“Ferida!” Seyda snaps, clambering out the back of the wagon. She glares at her daughter as she walks up to the man’s horse and rubs it gently on the nose.
“Good evening. Seyda Agha Boghos. Please ignore my daughter; her bark is sharp but her bite is toothless.”
The man laughs and points to the small farmstead tucked into a fold below. “They call me Hamzah. That’s my farm down there. I’m off to see a friend for the evening. It’s not very often I meet any one else up here, especially a gaggle of women. Unaccompanied women, at that.”
“Well,” Seyda smiles, “we’re not unaccompanied. We have each other.”
“Most women are afraid to travel alone. They’re scared of meeting bandits.”
“Should we be scared?” Ferida asks.
“No. There are no bandits,” Hamzah grins. “Nothing to fear along this route. Nothing tangible anyway.”
“What does that mean?” Ferida snaps.
“Nothing,” Hamzah flicks his cigarette to the ground and his horse steps on it, extinguishing it expertly.
“What do you mean?” Ferida presses. “Nothing tangible? What does that even mean? I don’t like word games. Is this road safe or not?”
“Yes, it’s perfectly safe,” Hamzah says. “You ladies will have a pleasant trip.”
“But?” Ferida insists, “I can hear a ‘but’ in there. Just spit it out – whatever it is you want to say. I’m in no mood for this!”
Khatoun looks at the horseman uncomfortably. Her sister-in-law can be brusque at times but her behaviour right now is verging on rudeness. “I’m sorry,” she mouths and he smiles back, his teeth sparkling momentarily before they disappear under the curl of his lip. He lights another cigarette and stares at the women as the horses sniff the air between them.
“My wife,” he says eventually, behind a cloud of smoke, “she hears voices. Coming from these hills. They disturb her. Some people say it’s voices from the Dead Cities, but they’re far from here. In that direction. It doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Dead Cities?”
“Asdvadz!”
“Now you’ve scared her. Thanks,” Ferida says, fanning her mother irritably.
“What’s to be scared of?” Hamzah chuckles. “People who are alive are much scarier than people who are dead. The dead cities are just abandoned towns. The hills are full of them. Huge, stone houses. Rich. Empty. No one knows who lived there or why everyone left. Even the graves are empty. So, where could the voices be coming from? The friend I’m going to see tonight – he’s a doctor. My wife’s been bad recently. I’m hoping he can give me something to make her sleep.”
“What do the voices say?”
Hamzah shakes his head, “She doesn’t understand them. They don’t speak our language. Women, she says. Mostly women and children.” He pushes his hat back and wipes his forehead with his sleeve. “I used to laugh at her but whenever the wind is high, she has these dreams and it upsets her and now it’s getting to the animals. And me. Some nights, none of us sleep.”
Seyda looks up at him intently, “Your wife’s name?”
“Asiya.”
“Tell Asiya to wrap bread in a cloth, put milk in a glass and give it up to the voices when she hears them.”
“Bread and milk?”
“Yes.”
“Bread and milk. That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“And this,” Ferida says, rummaging in the wagon. She pulls out some herbs, wraps them in a handkerchief and throws them to Hamzah. “Boil them until the water goes green and drink it hot. It will help bring sleep and cut the dreams.”
Hamzah lifts his hand to his chest and bows graciously, “Thank you, ladies. And now, before it is too late I must be gone.” He presses his knees into his horse and is about to leave when the air splits open with a cry. The stallion spooks and Hamzah leans back, sitting hard and heavy, hands firm and low, to settle it.
“That gave me a fright!” he laughs. By now Baby Alice is at full pelt and Khatoun is clambering into the back of the wagon to pick her up. “I had no idea you had a baby with you. What a pair of lungs!”
“Maybe that’s what your wife hears,” Khatoun suggests, picking up the infant. “Maybe it’s just other travellers along this road. I’m sure voices carry. She can probably hear us now.”
“With a cry like that you’re surely right!” Hamzah grins. “Well, ladies, it has been pleasant but my friend is waiting for me. Have a safe journey.” He winks at Ferida, tucks the herbs into his waistband and with a “Ho!” springs his horse forward.
“Wait! What about wolves?” Seyda shouts as he turns and heads up some hidden trail, “Or snakes? And mountain lions? Should we be worried? Have you ever seen one?”
“Mountain lions?” Hamzah chuckles over his shoulder, “That’s an old woman’s tale. I’ve lived here all my life and never seen one. Only its paw prints.” And with a roar of laughter he spurs his horse into a gallop up a path invisible to the women in the fading light.
“Get in, we’re moving,” Ferida says, helping her mother climb up and pushing Fundug on again. Before long they reach the crest of the hill which is where they will turn, slipping into shadow as they descend into the valley on the other side. Ferida halts the horse and they all turn to look at Aleppo as the sun sets.
The clouds have turned grey in a luminous sky of mother-of-pearl. As the firmament slowly lights up with magenta, the clouds bruise and darken and soon the whole sky is a wash of purple and blue. A bird sweeps out of the shadow, dropping silently into the valley below. In the distance, Aleppo sits like a shimmering island in a darkening sea. The horizon fades into sky and it becomes impossible to judge distance as the light is sucked away from in front of them.
“Goodnight, son,” Seyda mutters, “Goodbye.” She touches her heart, her lips and her forehead with a shaky hand.
“Goodnight, Iskender,” Ferida whispers, “don’t forget to eat! And make the vordevans pay.”
Khatoun remains silent, her eyes capturing the last moment before the sun slips away. Earth and sky merge as the light fades. And now it is gone. They turn from the spectacle and urge Fundug on.
As soon as they turn the hill, a cool breeze rushes upslope to greet them. The sky above is a watercolour of shifting hues, the clouds still visible against a darker sky. The wind bundles the clouds towards one another into a blanket of grey and it is not long before the first raindrop hits.
“Kaknem,” Ferida spits, “I knew it. I could feel it in my knees. If we hadn’t stopped to chitter-chatter with that imbecile and watch the sun set we’d be half way down the hill by now.”
“I’m sorry,” Khatoun says pulling her shawl over her head and handing Ferida a blanket.
“Asdvadz, a little shower never killed anyone,” Seyda smiles, her face turned up to the sky, “I haven’t felt rain for months now.”
The first drops are sparse. Big, heavy globules that bomb the earth like summer plums. In the distance, the faint glimmer of lights from Baghshish beckon. Hopefully, since it’s downhill, they’ll be wrapped around the tonir with soup in their bellies before too long. If only the rain will stay as it is.
They sway along for a while, sheltering under their shawls and blankets, focused on the distant rumble of thunder. Every now and then the entire valley lights up ahead of them. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. The thunder moves closer, the rain gets heavier and it is not long before their covers are soaked. Ferida urges Fundug on and the poor horse tries to quicken her pace but the road is already treacherously slippery.
The women are silent, intent now on reaching their destination as soon as possible. The wind picks up and licks past with a knife-edge. Khatoun huddles over Baby Alice, holding her close to stop her grizzling. The infant’s piteous cries swirl around them, splitting the air and echoing in the wind. The wind howls back. The rain drums harder on the earth.
Which one of them notices first, is hard to tell. It’s not just Baby Alice that
they hear now. A million voices carry with the wind. Women and children. Hanuuuum hanuuum! The wind howls. The valley sheets with fire and a thunderous clap cracks the sky open directly overhead. Fundug balks, almost tipping the wagon over and refuses to take another step forward.
“Hayde, Fundug. Masha’Allah! Keep moving, come on!”
Ferida and Seyda disembark to try and persuade the horse, their feet sliding in the mud as they attempt to drag Fundug down the slope. Khatoun straps Alice to her back, clambering down into the sludge and pushing Fundug from behind. The squall whips past them, the rain stinging their eyes. Bony fingers poke at their chests. Gnarled hands reach out, take frantic hold then slip past. Each time they turn towards their destination the wind spins them, spins the women back round. The only way they can continue is to turn away from the gale and walk backwards, their breath dragged from their bodies with the wind. The water is up to their ankles and all three women lift up their voices and begin to weep with the wind.
Khatoun wants to stop. To sleep in the warm embrace of sweet smelling earth. She throws her head back and the rain pours a river down her throat. Up in the turbulent sky a lone star is visible to the north. She concentrates on this through the lashing rain. The child in her belly complains. He is too small to feel, but his cries can be heard in the creak of her joints, the sway of her hips. He is headed back to Ourfa to be born in his homeland. The lightning flashes and the heavens weep and the deep rumble of discord sends them down the mountainside.
In years to come this road will seep blood. The sun will rise and set and a nation will be extinguished with the light. Dusk and dawn will merge, sucked together into night. People will eat. People will sleep. The cities will shimmer with lamplight. The crickets will continue to sing. The clouds in the sky will scud by, the angels drifting apart and together again. And in the burning hot sun of the Syrian Desert the birds will find their prey.
Small Stitches Will Keep Us Together
Garmuj, Ourfa District, Autumn 1905
Khatoun
The little pocket of sky outside the window is turning dark. Khatoun puts down her sewing and listens. There it is again. The first cricket. She stands up, tiptoes over to the sleeping mats and pulls the thin muslin curtain aside. Alice is finally asleep, one arm folded in under her chin, the other abandoned across the patchwork, palm up. Years ago, when this was her room, Khatoun had lain in exactly the same spot watching the sky change from turquoise to indigo in that same window. A star or a cricket. Which would send her to sleep first? Tonight, the cricket. She rests the back of her hand on Baby Alice’s forehead and pulls the quilt away. The past few nights had been warm even though they are weeks past the harvest moon and the trees have already changed colour.
The small oblong window is set high in the wall. On the wide ledge there is a carefully placed collection of broken glass, polished by the waves and picked up at the seaside by her brother on one of his many excursions before the train carrying him back to University crashed on the Damascus line, ending his brief and spectacular life. Khatoun’s sewing machine is set up under the ledge on a low table in front of a worn cushion. She’s usually happiest on the floor at her machine but tonight had been difficult with a complicated bodice no other seamstress would touch. She sighs. It’s late. Iskender is late. Khatoun grabs the dress and holds it up to the light. Small, neat stitches which are good enough, but a heart shaped corset with killer boning that was impossible to replicate, despite the yellowing Petit Echo de la Mode that had accompanied it. She’d have to bring Digin Mkhtchian with all her endless chatter in for another fitting. The dress smells of cloves – packed in the chest to keep the fabric fresh until the sallow Mkhtchian girl had finally accepted one of the trembling suitors her mother had paraded in front of her. The smell reminds Khatoun of sickness. Sugared tea and childhood stories. She shakes out the dress and goes to hang it under a sheet near the window, startling Afrem in his crib. He’s lying flat on his back, both arms stretched above his head, his face turned to the side, those long, jet eyelashes skimming his cheeks. Khatoun bends down and kisses him, resting her face inches from his, counting his breath rise and fall, rise and fall ten times.
He’d come early, this second child, Khatoun’s waters breaking in the middle of the night as she’d walked the rooms, unable to sleep. She’d been lying on her side listening to something scratch its way behind the plaster, eventually getting up and following it from room to room, a slipper in hand. It was time, she’d thought, to make a net to cover them all while they slept to keep the insects out. With cold feet and no sign of her nocturnal visitor Khatoun had returned to her room and lain down again. A trickle of liquid dripped down her leg and stopped the moment she stood up again. A sweet odour followed her as she crept into the family room and shook Ferida awake.
“My waters,” she mouthed.
“Kaknem! My knees!” Ferida hissed as she sprang up too quickly and pushed Khatoun out the door and back to her room. “Lie down. Give me Baby Alice. Asdvadz, my knees!” She scattered cushions about, scooped Baby Alice up and carried her away, still sleeping. Khatoun stretched out on the mat, her palm resting in the warm indentation her daughter had just lain in. She smiled. Soon there’d be another one. Ferida stuck her head back in the door and told her to yell when she needed her, that she would be in the kitchen and not to dare wake anyone else, she would deal with everything. Khatoun waved her away and closed her eyes, waiting for the contractions to start, hoping they would be fast and easy. Sleep came first and she dozed comfortably. An hour later she woke up. Still no pain. A cup of tea sat on the floor next to her, a cold film scurfing the surface. She lay there looking out of the window, waiting to feel a kick but the baby was still.
“Wake up,” she urged, giving her belly a vigorous shake, “come on, little one, wake up.” She missed the constant movement of the last few weeks. He’d been an active baby sticking out straight in front and low, prompting the chorus of “It’s a boy!” as she passed; her friends throwing down imaginary bets in front of her. She knew they were right by the way he pummelled her from inside. He enjoyed a good fight, vigorously defending his space. Khatoun could grab his foot and guide it across her belly only to have him shove it back under her ribs with a kick. But now he was quiet.
“Come on,” she urged, patting her stomach. She paused, waiting for his reply. Nothing.
It was still early, not yet light, and the house was quiet. She could smell bread baking as she stood up and went to the door. She called out to Ferida and within seconds heard her slippers slap-slapping across the yard.
“Is it time?” Ferida shouted, dusting the flour from her hands into her hair. “What are you doing out of bed? Will you lie down like a normal woman? I was just coming to see you.”
“Wait,” Khatoun said, struggling to keep Ferida from pushing her back down, “I want you to fetch Digin Azniv. Tell her I haven’t felt him move for a while.”
“What do you mean ‘for a while’?”
“Since I’ve been sleeping.”
For a woman with pains in every joint Ferida could move fast. She turned on her heel and disappeared.
Soon another pair of slippers came scurrying across the yard and then another. Mertha and Seyda, mother and mother-in-law, their shawls flapping, their hair in a mess. They bundled in through the door and stopped several feet in front of Khatoun, hovering, afraid to touch her, elbowing each other instead.
“Ferida woke us,” Mertha said. “She’s gone for the midwife. What can we do? Have the pains started?”
“Not yet. Only the waters.”
“Sooner than we thought, eh?”
“Masha’Allah boy! You’re on your way!” Seyda clapped her hands and the pair set to the room, tidying and untidying it, hissing at each other until Ferida returned, the midwife in tow.
With loose jowls, yellow skin and scant hair, Azniv the Deliverer was not pretty. Her eyes were her feature. Frank, honest, amused. She wore a flax apron over a dress deep with
pockets. Clank-clank she walked. Behind her, a daughter; a skinny girl with wide hips and flat chest who shadowed her mother with an intent expression and no words.
Azniv the Deliverer bent down, pressed her ear to Khatoun’s pregnant belly and listened for what seemed an eternity. Her nose flared, her eyebrows knit together, her eyes shut and then opened again.
“He’s fine,” she pronounced finally, standing up, “just sleeping.” She dug into the folds of her dress and handed a long iron poker to her daughter. “Go burn the sis in the fire, girl. Ferida jan, warm two large stones, wrap them in cloth and bring me hot water and clean rags. And you two...” she turned to Mertha and Seyda who were still fussing over a broom in the corner in their own dust cloud. “Why don’t you ladies get washed, dressed and come back in a while? That way you’ll be fresh when I need you.”
Ferida glared back at Azniv, “Stones are in the fire, water’s boiled twice already. I’ll go fetch for you.” She left the room, shooing the midwife’s daughter in front of her like a spider.
“Sorry about Ferida,” Khatoun started but Digin Azniv waved her hand in the air.
“I know her ways.” She leaned in close and dropped to a whisper, “Thinks she’s a midwife, your sister-in-law! And how many has she delivered, eh? Maybe a dozen cats and that dog of hers!” She chuckled. Sat back on her haunches. “And you – the fact that you’re sitting up laughing makes me think we’re a long way off. Ferida says you’ve had no pain?”
“Nothing,” Khatoun shook her head, “not even the slightest.”
At that moment a loud scream pierced the walls. Alice had woken up on Ferida’s mat just inches from the tortured picture of Christ propped up against the wall. Casting around for something familiar she found the room dark, the smell wrong and the man by her pillow bleeding from his crown of thorns.
“Waaaaa!” Baby Alice wailed into the darkness, “Waaaaa!”
Back in her room, Khatoun got a hefty kick in the belly and yelped.
The Seamstress of Ourfa Page 10
