The Ghosts of Anatolia (7 page)

“He was pleasant enough. He offered one hundred thousand
lire
for the farm and all the livestock.”

“
One hundred thousand!
That’s half what he offered three years ago!”

“He said he’d offered you more, but he pointed out that the situation has changed since then, and he would be taking considerable risk in expanding his farm now. I told him he’d have to discuss it with you. He said he’d come back in a few days.”

“I’ll never sell this land to him. Besides, where would we go?”

“You could move to Istanbul and share our house. Kristina, Liza and the children would love being together again.”

“That will happen when you finish with the assembly and move back here. This is where our family belongs. I am not leaving here—no matter what. ”

Bedros stood up from the table. “Okay, I can see you’re determined. But don’t close the door just yet. Tell Abdul you’ll think about it.”

“I won’t do it. Once the Turk senses weakness, he’ll never leave me alone.”

Bedros sighed frustratedly. “You are a stubborn mule—just like Papa. I must get an early start in the morning. I’ll see to my horse and pack my bags before dinner.”

“Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

“That’s what brothers are for. Besides, I got a chance to spend time with Mama and visit with the children. I took them to mass and we all got to see Father Murphy again. It was the first time I’d seen him since we left.”

“It must’ve been a thrill for him. He never fails to ask about you.”

“Did you know he’s retiring next month? He’s returning to Ireland.”

“Really? He’s talked about that for years, but somehow I doubted it would ever happen. He’ll be sorely missed, I can tell you that. Sirak served as his altar boy last summer.”

“He told me. I took Stepannos and Mikael fishing down by the bend in the river after mass...to that same place we used to go as boys. We had a long talk about the Empire and the Armenian contribution to peace between the different ethnic groups in Anatolia. They’ve both grown up to be fine young men. You should be very proud.”

“God has truly blessed us, as he has you and Liza.”

Bedros turned and stepped toward the door. “Send the boys to fetch me when dinner is ready.”

“I will.”

Bedros stepped outside and shut the door behind him.

Mourad stared at the closed door until long after his brother’s footsteps faded into silence. “God, grant me wisdom,” he whispered, with a long, apprehensive sigh.

Bedros checked to make sure his bags were secure and patted his chestnut mare on the neck.

Mourad gave Bedros a bear hug. “Take care, my brother,” he said solemnly. He smiled and handed him the reins. “Send us letters. I want to know when you hear from Garo and Aren.”

“You do the same. We will pray for Alek. Remember what we talked about. No land is worth more than your family. You’re all welcome in Istanbul—anytime.” He handed Mourad a folded paper. “Take this just in case.”

Mourad unfolded the paper and scanned down the page. “What is it?”

“It’s a list of code words to use in letters. With these ciphers, each of us can let the other know what’s really happening.”

Mourad nodded and slipped the paper into his pocket.

The brothers walked out of the barn. Kristina and all the children, except Sirak, were waiting in the barnyard. The early morning rays of the sun shone across the rows of cotton plants heavy with ripening bolls.

Kristina handed Bedros a cloth sack. “Be careful, Bedros. Hopefully, this is enough bread and cheese to last until you reach Istanbul. Give Liza and the children our love.”

“Thank you, Kristina. Goodbye,” he shouted to the children.

“Goodbye, Uncle Bedros,” they called back in unison.

Bedros mounted his horse and waved one last time before trotting up the path to the road.

Mourad wrapped his arm around Kristina’s shoulders as they watched. Just before he crested the knoll at the edge of the farm, Kemal and his son, Özker, appeared on horseback. They paused for a few moments before Bedros trotted his horse toward the road.

“Good morning, Kemal,” Mourad called out.

“Good morning, Mourad, Kristina. How’s Sirak?”

Kristina smiled warmly. “He’s feeling better,” she replied. “He still can’t walk very well, but the swelling in his leg has gone down.”

Kemal patted his son on the shoulder. “Did you hear that, Özker? That’s very good news.”

“Can I see Sirak?” Özker asked.

“He’s sleeping now,” Kristina replied. “Come up to the house at lunch time. I know he wants to see you.”

“Are you ready for the second picking, my friend?” Kemal asked.

Mourad glanced at the field. “Those bolls aren’t picking themselves.”

Kemal swung Özker down to the ground and dismounted. He led his horse to the barn and helped Mourad hitch the workhorse to the wagon.

Stepannos and Özker headed out to the field. They began picking cotton and stuffing it into worn cloth sacks slung over their shoulders. Lines of sweat streaked down Mourad’s face and torso, as his hands darted from boll to boll picking the fluffy white cotton.

The men and boys finished one row and began another before Kemal tapped Mourad on the back and motioned toward the barn.

Mourad glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of three men on horseback conversing with his daughter, Flora. “Abdul Pasha,” he hissed. He threw his sack of cotton to the ground and walked down the row.

“Don’t give him the pleasure of seeing your anger, my friend,” Kemal called after him.

Mourad walked away without reply. He rounded the end of the row and walked directly to Pasha. The Turk was cajoling Flora as his older son looked on amusedly. The girl glanced uneasily at her father and clutched a basket of eggs to her chest.

“Flora, your mother needs those eggs in the house,” Mourad called out to her. He wiped the perspiration from his brow and tucked his hand-cloth beneath his waistband.

“Yes, Papa,” Flora said, then scurried away to the house.

Pasha smirked and stared after her, before turning his menacing, deep-set eyes on Mourad. “Greetings, Kazerian,” he wheezed. He erupted into a rattling cough. “Your daughter grows more beautiful every year.” He swung his leg over the horse’s back and lowered himself to the ground. “How old is she now?”

“How can I help you, Pasha?” Mourad asked pointedly.

The Turk’s eyes hardened beneath his bushy brows before a forced smile emerged below his unruly mustache. “You remember my elder son, Timurhan, born of my first wife, Sabriye,” he said, motioning toward the older of the two boys. He was a muscular youth with his father’s bushy brows, prominent nose and dark complexion. He looked to be in his late teens.

Mourad acknowledged the young man with a nod. “Timurhan,” he said.

Pasha nodded toward the younger rider—a frail, light-complexioned boy. “And my son, Erol, born of my second wife, Jasmine.”

“Erol,” Mourad muttered, glancing at the youngster.

The boy nodded shyly and looked away toward the field.

“Is there something I can do for you, Abdul?” Mourad asked. “I have work to do.”

“Bedros told me your son got bitten by a viper. I’ve come to see if there’s anything we can do to help.”

“Thank you for your concern, but Sirak’s doing fine now. Fortunately, it was a dry bite.”

“
Allahu Akbar
,” Pasha uttered. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm and glanced at the blistering sun. “Cursed serpents. I lost my best farmhand to a viper during the peak of harvest last year. He was dead in fifteen minutes, and there wasn’t a damned thing anyone could do about it.”

“I’m sorry to hear this,” Mourad said. He glanced toward the field where Kemal and the boys were hard at work. “Well, thank you for your courtesy, but I must get back to work. I want to finish the picking before we lose the sunlight.”

Pasha turned and gazed across the field. “It looks like you’ve been blessed with an abundant crop. Is that Kemal Sufyan?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Kemal’s a hard worker—at times overly blunt, but capable. I sought him out to direct my harvest, but the idiot refused my offer of two thousand
liras
. Well, I may as well get to the point. I’ve come to make another offer for your land.”

“I’ve told you, Abdul, it’s not for sale. I discussed it again with my brother and we are in agreement.”

“You’ve yet to hear my best offer.”

“It doesn’t matter how much you offer. I’m not selling the farm.”

“Your family would be much safer in Istanbul, Kazerian. You know, where your brother enjoys certain influence and...”

“We’re not leaving Diyarbekir,” Mourad growled impatiently.

“Anything could happen here if war...”

“You’re wasting your time. If we do decide to sell, it won’t be to you. That’s a promise I made my father on his deathbed, and I intend to keep it. Isn’t it enough that your father managed to pilfer the other two thirds of our land?”

“That stubborn old goat never did have a bit of sense,” Pasha retorted. “I thought you might have more, but clearly I was mistaken.”

“You’re the last one to be talking about common sense,” Mourad bristled, his face flushing red with anger. “If you hadn’t cheated Todori out
of a good portion of his wages, you wouldn’t need Kemal Sufyan’s help bringing in your harvest. And on top of that, you spread lies to try to convince the other farmers not to hire Kemal after he declined your job offer. We’re not selling, and that’s the end of it.”

“We’ll see,” Pasha growled menacingly. He pulled himself up onto his horse and jerked the reins. “Let’s get the hell away from these infidels,” he muttered beneath his breath. He slapped the reins against his horse’s flank and galloped off toward the road. The horses kicked up a cloud of dust and disappeared over the ridge.

Mourad turned, and shaking his head with disgust, marched back toward the field.

Several weeks later

Sirak walked gingerly across the barnyard under the watchful eye of his father. He stepped across a rut and headed for the corral. On the horizon, the last rays of the late-afternoon sun danced across the underside of a distant bank of purple and scarlet clouds. Sirak reached the fence ahead of his father and peered excitedly across the pasture. Tiran was standing a short distance from his mother on the opposite side of the corral.

“Tiran!” Sirak yelled out elatedly.

The chestnut and white colt’s head shot up, but he stood his ground, staring passively across the enclosure.

“Tiran!” Sirak called out once again. “Why won’t he come, Papa?”

“Give him time, Son. I’m sure it’s been hard for him not to see you for such a long time. Let’s get a little closer.”

Sirak and his father ducked between the rails of the fence and took a few steps into the enclosure. Tiran trotted toward them, but stopped. Turning, he stared at Sirak from a distance.

“He hasn’t been ridden since you got hurt, Sirak. Give him a few moments.”

“Tiran, please,” Sirak pleaded, holding out his arms.

Suddenly, the colt bolted forward, and, pushing his nose into Sirak’s chest, nearly knocked him down. Sirak broke into a big smile. He brushed his fingertips through Tiran’s mane. The horse whinnied happily and nuzzled against the boy’s side.

“That’s my Tiran!” Sirak exclaimed gleefully. “I missed you so much, boy!”

“Always treat him with great love and respect, my son, and he will be your loyal friend and companion for many years to come.”

“How long
do
horses live, Papa?”

“Well, that depends. If you take good care of him, he may live for thirty more years.”

“
Thirty years
? That’s really a long time—isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s a very long time. Tiran is a lucky horse to have such a loving master. And you know what?”

“What?”

Mourad smiled. “I think he knows that.”

Sirak returned his father’s smile and brushed his hand down Tiran’s muscular chest.

Mourad slipped a bit into the stallion’s mouth and pulled the reins across his back. “I’ll lift you up on his back, but I’m not letting you ride on your own yet. Just let me lead him. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Papa.”

Mourad lifted Sirak up onto Tiran’s back. The boy grasped the horse’s mane with one hand and the reins with the other. Mourad walked the horse slowly along the fence. The colt didn’t make the slightest effort to gallop off with the boy—as he had many times in the past.

“I think he wants to run, Papa,”

“No, he doesn’t. Horses are very intelligent and instinctive animals. I’m sure Tiran saw your limp, and he understands there’s a reason you haven’t been here to feed him and ride for these past few weeks.”

Mourad led Tiran past his mother at the back of the corral. Continuing at a deliberate pace, he walked the colt three full circles around the
enclosure before finally pulling up at the main gate. Tiran whinnied contentedly.

“Okay, Son, it’s getting dark. That’s enough for today.”

Mourad lifted Sirak off Tiran and pulled the bit out of the horse’s mouth.

Sirak wrapped his arms around the colt’s front leg and gave him a hug. He turned and took his father’s outstretched hand. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Tiran,” he called out.

Mourad stepped inside the house and Sirak limped slowly after him. Stepannos and Mikael looked up from the game of chess they were playing at the table.

Kristina stepped out of the kitchen. “There’s plenty for Kemal and Özker.”

“I invited them, but Kemal wanted to get home. He’s helping the Tarkanians with their crop tomorrow.”

Kristina cupped the back of her son’s head. “How did things go with Tiran?” she asked lovingly.

Sirak smiled tiredly. “Papa let me ride him around the corral. I missed him so much, and I think he missed me, too.”

“Of course he did. After all, you fed and played with him every single day from the day he was born right up until the day you got hurt. Horses get very attached to their masters.”

“Did you ever have your own horse, Mama?”

Kristina stirred a pot with a wooden spoon and carried it to the table. “Yes,” she said, with a nostalgic smile. “Her name was Nera. Papa gave her to me for my ninth birthday, and she was my closest friend.”