But the depths of their misery was touched only in the next fifty hours,
during which these wanderers reached Yoghonoluk. It was a miracle that
no harm came to Hovsannah, that Iskuhi did not entirely collapse. The
pastor made the mistake of not sticking to the highroad, off which he
struck far too early on to a cart-track, in the south-westerly direction.
After a few miles along it, the cart-track trailed off into nothing.
They were lost and wandered for hours. In the last stage of their way of
agony Kevork displayed great physical strength and carried the women
by turns on his back for long distances. (They had soon had to leave
their luggage.) The pastor plodded on with only one thought -- not to
lose direction, given him by the clouds above the mountain along the
coast. Again and again they discovered cart-tracks, which they could
follow for a couple of miles and which spanned the waterfalls in little
bridges of rotting planks. Here and there a kangni, an ox-cart, would also
give them a lift for some long distance. They were not molested by human
beings. The few peasant Moslems they came across were friendly, gave them
water and cheese. They would not have defended themselves had they been
attacked. Numb to the pain of their aching limbs, their bleeding feet,
they stumbled on in a coma of exhaustion. Even the sturdy Aram walked
half in a dream, lost in a world of juggling images. Sometimes he burst
out laughing. Sato showed remarkable indifference to pain. She limped
on agonized feet, swollen black and blue, behind Iskuhi, as though all
her vagabond escapades had been meant to harden her to such toil.
When Gabriel saw the five, on the church steps, they were still possessed
by exhausted dreams. Yet, since they were young, since the sudden sense
of having been rescued rose within them, since faces of people whom
they knew, the pastor, the priest, the doctor, hovered before them,
since tremulous words were in their ears, and all the warmth of a
home-coming enveloped them, they came quickly to themselves, and this
leaden, superhuman strain melted without transitions into a state of
excited animation.
Pastor Aram Tomasian kept insisting: "Don't think of the old massacres.
This is far worse, far more gruesome, far more relentless, than any
massacre. And, above all, it's far slower. It remains with you, day
and night." He pressed his hands against his temples. "I can't get the
horror out of my mind. . . . I keep seeing those children. . . . If only
Woodley can save them. . . ."
Dr. Altouni was in silent attendance on Iskuhi. But the other men kept
questioning Aram. A confused outburst of only too natural inquiries:
"Will it stop at Zeitun?. . . Isn't the colony in Aintab already on the
road? . . . What do they say in Aleppo? . . . Any news from the other
vilayets? . . . And we . . .?"
The doctor had unrolled the bandage and was bathing the darkly suffused
arm in warm water. He laughed sharply. "Where can they deport us to?
We're already deported on Musa Dagh."
The noise of the crowd in the square had become audible in the room.
Ter Haigasun cut short these confused inquiries. He turned his timid,
yet at the same time very resolute, eyes on Bagradian. "Will you be so
kind as to go out and say a few words to the people? Make them go home."
What had made Ter Haigasun light on Gabriel, the Parisian, who had
nothing in common with these villagers? It should by rights have been
the duty of Kebussyan, the mukhtar, to speak to the crowd. Or had
the priest his own secret reasons for his request? Bagradian started
and felt embarrassed. None the less he did as Ter Haigasun told him,
though he took Stephan out with him by the hand. Armenian was his
native language, yet in this first instant, as he found himself facing
this crowd -- which meanwhile had increased to about five hundred --
it felt like impertinence to use it, an unwarranted interference with
their affairs. He would almost rather have spoken Turkish, the army
language. But only his first words made him feel embarrassed, and then
came a clear rush of syllables, the ancient speech within him began to
germinate, to spin itself out. He asked the inhabitants of Yoghonoluk,
and whoever else had assembled here from the other villages, to go home
quietly. So far the only irregularities had occurred in Zeitun, and
nowhere else, and their true cause would be investigated. Every Armenian
knew that Zeitun had always been exceptional. For the people round Musa
Dagh, who belonged to an entirely different district, and had never been
mixed up in politics, there was not the very slightest danger. But in
just such times as these law and order were more than ever necessary. He,
Bagradian, would see to it that from now on every important event was
regularly reported in the villages. And, if necessary, all the communes
should meet in an assembly of the people to discuss the future.
Gabriel, to his own surprise, found that he was speaking well. The right
words came of themselves. A pacifying strength went out of him to his
hearers. Somebody even shouted: "Long live the Bagradian family." Only one
woman's voice wailed: "Asdvaz im, my God, what's going to happen to us?"
If the crowd did not disperse immediately, it at least broke up into
smaller groups and no longer besieged the church. Of the saptiehs only
Ali Nassif still prowled; both his comrades had already made themselves
scarce. Gabriel went across to the pock-marked Ali, who for some time
had seemed to find it hard to make up his mind whether to treat the
effendi as a great gentleman or a khanzir kiafir, an unbelieving swine,
who, in view of the latest turn of events, was officially not even worth
answering. This very indecision caused Bagradian to take a high-handed line:
"You know what I am? I'm your master and official superior. I'm an officer
in the army."
Ali Nassif decided to stand to attention. Gabriel felt significantly in
his pocket. "An officer gives no baksheesh. But you will receive from me
these two medjidjeh in payment of the unofficial service which I am about
to explain to you."
The rigid Ali was becoming more and more acquiescent. Bagradian jerked
his hand to let him know he might stand at ease. "Lately I've been seeing
some new faces among you saptiehs. Has your post been increased?"
"There were not enough of us, Effendi, for the long roads and the heavy
service. So they sent us some extras."
"Is that the real reason? Well, you needn't answer unless you like. But how
do you get your orders, your pay, and so on?"
"One of the boys rides to Antakiya every week and brings back the orders."
"Well, Ali Nassif, listen to your unofficial service. If ever you get any
orders, or hear any news of your command, which seems to be important
to this district -- you understand? -- you're to come to me at once,
at my house. There you'll receive three times what I'm giving you now."
Then, with the same negligent haughtiness, Bagradian turned away from
the saptieh and went back to the sacristy.
Dr. Altouni had finished examining the arm; he was saying scornfully:
"And to think that in Marash they've a big hospital, instruments, an
operating-theatre, medical libraries -- and yet that ass of a doctor
didn't so much as dress it properly. What can I do? I've got nothing
here but a rusty forceps for pulling out teeth. We shall have to put
the arm between two slats. It seems in an awful state. She must have
a good long rest in bed, in a pleasant room. And the same, of course,
for your wife, Aram."
The old builder, Tomasian, was in despair. "I've so little room since
I sold my house. How shall we ever manage?"
Gabriel at once offered Mademoiselle Tomasian a room in the villa -- one
with a pleasant view out on to the mountain. Dr. Altouni's instructions
should be carefully followed.
The old doctor was overjoyed: "Koh yem -- splendid, my friend. And this
poor little creature -- Sato, isn't it? -- will you take her, too, so that
my honored patients may be together? My old bones will thank you."
It was arranged. Aram and Hovsannah went with Tomasian's father, taking
with them Kevork the dancer, whom the old man suggested that he could
use in his workshop. Gabriel sent Stephan ahead to bring Juliette news
of all these events.
The boy came breathless into the house.
"Maman! Maman! Something's happened. We shall be having people in to stay
with us. Mademoiselle Iskuhi, the sister of the pastor at Zeitun.
And a little girl, with her feet all bleeding."
This surprising news affected Juliette strangely. Gabriel had never
before brought strangers to stay in the house without having asked her
permission. His relationship to her had in it a kind of hesitation
where guests were concerned, especially Armenians. But when, within
the next ten minutes, he arrived with Iskuhi, the Altounis, and Sato,
Juliette was kindness itself. She, like so many pretty women, fell an
easy prey to feminine charm, especially the charm of a young girl. The
sight of poor Iskuhi moved her and aroused in her all the instinct to
help of an elder sister. As she gave all the necessary orders, she kept
saying to herself with satisfaction: "She's really unusual. One seldom
sees such delicate-looking faces among them. She looks like a lady,
even in those ragged clothes. And she seemed to speak such good French,
for an Armenian." The room was soon ready. Juliette herself came to
wait on Iskuhi; she even brought her a very pretty lace nightdress of
her own. Nor did she hesitate to sacrifice her own expensive scents and
eaux de toilette, although these treasures were irreplaceable.
Altouni again inspected Iskuhi's arm, with many bitter little jokes on
the subject of the doctors in Marash. "Is it very painful, my dear?"
No, she felt no pain in it now, only a kind of feeling, a numb feeling --
she tried to think of the word -- a feeling of not being able to feel
it. The old doctor could see that all his skill would be of very little
use to her. Still -- he could do nothing else -- he smothered her arm in
a wide bandage, which sheathed her shoulders, up to the neck. The nimble
dexterity still preserved in his old brown, wrinkled fingers became
apparent as he did it. Soon after this Iskuhi was comfortable in bed,
clean, cared for, and at peace. Juliette, who had helped with all this,
was about to leave her. "If you need anything more, dear, all you have
to do is to swing this big hand-bell hard. We'll send you up something
to eat. But I shall be coming in to see you first."
Iskuhi turned the eyes of her people upon this benefactress -- eyes which
still looked out into terrifying distances, and did not seem to notice
this pleasant safety.
"Oh, thank you, Madame -- I shan't need anything. Thank you, Madame."
Then came the thing which had never happened in all that fearful week in
Zeitun, nor in the days with the convoy, nor on the journey. Iskuhi burst
into storms of tears. The outburst was not convulsive, it was sheer weeping,
without a sob in it, a grief, so to speak, without hill or valley,
a release from rigidity, vast and inconsolable as the Asiatic steppes
from which it came. As Iskuhi wept on quietly, she kept repeating:
"Forgive me, Madame. . . . I never meant to do this. . . ."
Juliette would have liked to kneel beside her, kiss her, and tell her
she was an angel. Yet something made these conventional words of comfort
quite impossible. Some remoteness still enveloped this young girl, her
experience wrapped her like a chrysalis. Juliette could not follow her
own warm impulse. She contented herself with lightly stroking Iskuhi's
hair and waiting in silence by her side till this quiet grief had fully
spent itself, till the eyelids drooped, and the girl sank down into
merciful nothingness.
Meanwhile Mairik Antaram had dressed and bandaged Sato's feet. The child
was put to bed in one of the unused servant's bedrooms. Scarcely had she
dropped into heavy sleep, when she let out her first blood-curdling scream.
Her screams continued. In all these days she had never once shown signs
of fear, but now, as she dreamed life over again, a hundred whips seemed
to swish around her. It was no use shaking her repeatedly. She slept too
heavily to be waked, so that after a time her moans and piercing howls
began again. Sometimes these long-drawn wailings sounded as though the
voice were clinging desperately to one saving name: Küchük Hanum.
As these hair-raising howls forced themselves out of the distant bedroom,
Juliette met her son coming up the wide steps to the front door. Stephan
was glowing with excitement. This new thing, this unknown, with its threat,
electrified him and set his nerves pleasantly tingling. In November he had
celebrated his thirteenth birthday and so was just reaching the age when
sensations kindle most boys' enthusiasm. He would even stand at the window
watching some unusually heavy thunderstorm, filled with the unholy longing
that something out of the ordinary might happen. Now he stood and listened,
agreeably horror-stricken.
"Maman, listen to Sato screaming."
"Iskuhi's eyes -- my boy has the same kind of eyes as Iskuhi." Juliette
perceived it in a flash. And the subterranean snares and entanglements of
life revealed themselves. She felt her first great terror for Stephan. She
hurried him into her room and kissed him hard. Sato's screams still rang
in the empty hallway.