{"product_id":"like-water-on-stone-isbn-9780385743983","title":"Like Water on Stone","description":"\u003cb\u003e\"Evocative and hopeful,\" says Newbery Honor-Winner Rita Williams-Garcia of this intense survival story set during the Armenian genocide of 1915. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt is 1914, and the Ottoman Empire is crumbling into violence. \u003cbr\u003e      Beyond Anatolia, in the Armenian Highlands, Shahen Donabedian dreams of going to New York. Sosi, his twin sister, never wants to leave her home, especially now that she is in love. At first, only Papa, who counts Turks and Kurds among his closest friends, stands in Shahen's way. But when the Ottoman pashas set in motion their plans to eliminate all Armenians, neither twin has a choice.\u003cbr\u003e      After a horrifying attack leaves them orphaned, they flee into the mountains, carrying their little sister, Mariam. But the children are not alone. An eagle watches over them as they run at night and hide each day, making their way across mountain ridges and rivers red with blood.     \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA YALSA Best Fiction Nomination\u003cbr\u003e A Notable Books for a Global Society Award Winner    \u003cbr\u003eA CBC Notable Social Studies Trade Book of the Year\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA Bank Street College of Education Best Book of the Year\u003c\/b\u003e with Outstanding Merit\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I have walked through the remnants of the Armenian civilization in Palu and Chunkush, I have stood on the banks of the Euphrates. And still I was unprepared for how deeply moved I would be by Dana Walrath’s poignant, unflinching evocation of the Armenian Genocide. Her beautiful poetry and deft storytelling stayed with me long after I had finished this powerful novel in verse.” —\u003cb\u003eChris Bohjalian\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Sandcastle Girls\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eClose Your Eyes, Hold Hands\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A heartbreaking tale of familial love, blind trust, and the crushing of innocence. A fine and haunting work.” —\u003cb\u003eKaren Hesse\u003c\/b\u003e, Newbery Medal–winning author of Out of the Dust\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“This eloquent verse novel brings one of history’s great tragedies to life.” —\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eMargarita Engle, \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eNewbery Honor–winning author of \u003ci\u003eThe Surrender Tree\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e*\u003c\/b\u003e\"This beautiful, yet at times brutally vivid, historical verse novel will bring this horrifying, tragic period to life for astute, mature readers.\" —\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e Starred\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A \u003cb\u003epowerful \u003c\/b\u003etale balancing the graphic reality of genocide with a shining spirit of hope and bravery in young refugees coming to terms with their world.\"—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “The \u003cb\u003eemotional impact\u003c\/b\u003e these events had on individuals will certainly resonate.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal \u003c\/i\u003estarred review\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003eAugust 2014\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e “This beautiful, yet at times brutally vivid, historical verse novel will bring this horrifying, tragic period to life for astute, mature readers […]”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly \u003c\/i\u003estarred review\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003eSeptember 2014\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"A shocking tale of a bleak moment in history, told with stunning beauty.\"Dana Walrath, writer, poet, artist, Fulbright Scholar, and second generation Armenian, is committed to the movement for reconciliation between Turkey and Armenia. She believes an honest reckoning of history, apology and forgiveness is essential for healing and will help bring about peace in the future. She lives in Vermont.Ardziv\u003cbr\u003eThree young ones,\u003cbr\u003eone black pot,\u003cbr\u003ea single quill,\u003cbr\u003eand a tuft of red wool\u003cbr\u003eare enough to start\u003cbr\u003ea new life\u003cbr\u003ein a new land.\u003cbr\u003eI know this is true\u003cbr\u003ebecause I saw it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe track our quills\u003cbr\u003ewhen they fall.\u003cbr\u003eAlways.\u003cbr\u003eWith eagle eyes\u003cbr\u003ewe can see\u003cbr\u003efrom the sky\u003cbr\u003ewho picks one up\u003cbr\u003efrom the ground,\u003cbr\u003eor rescues it\u003cbr\u003efrom the crook\u003cbr\u003eof a bent branch,\u003cbr\u003ethe quill's mottled color\u003cbr\u003eblending in\u003cbr\u003ewith the peeling bark.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was the girl\u003cbr\u003ewho picked up my quill.\u003cbr\u003eShe and her mother\u003cbr\u003eworked side by side,\u003cbr\u003eplucking frothy white\u003cbr\u003ebeetle bodies\u003cbr\u003efrom leaf and stalk.\u003cbr\u003eThey crushed them\u003cbr\u003ebetween fingertips\u003cbr\u003eand used this insect blood\u003cbr\u003eto turn their carpet fibers\u003cbr\u003ethe richest red.\u003cbr\u003eClever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen my feather dropped,\u003cbr\u003ethe girl, the older one, Sosi,\u003cbr\u003ealmost full grown,\u003cbr\u003eher body budding,\u003cbr\u003estirred from her work.\u003cbr\u003eThe little one, Mariam,\u003cbr\u003enapped on a carpet beside her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSosi, named for plane trees\u003cbr\u003ethat stand tall on this land.\u003cbr\u003eHer short, quick inhale as she saw it\u003cbr\u003etugged the air around me.\u003cbr\u003eShe wiped her red-tipped fingers\u003cbr\u003eon her apron before reaching up.\u003cbr\u003e\"Look, Mama, a new mizrap for Papa.\"\u003cbr\u003eA nine-beat song\u003cbr\u003epulsed through my wings.\u003cbr\u003eA musician?\u003cbr\u003eWhat luck!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf my quill could pull laments\u003cbr\u003efrom the strings of an oud,\u003cbr\u003eI thought, then\u003cbr\u003emy heart might heal.\u003cbr\u003e\"That quill is for your brother,\"\u003cbr\u003ethe mother said.\u003cbr\u003e\"It's time that Shahen\u003cbr\u003elearned to play.\"\u003cbr\u003eA young musician?\u003cbr\u003eMore luck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFar beyond this beetled field,\u003cbr\u003ewhere river cut through mountain,\u003cbr\u003ea curly-headed, big-eyed boy\u003cbr\u003eshivered when she spoke.\u003cbr\u003eShahen.\u003cbr\u003eSons hear as eagles see.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFast green water flowed\u003cbr\u003ealong the distant bank.\u003cbr\u003eAn arc of giant stones\u003cbr\u003erose from the riverbed,\u003cbr\u003ebending the current's\u003cbr\u003eforward force.\u003cbr\u003eWater seeped back\u003cbr\u003ebehind these stones,\u003cbr\u003eforming a still pool\u003cbr\u003efor Shahen,\u003cbr\u003ehis face reflected in the water,\u003cbr\u003eso delicate,\u003cbr\u003elike Sosi's.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis thumb and fingers\u003cbr\u003ecurled round\u003cbr\u003ea flat, smooth stone.\u003cbr\u003eHe bent his hand\u003cbr\u003etight toward his arm.\u003cbr\u003eOne fierce flick of his wrist\u003cbr\u003esent the stone to water.\u003cbr\u003eIt skipped nine times\u003cbr\u003elike the beat of a song.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRipples spread\u003cbr\u003ethrough the top of the pool,\u003cbr\u003ethen sank\u003cbr\u003einto its surface.\u003cbr\u003eThen, to no one,\u003cbr\u003eto the air,\u003cbr\u003eperhaps to me,\u003cbr\u003eShahen said,\u003cbr\u003e\"No one plays oud in America.\"\u003cbr\u003eMy musician, what luck!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShahen\u003cbr\u003eCome on, lucky stone.\u003cbr\u003eGive me seven.\u003cbr\u003eNot nine, not eight.\u003cbr\u003eOne for each of them,\u003cbr\u003enone for me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePapa,\u003cbr\u003eMama,\u003cbr\u003eKevorg,\u003cbr\u003eMisak,\u003cbr\u003eAnahid, Sosi, Mariam,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEight? It can't be eight.\u003cbr\u003eNot the eight arches\u003cbr\u003eof the Palu bridge.\u003cbr\u003eI can't be stuck here\u003cbr\u003ewith a fool for a father.\u003cbr\u003eIn a land ruled by Muslims,\u003cbr\u003epriests just baaaah like sheep.\u003cbr\u003eMy fate isn't here, sitting in church,\u003cbr\u003elearning of what was, not of what could be.\u003cbr\u003eMy fate isn't here, grinding wheat into flour.\u003cbr\u003eThat's enough for my brothers,\u003cbr\u003ebig dolts with no dreams.\u003cbr\u003eCome on, stone. You're the lucky one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePapa,\u003cbr\u003eMama,\u003cbr\u003eKevorg,\u003cbr\u003eMisak,\u003cbr\u003eAnahid, Sosi, Mariam,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePah! Stupid eight.\u003cbr\u003eStupid, like Papa,\u003cbr\u003ewho keeps his head in song.\u003cbr\u003eIf he stopped playing the oud,\u003cbr\u003eif he looked instead of listened,\u003cbr\u003eif he stopped thinking we are all the same,\u003cbr\u003ethat Christians, like us, could ever be free\u003cbr\u003edeep inside an empire\u003cbr\u003eruled by Muslim Ottoman Turks,\u003cbr\u003ethen he would know.\u003cbr\u003eFrom the Balkans\u003cbr\u003eto the Caucasus\u003cbr\u003eand down both sides\u003cbr\u003eof Arabia, they rule.\u003cbr\u003eBut other empires\u003cbr\u003eclose them in:\u003cbr\u003eAustrian, Russian,\u003cbr\u003ePersian, and British\u003cbr\u003emeet them at each edge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey have no place for us,\u003cbr\u003enot in their hearts.\u003cbr\u003ePapa should know this.\u003cbr\u003eHe was alive in 1895,\u003cbr\u003ewhen Sultan Hamid\u003cbr\u003efirst gave the orders to kill us,\u003cbr\u003enot me.\u003cbr\u003eHe knows we pay\u003cbr\u003edouble taxes\u003cbr\u003eand cannot vote.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe knows Turks call us\u003cbr\u003egavour, infidel.\u003cbr\u003eNow it will be even worse.\u003cbr\u003eArmenian families will shun us\u003cbr\u003ebecause Anahid's groom is a Kurd.\u003cbr\u003eWhat sort of Armenian father\u003cbr\u003eblesses a love match\u003cbr\u003ewith a Muslim\u003cbr\u003efor his first-born girl?\u003cbr\u003eSo what if she didn't\u003cbr\u003ehave to convert?\u003cbr\u003eIt's Kurdish beys\u003cbr\u003ewho take the tithe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf he opened his eyes,\u003cbr\u003eif he stopped thinking\u003cbr\u003eof the world as a song,\u003cbr\u003ewith disparate parts\u003cbr\u003ealways blending,\u003cbr\u003ehe would know\u003cbr\u003ethat my keri, my uncle, is right.\u003cbr\u003eAll the way\u003cbr\u003efrom New York,\u003cbr\u003eMama's brother\u003cbr\u003eknows the truth.\u003cbr\u003eWe should marry\u003cbr\u003eour own.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf I go to New York\u003cbr\u003eto live with my keri,\u003cbr\u003emy face will be bristled at last,\u003cbr\u003eno longer the little one,\u003cbr\u003ethe little brother,\u003cbr\u003etwin to a girl,\u003cbr\u003ewith a fool for a father.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere I'll grow tall.\u003cbr\u003eThe bristles will come.\u003cbr\u003eI'll live in a tower\u003cbr\u003ethat touches the sky.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCome on, pink stone,\u003cbr\u003eperfect, smooth, and flat.\u003cbr\u003eCut me out.\u003cbr\u003eMake it seven.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStone spins and cuts the surface.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePapa, big spray;\u003cbr\u003eMama, less;\u003cbr\u003eKevorg, closer;\u003cbr\u003eMisak, smaller;\u003cbr\u003eAnahid, Sosi, Mariam.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStone sinks into water.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI will do it with care.\u003cbr\u003eAs the proverb says:\u003cbr\u003eMeasure seven times.\u003cbr\u003eCut once.\u003cbr\u003eThat's how I will do it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm going to America.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMariam\u003cbr\u003eFeet up.\u003cbr\u003eFeet down.\u003cbr\u003eHeels hit house.\u003cbr\u003eFeet up.\u003cbr\u003eFeet down.\u003cbr\u003eShahen,\u003cbr\u003ecome home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTime to play the bird game.\u003cbr\u003eTime to play the bird game.\u003cbr\u003eFeet up.\u003cbr\u003eFeet down.\u003cbr\u003eI sit.\u003cbr\u003eI wait.\u003cbr\u003eFeet up.\u003cbr\u003eFeet down.\u003cbr\u003eHe's here!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShahen's on the ground,\u003cbr\u003ehis arms spread wide.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Time to play the bird game?\"\u003cbr\u003e\"Yes,\" he tells me.\u003cbr\u003eHe always says yes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy wings pull back.\u003cbr\u003eMeg, yergoo, yerek,\u003cbr\u003eone, two, three,\u003cbr\u003eflap, flap, flap.\u003cbr\u003eI fly.\u003cbr\u003eMy heart goes first,\u003cbr\u003edown\u003cbr\u003edown\u003cbr\u003edown\u003cbr\u003efrom the roof\u003cbr\u003einto Shahen's arms.\u003cbr\u003eHe catches me.\u003cbr\u003eHe holds me high.\u003cbr\u003eHe spins me\u003cbr\u003eround and round\u003cbr\u003elike the mill wheel.\u003cbr\u003eI fly above.\u003cbr\u003eI am his little dove.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShahen\u003cbr\u003eFly, little bird.\u003cbr\u003eFly over hills.\u003cbr\u003eFly straight through the straits to the sea.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe giggles. We spin.\u003cbr\u003eHer curls catch the wind.\u003cbr\u003eMy fingertips press to her ribs,\u003cbr\u003eto help me remember her laugh\u003cbr\u003eand the smell of the mint by the stream\u003cbr\u003eand Sosi, on tiptoes,\u003cbr\u003estringing the loom with strong cotton cords,\u003cbr\u003etying tight knots at its base,\u003cbr\u003eMama rolling rice into grape leaves,\u003cbr\u003epacking them snug\u003cbr\u003einto the black pot to simmer,\u003cbr\u003emy father and brothers dusted with flour,\u003cbr\u003etheir faces white like clowns\u003cbr\u003ewhen the mill work is done.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom New York,\u003cbr\u003eI will be able to see across oceans,\u003cbr\u003epast pashas in Topkapi Palace\u003cbr\u003eand drum-capped Ottoman soldiers,\u003cbr\u003etheir Muslim guns pointed toward our land,\u003cbr\u003ethrough a maze of Turks and Kurds,\u003cbr\u003ewith Anahid among them,\u003cbr\u003eto my family here in Palu.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI land Mariam\u003cbr\u003eback on the roof's edge.\u003cbr\u003eHer tiny feet kick.\u003cbr\u003eShe leans out again,\u003cbr\u003eleading with her breastbone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeg, yergoo, yerek.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArdziv\u003cbr\u003eBuilt low to the ground,\u003cbr\u003ethis roof was safe,\u003cbr\u003eeven for those without wings.\u003cbr\u003eThe mill house roofs ran up the slope\u003cbr\u003elike stepping-stones,\u003cbr\u003eeach roof set for its own tasks:\u003cbr\u003ecarpet making, laundry,\u003cbr\u003ecooking, feasting, music.\u003cbr\u003eStone steps set tight\u003cbr\u003einto outside walls\u003cbr\u003eled up to all the rooftops.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat night, on the roof,\u003cbr\u003ethe father used my quill\u003cbr\u003eto pull sweet sounds\u003cbr\u003efrom the strings of his oud,\u003cbr\u003eits bulging belly nestled between his arms,\u003cbr\u003eso like a young human mother\u003cbr\u003emaking room for a coming child.\u003cbr\u003eEggs in nests are far more simple.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis soaring sound pulled me from the sky,\u003cbr\u003elike gravity must for those who can't fly.\u003cbr\u003eI lighted on a branch near their roof.\u003cbr\u003eThe father stopped playing.\u003cbr\u003eBeside him, Shahen lay on his back,\u003cbr\u003estaring past me and the treetops.\u003cbr\u003eThe father reached down.\u003cbr\u003eHe touched Shahen's forehead\u003cbr\u003ewith my quill and said,\u003cbr\u003e\"This fine new mizrap, this gift from an eagle,\u003cbr\u003ethe noblest of birds, is a sign, Shahen.\u003cbr\u003eIt's time for me to teach you.\"\u003cbr\u003eWith the pluck of a young one aching to leave the nest\u003cbr\u003ethe imp rolled to his side and replied,\u003cbr\u003e\"No one plays oud in America, Papa.\"\u003cbr\u003e\"A good Armenian carries the music of home\u003cbr\u003eclose to his heart, wherever he is, son.\"\u003cbr\u003e\"You mean I'm going?\"\u003cbr\u003eI tipped my head under mantle of wing\u003cbr\u003elest they hear me whistle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe eagles sing no soothing songs.\u003cbr\u003eOur throats can only whistle.\u003cbr\u003eInstead, we hunt them down,\u003cbr\u003etake them from others.\u003cbr\u003eI craved soothing song that summer.\u003cbr\u003eI had lost my mate and hatchlings\u003cbr\u003eand war was in the air.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHate makes jagged spikes of light,\u003cbr\u003eand blame can crack the sky.\u003cbr\u003eAs pierced with wounds\u003cbr\u003efrom sharp white teeth,\u003cbr\u003ethe Ottoman air had ruptured.\u003cbr\u003eMassacres would come again\u003cbr\u003eas the drum-capped rulers\u003cbr\u003espread their hate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI confess. I had my own hate\u003cbr\u003efor the drum caps that summer.\u003cbr\u003eI kept it\u003cbr\u003elike an egg in a nest,\u003cbr\u003ewarming it,\u003cbr\u003efeeding it once it hatched,\u003cbr\u003eso it grew ever stronger,\u003cbr\u003ethe drum caps' hate\u003cbr\u003elike food for mine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore the time of humans,\u003cbr\u003ewe eagles had no need for hate.\u003cbr\u003eWe do not feign to own the land.\u003cbr\u003eWe keep it safe around our nests\u003cbr\u003efrom hawk and falcon\u003cbr\u003eso that our young can fledge.\u003cbr\u003eAnd to hunt is to fight,\u003cbr\u003eis to kill, I know.\u003cbr\u003eBut its purpose is pure.\u003cbr\u003eHow else could we feed our young?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat long-gone night,\u003cbr\u003eI stopped my distant flights\u003cbr\u003eacross this land of seas.\u003cbr\u003eInstead, each day,\u003cbr\u003eI flew over their mill,\u003cbr\u003ebuilt into a small stream\u003cbr\u003ethat fed the eastern branch\u003cbr\u003eof the mighty Euphrates River,\u003cbr\u003ehoping for snatches of music.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSosi\u003cbr\u003eMama teaches me how\u003cbr\u003eto bargain for fabrics.\u003cbr\u003eFirst, fingertips feel\u003cbr\u003etexture and weight,\u003cbr\u003eface and voice silent.\u003cbr\u003eNever take first price.\u003cbr\u003eSee what the Turks have to offer,\u003cbr\u003ebut buy Armenian cloth if you can.\u003cbr\u003eNever show which one you love.\u003cbr\u003eGo to see each merchant's wares.\u003cbr\u003eCompare and think and breathe in spices:\u003cbr\u003ehot bite of cayenne,\u003cbr\u003efenugreek for basturma,\u003cbr\u003ewarm, strong taste of earthy cumin,\u003cbr\u003edeep red paprika to make a paste,\u003cbr\u003ecrisp allspice for manti stuffing,\u003cbr\u003emahlap's bitter almond nip.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe buy a bolt of woven wool\u003cbr\u003etight with pattern and warmth.\u003cbr\u003eMama says the silks I love\u003cbr\u003ewill wait till I'm a wife.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSilks instead of Mama,\u003cbr\u003esilks instead of home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI search for Vahan in the market,\u003cbr\u003ebeside his clocks and chimes.\u003cbr\u003eArkalian clocks\u003cbr\u003ekeep time for miles.\u003cbr\u003eBeirut, Konya, Van.\u003cbr\u003eBaron Bedros, Vahan's father,\u003cbr\u003eworks the tiny tools and gears\u003cbr\u003einside the clocks' bellies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVahan paints their faces.\u003cbr\u003eHis long-lashed eyes meet mine.\u003cbr\u003eMama sees and pulls me from him,\u003cbr\u003eback to the Turk to pay,\u003cbr\u003epinching my hand,\u003cbr\u003eas her voice stays honey sweet.\u003cbr\u003e\"Sosi jan, a woman never looks.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFatima Bey Injeli comes into the stall behind us.\u003cbr\u003e\"Special price for you today,\u003cbr\u003egavour, infidel?\u003cbr\u003eAs though you need it,\u003cbr\u003ealready with all the best land.\"\u003cbr\u003eMama places the bolt between them.\u003cbr\u003eHer left hip juts out like a ledge.\u003cbr\u003eShe stares straight ahead, lips sealed.\u003cbr\u003eThe Turk from the shop says to Fatima,\u003cbr\u003e\"The gavour are clever with their money,\"\u003cbr\u003eas he drops a coin\u003cbr\u003einto Mama's open palm.\u003cbr\u003e\"Tesekkur ederim.\" Mama thanks him,\u003cbr\u003enose up, lips drawn tight\u003cbr\u003elike a hard, wrinkled pit.\u003cbr\u003e\"I can buy my cloth from others if you like.\"\u003cbr\u003eThe Turk bows his bald head low,\u003cbr\u003ethe fringe of hair around his crown\u003cbr\u003elike an upside-down, bristle-black smile.\u003cbr\u003e\"No, madame. You must come again\u003cbr\u003ewith your lovely daughter.\u003cbr\u003eThe bolt and the price pleased us both.\"\u003cbr\u003e\"Good day, then,\" Mama says,\u003cbr\u003epulling me from the stall,\u003cbr\u003epast the other vendors,\u003cbr\u003epast the crowd,\u003cbr\u003eover the bridge,\u003cbr\u003esqueezing my hand,\u003cbr\u003emuttering,\u003cbr\u003e\"The bee gets honey from the same flower\u003cbr\u003ewhere the snake sucks her poison.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe lets go\u003cbr\u003eonly when we reach our orchard\u003cbr\u003espread along the river's edge.\u003cbr\u003e\"I said nothing to that snake\u003cbr\u003eonly because your father\u003cbr\u003eholds her husband, Mustafa, dear.\u003cbr\u003eAs if I didn't have enough to worry me\u003cbr\u003ewith you making eyes at clockmakers' sons\u003cbr\u003ebefore fathers have even spoken?\u003cbr\u003eAnd Shahen, always wet from the river.\u003cbr\u003eHe played with Turkish boys again, you know.\u003cbr\u003eThe pair of you will be my end.\u003cbr\u003eAnd the nerve of that vendor,\u003cbr\u003einsulting us\u003cbr\u003eas we give him good money!\u003cbr\u003eSosi, look around you.\u003cbr\u003eThis is Armenia.\u003cbr\u003eFat Turks from Constantinople\u003cbr\u003erule for miles and miles,\u003cbr\u003emaking Muslim villagers brazen.\u003cbr\u003eKurds and Turks may live here too,\u003cbr\u003ebut these are our lands.\u003cbr\u003eYour father planted these very vines\u003cbr\u003ewith cuttings from my father's arbors\u003cbr\u003ewhen he was leaving boyhood,\u003cbr\u003ethe age of you and Shahen now.\u003cbr\u003eHis grandfather's grandfather\u003cbr\u003eplanted the olives,\u003cbr\u003ehis father,\u003cbr\u003ethe apricots.\u003cbr\u003eNothing came free.\u003cbr\u003eNot the millstones.\u003cbr\u003eNot the earth.\u003cbr\u003eNot the sheep.\u003cbr\u003eNot the wheat.\u003cbr\u003eGenerations of sweat.\u003cbr\u003eDon't you ever forget.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGrapevines heavy with fruit\u003cbr\u003ebend over straight wood frames.\u003cbr\u003eSilver olive leaves\u003cbr\u003eshimmer behind them.\u003cbr\u003eApricots blush in the sun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShahen\u003cbr\u003eWhen she's near me,\u003cbr\u003eSosi keeps her head bent\u003cbr\u003eto try to spare me shame.\u003cbr\u003eBut I know she's taller now.\u003cbr\u003eEveryone knows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKevorg used to call us\u003cbr\u003etwin persimmon pits,\u003cbr\u003eJori and Joreni,\u003cbr\u003elike the two smooth brown seeds\u003cbr\u003ehe pulled one day\u003cbr\u003efrom the soft, sweet flesh\u003cbr\u003eof a yellow-orange fruit.\u003cbr\u003eNow he's silent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'll catch up this fall.\u003cbr\u003eBefore the persimmons\u003cbr\u003eripen again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the river,\u003cbr\u003eI'm the smallest.\u003cbr\u003eBut water evens us out.\u003cbr\u003eI swim the currents like a fish,\u003cbr\u003efaster than the fastest Turk,\u003cbr\u003egliding in the waves.\u003cbr\u003eI always win.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy stones skip\u003cbr\u003efar beyond the others.\u003cbr\u003eBounce, bounce,\u003cbr\u003eba, ba, ba,\u003cbr\u003elike the beat of a hand on a drum.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut best is when I float.\u003cbr\u003eMy weightless body\u003cbr\u003estretches\u003cbr\u003efrom one rocky bank\u003cbr\u003eall\u003cbr\u003ethe\u003cbr\u003eway\u003cbr\u003eto\u003cbr\u003ethe\u003cbr\u003eother.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArdziv\u003cbr\u003eI circled above,\u003cbr\u003ewatching Shahen\u003cbr\u003eswim in the river\u003cbr\u003ewith the young drum caps.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFarther up the river,\u003cbr\u003ea small, fat frog, at water's edge,\u003cbr\u003ecaught bugs with his tongue.\u003cbr\u003eA heron soon ate him.\u003cbr\u003eI swooped down and grabbed a fish.\u003cbr\u003eThat's when I saw him,\u003cbr\u003ethat boy, the drum cap\u003cbr\u003ewith the toothy grin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was with the man\u003cbr\u003ewith the red drum cap\u003cbr\u003eand the stiff white beard\u003cbr\u003etrimmed and combed and polished\u003cbr\u003eso it spread out and down,\u003cbr\u003elike the feathers of a tail.\u003cbr\u003eThat man shot my mate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe instant the bullet hit,\u003cbr\u003eshe was gone.\u003cbr\u003eHer flight stopped.\u003cbr\u003eWings limp, she fell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man\u003cbr\u003eclapped the boy\u003cbr\u003eon the shoulders\u003cbr\u003ewhere wings\u003cbr\u003ewould have sprouted\u003cbr\u003ewere he a bird.\u003cbr\u003eThey laughed.\u003cbr\u003eThey watched her fall,\u003cbr\u003eas did I, from our nest,\u003cbr\u003emy talons balled into fists\u003cbr\u003eso as not to harm the chicks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor forty days,\u003cbr\u003emy mate had stayed there\u003cbr\u003eon the nest\u003cbr\u003etill this brood had hatched,\u003cbr\u003ethree eggs this time, with me\u003cbr\u003ebringing all the food\u003cbr\u003eand fresh pine sprigs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne by one,\u003cbr\u003ethe young emerged,\u003cbr\u003ein the order\u003cbr\u003ethey were laid,\u003cbr\u003etheir egg tooth\u003cbr\u003ebreaking\u003cbr\u003ethrough the shell,\u003cbr\u003etheir eyes\u003cbr\u003epartway closed,\u003cbr\u003eno true feathers,\u003cbr\u003ejust gray-white down,\u003cbr\u003eand open mouths,\u003cbr\u003eopen shut,\u003cbr\u003eopen shut.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe would never leave them,\u003cbr\u003ein those early days.\u003cbr\u003eIt takes two full weeks\u003cbr\u003efor eaglets to hold\u003cbr\u003etheir heads up\u003cbr\u003efor feeding.\u003cbr\u003eOpen mouths,\u003cbr\u003eopen shut,\u003cbr\u003eopen shut.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was bigger, swifter,\u003cbr\u003eas are all females of our kind.\u003cbr\u003eBut I was good for my size.\u003cbr\u003eThat year I brought\u003cbr\u003eso much food\u003cbr\u003eno chick\u003cbr\u003ewould need\u003cbr\u003eto eat the other,\u003cbr\u003eso ample\u003cbr\u003ewere my hunts.\u003cbr\u003eYoung rabbit,\u003cbr\u003emarmot, skunk,\u003cbr\u003ewhich she shredded\u003cbr\u003eand fed\u003cbr\u003einto their open mouths,\u003cbr\u003eopen shut,\u003cbr\u003eopen shut.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut eagles suffer\u003cbr\u003ewhen they cannot fly.\u003cbr\u003eAs the young\u003cbr\u003egrew strong\u003cbr\u003eand their wings\u003cbr\u003eexpanded,\u003cbr\u003eand black-tipped feathers\u003cbr\u003ereplaced their down,\u003cbr\u003ethe young ones'\u003cbr\u003eappetites peaked.\u003cbr\u003eIt was time\u003cbr\u003efor her to fly again.\u003cbr\u003eI pushed her\u003cbr\u003efrom the nest\u003cbr\u003eas I had done before.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe flew straight\u003cbr\u003einto a bullet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man and boy\u003cbr\u003eran across the earth\u003cbr\u003eto where she fell,\u003cbr\u003ethe man's red hat\u003cbr\u003ebobbing with each step.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey did not\u003cbr\u003eslash her gut\u003cbr\u003eto find sustaining\u003cbr\u003eblood and muscle.\u003cbr\u003eInstead\u003cbr\u003ethey plucked her,\u003cbr\u003estarting with her wings,\u003cbr\u003eher glorious wings,\u003cbr\u003ethe father\u003cbr\u003eon one side,\u003cbr\u003ethe son\u003cbr\u003eon the other.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEach spread\u003cbr\u003ethe fingers of one hand\u003cbr\u003eacross her skin\u003cbr\u003eto hold it taut\u003cbr\u003eand took feathers\u003cbr\u003ewith the other,\u003cbr\u003eone at a time;\u003cbr\u003etaking hold\u003cbr\u003ethey snapped their wrists\u003cbr\u003ein one direction\u003cbr\u003ealong the axis of its anchor\u003cbr\u003eand then\u003cbr\u003eSNAP\u003cbr\u003eto the opposite side\u003cbr\u003ein an arc\u003cbr\u003eSNAP\u003cbr\u003eto pull it free.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFeather by feather,\u003cbr\u003ethey plucked her\u003cbr\u003enaked,\u003cbr\u003ethe father's\u003cbr\u003ered hat bobbing\u003cbr\u003eup and down\u003cbr\u003eas he worked, laughing\u003cbr\u003ewith his son, rousing\u003cbr\u003ehate inside me for all\u003cbr\u003ethe drum-capped ones,\u003cbr\u003ethe Turks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey didn't eat her,\u003cbr\u003eas a hunter would.\u003cbr\u003eThey laughed\u003cbr\u003eas she fell\u003cbr\u003eto the ground.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey took her quills,\u003cbr\u003epulled them from her\u003cbr\u003eand left her naked\u003cbr\u003efor the vultures,\u003cbr\u003ecarrion,\u003cbr\u003ea thing we eagles\u003cbr\u003ealmost\u003cbr\u003enever\u003cbr\u003etouch.","brand":"Ember","offers":[{"title":"Default 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