Authors: Dana Walrath

Like Water on Stone (8 page)

Mariam

Where’s Misak?

Where’s Kevorg?

Why did soldiers take them?

Where are they?

Mama says they’re

with the soldiers

working for the army,

the bad soldiers

with teeth like dogs

and pointed guns

who tied their hands,

and all day

Mama cries

and sews

and cries

and sews.

Shahen wears her dress.

Shahen

Papa so thick,

so certain,

so simple.

He lost three sons

in one day:

my brothers

to soldiers,

and me

to a scarf and dress.

Mama knows my shame.

Still, she shows me

women’s tricks,

like how to pull

a new dark hair,

if one should grow

on my chin or lip,

out from the root

by the nails

of my thumb

and finger.

“To shave

would make it

thicken,”

she tells me,

though she knows

I have no need.

My brothers will return someday,

standing tall like men

with full black beards.

They must.

Ardziv

I followed the soldiers

with every fit

Armenian man.

Papa spared

because his limp

would slow him.

They walked them

in a line

along the river

for miles,

pushing

and poking

with guns,

their hands tied.

They stopped.

They stripped them.

They turned them.

They shot them.

They threw the bodies

into the river.

Bodies washed up and lodged

between stones

on the river’s edge.

Vultures swooped down

to eat them.

I’ve taken carrion

from vultures before.

Sometimes eagles do this.

But that day I flew off.

I found a goat

away from his herd,

tore his muscles to pieces

with my beak and talons

until I could eat no more.

I flew upriver

and left the carcass behind.

Shahen

My brothers are gone, taken.

As a child, I was spared.

The soldiers came to school that day.

They looked at all our faces.

They took anyone with bristles

and left the baby-faced behind.

They argued about some of us.

But my case was clear.

In their eyes,

I was too young to fight.

Then Father Manoog told us,

the baby-faced,

to hide in the cliffs

behind the old fort

till the sun was low,

and like a child, I obeyed.

Then I crossed the bridge

to home.

I want to fight the Turkish soldiers.

I want to work the mill.

“No,” Papa tells me.

“To keep you safe

dressed as you are

you must do women’s work.

I will work the mill alone,

what little work there is,

till harvest next comes in.

By the end of a year,

this trouble will pass.”

He speaks fine,

but he cannot look at me.

And Mama sews like a machine.

Mariam asks for Kevorg and Misak

while Sosi and I chop bitter onions.

We eat food brought out from storage.

Cabbage leaves with black age spots,

withered beets and carrots,

cracked wheat retrieved

from the mill room floor

and the soldiers’ raking guns.

Mama and Sosi still bake bread.

Our hens lay eggs.

Kaban sends one goat each week

from Kurdish mountain herds.

We do not roam

the woods for greens.

We have mint

that grows by the stream.

We do not go to market.

By the end of a year, I will grow

and I’ll show Papa

that I’m the man he’s not.

He lacks the courage to leave here.

For him all life is like a song,

with different voices blending.

Now Mama embroiders

more kerchiefs

for me.

Sosi, her lips and cheeks like berries,

hides when soldiers come.

One soldier pokes my skirt with his gun.

He eyes my flat chest,

proof to him that I’m pure.

Proof to me that Papa’s an old hen

hovering till the soldier is gone.

I can act.

Like a letter,

I will go to America.

Sosi

Shahen

Come tie with me,

Shahen
jan
.

The work is good.

The knots’ colors

down each row

add up to make

the pattern.

Pass the weft

with this shuttle

to bind the edges,

then beat it

with the comb.

Pack the fibers tight.

Will you try?

Sosig, I can’t.

Come on, Shahen.

Time will pass

as we tie. First,

a few red knots

for the edge. Next,

the bird’s blue belly.

Take the end

of the thread

and go over

one warp thread,

then under the next

and back to

where I start,

then snip.

You try.

This is your work.

Not mine.

Come on, Shahen.

The loom will hide you.

Come tie this knot.

Here, I tied it.

Will you cut the end?

Don’t give me a knife.

I’ll finish the bird.

Anahid and I

would race

to the middle.

You’ll win.

We’re not racing.

Just tie.

My fingers cannot

do such things.

Last summer seems

so far away.

Anahid’s baby

will be coming soon.

Think of something

else to say!

That’s women’s talk.

I’m not Mama

or
digin
Palewan,

about to be a

grandmother.

I miss the music,

don’t you?

Not one bit.

We’d all have left

if Papa wasn’t

fooled by music.

At least you

must miss

Anahid.

Yes.

Misak and

Kevorg too.

This carpet

full of birds

will be yours.

You can take it

to America.

I’ll never go now.

You will.

You’ll see.

You’ll go soon.

Take the red now.

For the background.

That’s right.

Over, under,

back, and tie.

Snip.

Over, under,

back, and tie.

Over, under,

back, and tie.

Snip.

Over, under,

back, and tie.

Ardziv

Soldiers were close again.

I flew tight circles around the mill.

Papa stood outside looking up,

shaking his head.

I hovered in the air above him

as he reached both hands

into the sky,

spread his five fingers

toward me,

through me,

palms up,

open to the sky.

“Forgive me.

I was wrong.

I fear my sons are dead.

Their spirits come to me

each night.

No land is worth

a child’s life.

Protect them.

Please.

The ones who still live.”

Then he drew his palms

back into fists,

his eyes still high in the sky,

looking through me,

and he pulled these fists

down to his gut.

I landed on a lower branch,

a silent witness.

He raised his arms to the sky again,

opened his palms,

then pulled both open hands

down to his heart.

Then he touched the ground

with his right hand,

kissed the back of his hand,

then forehead,

chest,

left,

right,

and let his hand rest

on his heart,

his eyes and mouth

squeezed shut,

taking no breath

for one long minute.

He swallowed.

Breath came again.

His eyes opened

and met mine.

He shivered.

He bowed

his head

to his chest

and went

inside.

I made a promise

to the empty sky.

These three young ones

would not die.

Sosi

I rise before the sun,

before Mama can say no,

and go to the river

to see my vines.

I fill a basket with leaves

for
dolma
.

They must be picked

while still bright green

and supple,

each leaf the size of my palm

plucked from below

the new growth.

The apricots are hard and green

but soaking in the sun.

Soon they will be ripe.

Soon I’ll be an auntie.

Mama’s pacing on the roof when I return.

She takes the leaves from me and then,

as though we’ve never made
dolma
before,

as though I have not picked the leaves myself,

she tells me,

“They must be bright green

or else they’ll be too tough.”

She sets the black pot on the rooftop fire,

salted water inside it for blanching.

We excise the stems with sharp knives.

We set the leaves in the pot to wilt,

then pull them out to cool.

Mama mixes the filling.

Rice, olive oil, allspice,

cinnamon, and mint from the edge

of our stream.

“Roll them tight, Sosi
jan
,

tight as you can, Sosi
jan
.

Fold the leaf edge in

as you roll, Sosi
jan
,

so the rice

stays trapped

inside.”

Shahen

I wake before dawn

to church bells,

an urgent shake.

Mama, Papa, a goat,

and the butchering knife.

Papa says, “Bring your sisters to the highest field.

Tell them you are checking on the sheep.

Don’t come back

unless we come for you.

Wait till it quiets,

then go south

to Aleppo.

“Stay high in the mountains,

heading southwest

till you see the desert

from the ridge.

Be careful when you cross the Euphrates.

Trust no one

till Aleppo.

Find the Forty Martyrs Church.

The
Soorp Hayr
there

helped your
keri

get to New York.”

He holds me for one second.

He wakes the girls.

Mama wraps a vest around me,

pulls me close in one motion, saying,

“Wear this.

It will keep you full

and safe.”

My head fits

into the curve

between Mama’s head and body.

We pull in one breath together.

She pushes me away, looks me right in the eyes.

“You are very young to be a man.

Take good care of your sisters.

Now go.”

Mama wraps Sosi and Mariam

each in a new vest,

her hug squeezing

all breath from them.

Papa pulls her back,

puts Mariam in my arms,

adds a double knot

to the laces of the
charukh

enveloping her feet.

“Go now. They are coming.”

“Who?” Mariam says.

Mama takes the pot from the table.

Papa pushes us through the door.

Mama follows.

Papa grips the goat and the knife.

Summer is here, but words

from springtime last year

come out from deep inside me.

“Let’s see who can get to the sheep first.

Misak and Kevorg

said we have new lambs.”

Sosi looks back at Mama and Papa,

then at me.

“We’ll be back!” she says.

She grabs the black pot from Mama

and starts to run.

I run.

Sosi runs.

Mariam whimpers

as I squeeze her too tight,

her ear pressed to my chest,

her legs around my waist.

Behind us we hear the squeal

of the butchering of a goat,

followed by the death quiet.

I hear Mama

running toward the river screaming.

“My girls, my beloved girls,

how could you kill them?

You should have killed me instead.”

We hear more screams

and sounds of guns from far away.

We hear soldiers near Mama.

We hear Mama’s sounds

like an animal.

We hear Papa, near Mama.

“No! You beasts! No!”

We hear soldiers and screams,

such screams.

We hear the sounds of our own breathing,

the sounds of our steps.

We run harder,

the noise of our hearts pounding,

blocking the sounds of home.

Footsteps, heart, and breath

fill our ears like rush of mill water at first thaw,

pushing up the mountain path,

our chests burning from the push,

in and out

legs up and down

our legs and hearts pounding

pounding

not stopping

till the top of the highest field.

Our ears fill with emptiness.

We drop to the ground.

I pull my sisters close together

behind the giant stone.

I find branches,

lean them against rock

to hide my sisters.

I crawl in

under branches

beside them.

They’re both wet

from sweat

and urine

that poured from them

while they ran

and ran.

We are safe.

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