The peasant had given "Essad" and "Hüssein" leave to sleep on his roof.
They, who had lived weeks in the fresh air could not hold out in this
stuffy den, smoky, verminous, rancid with the stench of frying fat. Now
they were sitting on their mats, between pyramids of corncobs, piled
up bundles of reeds, stacks of licorice roots. Stephan, shivering with
fever, wrapped in a rug, never took his eyes off the west. At this, the
hour before evening, the mountains over along the coast looked huge, even
taller than they were, ridge upon ridge of them, tinted in the richest
hues, from deepest sapphire to silver, faint as a breath. And they looked
incredibly near. Had Haik and Stephan really had to walk for the whole
night, and half a day, to get no farther? That last ridge, which broke
off sharply over towards the south, must be the Damlayik. It stood like
a petrified wild beast with the hunt in full cry after it. Its long
back trailed away northwards. Its head ducked down, among the nearer
heights. But its claws struck out wildly behind it, where the wide
gap of the Orontes gave a suggestion of the sea. Stephan saw only the
Damlayik. He thought he could distinguish the South Bastion, the knolls,
the indentation of the ilex gully, the North Saddle, from which such
ages ago he had taken leave without saying good-bye. What had made him
do it, exactly? He strove to remember, but in vain. The Damlayik seemed
to be breathing hard, it seemed to hover nearer and nearer, across the
Aleppo road, above this peasant's house amid Turkoman hills, straight
to Stephan Bagradian.
Haik understood. The kindness of those who are really strong, which
surrenders itself so easily to the fallen, invaded him. "Don't be
afraid. We'll stay on here till you're able to run again."
The feverish Stephan still gazed in ecstasy at the mountains.
"They're quite near -- quite near. . . . I mean the hills are.
But then he sat up with a jerk, as though it was high time to get along.
Haik's menacing words assailed him sharply. He repeated them with
chatterin.g teeth: "It isn't a question of you or me; it's a question
of the letter to Jackson. . . ."
Haik nodded, but not reproachfully. "It'd have been better if Hagop had
squealed on you . . ."
Stephan's shrunken little face was not angry now. It tried to smile.
"That doesn't matter. . . . I won't make you lose any time. . . .
I shall go back . . . tomorrow."
Haik suddenly ducked his head, signaled urgently to Stephan to do the same.
Down near the roadway, which had not, all that day, been much frequented,
came a curious procession, with babbling cries, with cries of anguish.
It was only a few saptiehs, herding on a small Armenian convoy towards
Hammam. Convoy was an absurd misnomer. These were only the sweepings
of old people and tiny children, raked together from some God-forsaken
village. The saptiehs, whose business it was to have reached Hammam
before midnight, cursed and pummelled the wretched crew till, like ghosts,
they vanished round the bend.
This significant interlude seemed to cause Haik to make up his mind.
"Yes. You'd better go back. But how? You can't get through the swamp
without me. . . ."
Stephan, to whom the mountain looked so near, had lost all sense of
possible measurements. "Why not? It's not so far . . ."
But Haik shook his head decisively. "No, no, you can't get through the
swamp by yourself. You'd better go back by way of Antakiya. Over there --
see? It'll be far easier. . . . But, even that way, they'll cop you on the
road. You don't speak Turkish. You can't pray like they do, and anyway, as
you look now, the sight of you would be enough to make them wild. . . ."
Stephan sank back dreamily on his mat. "I shall only walk at night. . . .
Perhaps they won't cop me, if I do that . . ."
"Oh -- you!" Haik growled this in scornful pity. He began to think how
far back he could go with Stephan without wasting more than a day of
his great mission. But young Bagradian, whose shivering, comfortable
fever made everything seem so easy of achievement, lay there babbling:
"Perhaps Christ Saviour'll help me."
And, as things were, this really seemed, to Haik, Stephan's one chance.
Apart from celestial aid there was not much prospect of his safe return to
Musa Dagh. But, for the moment, it really began to look as though Heaven
were on Stephan's side. For now the Turkoman peasant came climbing up
a ladder on to his roof, and began to throw down bundles of reeds and
licorice root. Haik sprang up at once and zealously helped him with
the work.
When the roof was clear, the peasant had a surprising inspiration.
His eyes twinkled. He said to Stephan: "Where do you lads want to make
for? Early tomorrow I'm going in to market, to Antakiya. Since you two
come from Antakiya, I don't mind giving you a lift and taking you home.
We'll be there by evening. . . ."
And, proudly, he jerked his thumb towards the big stable behind the house.
"I don't drive an oxcart, you know. I've got my little pony, and a wagon
with real wheels."
Haik pushed his imitation turban slightly askew, to scratch his reflective
head, which his mother, Shushik, had clipped to the bone before he set out.
"Father -- would you mind taking my cousin, Hüssein, here, to Antakiya
with you? That's where his folk live. Mine don't. They're in Hammam.
Pity you aren't going to Hammam with your horse. I'll have to walk it."
The Turkoman studied the cunning one attentively. "So your folk live in
Hammam, do they? Allah kerim, God is good, young man! I suppose I know
everyone in Hammam. What sort of a business do they do there?"
Haik answered this with a look of pained indulgence: "But, Father,
didn't I tell you, they've only been there since yesterday? They live
in Khan Omar Agha. . . ."
"Yanasyje! May they be happy there! But Khan Omar Agha is full of military
-- the ones they're sending against the traitor ermeni on Musa Dagh."
"What's that you're saying, Father? Military? My folk knew nothing about
that. Well, perhaps by now the soldiers'll have left again. After all,
Hammam is big and they'll probably be able to find a shake-down."
There was really nothing to say against that. The Turkoman, not having
managed to unmask Essad, thought hard for a while, moved his lips without
any sound, and finally left them alone again.
Already, long before midnight, Haik got ready to leave. But, before he
went, he did all he could for Stephan. He stuffed one of his sausages in
the rucksack. God knew whether he mightn't lose himself and come to the
end of his supplies. But Haik himself had no fear of finding as much food
as he wanted anywhere in the plains of Aleppo. He filled Stephan's thermos
flask at the stream which ran beside the house and brushed the caked
mud off Stephan's clothes. As he did all this, with almost angry care,
he kept repeating precise instructions as to how Stephan was to behave.
"He'll be carrying in these goods of his to market. The best thing you
can do is not to say anything. You're ill -- see? As soon as ever you
see the town, jump out, but very, very quietly, mind -- understand?
And then you'd better lie down in a field -- find some sort of hole --
a ditch. And there you can wait till it gets dark. . . . Do you see?"
Stephan sat huddled up on his mat. He dreaded the colic, which was returning.
Even more did he dread being left alone. The night was not cloudy, like last
night, but stainlessly clear. The vast Milky Way, dense and sparkling,
overarched the Turkoman's roof. For an instant Stephan felt Haik's hand
in his. That was all. And he could hear his voice, as gruffly disdainful
as of yore: "Listen -- mind you don't forget to tear up your letter
to Jackson!"
Haik's foot was already on the ladder, but he turned back once again to
Stephan. Quickly, without a word, he made the sign of the cross on his
forehead and on his chest. It was done shyly.
Where there is danger of death, any Armenian is the priest and father
of any other. So Ter Haigasun had instructed him, when he taught him
their religion in Yoghonoluk, at a time when not one of them had known
that death was already near.
Just outside the village Ain el Beda the cart-track turned into the
plain. The Turkoman lashed his little horse into a trot, through the
fresh, empty morning. The laden cart rattled, with agonizing jolts,
over the deep, stiff ruts. But Stephan scarcely noticed these painful
joltings. He lay on his rug among bundles of reeds in a feverish doze.
The fever was merciful. It deadened his sense of time and space.
It surrounded him with vague but most pleasant pictures, so that he
did not bother to think where he would be taken, nor what the future
might produce. And again this fever, which tanned his brown skin to
a deeper shade, helped him to play his part. Each time the peasant
rested his horse, climbed off his seat, and came round to have a look
at his passenger, Stephan would moan, and shut his eyes. So that none
of the good Turkoman's many attempts to get into conversation really
succeeded. All he got were monosyllabic groans with, now and again,
a whining prayer to continue their journey. Haik had taught him what
to say: "Ben bir az hasta im" -- "I'm not very well." The reckless
Stephan kept repeating it, on every occasion. It got him out of all
his religious exercises, since Islam dispenses the sick and ailing
from the performance of religious duties, which make demands on the
body. When they had crossed the little river Afrin, by a wooden bridge,
the peasant thought it time for their midday halt. He took his horse out
of the shafts and stung on its nosebag. Stephan too had to get down, and
sit with the old man by the roadside, on the dry steppe. This cart-track
was scarcely frequented. All that morning they had only met two oxcarts,
coming in the opposite direction. Most of the peasants in these parts
used the great highroad, which leads from Hammam to Antakiya.
The Turkoman unpacked a flat loaf and goat's cheese, and pushed some
over to Stephan. "Go on, boy, eat! Eating kills pain."
Stephan did not want to wound his host, and did his best to swallow some
cheese. He chewed and chewed at the first mouthful but could not manage
to get it down.
The friendly Turkoman watched with troubled eyes. "Perhaps you'll want
more strength than you have, little son!"
Stephan could not understand the guttural, but knew that he must look
as though he did. So he bowed, laid his hand on his heart, repeated his
slogan, hoping for the best: "Ben bir az hasta im. . . ."
The Turkoman kept silence for some time. Then he began to work his huge
jaws and, gripping his knife, made a mighty gesture, as though he were
cutting something in two. Stephan froze to the marrow. He listened to
Armenian words: "Your name's not Hüssein! Stop your tales! Do you really
want to go to Antakiya? I don't believe it."
Stephan was almost unconscious. For all his fever, cold sweat stood out
on his forehead.
The Turkoman's little deep-set eyes had a very sad look in them.
"Don't be afraid, whatever your real name is -- and trust in God!
As long as you stay with me, nothing shall happen to you."
Stephan gathered all his wits about him and tried to stammer something
in Turkish. But the old peasant waved him to silence, his hand still
brandishing its knife. He needed no more words. He was thinking of
the droves of wretched people, driven day and night past his house
by saptiehs.
"Where do you come from, boy? From the north? Did you get away --
escape from the convoy? Was that it?"
Stephan could only confide. No denials would have been any use, now.
He whispered, in quick, staccato Armenian, so that only his host might
hear what he said, and not the listening, hostile world: "I come from
round here. From Musa Dagh. From Yoghonoluk. I want to get back home.
To my father and mother."
"Home?" The old, horny peasant hand stroked at the grey beard, with
the gesture of wisdom. "So you're one of those who went up on to the
mountain and are fighting our soldiers?" The good man's voice had become
a growl. Now, Stephan thought, it'll be all over. He sank on his side,
surrendered to fate, buried his face in the brown, dry grass. The Turkoman
still held his big knife. He had only to stab. When would he do it? But
the old man's growl was all that assailed him: "And what's the name of
the other -- your cousin Essad? He was a sly one. He'd not be so easy
to catch as you, boy."
Stephan did not answer. He waited, ready for death. But soon he found
himself being lifted, by hands as hard as stones, but gentle.
"You can't help your parents' sin. May God return you to them. But it
won't help you, or them either. Now, come on! We'll see what's best to
be done."
So Stephan was put back into the wagon, among bundles of reeds. But now
the Turkoman seemed to have grown impatient, and thrashed at his little
horse, though the beast had covered so many miles, and his rough brown
coat glistened with sweat. They went at a sharp trot, at times they
galloped, while the peasant talked oddly to himself -- or cursed his
horse. Yet, no matter how much Stephan was jolted, he felt himself
more and more safely in God's hand. He thought, with an effort,
of Maman. Was she really so ill? She couldn't be. But, strangely,
Maman became Iskuhi. It was hard to get the two to separate. Stephan
could do nothing to keep them apart, though their double image was
strangely painful to him. Then Haik's voice began to warn. He mustn't
waste time! This was the daylight! He ought to be sleeping, getting up
his strength to walk in the night. He obeyed his friend and shut his
eyes. Fever refused to let him sleep.