And he saw her understanding. “She’ll do,” the man said. He gave her one more glance and turned away. She had been dismissed.
Just like that. She had been accepted in more than one capacity.
They returned to George’s house. “Will he act to save my people?” Rebel asked.
“He has already done it,” Mother said as she helped extricate Rebel from the awful clothing. It was good to be able to breathe again! “The authorities have received a proclamation designating your range as a nature preserve. As long as your people stay within it, they can’t be molested.”
Just like that, again. She would marry George, not even needing to dissolve her marriage to Harbinger, because native marriages were not recognized by the colonists.
“There are things we do not speak of,” Mother murmured. “We simply try to get along. Do you understand?”
Rebel gave her a straight look. “I do.” Then, realizing how badly she would need an ally in this arena, she asked, “May we be friends in spite of it?”
The woman gazed at her. Rebel was surprised to see a tear in her eye. “We are all in the same situation,” she said. “We must endure. We can do that better if we support each other.”
Rebel spread her arms. Mother stepped into them, now sobbing openly. They were not so much high colonist and low native, so much as two women in a difficult position. Yes, they would be friends.
Some Aborigines survived, but their autonomy was finished and they were no longer a significant independent force. They had to work as laborers and servants, governed by the rules of the white man. At one point, thousands of their babies were taken and raised as whites, another effort to extirpate their culture. Today there are relatively few full-blooded natives left; the majority are mixed breeds. Many have lost touch with their original culture, eating Western foods. Those who still do hunt typically use guns rather than clubs or spears.
Among survivors, problems are rampant. Twenty-six times as many Aborigines develop dementia as whites. Up to ten times as many have circulatory diseases such as hypertension and rheumatic heart disease. Three to four times as many have type-two diabetes and the death rate is seven to ten times that of whites. And so on, with kidney disease, cancer, respiratory diseases. Communicable diseases are worse: tenfold in tuberculosis, Hepatitis B and C, twenty-fold in Chlamydia, forty-fold in dysentery and syphilis, and seventy-fold in gonorrhea. Threefold in suicide, two-to threefold in infant mortality. These are attributed to poverty, poor education, substance abuse, poor access to health services, and exposure to violence or other types of abuse. In sum: they are at the bottom of the totem, and suffer for it.
This is unfortunately typical of the peoples displaced by “modern” man, whether in America, Africa, or Australia. Efforts are being made today to redress some of the historic wrongs. But how can a vanished culture be renovated? An extinct language? A people whose numbers have been decimated, the survivors downtrodden? It seems that concern about justice comes only when the case is already lost. That’s suspiciously convenient.
19
MUSA DAGH
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.”
“What of the Hai?”
“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 wi
ll 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.”