled again.

Three of the Armenians had suffered slight wounds, but Awat bound them up skillfully.

Mariam say that several of the men on their own initiative, had been rolling all the fallen rocks that they could move to the edge of the clearing to form a more natural defense. The going was rough and in their exhausted state they were only able to turn over half a dozen, but at least they are trying to do something, she thought with a smile.

Yarjanian, the rifle across his knees, was sitting with his eyes closed, but he opened them as they approached. He appeared unhurt and his eyes were uncommonly large and bright eyes and they expressed delight.

“I am glad to see none of us is too badly hurt,” he said. “It has been a strange night for all of us. I never before thought that I should be firing at any one with intent to kill them. But history is never ours to make.”

He closed his eyes again.

“I am going to sleep a little, if I can,” he said.

But Mariam and Ebru could not sleep. They went to to the edge of the creek bed and together watched for the dawn. They saw the bright sun rise over a distant mountain ridge and the dew sparkle for a little while on the clumps of grass and rock. The day was warm but apparently it had come with peace.

They saw nothing on the mountainside. The day had started just as it had the morning before. But the three friends discerned six dark objects lying on the sand down the bed of the creek, and they knew that they were the men who had fallen during the night. With the two shot from their saddles in Ivedik's charge, the two that Yarjanian shot and the one caught trying to stampede the horses there were eleven less Turks in the world to bother them as they made their escape. Perhaps more, depending on the wounded and what little medical facilities Ivedik had to offer.

At the suggestion of Ebru they lighted a fire and were able to warm the last of the food and coffee they had among the group, thus putting heart into all the defenders. Then Ebru chose Mariam for a little scouting work on horseback. Mariam found Old Tigran seeking blades of grass within the limits allowed by her lariat. But when the horse saw his master he stretched out his head and neighed. Mariam was grateful not a single bullet had found her friend during the night.

“Good old fellow,” she said, stroking the velvet nose. “There's no water up here and hardly any grass. Let's go see if we can find any, shall we?”

[cont.]

"awat by moonlight" ZJC (2010)

The Ottoman division maintained a steady pace all that day and the three friends were forced to follow at some distance. Now and then the hills and mountainsides cut Ivedik's movement completely from sight, but Mariam, Awat and Ebru followed the without the slightest difficulty.

“They'll be coming out of the mountains in two days time,” said Ebru. “I am sure now that they're bound for Lake Van. It's just as well for is and what we want to do. They're less likely to be watchful the closer they get to Jevdet Bey.”

The Ivedik's force, as nearly as they could judge, numbered about fifty, with Ottoman foot soldiers and Kurdish scouts on horses. The Kurds were fine horsemen and with good training and leadership they were dangerous foes.

It was only a half hour past noon when Ivedik's men reached a deep canyon cut by a stream and were forced to travel a fair way to the east looking for a low passage over, always with the prisoners kept in the center of the troop. The three women watched them until they passed down into the canyon and disappeared from sight. Waiting until they were certain that the troops were five or six miles ahead, the they followed.

“We can't lose them now,” said Awat. “What goes down must come up.”

“That is how it normally works,” Ebru agreed.

They found the spot in the canyon wall the troops had used to descend. They rode more briskly through the afternoon and at darkness saw the Turkish camp fires glimmering ahead of them. But the night was not favorable to their plans. The sky was the usual cloudless blue of the Caucasus, the moon was at the full and all the stars were out. What they wanted was cloud coverage, anything that would help them advance and at the same time prevent the execution of the prisoners until a little while more.

They made their own camp a full two miles from Ivedik's and Awat and Ebru divided the watch.

Ivedik started early the next morning and so did the three followers. The dawn was gray and the breeze at the bottom of the canyon was chill. As they rode on, the day remained cold, but the air undoubtedly had a touch of damp.

“It may rain, and I'm sure the night will be dark,” said Awat. “We may have our chance.”

By noon the troops had found a passage up and out of the canyon. Then they turned their heads back toward the south to retrace all the distance lost with the fording of the river. The country became more broken, the patches of scrub bush increased in number. Often the three rode quite near to Ivedik's men and observed them closely. The Ottomans were moving slowly, and, as the women had foreseen, discipline was greatly relaxed.

Near night drops of rain began to fall in their faces, and the sun set among clouds. Awat and Mariam wrapped blankets around their shoulders. Bad weather, Mariam noted while looking at Ebru, did not seem to bother her much. However she did take a cloth from somewhere in her possessions and wrap her rifle up with it least the rain spoil her weapon. They tethered their horses among thorn bushes about a mile from Ivedik's camp and advanced on foot.

They saw the camp fire glimmering feebly through the night. The ground was damp and the clouds rolled down off the mountains, looking like ancient things alive, dragons of night mist. Nevertheless they saw on their right a field which showed a few signs of cultivation, and they surmised that Ivedik had made his camp at the lone abode of some blighted hermit.

As they came to clumps of trees they faced an inclosure bordered by a low stone hut and from its open door a light shone. Ivedik and his officers must have taken refuge there from the rain and cold and, under the boughs of the gnarled fruit trees or beside the fire, they saw the rest of the soldiers sheltering as best they could. The prisoners, their hands bound, were in a group in the open, where the slow, cold rain steadily fell upon them.

Order and discipline was lacking. Men came and went as they pleased. Fully twenty of them were making a shelter of canvas and leaves beside the hut. Others began to build the fire higher in order to fend off the wet and cold. Mariam did not see how the chance of rescue was improved, but Ebru and pointed in the dark tiny at a rough shed stood at the edge of the bracken.

Gesturing for her friends to follow Ebru made her way deeper into the night.

“What do you think we'd better do?” asked Awat when they could talk.

“Nothing now, but in an hour or two all these Ottomans will be asleep. Like as not the sentinels, if they post any, won't even leave the fire.”

They withdrew deeper into the thickets, where they remained close together. They saw the fire die in the Turkish camp. After a while all sounds there ceased and again they crept near. Ebru was a genuine Muslim prophet. Ivedik's men, having finished their shelters, were now asleep and of the two sentries their backs were to the dark and they talked softly as they warmed themselves. It was unnaturally dark and the cold rain fell with a steadiness and insistence. Even the three women drew their blankets closer and shivered a little.

The two sentinels were now some distance from the dark little shed toward which Ebru was leading her friends and their attention was absorbed in an endeavor to light two cigarettes to soothe and strengthen them as they kept their rainy and useless watch.

The three women reached the little shed and grim joy showing in Ebru's face as she pointed. The Ottomans had stacked almost every rifle and pistol they had in the shed where they would be protected from the mountain damp and rain.

“It's foolish to do things like this when danger is all around,” whispered Awat. “Whom Allah would destroy he first deprives of any sense of danger.”

“If we approach this shed from the rear the sentinels, even if they look, will not be able to see us,” said Ebru.

A few trips apiece and all the rifles with their ammunition were carried deep into the scrub where Awat, gladly sacrificing her own comfort, covered them against the rain with her blanket. Not a sign had come meanwhile from the two sentinels on the far side of the camp. Mariam once or twice saw the lighted ends of their cigarettes glow like sparks in the dark, but the outlines of the their figures were remained by the fire.

“And now for the hard part,” said Ebru. “Let's go look at the prisoners.”

The captives were lying under the boughs of some trees about twenty yards from the spot where the fire had been built. The rain beat upon them, but as far as Mariam could judge they had gone to sleep, doubtless through utter exhaustion. Ebru outlined her plan of action was to the point and simple. She would sit on the edge of the clearing in the dark while Awat and Mariam went in to free the men and simply shoot every soldier who left the safety of the firelight if the alarm was raised.

“That doesn't take into account any of the Kurds who weren't fools and still have their rifles with them.” Awat pointed out.

“That's true.” Ebru shrugged, “So let's not make a lot of noise in that case.”

As Ebru hunkered in the dark the two slipped forward and approached the dark figures of bound men lying in the rain. Mariam remembered the boy and she sought after him. As she approached she made out his figure lying in a strained position, and she touched the boy on the shoulder, whispering into his ear, and, with one sweep of her knife, released his arms.

“Crawl to the bush there,” instructed Mariam, pointing the way. “Another friend is waiting.”

The boy, without a word, began to creep forward in a stiff and awkward fashion. Mariam turned to the next prisoner. It was the scholarly man whom she had seen earlier. He was wide awake, staring intently at her.

“Am I dead? Are you real and rescuing us?” he whispered. “Is it possible?”

“Turn a little to one side and I will cut you free,” Mariam replied by way of answering.

The man labored to turn, but when Mariam freed him he whispered: “Forgive me, I cannot walk. Ivedik has been showing me a taste of Turkish hospitality.”

Mariam shuddered. Abdülhamid II had not earned his title as “Kızıl Sultan,” “The Bloody Sultan” and “The Sick Man of Europe” in Western media as merely a ghoulish deceit, he actively promoted the torturing of all Armenian prisoners before their execution and the newly established Young Turk government was all too eager to follow in his example. She assisted the man to partly rise, but he soon staggered. It was evident that he could not walk.

“Wait a moment,” she whispered and she cut the bonds of another man. “Help your friend there.”

She saw the two going away together and she turned back to the others. She and Awat worked fast and within five minutes the last man was released. But as they crept back toward the bush the negligent guards caught sight of the figures retreating in the rain. Two rifle shots were fired and from all around there were rapid shouts in Turkish. Mariam and Awat rose to their feet. Herding the escaped prisoners before them they ran for the thickets.

As the first Ottoman jumped to his feet a volley of rifle fire from the edge of dark cut him down and the troops' horses and mules, driven into a panic, stampeded into the clearing. Ebru must have armed several of the escaped prisoners, Mariam thought. Turks and Kurds yelled and tried to keep themselves from being trampled to under foot and hoof. In the firelight she saw Ivedik Bey, fezless, make an attempt to organize his men and to see the nature of their enemy, but soon he too was caught up in the frantic mob of soldiers and animals rushing across the bare side of the mountain.

As soon as they could Mariam and Awat joined the fugitives by the little shed and when every single one of them was armed smashed the rest of rifles by breaking them on the rocks. Awat hurried into the dark and presently came back with their horses. Mariam helped the crippled man upon Old Tigran and led by Ebru the strange party started southward, leaving the bush, the still burning campfire and the bodies of the fallen Turks behind.

It was a slow march and for a long time nothing was said. The sound of the Turkish stampede could still be heard, moving off to the west, but the Armenians and their rescuers walked in silence save for the sound of horses crossing the rocky hills.

Mariam looked curiously at the faces of those whom they had saved, but the night sky had not lightened and she could discern little. They went this way for a full quarter of an hour and finally the noise of the stampede sank away in the south, and then Ebru laughed. It was a laugh of joy, relief and triumph and when it ceased and Ebru drew a deep breath and spoke her mind.

“Well … that seemed to work.”

“Allah certainly worked for us,” said Awat.

“I can think of no words to describe my gratitude,” said the crippled man on Old Tigran. “We were told by Ivedik that we were Russian traitors and were to be executed. These men,” and he waved his hand at his rescued comrades, “their only crime was they tried to defend their village when the army began attacking it. They would kill even this boy, Diradour, simply because of his blood.”

“We still have some trouble ahead of us,” said Ebru. “Of course the Kurds with Ivedik learn from our trail how few we are and I suspect we didn't destroy every single rifle they had.”

The men on foot were silent, save one with a black eye and walked carefully holding his side, who said, “Let 'em come. I was took by surprise at my farm and told I was a rebel for trying to defend my family. But now that I've got a rifle I think I'll make those words come true. Plus,” he added grimly, “they are going to pay for what they did to my wife and daughters.”

The band lapsed back into silence. The fog had lightened a little but the night was as dark as ever. Ebru and Awat now began to seek a place for a camp. They knew that too much haste would mean exhausting these men who had so little strength as it was. But the mountain was bare of trees that might offer some temporary shelter and the stone was cold and wet with rain. Finally Awat spied a grove of dwarf oaks and with much exertion the party climbed the steep hillside and found dry ground to sit down and rest.

They could not risk building a fire even though most of the rescued men wore nothing more than rags. Still, no one complained and even the farmer with the broken ribs simply grimaced as he lay down. Mariam sat down near the crippled man who had been helped off her horse and the surprise that she had felt at first her glimpse of him bound to a tree increased.

He appeared asleep but even with closed eyes he looked vaguely familiar as if she had seen a photograph of him once, perhaps in a newspaper when she was in the city of Van. It was impossible to remember but the feeling of surprise stayed with her. His thick gray hair surmounted a broad brow. His clothing, torn and burned by white-hot bayonet blades pressed to his legs and arms, was of fine quality. Unlike the other sun-browned farmers the skin on this one was chubby and pale as if he had spent most his life locked away from sun and sky.

It took a few moments to realize the man was staring back at her. He appeared neither excitable nor resigned, simply curious. When he raised a hand to brush his wet hair away Mariam noted his hands were broad and smooth. Teacher's hands, she guessed. He then attempted to arrange his legs which lay broken on the cold rocks and it was apparent he was still in a great deal of pain though he had yet to utter a word. Though he must be only a few years older than Mariam herself what with his graying hair and paralyzed legs he appeared old.

“Do I know you?” Mariam asked.

The man thought this over but did not shrug his shoulders. All did was say, “I do not know. I was traveling from Constantinople to Van when Kurds attacked our wagon. My name is Yarjanian, Atom Yarjanian.”

[cont.]

"ivedik bey by firelight" ZJC (2010)

“That's so,” Ebru nodded but said no more.

Mariam regarded her with admiration. Her friend wore a ferace, a large outer coat as perscribed by the Koran, the sleeves of which were so long that only the tips of her fingers could be seen. Her plumed turban, the hotoz, was pushed back on her head and the traditional long veil that begins under the eyes and covers nose and mouth had been pulled down as she went north. She rode a great black horse with a flowing mane.

“These mountains are quiet,” Awat said.

“We've been traveling three days and have seen no sign of anyone,” Ebru said.

Awat nodded.

“I did,” Mariam put in. “I saw something pass by at the spot I camped down at. Perhaps ten, fifteen horsemen.”

“Who were they?” Awat asked.

“Raiders? Kurds I guess by the way they rode by. They were heavily armed and looked like they were going some place, not just rambling.”

“Rambling at two in the morning?” Ebru said.

“Maybe they're scouts belonging to some strong Ottoman force?” Mariam suggested.

“Jevdet Bey uses Kurdish scouts but if that is the case then there is a giant army on this side of the Lake Van,” said Awat thoughtfully. “I'm not surprised. Our brothers in Van have rejoiced too early. We have not seen the end of the Sultan's rage.”

Ebru began to bristle.

“Van was a fortress long before it was a city,” she said menacingly. “With warning they can defend themselves against anything the Sultan can mount.”

Awat shook her head sadly.

“We could if we were united,” she said, “but the villages will not come to our aide and our city's leaders have fallen to squabbling. I tell you the truth, I'm afraid of the Ottomans' advance.”

“If they were scouts then I think they probably belong to Ivedik's division,” said Mariam.

“Very likely,” said Awat. “He's one of the most energetic of Jevdet Bey's officers.”

“Plus he is a Van native,” Mariam pointed out. “He knows they mountains better than we do. The villages are gravely mistaken to think they can somehow avoid his Raiders because of their isolation. I fear it is exactly because they are isolated that Ivedik will choose them as easy spoils.”

“It's pretty far west for the Ottomans,” said Ebru. “We're on the edge of the Russian country here.”

“Which is why, if it is Ivedik,” Awat replied, “He'll bring his horsemen around and strike from the west at the one direction that would be the least suspected. That's what I would do.”

The three held a brief discussion and soon came to an agreement. They would turn and retrace their steps south to Van while attempting to track the Kurd's trail.

The three rode side by side as they examined the blank expanses they passed through. The grass was left only in sheltered places or among the trees. The further they went the scarcer became the trees and before night they disappeared entirely.

The night came, cold and without wind. They camped in a dip and did not light any fire, lying side by side and wrapping themselves in their own horse blankets. They deemed it wise now to keep a watch, for Ivedik was near anything might happen. Ebru, who said she was not sleepy at all, took the first watch. Mariam, exhausted from the long ride, fell into a deep sleep and did not dream. The last object that she saw was Ebru standing on the crest of the hill just beyond them, rifle on shoulder, watching the moonlit valleys. Next to her Awat was asleep already.

Ebru walked back and forth a few times and glanced at her sleeping friends. Even in the dark she could see their chests rising and falling peacefully. A dreamless sleep was a good thing. It meant the dead were somewhere else. She turned away and scanned the dark sky.

An hour later a light wind sprang up and brought with it a low and heavy measured tread. Ebru's first impulse was to awaken her friends but she hesitated a moment. As she stood Mariam and Awat rose and came to stand beside her.

“Isn't that a light?” said Mariam. A glowing spark was just visible over the mountain. It neither moved or went out.

“I think it's in scrub bush or among trees,” Awat suggested. “It's big enough to keep a whole division warm.”

“I suppose,” said Ebru. “We might as well ride toward it and find out.”

The fire was more than a mile away and they advanced slowly, seeing it grow in size and intensity. Dismounting they left their horses tethered to a tree and advanced on foot. If it was indeed Ivedik and his men they would probably be sleeping soundly, not expecting any enemy to be wandering the mountains as they were.

They saw an extensive growth of scrub bush rise before them and beyond that the light that appeared to be shining. When they came to the edge they knelt among and listened. They distinctly heard the occasional movement of horses and they saw the dusky outlines of several figures before the fire.

“They look like your ghost Kurds,” whispered Ebru, “But we're going to have to get closer if we want to know any more.”

Ebru crept forward among the thorny bushes with Mariam, just behind. She could hear the stamp of horses' feet clearly now and both to left and right she caught glimpses of them tethered in the thickets. Her comrade stopped at last. They were not more than a hundred yards from the fire now and the space in front of them was mostly open. Ebru, crouching, raised her finger slowly and pointed toward the fire.

Mariam followed and saw Hassan Ivedik Bey himself. He was the dominant figure in a group of six or seven gathered about the flames. He wore an officer's tattered uniform of green and silver with a small rapier hanging limply by his side.

Whatever the men were talking about appeared stirring enough for first Ivedik and then another to raise their hands and make sweeping gestures as if calling on all the mountains to come and bear witness.

“Look beyond the fire … to the figures by the trees,” whispered Ebru.

Mariam squinted in the dark. She had not noticed at first, but now she saw a dozen or so men, arms bound tightly behind them, leaning against distant trees. Instinctively she knew that they were Armenians and a shiver of recognition passed through her. The Ottoman army had arrested thousands and thousands of Armenian men in the villages and cities around Anatolia but they did not keep them very long. The mountains were full of their bones, some executed as traitors, some executed as spies, some executed out of boredom but all of them who were killed were Armenian.

“What shall we do?” Mariam whispered back.

“Nothing now,” replied Ebru, in the same soft tone, “but maybe we can do something soon. It's likely that Ivedik will come down out of the mountains north of Van to meet Jevdet Bey.”

There was a sudden gust of wind at that moment and the light of the fire sprang higher. The flames threw a glow across the faces of the prisoners. Most of them were asleep, but Mariam saw them very distinctly now. One was a boy, his face pale and worn. Near him was an older man, plump, with a face uncommon in the mountains. His cheeks were thin and thick white hair fell across his a brow. He looked, to Mariam, what her idea of a poet would look.

Ivedik rose presently and went to look at the prisoners. The firelight shown on his face. There was a gleam of savage exultation in those eyes. Of the many men in the Ottoman empire who saw advancement and glory by executing the undesirables for the Young Turks here was a formidable enemy.

Ivedik said a few words to his men and then withdrew into a small tent set apart from the others. The Kurds lay down in their blankets, but there were sentinels who watched the open spaces. The three women slowly crept slowly back into the dark.

“What is our best plan, Ebru?” whispered Awat, when they could talk.

“We can't do anything yet but wait and watch and follow. The bush runs along for a mile or two. We can hide until they set off in the morning.”

“But what if they decide that hauling prisoners across the mountains is a waste of their time?” asked Mariam.. “What if they shoot them at sun up?”

Ebru pursed her lips and said grimly, “then we'll try something different, won't we?”

They went back to find their horses and rode a mile to the north, remaining among dense bush until dawn. At daybreak they saw a column of smoke rise from Ivedik's camp.

“Looks like they are cooking breakfast,” said Awat, as the three women ate their own cold rations.

The column of smoke sank after a while and a couple of hours later the three of them packed up and followed. From one of the summits they made out the mass of horsemen. Tied to each horse a prisoner hurried along, his bound arms often pulled up roughly over his heads by the ropes.

“They haven't shot anyone yet,” Ebru observed, “and now we'll follow and we can see if with Allah's mercy we can help them out.”

[cont.]

"across anatolia" ZJC (2010)

Linum e, chi linum, There was and there was not a mountain and not just any mountain but the mountain – the mountain that all this started from. The Turks call it Ağrı Dağı, which literally means “pain” in their language, “The Painful Mountain.” The wild horsemen, the Kurds, call it Çîyaye Agirî, “The Fiery Mountain.” It is both of those things for those people but perhaps it is known best throughout the world by its Armenian name, Masis, which translates into Ararat, the mountain Noah came down from after the Flood. And of all Noah's children, it was his great-grandson Hayk who settled in the valley to the east of the mountain.

But this story does not concern itself with that valley far to the east. Not just yet. This story is about the wild lands to the west of Ararat. If you stood on a cliff you would see the mountain wilderness rolling away to north and to south with little pockets of lowlands to the east and west, an unbroken sweep of dark green peaks and bare rocky valleys. Trees could grow in this part of the world but often chose not to, unless it was to mark where a spring was hid among the rocks. Otherwise it was grassland that covered the ranges of greater Anatolia which rippled and sighed when a wind breathed over them.

Into this world Mariam came riding. It had been a harsh winter with little sun but now it was April and her face shown with a pale ocher, the way the mineral looks when first dug from the clay. She wore a woolen scarf around her hips, a robe that opened at the front and a sheepskin jacket that made her look like any other Caucasian herder from afar. She was lean, rode with an easy gait that told of a familiarity with cold, stones and life in and among the peaks.

There is a legend, though her villagers swore it was true, of the famous Kurdish bandit Musa Beg, who once plundered an Armenian village in 1889 and kidnapped a young Armenian girl named Gulizar. That had been only twenty-six years ago, when Mariam, an Armenian as well, had been twelve years old. Who knows what happened to Gulizar? Her kidnapped twin, she was told as a child, must be living a life just like hers: high up in a tiny mountain village without church or mosque where the Kurds and the Armenians and the Turks lived, if not comfortably, then at least tolerably.

Though she had been raised in the mountains she was not “of the blood,” as the Kurds would say and there was a touch to the woman that forever separated her from ordinary mountain herders. Perhaps it was her height or the way she held herself erect in the saddle. Possibly it was her uncanny familiarity with rifles and horses. Then again it could be the manner in which she dressed with robes that had been in blizzard and sand storm and boots that were thickly sewn with little beads of yellow and blue and green hidden among the lacing. Or perhaps it was something else, the way she combined so many contradictory elements. Turkish silver adorned her forehead, earrings, on her belt and in chunky rings on each finger. She had wrapped her hair into a headdress her people favored and she carried over her shoulder the long slender rifle of the Kurdish horsemen carved with an image of Ararat on the stock.

The Armenian paused a moment in the vale only to swing the butt of her rifle from her back, lean upon the saddle and listen. There was nothing in the wide open world save the song of the grass and that was heard at a great distance. A faint smile passed over her face. She was satisfied. In a world forever at war the absence of sound proved no evil was occurring. Travelers pass quietly, she had been taught, soldiers make noise. She swung the rifle back to its resting place and rode to the crest of a near by ridge.

The summit was bare and the woman saw far. It was a splendid mountain country, dotted here and there with sage-blue shrub and twisted oak and evergreen pine. Water was scarce but dry river beds numerous. Skylarks and warblers filled the world with movement. Mariam might travel full hundred miles to the north or east and find no villages — Turkish, Kurdish or Armenian — while to westward and south the world was filled with farms that made up the mighty Ottoman empire. Here, though, on all sides of her stretched the vast maze of peaks and hills through which roamed only lonely animals and lonely men.

At last Mariam stirred. The sky, a solid curve of blue, was cloud-speckled and brilliant, the same lonely brightness that had dawned every morning for untold millions of years. Presently she left the ridge and, face toward the north, began to ride swiftly and silently away. The character of the country did not change as the woman with curious head wrap passed by.

When the sun was squarely overhead, pouring down a flood of golden beams, she paused in the shade of a twisted oak, and alighting took food from her bag. She sat by the roots while the horse wandered off to graze. Nothing that passed in the open slope within the range of eyesight. She remained a full hour between the roots, a long time for one who might have a purpose, and, after she rose, she called her horse to her.

“Good Old Tigran! Good friend!” said Mariam, pinching his ear. And the two set off again. After a while dusk slowly spread steadily forward. Horse and rider ascended a low hill together and took a long scrutinizing look around the whole horizon. Her gaze was expectant but she showed only slight disappointment when the mountain wilderness merely presented its habitual self. She did not build a fire and ate her food cold, expectancy still bound tight within.

Nothing came but the Armenian woman sat in the dark for a long time. She reclined luxuriously on the cold mountain side. Night had come and heavy darkness lay over the world. She stretched out her booted toes, closed her eyes for a moment or two, and a dreamy look of satisfaction rested on her face. And while she relaxed she thought she saw darker shadows move among the darkness of a nearby hill. She gazed through half closed eyes and counted ten shapes, all following one another, a dusky file. She knew by the riders' figures, short and stocky in the saddle, that they were Kurds, but nobody she knew personally. These men were not from her village. They were from someplace else. But they moved with purpose which meant they were organized. Which meant they were raiders, the first that anyone had seen in the Ottoman mountains since the departure of the Russian army.

Mariam did not attempt to move. The horse made no noise as they watched the shadows pass out of sight. She had not heard the sound of horseshoes on rock or voices above her in the dark. A ghost cavalry division for a ghost army.

“Good Old Tigran,” she murmured once again, standing up. She called him Tigran after the Armenian king who had taken on all of the Roman empire during his prime. Old Tigran whinnied ever so softly and rubbed his nose against the woman's sleeve. Mariam mounted and rode off the hill, pausing only long enough for a long look in every direction. The night was still peaceful and there was no noise, save for the warm wind that blew out of the south with a gentle sigh. The moon appeared to Mariam poised directly overhead and ancient stars were spreading out as the last clouds floated away.

Were they simply scouts passing through? Mariam thought. And if so, for whom? Who would be interested in this part of the world? The Russians hadn't, they had abandoned the mountains some time ago. Whoever they were they were heading south, toward Lake Van.

She rode almost due north for more than two hours, seeing patches of scrub bush on both right and left. When she saw a growth of timber rising high and dark upon a hill she believed that she had found a place to spend the rest of the night. The trees proved to be oaks growing so densely that she was compelled to dismount and lead Old Tigran before they could find an entrance. Inside she found a clear space not more than fifteen feet across. Great spreading boughs had protected it so well that little grass grew in the shade.

After unsaddling and unbridling her horse Mariam merely tethering him with a rope. There was much fallen wood among the trees and working long with flint and steel she managed to set fire to a small heap of wood rot and shavings. From her pack she took a small tin coffee pot and tiny cup. Then with quick and skillful hands she made coffee over the coals and warmed strips of pepper and eggplant.

She ate and drank hungrily all the while the horse nibbled the scant grass that grew within the glade. Then she made her bed upon the ground, wrapped in her robes and fell to sleep. The south wind still blew steadily, playing a low musical song. She relied upon the horse to give any warning of any approach by man, ghost or wolf.

Finally the horse ceased to nibble the grass, looked at the sleeping woman, walked to the other side of the opening where he stood, dozing.

They were up at dawn, however, and Mariam cooked her breakfast, and then, after another long and searching examination of the surrounding mountainside, the two departed, leaving the coals of the fire to smolder, a thin column of smoke rising to the sky. Today was the agreed upon day. Today it was vital that she was seen. In the late afternoon she stopped, according to custom, and, just when she had lit her fire to fan the smoke, she uttered a low cry of pleasure.

Gazing back upon her own trail, Mariam rose to her feet and stood, very erect, peering over the mountainside. With no undergrowth here she could see far down the sides of the mountains to a pair of figures approaching. They came on swiftly and silently, much in the same manner of the Armenian herself. Both horses and riders were outlined in black against the sun now declining in the west. Mariam knew them, although the distance was far too great to disclose any feature. After a while she rode up the slope and greeted Awat and Ebru with outstretched hands.

“Ah! it's you, Mariam-jan,” said Awat, her eyes glistening. “Until we saw your fire we were afraid that you might have stumbled into the shadow land and it's a long lane that has no happy ending. But here we are, all three of us, alive, and as well as ever.”

[cont.]