Like Water on Stone

ArdzivThree young ones,one black pot,a single quill,and a tuft of red woolare enough to starta new lifein a new land.I know this is truebecause I saw it.We track our quillswhen they fall.Always.With eagle eyeswe can seefrom the skywho picks one upfrom the ground,or rescues itfrom the crookof a bent branch,the quill's mottled colorblending inwith the peeling bark.It was the girlwho picked up my quill.She and her motherworked side by side,plucking frothy whitebeetle bodiesfrom leaf and stalk.They crushed thembetween fingertipsand used this insect bloodto turn their carpet fibersthe richest red.Clever.When my feather dropped,the girl, the older one, Sosi,almost full grown,her body budding,stirred from her work.The little one, Mariam,napped on a carpet beside her.Sosi, named for plane treesthat stand tall on this land.Her short, quick inhale as she saw ittugged the air around me.She wiped her red-tipped fingerson her apron before reaching up."Look, Mama, a new mizrap for Papa."A nine-beat songpulsed through my wings.A musician?What luck!If my quill could pull lamentsfrom the strings of an oud,I thought, thenmy heart might heal."That quill is for your brother,"the mother said."It's time that Shahenlearned to play."A young musician?More luck.Far beyond this beetled field,where river cut through mountain,a curly-headed, big-eyed boyshivered when she spoke.Shahen.Sons hear as eagles see.Fast green water flowedalong the distant bank.An arc of giant stonesrose from the riverbed,bending the current'sforward force.Water seeped backbehind these stones,forming a still poolfor Shahen,his face reflected in the water,so delicate,like Sosi's.His thumb and fingerscurled rounda flat, smooth stone.He bent his handtight toward his arm.One fierce flick of his wristsent the stone to water.It skipped nine timeslike the beat of a song.Ripples spreadthrough the top of the pool,then sankinto its surface.Then, to no one,to the air,perhaps to me,Shahen said,"No one plays oud in America."My musician, what luck!ShahenCome on, lucky stone.Give me seven.Not nine, not eight.One for each of them,none for me.Papa,Mama,Kevorg,Misak,Anahid, Sosi, Mariam,Me.Eight? It can't be eight.Not the eight archesof the Palu bridge.I can't be stuck herewith a fool for a father.In a land ruled by Muslims,priests just baaaah like sheep.My fate isn't here, sitting in church,learning of what was, not of what could be.My fate isn't here, grinding wheat into flour.That's enough for my brothers,big dolts with no dreams.Come on, stone. You're the lucky one.Papa,Mama,Kevorg,Misak,Anahid, Sosi, Mariam,Me.Pah! Stupid eight.Stupid, like Papa,who keeps his head in song.If he stopped playing the oud,if he looked instead of listened,if he stopped thinking we are all the same,that Christians, like us, could ever be freedeep inside an empireruled by Muslim Ottoman Turks,then he would know.From the Balkansto the Caucasusand down both sidesof Arabia, they rule.But other empiresclose them in:Austrian, Russian,Persian, and Britishmeet them at each edge.They have no place for us,not in their hearts.Papa should know this.He was alive in 1895,when Sultan Hamidfirst gave the orders to kill us,not me.He knows we paydouble taxesand cannot vote.He knows Turks call usgavour, infidel.Now it will be even worse.Armenian families will shun usbecause Anahid's groom is a Kurd.What sort of Armenian fatherblesses a love matchwith a Muslimfor his first-born girl?So what if she didn'thave to convert?It's Kurdish beyswho take the tithe.If he opened his eyes,if he stopped thinkingof the world as a song,with disparate partsalways blending,he would knowthat my keri, my uncle, is right.All the wayfrom New York,Mama's brotherknows the truth.We should marryour own.If I go to New Yorkto live with my keri,my face will be bristled at last,no longer the little one,the little brother,twin to a girl,with a fool for a father.There I'll grow tall.The bristles will come.I'll live in a towerthat touches the sky.Come on, pink stone,perfect, smooth, and flat.Cut me out.Make it seven.Stone spins and cuts the surface.Papa, big spray;Mama, less;Kevorg, closer;Misak, smaller;Anahid, Sosi, Mariam.Stone sinks into water.I will do it with care.As the proverb says:Measure seven times.Cut once.That's how I will do it.I'm going to America.MariamFeet up.Feet down.Heels hit house.Feet up.Feet down.Shahen,come home.Time to play the bird game.Time to play the bird game.Feet up.Feet down.I sit.I wait.Feet up.Feet down.He's here!Shahen's on the ground,his arms spread wide."Time to play the bird game?""Yes," he tells me.He always says yes.My wings pull back.Meg, yergoo, yerek,one, two, three,flap, flap, flap.I fly.My heart goes first,downdowndownfrom the roofinto Shahen's arms.He catches me.He holds me high.He spins meround and roundlike the mill wheel.I fly above.I am his little dove.ShahenFly, little bird.Fly over hills.Fly straight through the straits to the sea.She giggles. We spin.Her curls catch the wind.My fingertips press to her ribs,to help me remember her laughand the smell of the mint by the streamand Sosi, on tiptoes,stringing the loom with strong cotton cords,tying tight knots at its base,Mama rolling rice into grape leaves,packing them snuginto the black pot to simmer,my father and brothers dusted with flour,their faces white like clownswhen the mill work is done.From New York,I will be able to see across oceans,past pashas in Topkapi Palaceand drum-capped Ottoman soldiers,their Muslim guns pointed toward our land,through a maze of Turks and Kurds,with Anahid among them,to my family here in Palu.I land Mariamback on the roof's edge.Her tiny feet kick.She leans out again,leading with her breastbone.Meg, yergoo, yerek.ArdzivBuilt low to the ground,this roof was safe,even for those without wings.The mill house roofs ran up the slopelike stepping-stones,each roof set for its own tasks:carpet making, laundry,cooking, feasting, music.Stone steps set tightinto outside wallsled up to all the rooftops.That night, on the roof,the father used my quillto pull sweet soundsfrom the strings of his oud,its bulging belly nestled between his arms,so like a young human mothermaking room for a coming child.Eggs in nests are far more simple.His soaring sound pulled me from the sky,like gravity must for those who can't fly.I lighted on a branch near their roof.The father stopped playing.Beside him, Shahen lay on his back,staring past me and the treetops.The father reached down.He touched Shahen's foreheadwith my quill and said,"This fine new mizrap, this gift from an eagle,the noblest of birds, is a sign, Shahen.It's time for me to teach you."With the pluck of a young one aching to leave the nestthe imp rolled to his side and replied,"No one plays oud in America, Papa.""A good Armenian carries the music of homeclose to his heart, wherever he is, son.""You mean I'm going?"I tipped my head under mantle of winglest they hear me whistle.We eagles sing no soothing songs.Our throats can only whistle.Instead, we hunt them down,take them from others.I craved soothing song that summer.I had lost my mate and hatchlingsand war was in the air.Hate makes jagged spikes of light,and blame can crack the sky.As pierced with woundsfrom sharp white teeth,the Ottoman air had ruptured.Massacres would come againas the drum-capped rulersspread their hate.I confess. I had my own hatefor the drum caps that summer.I kept itlike an egg in a nest,warming it,feeding it once it hatched,so it grew ever stronger,the drum caps' hatelike food for mine.Before the time of humans,we eagles had no need for hate.We do not feign to own the land.We keep it safe around our nestsfrom hawk and falconso that our young can fledge.And to hunt is to fight,is to kill, I know.But its purpose is pure.How else could we feed our young?That long-gone night,I stopped my distant flightsacross this land of seas.Instead, each day,I flew over their mill,built into a small streamthat fed the eastern branchof the mighty Euphrates River,hoping for snatches of music.SosiMama teaches me howto bargain for fabrics.First, fingertips feeltexture and weight,face and voice silent.Never take first price.See what the Turks have to offer,but buy Armenian cloth if you can.Never show which one you love.Go to see each merchant's wares.Compare and think and breathe in spices:hot bite of cayenne,fenugreek for basturma,warm, strong taste of earthy cumin,deep red paprika to make a paste,crisp allspice for manti stuffing,mahlap's bitter almond nip.We buy a bolt of woven wooltight with pattern and warmth.Mama says the silks I lovewill wait till I'm a wife.Silks instead of Mama,silks instead of home.I search for Vahan in the market,beside his clocks and chimes.Arkalian clockskeep time for miles.Beirut, Konya, Van.Baron Bedros, Vahan's father,works the tiny tools and gearsinside the clocks' bellies.Vahan paints their faces.His long-lashed eyes meet mine.Mama sees and pulls me from him,back to the Turk to pay,pinching my hand,as her voice stays honey sweet."Sosi jan, a woman never looks."Fatima Bey Injeli comes into the stall behind us."Special price for you today,gavour, infidel?As though you need it,already with all the best land."Mama places the bolt between them.Her left hip juts out like a ledge.She stares straight ahead, lips sealed.The Turk from the shop says to Fatima,"The gavour are clever with their money,"as he drops a coininto Mama's open palm."Tesekkur ederim." Mama thanks him,nose up, lips drawn tightlike a hard, wrinkled pit."I can buy my cloth from others if you like."The Turk bows his bald head low,the fringe of hair around his crownlike an upside-down, bristle-black smile."No, madame. You must come againwith your lovely daughter.The bolt and the price pleased us both.""Good day, then," Mama says,pulling me from the stall,past the other vendors,past the crowd,over the bridge,squeezing my hand,muttering,"The bee gets honey from the same flowerwhere the snake sucks her poison."She lets goonly when we reach our orchardspread along the river's edge."I said nothing to that snakeonly because your fatherholds her husband, Mustafa, dear.As if I didn't have enough to worry mewith you making eyes at clockmakers' sonsbefore fathers have even spoken?And Shahen, always wet from the river.He played with Turkish boys again, you know.The pair of you will be my end.And the nerve of that vendor,insulting usas we give him good money!Sosi, look around you.This is Armenia.Fat Turks from Constantinoplerule for miles and miles,making Muslim villagers brazen.Kurds and Turks may live here too,but these are our lands.Your father planted these very vineswith cuttings from my father's arborswhen he was leaving boyhood,the age of you and Shahen now.His grandfather's grandfatherplanted the olives,his father,the apricots.Nothing came free.Not the millstones.Not the earth.Not the sheep.Not the wheat.Generations of sweat.Don't you ever forget."Grapevines heavy with fruitbend over straight wood frames.Silver olive leavesshimmer behind them.Apricots blush in the sun.ShahenWhen she's near me,Sosi keeps her head bentto try to spare me shame.But I know she's taller now.Everyone knows.Kevorg used to call ustwin persimmon pits,Jori and Joreni,like the two smooth brown seedshe pulled one dayfrom the soft, sweet fleshof a yellow-orange fruit.Now he's silent.I'll catch up this fall.Before the persimmonsripen again.At the river,I'm the smallest.But water evens us out.I swim the currents like a fish,faster than the fastest Turk,gliding in the waves.I always win.My stones skipfar beyond the others.Bounce, bounce,ba, ba, ba,like the beat of a hand on a drum.But best is when I float.My weightless bodystretchesfrom one rocky bankallthewaytotheother.ArdzivI circled above,watching Shahenswim in the riverwith the young drum caps.Farther up the river,a small, fat frog, at water's edge,caught bugs with his tongue.A heron soon ate him.I swooped down and grabbed a fish.That's when I saw him,that boy, the drum capwith the toothy grin.He was with the manwith the red drum capand the stiff white beardtrimmed and combed and polishedso it spread out and down,like the feathers of a tail.That man shot my mate.The instant the bullet hit,she was gone.Her flight stopped.Wings limp, she fell.The manclapped the boyon the shoulderswhere wingswould have sproutedwere he a bird.They laughed.They watched her fall,as did I, from our nest,my talons balled into fistsso as not to harm the chicks.For forty days,my mate had stayed thereon the nesttill this brood had hatched,three eggs this time, with mebringing all the foodand fresh pine sprigs.One by one,the young emerged,in the orderthey were laid,their egg toothbreakingthrough the shell,their eyespartway closed,no true feathers,just gray-white down,and open mouths,open shut,open shut.She would never leave them,in those early days.It takes two full weeksfor eaglets to holdtheir heads upfor feeding.Open mouths,open shut,open shut.She was bigger, swifter,as are all females of our kind.But I was good for my size.That year I broughtso much foodno chickwould needto eat the other,so amplewere my hunts.Young rabbit,marmot, skunk,which she shreddedand fedinto their open mouths,open shut,open shut.But eagles sufferwhen they cannot fly.As the younggrew strongand their wingsexpanded,and black-tipped feathersreplaced their down,the young ones'appetites peaked.It was timefor her to fly again.I pushed herfrom the nestas I had done before.She flew straightinto a bullet.The man and boyran across the earthto where she fell,the man's red hatbobbing with each step.They did notslash her gutto find sustainingblood and muscle.Insteadthey plucked her,starting with her wings,her glorious wings,the fatheron one side,the sonon the other.Each spreadthe fingers of one handacross her skinto hold it tautand took featherswith the other,one at a time;taking holdthey snapped their wristsin one directionalong the axis of its anchorand thenSNAPto the opposite sidein an arcSNAPto pull it free.Feather by feather,they plucked hernaked,the father'sred hat bobbingup and downas he worked, laughingwith his son, rousinghate inside me for allthe drum-capped ones,the Turks.They didn't eat her,as a hunter would.They laughedas she fellto the ground.They took her quills,pulled them from herand left her nakedfor the vultures,carrion,a thing we eaglesalmostnevertouch.