The Winter Thief (32 page)

V
ERA WAS HOLDING UP
a small flare to guide Alicia as she examined the wound on Apollo’s shoulder that had reopened. Omar had returned and sat beside them, tense and silent, his eyes on the gate. No one had lit torches, unsure of what attention the flames might attract. The courtyard was illuminated only by a brilliant cover of stars that flowed like an icy river across the sky.

“Look how bright the stars are,” Vera said in order to distract Apollo from his pain and herself from the memory of Gabriel’s death that accompanied her everywhere.

Apollo leaned his head back and gazed upward. “That’s Hartacol, the Straw Thief’s Way,” he told her. “According to the legend, the god Vahagn stole some straw from the Assyrian king Barsham and brought it to Armenia to protect the people from a cold winter, just like this one. When he fled across the heavens, he spilled some of the straw along the way.”

“So Vahagn stole the straw but managed to drop most of it along the way? What a useless deity!” Vera exclaimed, her voice bitter. She extinguished the flare now that Alicia had finished bandaging Apollo’s shoulder, and they all sat back to gaze at the stars.

“In another legend,” Apollo continued, “the straw was dropped by Saint Venus after she was stolen from Saint Peter. And an even earlier legend says that the stars are corn ears dropped by Isis in her flight from Typhon. It’s an ancient name. The Arabs call it Darb al-Tabanin, the Path of the Chopped Straw Carriers, or Tarik al-Tibn, the Straw Road. The Persians call it Rah Kakeshan. And even in China, it’s called the Yellow Road, from the color of the dropped straw.”

“We call it the Milky Way, as if a cow had knocked over a pail,” Alicia said. “To me, though, it looks like a field of diamonds. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many stars at once.”

“All those clumsy gods and heroes, where are they now?” Vera complained.

“When we need their help,” Apollo added softly, scraping up a handful of straw from the ground and scattering it in the air.

“Do you know all those languages, Apollo?” Alicia asked admiringly, getting up to help Victor tend to the other wounded.

“I’m a philosopher, my dear. We collect the cream clotted at the rim of every civilization. We don’t need to see it milked and churned.”

K
AMIL FOLLOWED THE TRAIL
of the Kurdish tribesmen to the nearby village of Karakaya, the scene of one of the massacres. He tied up his horse and walked through the forest to the edge of the village, his boots of special soft leather making no sound. He heard their voices and saw a fire in the village square. He edged his way through the forest until he had a better view. The men had opened a barrel of wine and were feasting on the carcass of an animal, part of which still hung in tatters from a spit over the fire. From the size of the pile of bones and trash, Kamil guessed they had camped in this village for days. Why hadn’t they attacked the monastery sooner?

He waited for a while, changing position every so often to get a better view, and was about to give up and return to the monastery when he was rooted to the spot by a woman’s high-pitched wail. It ended abruptly. The men around the fire laughed uneasily. The sound had come from one of the houses—the headman’s house, to judge by its size. The door opened onto the square where the men were sitting. Kamil ran silently to the back of the house and crept up to a window. He lifted a corner of the hide that covered the opening and peered inside.

The room was brightly lit by a lamp. A naked girl of around fifteen was splayed out on the floor, her arms and the inside of her thighs sheathed in blood. A thatch of hair had fallen over her face. A man in a black uniform knelt hunched over her, knife in hand. Kamil couldn’t see his face, but he knew. Vahid raised a fistful of the girl’s hair and cut it off. She moaned and turned her head.

Vahid wrapped the hair in a piece of cloth and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Then he turned his attention back to the girl, as if wondering what to do next.

Kamil thought furiously. How could he save the girl with an army of Kurds at the doorstep? He drew his pistol and hoisted himself through the window. He landed on his feet, gun aimed at Vahid. The Akrep commander was still on his knees. His gun was pointed at the girl’s temple.

“You are so predictable, Kamil Pasha.” Vahid smiled. “Look.” Vahid ran his free hand over the girl’s breasts and then, to Kamil’s outrage, plunged it between her legs. She bucked but seemed unable to move. Kamil wondered if she was drugged. As long as Vahid had his revolver pointed at the girl’s head, he could do nothing.

“Would you like a turn?” Vahid grinned at him. “No?” He moved the gun from the girl’s head but kept it trained on her body. “That’s too bad.” Vahid shoved the mouth of the revolver between the girl’s legs. “Because no one will know whether you did or not.”

Vahid twisted and aimed his revolver at Kamil just as Kamil fired.

Expecting the Kurds to rush through the door, Kamil leaped out the window and ran into the forest, keeping to the tufts of grass that he knew wouldn’t take the impression of his boots. But he didn’t go far. The pistol still smoked in his hand. He planned to return for the girl. And if the tribesmen were going to take retribution on the surrounding countryside for his rash act, he had to know and do what he could to stop them, or at least to warn people. Much to his surprise, the Kurds hadn’t charged into the house after the shot had been fired. When Kamil looked back from the forest, they were still sitting around the fire. They thought Vahid had shot the girl, Kamil realized.

He wedged himself into a cleft of rock, close enough to see the men with his field glasses. One stood and shouted something at the others. An argument ensued, with some of the men gesticulating toward the mountains. Finally one of them knocked on the door of the headman’s house. Hearing no response, he went in, then hurried back out and strode angrily to the edge of the square, staring out at the forest. The others crowded in and emerged, shaking their heads in disgust. Within minutes they had saddled up, strapped their wounded to their mounts and set off at a rapid pace along the lane in a direction that led away from the monastery. Still, Kamil couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t return once it was daylight. Perhaps they were simply going to a less blood-soaked village to spend the night.

T
HE DAY DAWNED
without another attack, and the survivors peered carefully over the monastery battlements. A light mist blanketed the trampled field outside the gate, and they heard birdcalls and the sound of water running. Levon took Siranoush Ana aside and told her, “Ana, I bear dreadful news. When we passed through your village yesterday, we found your husband in the square with nine others. They’d been dead at least a week. We buried them.”

“May you be able to bear it, Levon,” she responded. “And what of your father?”

Levon grimaced and shook his head.

“I’m sorry about all your losses. Your son and daughter were enormously courageous. Each had the heart of a lion, like their father.” They stood in taut silence for a moment. “I know you were a great friend of my husband,” Siranoush Ana continued, her voice a calm murmur. “Before I left our village last week, I went to the square so that someone would bear witness to our men’s deaths. I closed all of their eyes onto this world, so henceforth they will see only paradise.” She laid her hand on Levon’s arm. “You will see your children again in paradise.”

When no further attack had occurred by late afternoon and the day had become unseasonably hot, the survivors decided to bury their dead and set some men to digging in the meadow behind the monastery. A quarrel broke out about whether to bury the enemy dead as well, but it was decided to move those that had died inside the monastery walls out to the side of the road, where the Kurds could retrieve them. A search was made for the guide, Sakat Ali, but neither he nor his body could be found.

Victor had barely slept since the attacks began. Inside the monastery hall, he loped stiffly from one wounded person to another, treating them with whatever was at hand. He had long since run out of supplies, so Alicia had set several women to work boiling strips of cloth and collecting lengths of twine, needles, and thread. Alicia helped him clean the wounds and, with the help of Omar and one of the soldiers, held the patients down while Victor sewed them up and, in two cases, amputated. There was no anesthetic and no alcohol. Victor cauterized the wounds with the flat of a sword that had been heated in the fireplace.

K
AMIL HAD
returned to the monastery shortly after dawn, a different man from the one who had ridden out hours earlier. Propped in the saddle before him, wrapped in a blanket, was the unconscious girl. Now I really am a murderer, he thought, feeling neither regret nor shame. Omar and Levon hurried to meet him, but he would tell them nothing except that he hoped the Kurds wouldn’t return. What Kamil had seen in that room was etched into his eyes, and he refused to make it any more real by telling someone else about it—not even Elif.

He searched inside the monastery and scoured the courtyard for Elif, but no one had seen her. Numb with anxiety, he slammed through the gate and walked to the back of the monastery, where the meadow was cut by a raging stream fed by waterfalls hurtling from the cliffside. The sun was hot on his back and the meadow steamed. Whenever he stepped into the shade of a tree or boulder, the chill of winter returned.

He found Elif lying on her back beside the stream. Her eyes were open, and for a heart-stopping moment he thought she was dead. But she smiled up at him, and he found that he hungered for her as badly as he had ever wanted anything. Her face and hands and clothes were entirely covered in blood, as if she had bathed in it. The bare branches of a willow tree formed a yellow cage around them, letting in the sun. Kamil knelt beside her and, sliding his hand behind her head, leaned over and kissed her. He tasted iron, and his lips clung to hers through the stickiness of someone else’s blood.

“Come on,” he said, indicating the stream that sparkled yellow and green in the sun.

She grinned, her teeth white in her red face. “Are you mad? We’ll freeze our hides off.”

“I could use a new hide,” Kamil answered, stripping off his clothes. He unbuttoned her shirt and slipped it over her head, then removed her trousers and her undergarments, remarkably white despite the mud and carnage. Hand in hand, they walked into the stream. It was fed by rapids upstream and swollen with snowmelt, deep enough for them to walk in up to the waist. The water buffeted them and pulled them off balance. Holding hands to steady themselves, they squatted and dipped their heads under the rushing torrent. Despite the sun on their backs, the water was freezing cold, so they didn’t remain long.

By the time they got back to the willow, Elif was shaking. Kamil rubbed her body with his wool undershirt until her skin glowed. Then they pulled on their clothes, still dirty and stiff with blood. Their eyes met for the first time since Kamil had found her under the willow. He felt as though he were looking into a deep, clear pool. He had no more understanding of what kind of woman Elif was, but he felt somehow that they understood each other. He was no longer sure he understood what kind of man he was.

When they returned to the monastery, they found Levon raging over the bodies of his children. It was as if now that the danger was over, all of the powerful man’s reserve had broken like a dam under a flood. Kamil wished he could tell Levon that his children had been avenged, but he knew that was a meaningless statement. The dead are not less dead when they are multiplied.

Levon saw Kamil. “Welcome, oh representative of the sultan. Take a look at what you have brought us.” He threw out his hand to indicate the sea of wounded men and women lying on the flagstones of the hall.

Kamil walked toward Levon. “To all of you,” he said loudly, “may you be well. I’m sorry about the loss of your families. I came here to investigate this community. Clearly I wasn’t here to kill anyone. Or did you not notice that I was inside the walls, not out there with the Kurds?”

Levon aimed his rifle at Kamil. “One more dead body won’t be noticed,” he snarled.

The room froze. Kamil heard the click of a cane and looked down to see Siranoush Ana standing between him and the barrel of Levon’s gun.

“We’ve all lost more than we can bear, Levon,” she said in an even voice.

Levon slowly lowered his gun and nodded. “We want these people out of our valley.” He flung his hand at the hall. “Right now,” he bellowed.

“These are mostly your people,” Kamil pointed out.

“I mean the socialists, the Henchaks, whatever they are,” Levon answered wearily. “No, pasha, you’re right. We all have to leave. The villages have been destroyed, all the food looted, and those devils might return at any time. There’s nothing to go back to. And it is true that without this community’s guns, we wouldn’t have survived at all.” He nodded to Apollo and Vera. “Thank you,” he told them in Armenian. He hobbled from the room, shoulders bowed. Siranoush Ana watched him go, and Kamil saw tears in her eyes.

T
HEY SPENT
a last night in the monastery. Kamil grabbed a quilt and stretched out on the floor. He was too exhausted to look for where Elif had bedded down. The sleep of the dead, he thought just before he fell into a profound slumber.

Sakat Ali crept through the monastery hall in the early hours. The fire had died out. No one was on duty this night after the battle to feed the flames, as on other nights. The hall was pitch black and cold. The guide knelt beside Kamil and looked down at his dreaming face. The man was smiling in his sleep, Sakat Ali realized. Akrep was going to pay him handsomely for killing the pasha, but he would enjoy it too. No man should be happy amid the misery of his fellows. It showed that the pasha had no honor and deserved to die.

With his good arm, Sakat Ali drew a knife from his sash. “You thought you won, didn’t you?” he whispered. He had followed Kamil out of the monastery and almost been discovered when that fool Omar arrived. But Sakat Ali was clever and remained undiscovered, even after the pasha had shot the Akrep commander without provocation.

Killing Kamil now would be nothing more than executing a treasonous murderer. That is, if Vahid had died.