We call them Armenians, but they called themselves Hai, and their country Haiastan. This perhaps typifies their status: they were an involuntary part of the Empire of the Ottoman Turks. They were restive late in the nineteenth century and early in the twentieth century.
To their north were the Alani or Ossetians, living in the Caucasian Mountain range between the Black Sea and the Caspian sea. They were hardly alone; the region has been a crossroads, and there may be as many as a hundred cultures there. Invaders had overrun them throughout history, and they had been divided between North Alania and South Alania, with the north annexed into the growing Russian empire. South Alania was smaller, with a different religion, but retained ties and hoped to be united with North Alania as a Soviet Republic.
World War I was commencing, and the Russians and the Turks hardly needed much incentive to fight. The Russians invaded November 1, 1914, but the Turks pushed them back a few days later. In January 1915 the Russians attacked again, this time with more force, scattering the Ottoman army. They had made a deal with the Hai: there would be an open Hai revolt coordinating with the Russian invasion. Turkey was in trouble.
The Ottomans decided to evacuate the entire Hai population from the area, settling them in Northern Iraq. That massive deportation started in May and was in full swing in June. It was not a gentle process. The time is June 1, 1915; the place, South Alania and eastern Anatolia.
She was so worn and ragged that Craft hardly recognized her. Her horse was no better off, lathered and near collapse. “Rebel! Why are you here?”
“Tula,” she gasped. “The Turks abducted her! They—” She stopped, running out of air.
His twin boys approached, aware that something interesting was occurring. “Dexter!” Craft snapped. “Fetch Aunt Rebel a drink. Sinister, take care of her horse.”
The boys obeyed, glad to participate. Meanwhile their mother Crenelle arrived on the scene. She said nothing, merely took Rebel into her arms as she wavered, about to fall.
In minutes Rebel was better off, ensconced on a chair with plenty of water, her feet on a stool, her cooling body under a blanket. Now she was able to clarify her case.
“The Turks blame us, the Hai, for the mischief going on. My husband Tuho has been active in the resistance to the deportation. They know that, but didn’t have proof. But now with the Russians invading, they don’t need proof. They raided our house and took Tula. They are holding her at a military base. If Tuho doesn’t turn himself in by the end of June, they will publicly rape and kill her. I can’t let that happen! So I came to. . . to ask. . .” Rebel broke off, unable to continue. Crenelle took her hand.
Craft did a quick mental review. Rebel had met and married the Hai commander Tuho six years before, and adopted his daughter Tula, now fourteen. Girls were commonly betrothed at age twelve, but things were in such flux that this had not been feasible, so Tula remained home. Rebel could never have children of her own, and Tula truly became her child. Also, in a manner, did Allele, Tula’s imaginary friend her age—and daughter of Keeper and Crenelle. Never mind that he, Craft had married Crenelle; Tula claimed that if Keeper had married her instead, Allele would be their child and Tula’s virtual sister. Rebel had come to accept that as part of the price of Tula. She certainly cared.
Rebel had gone to live with her husband among the Hai, making annual fall visits to the home Family to stay in touch. But Haiastan was now a war zone as the Russians fought the Turks. The Alani were staying warily clear, though they favored the Russians. They had not liked the way the Ottoman forces had invaded the Caucasus region, requisitioning supplies by force. The Turks had hoped to inspire an uprising among local Muslim tribesman, but it didn’t happen. Christians and Muslims got along well enough, in North and South Alania.
Then when the Russians invaded Anatolia, it did inspire a Hai revolt. Craft had not known that Tuho was an active revolutionary, but the news didn’t surprise him. The Hai had always wanted to be independent, to have their own kingdom, as had been the case historically. The Ottoman Turks had other ideas, and the power to implement them. So resistance had been sporadic.
Until the Russians invaded. That changed everything. Under the Russians, the Hai could have their own semiautonomous state, and be free of the Turkish yoke at last. All they had to do was rebel at the propitious moment. That was the deal. A fortnight ago, according to scattered reports by refugees, a mixed force of Russians and Hai guerrillas had reached the city of Van, declared an independent Hai state, and set about massacring its Muslim population. Hai were flocking to the area, and its population was multiplying.
Craft and other members of the Family were not at all easy about that. The majority of people in the Ottoman Empire were Muslim, and there was bound to be savage retaliation. Already there was a report of a query by a conscientious officer where he was supposed to send a convoy of Hai. The response was, “The place they are being sent to is nowhere.” In short, slaughter.
At the moment it was mostly chaos as the Russians and Turks fought each other, complicated by the forced evacuation of the Hai. Survival on those forced marches was slight; one report was that only 150 of 18,000 reached their destination in Syria. They might as well have been slaughtered. Craft had feared that Rebel and her family would be deported south with the others, facing similar odds. But this was worse, because it was more directly personal.
Soon Rebel resumed. “They are making her remove one item of clothing a day. Bracelets and beads count. But they are timing it carefully. In the last few days she will have nothing left but her dress and underwear. Then nothing at all, and she will be naked on the last day of the month. Meanwhile the soldiers are gambling and gaming to win the top places in the order. The top one will get to rape her on July first, and the second on the second, and so on. If Tuho doesn’t come.”
“And if he gives himself up?” Crenelle asked gently.
“Promises are worthless. They will kill him, before or after the trial. Then they will proceed with Tula until they tire of her.”
That would be a while, Craft knew, for Tula was an eerily pretty girl. But even if she survived the ordeal, she would subsequently be almost worthless as a marriage prospect. She would be blamed for getting herself raped. It was the way of things in the Muslim realm. The Hai were Christian, but many of them had similar attitudes.
But it wasn’t going to come to that. Rebel’s plea could not be denied. Tula was Family. They had to rescue her.
Hero and Haven had been out, tending to business. As evening came, and Rebel got rest she desperately needed, they planned their mission.
They held a Family council. “We have to rescue her,” Haven said. “She’s Rebel’s daughter.”
“Adopted,” Hero reminded her.
“Still Family.”
Rebel stayed out of it. Craft cast the deciding vote. “Family.” He had to support his sister. This was really ritual, rehearsing the reason for the action they all knew they were going to take.
“I will go,” Hero said. “But I do not know that country well enough. I could not get horses.”
“I do,” Rebel said. “Tuho has connections I can use. They all know it’s his daughter. There will be horses.”
“A military base,” Hero said. “I can direct a rescue raid, but I will need help. The Turks are not patsies.”
“They don’t dare,” Rebel said. “Not openly. They are being deported, and the Turks are eager for a pretext to simply slaughter them. They have daughters too.”
Clear enough. “But we are Alani,” Craft said. “They can’t get at our families. I will go also.”
Hero shook his head. “Not enough. We will need a party of at least six, and even then it will be chancy.”
“We have three,” Rebel said. Indeed, she could do a man’s work in combat, when she chose to. “And I will translate, and make the contacts.” For in the Family, only she had become conversant with the Hai or Turk languages. The ability to communicate at need was vital.
Craft considered. “We can recruit three more.”
“No you don’t!” Crenelle snapped, reading his thought.
“They are of age for their manhood trial,” Hero said.
“That’s ritual,” Crenelle said. “This is war.”
“As if war is unknown to the Alani,” Hero said with a grim smile. Craft had to mediate again. “Maybe we should let them decide for themselves.”
Crenelle looked grim, but did not speak. Haven went to fetch the boys.
In a moment they joined the Council. Risk, sixteen, Haven’s son with Harbinger. Dexter and Sinister, Craft and Crenelle’s twin boys, fifteen, mirror images of each other. All three were stout, vigorous lads, eager to prove their merit in any venue, so as to impress girls.
Craft summarized the situation for them. “So we need three more for a dangerous mission, from which not all may return,” he concluded.
“Tula’s our sister,” Risk said, and the twins nodded. “We have to rescue her.” Their visions of glory were almost tangible.
“The Turks will not release her lightly,” Hero said. “We shall have to kill some of them. They will try to kill us in return. There will be blood.”
“Blood!” the twins said together, not at all dismayed, while Crenelle winced. Hero had trained them in swordcraft, because guns were expensive and bullets were scarce, while a sword was always ready. In close quarters the swords would be deadly, but at any distance they would be prime targets for guns. That was just part of the danger.
Craft saw that the decision had already been made. The boys would have a harsh education coming, as their foolish notions of glory gave way to ugly reality, but it would indeed make men of them.
“If you go, I go,” Haven told them firmly. “There will be discipline.”
Not to mention food, Craft thought. Someone needed to attend to the dull details of routine management. She was not bluffing; she certainly knew how, and she could ride. “Who will take care of the home front?” he asked.
“Harbinger and Crenelle,” Haven said. “And Keeper will see to the farm.” They had a good commercial farm on the mountain, rising livestock, with some lumbering on the side, and traded with the valley settlers for fruit, wine, grain, cotton, and other staples. There was zinc mining nearby, with a prospect for more on their property; Harbinger was away, seeing to that. It was a going concern that should not be left unattended.
“Then it seems we are a party of seven,” Hero said. “Six warriors and one commander.” He glanced at Haven: she was being dubbed the commander.
They laughed. It had been decided.
They dressed in nondescript garb to mask the fact they were Alani, with fur caps, baggy trousers, and leather boots, and rode south toward Lake Van in the Ottoman territory. They avoided both the Russians and the Turks, because either side would quickly commandeer their horses and supplies for the war effort. They also tried to stay clear of the refugees fleeing northward, as there was nothing they could do for them.
Fortunately Rebel knew the back routes. It wasn’t too bad near home, among friends, but there would be increasing danger as they progressed. They had planned for twelve days to make the three-hundred-mile journey, carrying essential supplies. Good, fresh horses were essential.
Craft was nervous, knowing how many things could go wrong. If a single horse went lame, they would suffer delay, and they lacked much of a margin. It had taken three days to organize for the trip, and they had to reach Theodosiopolis with enough time to scout the military camp, organize the raid, and accomplish the rescue. If there were any hitch there, Tula would be doomed, and some of them might die. But he would not speak of any of that.
They made good progress the first day, and camped in the forest near a stream. Haven supervised the boys caring for the horses, gathering wood, pitching a tent, and making a fire to cook dinner for them all. It was like an overnight picnic, so far. Hero, Craft, and Rebel reviewed the route for the morrow, which would be in unsettled territory. Russian and Turk patrols quested through it, looking for trouble, and had to be avoided.
“What are our chances?” Craft asked Hero privately.
“Even,” his brother replied grimly. “They will improve if we can drill the boys effectively. We can’t be sure how they will react to the first killing.”
Craft nodded, knowing it was true.
They resumed travel early the next morning. The boys were tired from the hard day’s riding, but did not complain. The party moved more slowly, watching more carefully for soldiers, so they could bypass them.
By evening they reached the first of the resistance camping points, the estate of a wealthy farmer. Rebel rode ahead alone to introduce herself, because the Hai would not admit to their role unless they were sure it wasn’t a trap.
Soon she returned. “We can camp in the pasture, out of sight. They will provide fresh horses in the morning, and keep ours pending our return.”
“Do they know we may return pursued?” Craft asked.
“They know. They trust us, now.”
Craft realized that she had really good credits. Also, things were so generally unsettled that planning for the future beyond a few days was pointless. The horses might well be soon lost anyway. That made generosity easier.
They camped, and the farmer sent loaves of bread and skins of fresh milk to supplement their carried supplies. That was a blessing. Rebel took the boys and horses, so they could get to know the replacements. It would make a difference.
On the seventh day they reached a site in the mountains. “There is too much action here,” their host said, as Rebel translated. “You will need to take the back route around the mountain. It is longer, but safer.”
“What mountain is that?” Craft asked. Again, Rebel translated.
“Ararat.”
“Mount Ararat!” Craft exclaimed. “Noah’s Ark! It will be a privilege to see that.”
The man smiled, needing no translation to appreciate his reaction. Then he spoke, and Rebel relayed it. “So you are a Jew or a Christian.” It seemed it had been a kind of test.
“Christian,” Craft agreed. “But the Muslims know of it also.”
“But they don’t consider it a holy place.”
“Not as much,” Craft agreed. “Is the trail sufficiently marked?”
“Not at all. That would give it away. But my daughter Fia will lead you.”
“We appreciate that. My sister Haven will keep an eye on her.”
“That may be difficult. She’s fourteen and uncomfortably independent. We have had to hide her from the troops.”
“Fourteen? Too bad we can’t hide her from our teen boys.”
The farmer smiled when he heard the translation, appreciating the half joke. Teens were teens all over, hard to manage.
The girl joined them in the morning, and Craft was relieved. Her face was plain, her body spare, and her hair was caught back in a messy knot. She wore a faded caftan-shaped robe and long soft trousers, with no decorations. She would be no magnet for the boys.
But as they started riding, and Fia led the way, Craft had cause to reconsider. The girl was a natural rider, clinging comfortably to her mount with no saddle or harness, her every movement competent and smooth. On horse back she was a beauty. And she knew it.
Worse, she had packed away her robe and trousers, and now wore a close–laced leather vest and short leather skirt. Craft realized they were for protection and comfort when riding through virtual wilderness, as she surely did a lot. There was no point in wearing her good clothes here. But the vest showed the outline of her nicely formed breasts as she leaned well forward, with a bit of flattened cleavage under the lacing, and the skirt showed her well-fleshed thighs. Especially when the passing breeze lifted the hem, flashing tantalizing glimpses of her taut bottom as it bounced with the gait of the horse.
The boys were staring. Craft could hardly blame them; he was staring himself. A girl who had seemed like nothing when standing still in traditional apparel was sheer dynamic sex appeal in motion on horse-back. The boys were quietly vying to be first following Fia single file on the narrow sections of the trail.
Yet what could he say? The girl was doing nothing wrong, and they needed her guidance. So he pretended to be oblivious, both of the girl and of Haven’s somewhat grim expression. She understood the voiceless dialogue all too well.
Near midday they broke for lunch. There was a small cold stream for water, by no accident; Fia knew the route. Haven shared out salted meat and dried fruit, including to the girl, and they took care of natural functions in the secluded brush. It was a pleasant location, cool because they were were well up on a mountain slope.
Fia perched on a convenient rock, loosened her hair, and leaned forward as she ate and talked. Her hair as it fell free was thick and flowing, and both breasts and thighs showed to advantage. The boys managed to find comfortable seats on the ground below her. They were rapt, pretending interest in her dialogue.
Craft glanced at Haven, but she gave no indication. Hero seemed not to be looking, but Craft knew he was; he was just better at masking it than most. Rebel was smiling faintly, well versed in the art of showing. It was Fia’s stage.
“It is said that the ruin of Noah’s Ark is near here,” she said, as Rebel translated. “I have looked for it, but never found it. Only a few tattered planks.”
“Planks?” Craft asked. He was actually interested in the subject. He had studied the specifications of Noah’s Ark with an eye to possibly reproducing it, but had been too busy with other things to tackle such a giant project. And what would be the purpose? No serious flooding threatened.
“It has been more than a thousand years,” Fia said. “Any original Ark wood would have rotted away to nothing long since. So these must have been from some more recent structure. Still . . .” She shrugged, her knees moving slightly apart.
Craft thought the boys were going to faint. Some things needed no translation.
“Probably they cannibalized the Ark to build new houses,” Craft said. “So its wood might survive, but not in any recognizable state.”
“That must be it!” Fia agreed. “So there’s nothing remaining here.”
“They might have saved some of it as a memento,” Craft said. “Carefully covered and concealed, so that robbers wouldn’t cart it away.”
“Something still to find,” Fia said dreamily. “I’ll keep looking.” Then she reconsidered. “Except that we’re being deported. For our own safety, they say.”
“You don’t believe it?” Craft asked.
“There are too many stories of massacres. They march whole villages away, but we don’t know whether they’re really going to Mosul, or getting killed and buried. The Turks don’t much like the Hai.”
“Fia,” Rebel said. “When’s the deportation?” She spoke in Hai, but the essence was clear.
Now the girl’s face clouded. “Tomorrow.”
“Then how are we to return your horses?”
“You can’t. They’re lost anyway.”
Craft was hardly surprised.
“And you,” Rebel said. “What will you return to?”
Fia’s face worked. “Nothing.”
“Your father—he didn’t send you just to guide us. It was to get you safely away from the family before the troops came.” Rebel spoke in Hai, then in Alan.
Now tears started down the girl’s face. “He took me aside. He said ‘Fia, I love you. Don’t come back.’ I can’t go back.”
“And he trusted us because he had to. We’re Family, and Christian. He knew we would not abuse you.”
“Yes,” the girl whispered. “He said to—to make the boys want me. So you wouldn’t let me go. I am of age.”
So the exposure hadn’t been accidental, Craft realized. Fia had arranged to show her assets.
Rebel smiled. “And if we held a vote right now, whether to take you with us . . .” She glanced around, taking a silent survey.
“Yes!” Risk said immediately.
“Yes,” Dex and Sin echoed together.
“Put your knees together,” Haven said. “Of course we’ll take you. But there will be rules.”
Fia put them together even before the translation. “Yes.”
“But we are going into danger,” Craft protested, for the record.
“No worse than what she faces here,” Rebel said. “We will not rape her and kill her.”
“If the Turks catch us, we’ll all be finished,” Haven said. “Meanwhile she can be useful as a Hai contact. She knows the culture and the people, and she speaks the language.”
“Yes,” Fia agreed.
“You will night with me, not the boys,” Haven said. “I will be your mother, and Risk your brother, and the twins your half brothers.”
The three boys exchanged a glance, disappointed. They could no longer view Fia as a prospective romance. But they knew better than to protest.
They resumed their journey. Fia still led the way, but somehow now less of her flesh showed. She had vamped the boys by necessity, not preference. Or so it was convenient to believe. She was after all a teen, as they were.
The girl did turn out to be useful. She knew more contacts than Rebel did, could make herself more readily comprehended, and when the Hai understood that she had found an avenue to potential safety, they were generous in their assistance.
Risk was officially Fia’s brother now, and he took his role seriously, staying close by her side. But it was evident that he was more than half smitten with her, and she was increasingly taken with him. They were working at learning each other’s words. When this was over, if they both survived, there was likely to be a change in their relationship. Well, Rebel had married Tuho; such interculture liaisons were hardly unknown. Dex and Sin had already realized that they were out of it.
They arrived in the vicinity of Theodosiopolis, which the Turks had renamed Erzerum, a day ahead of schedule. Tuho was there, hale but drawn. He greeted them gladly. “She’s down to basic apparel,” he said.
“We will strike before she loses much more,” Hero said.
Hero and Craft assessed the situation. There were a dozen Ottoman guards on duty in Tula’s part of the compound. That was more than they had bargained on. “We need to get rid of half of them,” Hero said grimly.
“We can take out several by ambushing them from a distance with our guns,” Craft said. “But by no means all, and the others, alerted by the noise, will shortly overwhelm us.”
“We need silence,” Hero said. “We have only two pistols, and they should be saved for emergency. The swords will be relatively quiet, and they won’t be expecting such weapons.”
“I can help,” Fia said.
“Not by getting gang-raped, which is what would happen if you show yourself there,” Haven said.
“By distracting them,” Fia said. “I am Tula’s age and size. Suppose I dress like her, and show myself so it seems she is escaping?”
This was eerie. Almost as if Tula’s imaginary half sister Allele had come to life.
“But she will be right there, in shackles,” Craft protested. “They won’t be fooled.”
“If it happened at dusk, when it is harder to see?”
“They would quickly check.”
“If I were naked?”
“Not safe,” Rebel said, in both languages. “But it’s a good idea. I’ll do it.”
“You’re too old. And they need you for the raid.”
“Fia—” Haven said.
“If I had a foolproof escape?”
They hashed it over, and concluded that it wasn’t ideal, but that they did need to divert a number of troops. There was serious risk for all of them, but if it worked, they might even pull it off without losses.
First they had to make a deal with a local farmer, a secret member of the resistance. He had to cart food to the base on a daily basis, supplying the Turks free. The alternative would be to have his farm plundered and destroyed, and that might soon happen anyway. He was a reluctant supporter of the Ottomans. He agreed to help.
Then the boys sneaked into the unguarded supply depot, where there were only incidental things, like empty crates, brooms, and shoes. They stole several spare uniforms, such as they were. It was evident that this was a secondary outpost, starved of supplies. The “uniforms” were largely adapted from clothing looted from the local Hai, and were of mixed colors and types. But that would make it easier to masquerade as soldiers.
It was time: dusk. Fia took her place, hidden.
Hero, Craft, and the boys marched in toward the base, garbed as Turkish foot soldiers, complete with ceremonial scimitars. They had a prisoner with them: Rebel, in a torn dress, her hands bound but still resisting.
“Quiet, wench!” Hero said loudly in Turkish, two words Fia had drilled him in.
“Let me go, brute!” Rebel cried, struggling harder. She had learned four words, and of course had been exposed to the Ottoman environment for years. They spoke Turkish to be sure the guards would understand, and not think to question why a Hai captive would not be protesting in her own language.
The guards took an interest. They had not been expecting reinforcements, but various contingents were in the area, and sometimes different ones stopped by the base. Maybe these had come to share the captive, in exchange for some illicit wine. Muslims were not supposed to drink anything alcoholic, but this rule was widely flouted in the field.
Then Fia appeared beside a building, screaming. “Free! Free!” They had all learned that word, knowing she would use it.
The Turks did not even glance at the crate where Tula was imprisoned. It was obvious that she had somehow scrambled out of it. Four of them lurched unsteadily to their feet, shaking off the effect of the wine. They lumbered after the fleeing girl.
One guard was by the exit to the access road. He grabbed for the girl, catching her sleeve. But her shirt came off in his hand, leaving her bare-breasted. She was not as well-developed as Tula, but in the partial light and in motion the effect was good enough to fool the Turks. Her head remained covered by a tattered scarf like the one Tula had. They might not have cared much even if they knew she was different; she was a Hai girl for the taking.
The girl ran around the corner of the building and disappeared. The guards collided with each other in their eagerness to pursue her, and took moments to untangle and resume the chase. But as they did, a supply wagon came down the road, and the four guards almost collided with it.
There was a violent exchange of curses, by guards and the surly wagoner, as each sought the right of way in the narrow road. Then the guards squeezed past, resuming their pursuit though the girl was nowhere in sight, and the wagon rolled on into the compound and halted. “Help me unload, you loafers!” the driver called, or words to that effect.
But the four remaining guards refused. They were not day laborers, and they were on duty. The wagoner had to do it by himself, cursing steadily in a monotone.
Craft stifled a smile. If only they knew! Fia had disappeared not by fleeing down the road beyond the wagon, but by scrambling into the compartment in the bed of the wagon, under piled supplies. She was still there as the driver unloaded. She would remain there, silent, until the wagon trundled on out of the compound, empty.
Meanwhile the five men and one captive arrived at the other side of the compound. The guards stood, their eyes on Rebel, whose struggles had torn away her own shirt, though her hands remained bound before her.
“Take this spitfire,” Hero said, using more rehearsed words. “Teach her manners.” He shoved Rebel into the arms of the nearest guard.
The man gladly grabbed her and pulled her close. She came up against him, chest to chest. Then he groaned and collapsed. Blood welled from his chest where she had stabbed him with what turned out to be not a rope around her wrists, but a loose thong and knife.
The other three reacted quickly enough. But now Hero, Risk, and Dexter attacked them with swords. The Turks were caught by surprise, but they were trained soldiers, and in a moment were defending themselves with their own not entirely ceremonial swords. It seemed they lacked guns; maybe those were reserved for the front line.
Craft and Sinister ran for the crate. “Tula!” Craft called.
“Uncle!” she cried gladly, lifting her bound hands.
Craft used his knife to saw through the rope, while Sinister stood guard.
Meanwhile Hero quickly downed his man, but the other guards were driving Risk and Dexter back, being stouter and more experienced with the sword. Dexter cried out as he was wounded. Craft heard without seeing; he was focusing on the tough rope, making sure not to cut Tula’s wrist along with it. Her hands came free, and she flung her arms around his neck, quickly kissing him in her relief at being rescued.
Craft heard a shot. Sinister screamed and fell. Now Craft had to look. There was a bullet hole in the boy’s back, fired by a returning guard from the Fia chase. So there were some guns in service here, unfortunately. The wound had to be mortal.
Hero took on the guard who had wounded Dexter, and Dexter charged across the compound, his left arm dripping blood. He launched himself at the guard before the man could reload his archaic pistol, slashing viciously. He was the right-handed twin.
The guard dropped the pistol and drew his sword to defend himself, but Dexter, though inexperienced, had gone berserk. He slashed and slashed again, battering down the guard’s defenses, and in moments wounded him on the arm, then on the neck, and finally in the chest. He went down, finished.
Hero and Risk had killed their men. “Get out of here!” Hero called. “The sound of the shot will bring every soldier in on the run.”
“He’s dead,” Craft said. “We have to leave him.” He hated to do it, because Sinister was his son, but he knew they would never be able to get away while dragging the body. They had to leave him so as not to lose more of their number.
Rebel crossed over to take Tula, who clung gladly to her. They were mother and daughter. Craft took Dexter by the arm and led him away. The boy was now like a zombie, his passion expended. They fled the compound, and soon were in the forest. They had escaped, for the moment.
Now there was time to unwind as they reverted to their own clothing. Rebel bound Dexter’s wound; it was a bad cut on the arm, but not lethal. “You fought like a hero,” she told him.
He refused to have it. “My brother!”
Tula tried to comfort him. “He was a hero. He died helping me and Allele escape.” She still seemed to be half in shock herself, not having known she would be rescued. The Turks had made sure she understood what they had in store for her.
He would not be consoled. “He’s dead!”
“He’s dead,” Craft agreed, stricken in his own way. “Make sure your mother does not lose you too.”
That made the boy take notice. He was silent.
Craft was hurting, but what made it worse was thinking how he would have to tell his wife, Crenelle, Sinister’s mother. She had been against letting the boys come.
They made their way to the rendezvous where Haven waited. She opened her arms to Dexter, and he fell into them, sobbing. She was not his mother, but she was well familiar with the role. She held him, wordlessly. Risk, her true son, nodded, understanding perfectly.
In due course Fia appeared, having made her way alone. That aspect of their ruse had succeeded splendidly.
Tula embraced her, having learned her identity and role during the wait. They were of even age and height, not otherwise similar, but in that moment they resembled sisters. They were after all both Hai, both Family.
Then they turned and closed on Risk, hugging him from either side. One was his sister, the other his girlfriend.
Tuho appeared. He clasped his daughter to him, and they both shed tears. The Family had come through. He kissed Rebel. They had been married six years and still seemed to be in love. Then he spoke.
“We can’t stay here,” Tuho said grimly. “The Turks are organizing to search the entire area, and they will torture anyone who they think has information. They have cut off the roads to Alania. There will be a cordon.”
“So we will have to fight our way out?” Hero asked.
“We can’t. They have overwhelming force. But there is a retreat.”
“Ah,” Hero said.
“It is just now being set up by refugees from Theodosiopolis and the surroundings. Hai who will be deported or massacred anyway. It is a mountain called Musa Dagh.”
“Musa Dagh,” Rebel repeated. “There’s nothing there!”
“Not in the past,” Tuho agreed. “But next month it will be a secret redoubt. They are ferrying supplies there now. We’ll be safe there.”
They traveled that night, tired and battered, but determined. They had no horses; those had been commandeered when discovered. They went by foot, carrying as much as they could.
They were joined by other Hai, similarly burdened. Tuho knew the way, and guided them all in the darkness. There was stumbling and muted cursing, but all of them were on a similar mission, facing similar peril.
The way became steep. Only the tenuous path led them through; the rest was impossible steepness and barren rock.
Finally by dawn, bone weary, they achieved the summit. It was a veritable fortress, spread across the top of the mountain, with stones being placed to shore up any likely routes from below. A small contingent could hold off an army here, indefinitely.
There was a tent for them. They wedged into it and slept as the day progressed. Tula lay between her parents, her hands tightly clasping theirs. She was still recovering. Risk managed to get a place beside Fia, with his arm around her, she nothing loathe. Craft saw Haven note it and fail to break it up. There was a death in the Family; she had evidently concluded that it was not worth sweating the small stuff. She lay beside Dexter, there if he required more comfort.
In the morning Hero and Craft were up, helping shore up the defenses, and Haven marshaled the girls and set about making a meal to feed all the troops. There were plenty of supplies, and they were still being ferried up.
There were also more people. What had been a group of several hundred soon became several thousand, and more kept piling in. All the Hai who were at risk of deportation or execution were coming here in a mass, with their families, and there were many of them. This was their sanctuary. There was a constant stream of supplies: all the food from the farms that were being taken over, including their animals, right here to be used.
And the Turks, it seemed, were ignoring them. No—it was that the Turks did not know of this retreat. They were scouring the area for the raiders who had freed Tula, and also doing battle with the Russians, and had no time for scouting isolated mountains. And no Hai breathed a word to them. No Hai who might betray them had been told; they knew whom they could trust. They simply faded out of their homes and jobs, to reappear here. It was a remarkable cooperative effort.
There was plenty of space on the mountain, but soon it was filled. An exact count was not feasible, but according to Tuho, their ranks had swelled to some fifty thousand people. The cooking enterprise had become massive, with hundreds of women and children working, and shifts throughout the day. Haven, having first organized it, and being the Family sister of Commander Tuho, became the mistress of it all, with Tula and Fia willing lieutenants who answered only to her. The men were quite satisfied to accept that.
But they were not satisfied to leave the Turks unchallenged. Now they organized as a military unit, and went down at night to harass the Turks and their German allies from the rear, so they couldn’t focus fully on the Russians. Indeed, the Hai coordinated with the Russians, striking where most needed to facilitate the Russian invasion.
The Turks were clearly mystified. The Hai would attack, then disappear before there could be retaliation. The Hai were excellent guerrilla warriors, striking and hiding, leaving few traces aside from the dead Turks.
But it couldn’t last forever. The Turks finally discovered Musa Dagh, and quickly organized to attack it. But their first onslaught failed, as the Hai drove them back with heavy losses. They had prepared well for this, knowing it must come. Knowing they had no choice but to fight, because loss would mean death for them all.
Yet Tuho seemed unperturbed. “We have supplies and ammunition for a month,” he said.
“They won’t give up in a month,” Hero reminded him. But Tuho simply smiled.
The Turks tried again, and again. Each time they were thrown back by withering fire from above. They could not scale the rocky faces of the mountain without becoming targets for Hai snipers. Finally they conceded that the mountain fortress was unassailable.
So they laid siege to it, preventing any more supplies from being delivered. No one could leave, either, it seemed, unless to surrender. None did surrender.
“Now we’re in for it,” Haven muttered.
Tuho kissed her in a brotherly manner. “We truly hate to lose you and the girls, but it is time for you to go. I will follow later.”
“Go where?” Haven demanded, unmollified.
“Down the back way,” he said. “The one they don’t know about.”
“The back way!” Fia exclaimed, thrilled. “Like the way around Ararat.”
“Like that,” Tuho agreed. “The Turks don’t know that their siege is incomplete. We have run no supplies along that route, to keep it secret.”
But now Tula protested. “Father, you say you’ll follow, but I know you. You’ll fight them to the end, and die. Then I’ll be fully orphaned.”
Rebel kept silent. The girl had lost her natural mother long before; it was understandable that she did not want to lose her natural father too.
Tuho considered, then nodded. “I refused to lose you,” he said. “Now you are refusing to lose me. I will come with you.”
Tula hugged him. It seemed to Craft that the man had yielded with very little persuasion, as though he had planned on this anyway. Maybe he had simply been verifying his daughter’s feeling.
They organized for the retreat. A carefully selected volunteer rear guard of five hundred men would remain to defend the fortress, which was so well situated that they could do so until they ran out of supplies. All others would quietly escape, in a steady stream through the secret route.
They made their way down in the dark, cautiously and quietly. There were guides who took their hands where required, conveying through through the more treacherous sections. All was accomplished in complete silence, so as not to alert the Turks, who were not far off.
At last they were down, and safely away from the mountain. Tuho talked quietly with their last guide, thanked him, and separated.
“Now we are on our own,” he murmured. “The others are traveling to the Mediterranean, where British men-of-war ships are waiting to pick them up. But we shall go home to Alania.”
“Alania,” Craft agreed. They still had a considerable and dangerous trek, but with Rebel and Fia guiding them, they should make it through. Their mission was almost accomplished. If only Sinister hadn’t died. But he stifled that thought. This was war, and losses occurred in war, painful as they were. For both sides.
“And we will remember,” Fia said.
Craft had to agree. They would remember.
It was said that after a forty-day siege the Hai conceded defeat and laid down their arms. It was said that the Turks then massacred all 50,000 of them, leading off a general campaign of extirpation: the Armenian Genocide. That in the ensuing seven years as many as one and a half million Hai died, leaving their land depopulated: vengeance against a people who had sided with the Russians. That the Ottomans tried to cover it up, denying that there had been any such effort. That even today the Turkish government refuses to admit the truth. Today there are still meetings in South Alania memorializing that historical atrocity.
But the truth is murky. For one thing, if there was a massacre at Musa Dagh, it was of only 500, the rearguard that held the fortress. According to one account, all the others had disappeared down the other side of the mountain, traveling to the Mediterranean, where French and British men-of-war ships had been signaled. They picked up the main army and transported the soldiers to Alexandria, Egypt, which the British then controlled. But there were other centers of resistance, other fortresses, and they seem to have been mercilessly destroyed. So the area was depopulated, but perhaps not by deliberate organized genocide. By savagely forced migration. That suggests that the stories of a larger campaign of extermination may lack substance. But certainly entire communities of the Hai were wiped out.
Indeed there were massacres, but more Turks died than Hai. In the city of Van, when the Ottomans recaptured it and ended the brief Hai state, they butchered the men, robbed and raped the women, and left them to die. An American medical missionary on the scene reported that there were 55,000 Hai deaths. But the Russians and Hai guerrillas took a horrendous toll on the Ottomans too. At one point half the Ottoman army was tied down there, while the Allies took advantage of its weakness in the west. It was an ugly war, if that is not redundant. A war zone is no safe place for any residents, and emigration can be massive.
The British led an international war crimes tribunal on the island of Malta against 144 high Ottoman officials, of which fifty-six stood trial. But they concluded that there was not sufficient evidence for conviction, and all of the detainees were released. Now this could be considered a severe miscarriage of justice. But it could also be considered evidence that there had been no organized program of genocide, merely savage internecine war with related atrocities. The balance seems to favor the latter conclusion.
This was the beginning of World War I, that reshaped the political map of the world, resulting in the contemporary configuration of nations. Turkey had been a major power; thereafter it was a minor power. The climate of change here was not so much the weather, as the emergence of the modern world.