THE WANDERERS
Daybreak saw our pretended dervishes ready for their difficult
journey. The bag suspended from Takvor’s shoulder was well filled with
provisions,--pious offerings to Allah’s children, so the innkeeper’s
wife said. Takvor offered his friend his one remaining lira.
“Keep it until we are in trouble,” was the hearty reply. “You may need
it on the way.”
The innkeeper’s wife kissed Armenouhi on her dark-stained cheeks, while
Takvor extended his hand to her husband.
“Not yet,” said the Greek, with a smile; “I am going too;” and leading
them to the window, he pointed to a carriage waiting in the street.
When it was once decided that the young people should travel as
dervishes, he had gone and obtained a passport, as any Greek might
do, to visit Ak Hissar on business. Thus he planned to carry them
the entire distance, excepting past the guardhouses and through the
villages where the passport might be demanded; there they would be
obliged to walk. They were to start afoot, and he would follow,
overtaking them when they had passed the last guardhouse of the city.
Again saying goodby to the innkeeper’s wife, Takvor took the hand of
the blind Armenouhi and led her through the doorway to the street.
Of the few people who were astir in the early morning none seemed to
bestow on them other attention than the look of pity. The soldier on
duty at the first guardhouse merely glanced at them. A porter leaning
against the wall eating his breakfast of stale bread, moved by their
wretched appearance, or attracted by the great green turban, broke his
loaf in two, and gave them the larger part.
“Here, pilgrim, here is half my breakfast for you.”
Takvor mumbled an Arabic blessing that he had learned from his Moslem
playmates of earlier days, and taking the bread, put it into his bag.
When they were leaving the town, the rattling of wheels caught their
attention, and they glanced back to see if the innkeeper was coming. A
carriage was visible in the distance; but far in advance of it was a
man in soldier’s uniform, now rapidly nearing them. Armenouhi’s hand
began to tremble, and on her dark-stained face was an expression of
fear. Again looking back to learn the cause of her agitation Takvor
recognized the approaching soldier as the chaoush. They hesitated a
moment, undecided whether to stand their ground, or to attempt to
escape by flight. Even were a hiding place at hand, he had already seen
them, and could trace them to it. To stand and fight meant an unequal
struggle, for a weaponless boy was no match for an armed soldier.
Takvor held Armenouhi’s hand still tighter, and slowly led her on.
“Be blind,” he whispered; “and be deaf and dumb if he speaks.”
Trembling violently she hung back, and closed her eyes as if to shut
from her vision all that she feared might follow. Takvor grasped his
long stick in preparation for an attack, and led her to the roadside,
where beggars were wont to stand when their superiors passed. Without a
word, without even glancing at the ragged creatures who were paying him
homage, the scowling chaoush hurriedly strode on. Still trembling with
fear, they remained on the roadside and watched the soldier’s rapidly
disappearing form, until the cracking of a whip and the rattling wheels
of a carriage announced the approach of the innkeeper.
“Hey, dervishes,” cried the good-natured Greek, stopping his horse;
“let me help you on your way.”
The two frightened wanderers climbed into the carriage.
Six times that day the dervishes alighted to walk past a guardhouse,
and six times was their friend required to present his passport, while
they went by unnoticed. One guard, perhaps because he was stationed in
a lonely place, rather than because he was moved by charity, invited
them to share the rice which he was preparing. Takvor muttered a
blessing, adding that such food was not for poor dervishes like them,
and led Armenouhi on. When they neared Yeni Shehir, the sun had already
set, and again alighting for the last time that day, they slowly
entered the village.
Following the instructions of the Greek, who had gone ahead, they
walked along the street until they came to the inn where their friend
was standing in the doorway. Without a sign of recognition they passed
within to beg a night’s lodging. A buxom Greek woman, to whom the
innkeeper had explained their coming, received them kindly, and led
them to an inner apartment. When Armenouhi removed her headdress,
she presented a most incongruous picture. The rich hair, knotted on
the top of her head, the gentle blue eyes, and the delicate features
contrasting with the dark-stained skin and ragged costume, caused the
hostess to burst into laughter. The day had been so successful, and
their reception had inspired such a feeling of security, that the laugh
became contagious. And while the little party was gathered about the
dish of steaming rice, they listened to Armenouhi’s rehearsal of the
experiences of the last few days.
The second day on the road was nearly a repetition of the first. The
stableboy at Isnik was surprised when the dervishes offered to pay for
a bed. He led them to the same room they had each occupied.
“What became of your pin, Armenouhi?” Takvor asked, when they were
alone.
“It was in a ribbon about my neck when the chaoush took me away; but
in Brusa it was missing. The loss of it made me sad, for I thought you
were--gone,” she added, hesitating to speak the word of her thought.
“It told me where to find you;” and he produced it from beneath his
ragged coat.
Like the chaoush before him, Takvor securely locked the door from
without, and laid himself down on the floor before it. Late at night,
when the stableboy mounted the stairs and stumbled over him, he was
heard to mumble something about the crazy dervish for whom a bed was
too good. “But perhaps he is doing penance,” he muttered, feeling his
way along to his bed of straw.
The third day’s journey from Isnik to Ak Hissar was short, the
guardhouse on the mountain side presenting the only danger. Starting
early, they soon reached the spring on the mountain top, and there,
within sight of home, they waited in the shade till twilight. When the
first stars were appearing, they made their way down the familiar road,
and with beating hearts, eager, yet dreading to learn the fate of their
people, they silently entered the village. Many of the windows from
which lights should have been shining were dark. Many of the houses
were abandoned; and the streets were deserted, save for a few Turks
idling at the inn. The two dervishes, unobserved in the dark, passed on
toward the lighted window in Dicran’s house. They approached the door.
It was closed, but not locked. Armenouhi, trembling with excitement,
pulled the latchstring, and leading the way across the dark hall to the
door of Dicran’s room, opened it and entered.