Like Water on Stone Read online

  and hide us

  more than this dress

  ever could.

  Mariam

  Sosi

  “Sheep.”

  “Get down!

  Shepherds.

  Shhhh!”

  “Ma—”

  I cover her mouth,

  her dry, sour mouth.

  She shuts up.

  Her eyes stare.

  Bleats surround us.

  Voices too.

  Shahen covers us,

  both of us,

  with his body,

  his small shaking body.

  We sweat.

  The ground is thick

  with hooves.

  The air is thick

  with shepherds’ words.

  “Stupid Armenian

  sheep, they

  won’t listen!

  Look how

  they stay alone,

  acting like

  they are better

  than our sheep.”

  Ardziv

  Sheep swarmed around them,

  a wall of wool

  twenty bodies thick.

  With the sheep, two shepherds,

  two young drum caps, Turks,

  tending two flocks

  now made one

  by Ottoman guns.

  One said,

  “Look at how these ones are greedy,

  taking all the best grass

  and crowding out our sheep.”

  He picked up a stone

  and raised his arm to throw it

  toward the young ones.

  I swooped down,

  grazed his head

  with my left talon.

  They shrank back

  and looked up,

  their eyes wide with fear,

  their feet glued to the ground.

  I made tight circles

  in the sky just above them

  three times.

  I pulled up higher

  and hovered

  as they caught their

  wits and breath,

  building momentum,

  making ready to attack

  with a rapid descent.

  I

  shot

  down.

  They ran,

  leaving their sheep

  to me

  to push the flock

  away from this place,

  down the slope

  to their new masters,

  to make the young ones safe.

  Shahen

  The ground shakes

  with stepping hooves.

  The sheep move off

  as if chased.

  A high, weak whistle

  like a ghost in the wind

  blends with bleats and bells.

  Our cover disappearing

  like water leaving

  a pail with a hole.

  I crouch before

  Sosi and Mariam,

  shielding them,

  facing the spring,

  the direction of the voices,

  with one large stone

  in each hand,

  ready to strike them

  when they find us.

  If we live

  I promise

  I will run us harder at night,

  but stop sooner

  to find the safest place

  to steal some hidden sleep

  leaving no signs.

  Woolly coats and bodies

  thin around us

  as the sheep march off

  as if called

  or pushed.

  A high, weak whistle

  comes from the sky.

  Every fiber

  under my skin

  jumps.

  Papa did this to us.

  He put us in this danger.

  He put me in a skirt.

  And then he was killed

  with an arrow made

  from his own feathers.

  Fool.

  As the last sheep leaves

  my vision clears.

  Tails and rumps recede

  down the mountain path.

  The rest of the ground

  is empty.

  No shepherds.

  No soldiers.

  Just stone, brush,

  and us.

  Above,

  against a pure blue sky,

  a lone raptor,

  an eagle,

  circles.

  He’s here for the hunt,

  no doubt.

  Sosi

  Hooves fade.

  Whistling stays.

  Heart like fast drum

  in throat and ears.

  Eyes shut.

  Hands tight

  on Mariam’s

  mouth

  and eyes.

  Shahen whispers,

  “They’re gone.”

  I open my eyes.

  It’s true.

  We’re alone.

  I whisper to Mariam.

  She makes no sound,

  her eyes like dark caves.

  I take her to drink from the spring.

  Shahen says we must go to Aleppo.

  Yesterday he said that

  Mama and Papa

  would find us there.

  Today he will not answer.

  No. I won’t go.

  Not until I’m filled

  with gulps and gulps

  of water from the spring

  and the tiniest bites

  of dolma from the pot.

  I let each lonesome grain of rice

  linger

  in my mouth.

  Even cold,

  I taste Mama

  in every bite.

  Ardziv

  Shahen kept his promise.

  From sunset

  till the coming dawn,

  he ran them hard,

  as if to beat a storm.

  As soon as the moonrise let me see them,

  I flew up to the sky to find their forms

  moving across the open mountain

  above the tree line.

  Each day the moon shifted to later.

  Somehow they could see and move by the stars.

  He kept them high on the mountains.

  It was cold there,

  with little food.

  Each dawn they curled

  like cubs in a burrow,

  wedged between rock

  or under some brush

  where only an eagle’s eye

  could find them.

  DAY 7

  HAZAR MOUNTAIN

  Sosi

  The wool is thick and mottled

  like a clot of blood

  from the heat

  and the wet

  and the press.

  With thumbs and fingers

  I pull the fibers loose

  till they break,

  like we did

  when carding wool

  before spinning.

  I pull tiny tufts from the clot

  with my fingertips.

  I let them rest and breathe,

  a small red cloud

  on my lap.

  The cloud rests

  on my chest as I sleep,

  light as feather down.

  The sleeping bird

  did not die, Mama.

  I return it

  to my pocket

  at dusk.

  DAY 8

  HAZAR MOUNTAIN

  Shahen

  The night sky and Father Manoog’s maps

  merge in my mind.

  Each night I find the big bear

  in the northern sky and run us,

  the bear at our backs

  over my left shoulder.

  High Kurdish ridges

  away from the rivers,

  villagers, and food

  bring us

  from one cold mountaintop

  to another.

  Connecting woods surround us,

  close us in, />
  protect us

  from soldiers.

  Invisible.

  High areas open,

  we stand out,

  visible

  by the late rising

  crescent of moon,

  shivering

  against the whiteness

  of rocks

  above the tree line.

  Faster, Sosi.

  We must get to the Arab desert.

  Desert

  connecting to

  seas

  connecting to

  America.

  Safer cities near salt water

  where we should have gone,

  all of us,

  months ago.

  Ardziv

  I’ve seen the Euphrates,

  its full length,

  all its branches,

  many times

  from the high springs

  in the mountains near Van

  running steep and fast

  to the river’s slow, flat flow

  at its Persian Gulf mouth.

  I knew its twists and turns,

  how it carved a path

  through the rock

  to bring food and life

  to all of us.

  But I’d flown it

  only by day.

  To find Aleppo,

  the Euphrates

  had to be crossed.

  I started spending

  daylight’s final hours

  high in the sky,

  committing the shape

  of the river

  and earth

  to my mind,

  to prepare

  for the dark nights

  as the moon slipped

  from sliver

  to nothing,

  to find them again

  when the light

  returned

  to the sky.

  I knew what lay ahead

  and behind,

  the river flowing red,

  the land teeming with vultures,

  bands of chetes on horseback,

  long lines of Armenian

  women, children, and the old

  driven by Ottoman soldiers.

  Shahen chose the safety

  of the darkest night

  to cross the river.

  I couldn’t stop them.

  I couldn’t see.

  They had to cross.

  Only night

  could protect them.

  DAY 13

  BETWEEN KEFERDIZ

  AND CHUNKUSH

  Mariam

  Down to the river,

  to summer.

  This summer smells bad.

  Rocks scrape my legs.

  I hope Mama’s there.

  Shahen

  We cross the Euphrates

  on a moonless night.

  Above the cold water

  rushing between our legs

  a thick smell hovers,

  pulls my gut.

  Our skirts float up

  as we cross.

  Mariam sits

  on my shoulders.

  Her feet dip into the bitter water

  as it rises to my chest.

  Muddy mounds

  on the opposite shore

  snap into forms.

  Heaps of bodies

  strewn on water’s edge.

  I pull Mariam

  down into the water,

  pressing her face to my chest.

  Her legs drag through the water.

  I grab Sosi’s hand.

  “Close your eyes.

  Just hold on.

  Keep them closed.

  Like a game.

  Just hold on.”

  Tied to her back,

  the empty pot

  starts to fill.

  I turn it

  so it empties.

  “I’ve got you.

  Hold on.

  Keep them closed.

  Just hold on.”

  I steer us

  to the shore.

  Water pours

  from the pot.

  Up the bank

  past the bodies,

  heaps of them,

  bloated,

  cut open.

  “Just hold on.

  Keep them closed.

  Hold on tight.”

  Throats slit,

  whole families

  dead together,

  mothers,

  old men,

  daughters,

  young boys.

  “Keep them closed.

  Just hold on.

  Ten more steps.”

  I let go only

  when all they can see

  when they open their eyes

  are shadows

  of muddy mounds.

  I close my eyes and can see far away

  to the heaps of young men,

  their hands tied together

  for their safety

  till the trouble ends.

  Shot

  in a line,

  falling

  in a heap,

  like the juice

  from my stomach

  that heaves

  to the ground.

  DAY 14

  Sosi

  It is day.

  Time to sleep,

  but I cannot.

  If I close my eyes

  I see them

  by the river.

  The smell

  will never

  leave.

  I didn’t mean to kill

  the red bird.

  I only cut the wool.

  Mariam

  Sosi sits

  on the pot.

  She won’t speak.

  Shahen beats

  a stone

  with a stick.

  It breaks.

  He gets another

  and another,

  still beating.

  His lips

  spit words

  into the air.

  “Stupid.

  Papa.

  Fool.”

  DAY 15

  Shahen

  With each step

  I grind small stones

  into the earth.

  Each stone

  like Papa’s head.

  Papa’s head.

  Papa’s head.

  I step on it.

  I kick it.

  Fool.

  Fool.

  Stupid fool.

  So little food.

  The pot and pockets empty.

  Now it’s only seams

  and coins we cannot spend.

  How can we get there

  with so little food?

  With mountains

  cold and barren?

  Fool.

  Mariam’s lips

  are drawn down,

  her steps so short

  and slow

  I pull her up.

  Her legs wrap

  around my waist,

  her arms around my neck.

  Almost feather-light now,

  she is asleep

  in an instant.

  Clouds block the stars.

  I feel the river at my back

  to know the way

  back to the safety

  of the mountains.

  DAY 17

  Mariam

  Sosi gives me

  three nuts,

  three dried apricots,

  and one small handful

  of wheat

  from the hem.

  I want more.

  She says no.

  No more.

  No more.

  DAY 19

  GERGER MOUNTAIN

  Sosi

  Opening the seams each day

  for the food sewn inside by Mama

  brings us close to her.

  The imagined wrists,

  the hem,

  the two sides that come together in front,

  surrounding me like Mama’s arms.
>
  The seams of the collar like her necklace,

  filled with apricot flesh dried

  and bitter nuts taken

  from inside hard wrinkled pits

  together on our roof

  last summer.

  I let the cracked wheat

  from the hem

  soften in my mouth

  for hours

  while we walk

  and walk.

  I never want to eat that last bite

  from Mama.

  DAY 21

  GÜNGÖRMUŞ MOUNTAIN

  Shahen

  I pour the last bits of wheat

  from the seam of my coat

  into Sosi’s open palm.

  But something long and thin

  still sticks in there,

  light but firm.

  Sosi divides the wheat

  as I work it out

  bit by bit.

  Mariam’s hungry eyes

  stick to my coat

  till it emerges:

  a quill

  from an eagle.

  The mizrap.

  What good is this?

  Ardziv

  He tossed my quill

  into a bush,

  his anger giving him the heat

  and strength

  he could not get

  from food.

  Hunters know this.

  Our bellies are empty

  when we chase.

  Our wings

  beat the air.

  Our talons grab

  and choke.

  Fury does not leave us

  till we eat.

  Sosi

  I say it’s for my body’s needs

  and walk back to the place

  where he threw it.

  I pretend

  and I squat.

  The young moon rose

  to help me find it,

  catching the white

  of the shaft

  in its light.

  The tapered, curved white line

  divides the feather into two parts,

  connected but unequal,

  the spray of white down at its base

  so soft in my palm.

  Rich earth-brown feather fibers

  like straight strong lines of fringe

  from each side of the shaft,

  widening, then tapering

  to the tip,

  where the feather has a pattern,

  spots, almost stripes, of lighter color,

  like petals or tiny leaves

  dyed into its yarn.

  I found this quill with Mama.

  Papa held it in his hand

  while we danced.

  He will hold it again

  for me to dance

  with Vahan.

  DAY 22

  NEMRUT MOUNTAIN

  Shahen

  I drive us extra hard that night,

  mashing Papa’s head

  into the earth

  with each step.

  Master of another barren

  windswept summit

  before dawn.

  As earth and rock