Authors: Dana Walrath

Like Water on Stone (6 page)

Shahen

Papa tells me that the secret of the sound

is in the right hand

and the pick,

the
mizrap
.

Papa tells me that mystery and power

come in through the quill,

that eagles were with us

long before Christ.

Papa tells me to hold it light and loose

between my fingertips, hand and wrist fluid,

like bubbling water, to let the supple quill pull

music from each pair of strings.

Again, Papa tells me a good Armenian carries

the music of home close to his heart, wherever he is.

If he lets me go,

I will.

Papa tells me to let the
oud
belly touch my own,

to tuck its side into my right elbow, its neck resting

in my left hand, two melon bellies touching,

yes.

Papa tells me to make my left hand fierce.

Fingers like hammers

press into metal

for song.

Papa tells me it only hurts at first.

Calluses will form with time.

Then my fingers will dance on the strings,

the way my brothers danced across the rooftop

before the Ottomans entered the war,

fighting with Germany,

against Russia, England,

and France.

Papa does not tell me that the Turks blame us,

the Christians, as their Empire rots and shrinks.

All this I learned

for myself.

Sosi

Mama and I worked the dough

with sweet fresh flour from the mill.

Anahid brought news today

not of war,

not of Vahan,

though the news was for me,

only me.

She whispered it,

poured it right into my ear

while Mama worked the
tonir
,

dropping sheets of dough

onto the clay surface

of the underground oven

she had built.

I kept my face as still as glass.

Her secret’s safe with me.

She’s not sure,

not completely.

Thunder clouds don’t always give rain,

you know.

But I know.

Her rosy lips and cheeks know, too.

They are proof that next spring,

after the pink buds of apricots

burst into bloom,

after the small, hard fruits first form,

and then blush sweet and ripe,

their scent spreading

through the whole valley,

I will be an auntie.

Shahen

Fall persimmons ripened,

but I stayed small.

Cold came down from mountaintops.

Still I have not grown.

Young Turks will fight the Russian troops

and still my face is smooth.

Armenian men will join the Turks;

so say the new laws.

Troops prepare for eastern fronts

at Erzerum so near.

But Papa only plays the
oud
.

I say to him after a song,

“Turkish guns will turn on us.

You must let me go.

“Misak and Kevorg too.

Soon they’ll be the age to serve.”

The
oud
between us,

my callused fingers tough,

my voice too high,

my face too like a girl’s.

Papa will not listen.

Sosi

I meet Anahid at the market.

No belly bulge of baby

shows below her coat.

But I know.

“Let’s shop for a clock,”

she says, eyes bright,

her lips and cheeks

pomegranate-red.

She tells
baron
Arkalian

the clock will be a present

for her husband’s mother, Palewan.

He stiffens ever so slightly

at this mention of a Kurd,

but a master craftsman

shows his wares to all.

He shows Anahid

the fine details

of painted faces,

the inner workings

of the gears,

and the glistening polish

of the wooden frame.

From across the shop,

Vahan looks to me.

Baron
Arkalian brings us

to Vahan’s bench

to show us the finest brushes,

made from three cat whiskers

aligned just so they can make

a tapering line.

Vahan is so close

that my skin shimmers

as though the brush

makes lines on me.

Ardziv

Cold came. Leaves fell.

Snakes stayed in caves

for their winter sleep.

No one worked on rooftops.

Each day my search

for beast or bird

took me far

from the music

of home.

Winter days,

as I rose higher,

I saw soldiers

by the thousands

climbing snow-clad slopes

and forging cold mud valleys,

swarming the rocks

like an angry herd.

Identical
kabalak
helmets

made their heads

look swollen,

like beasts

instead of

humans.

From farther east,

train cars filled with soldiers,

clad in coats like bears,

landed at a fort

and began to fight the others.

One day, as I looked back toward home,

I caught a glimpse of Shahen

descending toward the river.

I flapped and soared,

helped by the wind

to arrive at the river’s edge,

where a group of boys, almost men,

the same ones he swam with in summer,

including the one with the toothy grin,

called him traitor as he passed.

“Go to Russia!

That’s where you belong,

greedy Christian traitor!”

Shahen did not shrink or hide.

He stood as tall as he could

with his small size,

his voice still high like Sosi’s.

“I will leave you all

in the dust

when I go

to America.”

Sosi

Long, cold months,

I work at the loom inside,

with Vahan’s note tucked under the loom

so its words flow through me as I weave.

“Like the nightingale, I warbled round my rose

with wings displayed.”

Five hands more

will make this carpet done,

this carpet for my dowry,

with colors from my heart,

though our fathers haven’t spoken

not with the war, not with Vahan

almost old enough to serve.

Misak, too, who was foolish enough

to cheer when the law was changed

so Armenians could serve

in the Ottoman army.

Inside the pattern of diamonds and leaves,

I’ve knotted birds into full fearless flight.

Others perch on branches, feet clasping tight.

One lies still, in her neat rush nest,

three blue eggs below her warm body.

She’s plump, this bird, like Anahid,

with a calm and glowing full-moon face.

I made her here, smiling with me,

not scared of those who’d turn on her

because she’s one of us.

For now she must be nothing but

the good pregnant wife

of a Kurdish soldier.

I start a new bird who dreams as he sleeps.

He lies on his side, eyes closed, his red chest tucked

between a blanket of wings, his beak tilted up.

My knots make him seem more dead than dreaming.

Perhaps birds dream only when they fly.

Mama forbids me to take out the rows.

It wastes good wool, she says,

and mistakes make the next carpet better.

But I take out each knot

with a small knife

hiding the fistful of

rich red wool

deep in my pocket.

“Take the knife and slay me straight away,”

says the poet Sayat Nova.

Mama will never know.

Shahen

On frosty nights, paperlike sheets of ice

form where stones

block the stream’s flow.

I pry them up, the icy shapes,

so like states on maps,

and shatter them on the rock.

Morning music for my walk

to Father Manoog.

Our stream flows strong

from winter snow and rain.

Its rushing sound fills my ears

and blocks the steps of soldiers,

four of them, who appear on the banks

pointing their guns, saying,

“You, boy. Take me to the
gavour
miller.”

I obey, knowing Papa and my brothers

are already at work.

Soldiers storm inside, shouting,

“Surrender your arms!”

Misak stops the millstones.

Kevorg steps back against the wall.

Papa takes one step toward them,

his arms out at chest height, palms up,

as though he is in church.

“What arms?” Papa asks them.

“We millers have no need for arms.”

Gentle Papa opens every door and chest,

hiding nothing but his limp.

Soldiers dump out bins of clean white flour

and whole wheat berries onto the earthen floor.

They rake it with their guns.

“We millers have no need for arms,”

Papa says as they poke him

toward the door of our attached house.

They tear Mama’s blankets.

They take our copper bowls.

They dump her food from pots and jars

and tell us, “We will be back tomorrow.

If you do not give us your weapons then,

limp and all, we will arrest you.”

After they leave, Papa sends me to Mustafa

for a weapon to surrender in the morning.

We millers have a need for weapons.

Sosi

Armenians of the age to serve

now build the Baghdad Railway.

One straight Turkish German line

from Constantinople

to the oil fields of Basra.

From paintbrush

to sledgehammer,

this cannot be for Vahan.

Or my brothers, either,

though Shahen’s far too small to serve.

The Ottomans sent Asan

to fight at the Russian front.

But other Kurds,

the thieves released from jails,

join roving bands called
chetes
.

Ardziv

Before the days

became longer than nights,

everywhere I flew

there was war.

Sharklike ships

burned through

the Black Sea.

The Mediterranean

and the Red,

the same.

Fires blazed in the Suez.

Ships left the ocean

to enter the wide, sandy mouth

of the Euphrates,

laying anchor by smokestacks

of Persian oil fields.

The earth itself

seemed to fear.

Bulbs kept hidden

under the earth.

Sheep were late

with lambs.

Ground squirrels

stayed in dens.

But then the days got longer.

Brave apricots pushed out their blooms.

Rooftop life began again.

The mill wheel still made music.

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