Lucine’s own men are lost somewhere where she can never reach them. Hairig in a shallow mass grave she hasn’t told anyone about, Uncle Nazareth in a labor camp or worse, and Kemal in a cloud of rage and rejection. When Lucine thinks about how she hurt him, it’s not so much pity that she feels, but shame. Kemal is not like other men. He is soft and gentle, fragile even. She knows she’s crushed him, but there was no other way to say no to him. When a gentle never-ending stream flows down toward you, slow and persistent, there is only one way to stop it, with a strong, resolute barrier like a dam, something that does not permeate or negotiate. She built a dam right there in the courtyard.
The sun ducks behind the distant hills and the sky darkens. The marching slows to a halt, and though they are too far to be heard, Lucine assumes the gendarmes have ordered them to stop. There are six soldiers in all, meant to escort and perhaps even protect the two thousand deportees. The two who ride horseback have colorful patches sewn onto their coats and must be officers. They wear proper uniforms made of khaki cloth, caps made of closely curled gray fur and sturdy boots that ride all the way up to their calves. They hold themselves erect in their saddles, punctuating both ends of the long line of marchers.
The other four have no horse or proper uniform to speak of. Their dusty coats hang loose about the shoulders and their trousers sag heavily in the middle. They curse as they hold their weapons at the ready, fingering them with self-importance. Rumor is that these four are not gendarmes at all, but a ragtag bunch of criminals newly released.
Clusters of families squat down to rest in the human chain that stretches across the plain. The Melkonians are near the end of this long line of displaced families, flanked on both sides by familiar faces from their village. Where once they shared a pot of tea or a choice piece of gossip, now their only commonality is the concern for survival. The gendarmes on horseback dismount and tie their animals to a pair of thin pomegranate trees that would serve better as whips than posts. If they were so inclined, the horses could easily walk away with the saplings in tow. Lucine wonders if it is fear and obedience that makes them stay, or exhaustion? She wonders the same thing about the deportees, who are busy building makeshift camps with the last rays of the setting sun.
Shrouds of dignity muffle complaints about hunger, but thirst is another matter. The missionary passes her goatskin to any who ask. Mairig’s god would like that. And though he has been anything but kind, Lucine thinks it smart to appease him just now. She has no goatskin, only a clay jug more fit for a formal meal. She pours water into cupped palms, and her heart grows heavier with each pouring.
While the two ranking officers rest, the other four gendarmes march off to the east of the encampment, goatskins in hand. On their way back, they use both hands to carry their vessels, now heavy with water. Lucine carries her own empty jug to Firat, knowing the officers wouldn’t deny a Muslim man some water. Firat is resting behind the oxcart, far enough from the family to allow for privacy but close enough to offer protection. He has taken off his vest and shoes and is prostrating himself in the direction of Mecca. When his incantations cease, Lucine clears her throat. She extends the empty jugs toward him.
“At your service, hanim,” he says, taking the jug and bowing his head.
“There seems to be a spring or fountain to the east of that little hill. It isn’t far,” she adds, by way of apology for disrupting him.
“Of course. Should I take Bedros along?” he asks.
“No.” Mairig’s voice comes from behind Lucine. How long has she been standing there?
Mother and daughter watch as Firat marches up the little hill. “Let’s hope he returns,” Mairig says.
“He will,” Lucine says.
“He’ll have to answer to your father if he doesn’t.” There is power in Mairig’s voice, a certainty that comes from knowing Hairig would do anything to protect them. Lucine considers telling Mairig the awful news. That Hairig is dead, buried somewhere with other men of the village, that he isn’t coming and won’t be reprimanding or protecting anyone. But the words will not form themselves in her mouth.
She stands near Mairig, watching Firat walking against the pale orange color of dusk. He moves briskly past the gendarme’s camp, but one of the soldiers stands up and follows him. It is one of the lower-ranking, bootless men. Lucine recognizes him: a young thick-lipped gendarme, prone to screaming obscenities at lagging elderly marchers. He says something to Firat they can’t quite make out, something about “helping those dogs.” Whatever it is, it makes the others erupt in laughter. Two more soldiers head toward Firat and soon all three are slapping and kicking him. The water jug crashes to the ground and a soldier crushes it with his foot. The gendarmes step away from Firat’s crouched body. One gives him a final kick in the groin. In the next instant, Firat is hobbling away, holding his abdomen with both arms. He doesn’t look back at his assailants, the crushed water jug, or the two women he swore to protect. He simply disappears.
Mairig tries to usher Lucine back to camp, but she stands perfectly still, watching the spot where Firat once was. She should never have asked him to get the water.