The bright, cold autumn orchard on terraces. Beneath the leafless apple trees, along their row, heaps of fallen leaves smoke. Two young pear trees, straight as candles, fountain flame with reddened leaves; the only late sunflower hangs its head. On a bare apple tree a little bird has found the last apple and pecks, beside itself with delight. The dry maize leaves rustle like tin in the light wind.
The old man removes and stacks the props, useless now because they support empty branches. Slowly, tenderly, he stacks them beneath the stone fence and returns for more. Then, faintly and as though from a little distance, he hears the bird that found the last apple chirping. He looks up a long time, finally seeming to struggle to remember something.
He removes the props, carries them to the heap by the wall.
A branch brushes the back of his neck. He strokes it and, at his fingers’ touch, momentarily sees:
A boy of seven or eight with a bowl, crawling on his knees from beneath the butter churn into the sunlight, where a girl of seven or eight stands laughing.
A hand lightly pushes the boy’s nape. White tan, a sour-milk drink, splashes sparkling on the sunny threshold; the laughing girl lifts the bowl to her mouth, the boy rubs his neck and looks back. One of the young women churning butter smiles in the shade inside.
Under the apple tree the old man lowers his hand; the memory’s dull churning splash fades. He murmurs as though towards the vision:
“Mother…”
He removes props, stacks them on the heap.
He shakes the pear trees; leaves fall, and with the shaking he briefly hears an old rustle.
He lights the pear leaves. Now every leaf heap smokes, the vines sway. He approaches the maize stalk, slows and listens.
Dry maize leaves rustle like tin. The rustling grows; with eyes wide open the old man sees:
Now the upright maize field’s “wall” rustles. Sona, anxious and careful, almost touching the “wall”, comes and stops, comes quickly, cautiously, and stops.
The vision has not gone. The old man stands beside the dry stalk, looking with sorrow and happiness. There is not enough air; his lips move, no sound. Leaving the stalk, he advances towards the grape press, the vine by its door.
Leaf heaps smoke; the only late sunflower sways silently. In the light wind the dry maize stalk flutters, the garden gate sings softly as it swings; the thin stream has fallen silent under leaves…
The old man sits on the dry stream’s edge beneath the quartz rock through which its narrow channel passes. As he sits, the girl drinking tan flings the remainder into the face of the boy who gave it. He wipes his eyes; she has set the bowl down and flees.
The old man blissfully wipes his face.
The girl flings the remaining tan and runs. Her hair beating her back is sometimes very near, the boy’s hand almost reaches, then far away. She runs, darts about, multiplies before the old man’s memory into many girls. One runs towards the valley’s only poppy, one climbs wearily out of the valley, one makes faces, another stands with a stripped poppy and shrugs in a sulk. One turns and walks off with a girl’s grace; another backs away, her lips making the same movement. Over all, the old man’s tender whisper:
“Sona…”
Sona is one now, running. Just as she is about to be caught, she falls and cries out.
The old man whispers, “Sona…”
With a child’s play-acting Sona rises with great difficulty; her leg hurts very, very much. She goes away limping badly, then suddenly runs and laughs. Laughing Sona sits by the stream, feet in water. Mud on her nose, she makes devil’s horns and laughs. With a dress over her head, a pretend veil, she plays bride, laughs, pretends to dance a bridal dance. Sona the child plays dead, peering through slits in her eyelids. She does not laugh, has seriously died, definitely died, like this: no movement, that is final. Dilan raises an eyelid, she lowers it again, final. She does not feel his slap, thrusts out nose and chin and is dead. Grown Sona lies dead, no game; women’s voices murmur song and weeping over her. Then Sona the child suddenly springs up, strikes Dilan and runs away.
Sona the child demands. Insistently demands, sulks, moves her shoulders and turns away. Turned away, she secretly smiles.
A stone fence, dry thorny blackthorn bushes over it. Beyond, a low apple tree barely shows, with five or six apples. That is what Sona demands. A shaggy sheepdog dozes beneath it.
Desperate Dilan looks back from the fence. Sulky Sona holds the horses’ reins, demands insistently. If he does not bring them, she will cry.
A few apples on the tree, the sheepdog underneath, no way. It is hot, the surroundings scorched; the only shade is the apple tree’s, and the apples must be delicious. A stone slips beneath his foot, the fearsome dog rises barking, and offended Sona pulls her horse.
In shadowless sun they lead the horses down the ravine. There the horses, snatching water from one another, drain a hollow. Beside a stone they stop; Dilan helps Sona mount, mounts himself, and along narrow bends they climb to the plateau, towards yellow fields.
The fields were hot, radiating warm light. Heat rose from the reapers’ black clothes and buttoned collars, from the woman binding sheaves behind a reaper, who closed one eye, put hands on hips and stood still a long, long time. From the child who had gone for water, swaying somewhere far away, approaching very slowly, no bigger than a beetle. The reaper perhaps wanted to hurry the child angrily, but smiled helplessly and kept reaping.
Sona secretly gave her reaping father one plum. He tried to give it back; she shrugged in offence. He bit half, gave her the other half. She held it, and Dilan never saw whether she ate it then…
They loaded sheaves onto the horses; the children led them away.
The rocky path down and up was narrow. The horses went carefully, unshod on hard, stony ground.
In the ravine, at the old stream’s bed, the horses sought water in vain, tormenting the children too. No water; nothing to do but pull themselves uphill.
The threshing floors lay at the slope’s top, white, white. Oxen circled with threshing sledges, old men circled with them. A man deafened by the winnower smiled at Sona. A nursing mother dozed in a stack’s short shade. A young woman with hot red knees tossed wheat to the wind; the chaff settled very near because there was no wind. The baby cried in the shade; the mother woke and changed breasts. The oxen circled lazily on the terrace-cut threshing floors.
They unloaded the horses, threw sheaves onto the stack, where an older man, buried chest-deep in ears of grain, arranged them and waited for the next, eyes shut, mouth open.
They gathered ropes, tied them to saddles and gave the horses to the children. Sona was by the nursing mother, giving her or the baby something, perhaps half the plum.
They descended one behind the other along the narrow, hot path. The horses sought water again in the ravine, then climbed; Sona slowed and stopped. The whole world’s one desirable thing was that same apple tree, five or six apples. The shaggy ginger sheepdog still dozed beneath it. The children stood long by the fence, looked long at the apples. Moving on with their horses, they kept looking back; those apples were the world’s most desirable thing.
They reached the mounting stone. Dilan tied his horse’s rein to the other saddle, helped Sona mount, then from the stone mounted behind her on that horse’s rump. The world filled with Sona’s hair and neck, then her muffled laughter.
They reached and crossed the fields. Men reaped, women gathered sheaf-sized bundles, men bound them on their return. Sona’s father looked and smiled before swinging his scythe; her mother’s smile behind him remained half-finished. A young man binding sheaves glanced, then watched long. Sona dismounted; Dilan untied his rein. Her mother gave a brief, slightly angry order, resumed gathering.
The young man still watched Sona; her dress was short, did not cover knees now full. Dilan looked at her, at the young man, at her again, seemed to realise Sona was no longer a little girl but a young woman.
They loaded the horses, led them through blazing fields, along the hot path to the hot threshing floor. Oxen threshed, light blinded. A young woman with hot knee-bends raised the winnowing basket overhead, sifted wheat and chaff. The nursing mother gave Sona her baby and spread swaddling cloths in the stack’s short shade. Sona held it close, then away from her chest, frightened and wanting to laugh. Her dress was short, her knees full now.
Near the ravine on the return, Dilan held her horse, helped her mount, meant to tie his rein to her saddle. Sona refused.
“It’s shameful,” she said.
In the fields they loaded horses. Sona led hers; Dilan’s stood without a leader. His father looked: Dilan knelt binding a sheaf tight. He finished, stood it upright and looked at his father, a grown young man now. His mother led the horse; Dilan took his father’s scythe. His father looked doubtfully, smiled; then he was not smiling but seemed to cry. He rose, almost forced the scythe from Dilan’s hand, reaped as though gallant and strong, but with effort. At last he forgot to display his prowess and settled into a quiet rhythm. Dilan stood with hands on hips, thoughtful, then finished binding the cut grain and took the scythe. His father sharpened it and gave it to his son.
He went vigorously, his back broad and eager.
All the reapers and gatherers stood watching him.
One could not tell whether Sona loved him: the light blinded in the hot ripe field, she sat on a sheaf with eyes narrowed. When Dilan sharpening his scythe looked and she realised he had sensed her gaze, she turned her head away.
A stone lay in the field; his scythe struck it. Dilan hammered the damage, sharpened the blade and swung broadly. Another stone; the scythe broke. Holding its broken handle, he turned, angry at his failure and laughing. He saw Sona had watched and looked away.
“Come, come!” they waved from a distant hot field where many men reaped. “I’ll give you a scythe.”
He went. They sharpened one, put it in his hand, set him before them and reaped behind him. They breathed on his back, their panting in his ears. Dilan strained but could not leave them behind; choking heat, blinding light. Air was insufficient, and they pressed and pressed from behind.
Heat and chaff on the threshing floors, the winnower repeating its noise, horses running with the threshing sledges. At the centre Dilan drove them with long reins, the world light and good. With each turn there was the young woman with hot thighs scattering wheat and chaff, the man deafened by the machine smiling kindly, the nursing mother falsely complaining of her child in the shade, women on another floor wiping chaff from necks and breasts, Sona nearby stirring ears of grain with a wooden fork.
The tired horses slowed each round. Dilan whistled, cracked his whip; they quickened a little, slowed again. On one floor a harnessed ox sat and would not rise. A man dragged a full sack; they helped him shoulder it and he went bent beneath. A hairy man by straw rested his fork handle on his chin, looked sadly. The woman scattering grain bent to fill her basket, rose, lifted it overhead and sifted shimmer and rustle. A woman slept in shade with hips raised. A horse was being loaded with large sacks; one overturned over the loader’s head, straw fell, he kept brushing his nape, shoulders and hollow back.
Sona bathed in the little river. Water was scant, the weak waterfall about to fade, the water below shallow. Kneeling there, Sona bathed, now a fully grown young woman. The water pleased her, feeling her body pleased her. She would immerse herself, yet every movement made waves, the pool’s edge might burst and turf fly loose. She bathed cautiously, afraid the turf would wash away, the pool drain and leave her naked as at birth. A stranger’s eye seemed present, someone watching. She leaned back, water up to her throat.
Dilan lowered his head almost into the earth: the stone hiding him was small.
Sona bathed chest-deep, waiting for the pool to break, sensing another gaze. She saw Dilan.
Seeing she had seen him, Dilan stood. Paused, walked stiffly towards the pool where frightened Sona hid her body in water. He stopped beside her clothes but could not look at her; his gaze passed above her and back, he smiled foolishly. She did not smile, waited, her waiting slowly filling with protest. Suddenly, faster than himself, he bent and broke the pool’s mouth. Water rushed out; glancing aside he saw her nakedness slowly emerge in the water, her anger. She stood; he was ashamed before her nakedness and eyes, turned away. Waited, seemed to want to look back, perhaps did, then left.
Sona came out, slipped her dress over her head; little remained to fear or resent. She looked at Dilan standing far away; her womanly smile slowly opened. A missing shoe brought tenderness and love towards him.
One foot bare, she approached. Give it, she asked without asking, protested by asking, resented him, stopped when he stopped backing away, approached when he retreated with her shoe. Give it! Such pride in her request, such love with it. She stopped, came, did not come, grew tenderly angry, smiled with innocent cunning: backing away, Dilan struck a stone and fell.
She weeded with women, saw but did not look at Dilan going hunting. Stood, straightened her aching back, put hair behind her ear, watched him. Bent, glanced sidelong, then secretly. Then one could not tell whether she looked: she weeded head down.
The narrow channel took a trickle from the failing river, carried it over steep slopes between scorched stones, down the ravine, barely out onto the opposite side. That finger of water met a rock blocking the way and fell with it into the ravine. Beyond, Dilan’s orchard awaited water. Dilan was broad-backed and hardworking; what was rock before his will? He pierced the solid, uncracked stone, broke crumbs from quartz. Tirelessly, constantly, evenly sought purchase for the crowbar; quartz yielded crumb by crumb, threw the iron back, groaned dull and unresponsive. In hot sun and stone he struck the same spot. What was stone before Dilan and iron?
At first deceptive, heard as in a dream, then definite and loud, drowning the crowbar’s blows, came and swelled the wedding drum’s merry hail. From far depths rose and spread the zurna’s merry, sorrowful call. Not Dilan’s wedding. His was the crowbar blunting against hot, deaf quartz. He wanted very much to drive it through with one blow, overturn the whole rock. But stone remained stubborn, unresponsive. Threw the bar back; he must come to terms with stone in months and crumbs.
Dilan was as stubborn, his blows as tireless and even. Yet growing louder, savage drum and pagan zurna deafened the world. For a moment overcoming them burst a drunken guest’s ringing cry, like a sneeze: “Ay-shi haa!” The drum beat briskly, the zurna grieved merrily.
Dilan put down his crowbar and stepped with restraint and dignity towards the ravine along the rock. Gravel slipped beneath him; losing himself, he almost rolled down. At the river he passed the rock and climbed along it into the orchard, falling, rising, bent double. Beyond the orchard Sona’s wedding stirred.
Sona cried soundlessly beneath her veil. The groom stood serious and important in the village manner. The wedding sponsor admired his wife’s dance, drew an apple from his pocket, ceremoniously gave it; children perched on fences followed it with their eyes. Sona smiled and cried under the veil. Saw, did not see Dilan, wept eyes lowered. A young guest invited him to dance; others pushed him from behind. Sona looked and did not look. The drum beat hard enough to burst a head; the zurna, like a clown, merry and sad, the young guest cried his “ay-shi haa!”
Dilan broke free of those pulling him into dance and turned back.
He turned: a heavy-jawed forest guard with cap over eyes made his horse leap across the stone fence, back, across again, endlessly. The horse looked donkey-sized under its immense rider, groaned with the leaps. Something dull, animal lay in the drunk man’s fixation and the little horse’s endurance; it seemed this leap would break it. The horse refused; he spurred and whipped, but it collapsed onto the wall. He jumped down heavily, no longer attended to it, came, shoved Dilan aside without seeing and broke the dancing circle.
Sona’s mother, laughing and crying, told Dilan:
“Be merry, dance, why are you sad?”
The man turning the winnower stood on a stone, mouth open, watching and smiling again from his deaf world’s depths.
The musicians began a new tune. The heavy-jawed man with no forehead danced almost without movements, widening the circle by his turns. Something repulsive lay in his dull step and measured “ass-se!” He widened it, stood before Sona, called and drew her to dance; the musicians played a new tune, Sona danced.
Sona danced; no one in the whole world was so enchanting, so dear, so sad.
The groom’s thin-lipped sister turned snake-like with envy, old women wept. The drunk guest suddenly roused and sneezed his “ay-shi haa!” The heavy-jawed man slapped money onto the rough drummer’s forehead. A girl Sona’s age limped round the circle seeking a view. No one was as dear and sad as Sona. Another girl her age stood aside watching Dilan constantly, beautiful and sad, yet none in the world was as desired as Sona.
The heavy-jawed guard gave Sona an apple; Dilan fled the wedding.
He remembered the apple tree with five or six apples, the road, heat, Sona wanting apples.
In the grape press he struck from wall to wall, found no place. The wedding drummed and shrieked with zurna and noise in his head. He covered his ears; now it made noise and grieved far away. He found no split in the earth to hide from the world, no stone to strike his head against. He suddenly howled, fell quiet and looked: the muddled, rough wedding climbed the wooden stairs soundlessly. Entered the house; the balcony was empty, no song or music yet inside.
He slid and sat on the ground, howled without sound. Listening tense with expectation, he saw Sona coming and not coming, asking and not asking for her shoe.
Lying on his belly, he lifted his head, looked from distant worlds: the beautiful, sad girl sat in the press, the wedding sang drunkenly and dully its briskly sorrowful song. He looked and saw Sona circling on the threshing sledge, coming to look, circling noiselessly again, looking with quiet expectation, turning with the sledge and withdrawing.
He raised his head: the press was dark, empty. The wedding sang that same briskly sorrowful song, wishing the groom a fine son, grandfather a fine grandson, grandmother a fine grandson, bride and groom a hundred years of youth, then a good old age.
Then they sang it on the nearby road. Only one window lit the wedding house; they still sang, the window went dark. Dilan screamed because he could not weep like a human being. Only his scream in the silence. He took grass into his mouth, pounded the stone ground, howled dully. Memory stubbornly repeated the song of a fine son and a hundred youthful years.
Someone stroked his head. He lifted it: dawn. His mother stroked it; her kind, sorrowful face became clear, then the world was empty, empty. Wall was wall, vines vines, maize rows grew tall in the orchard, vines thirsty with cracked earth beneath. She set bread before his empty soul. He ate, she watched with a sad smile. Bread tasteless, like her words he did not quite understand.
“I’ve found a good girl for you,” she said with false cheer. “Damn her, a thousand times better. Eat, eat.”
He could eat: the egg broke, peeled, there was salt to sprinkle. Yet memory was about to begin the wedding song. He could straighten, break bread, nod to his mother, chew, but the song rose. The morsel stuck; he could sip water, yet the song hovered. He rose, took buckets and left, unwillingly looking back: Sona swept her new doorway, unadorned, doing nothing remarkable.
He smirked at himself and the world, descended to the river. Took water, climbed the slippery slope, watered vines, descended again. Took water, climbed the narrow slippery path; memory’s wedding song began spreading with a moan. He watered, turned to descend, glanced back.
Sona stood embracing a balcony post, watching. Seeing him look, she entered the house. His whole being descending for water filled with the wedding song.
This time the wedding’s brisk sadness in his soul’s folds and memory was drowned with great difficulty while fighting stone. Hard, uncracked stone threw back iron; crumb by crumb Dilan pierced his stream’s passage.
In hot midday Sona descended to the spring. He saw her from afar, she him. She paused to look, he stopped gnawing stone. From beneath the rock and the riverbank they looked at each other a moment. She carried her water away; he gnawed his hot quartz furiously.
Dilan reaped. Sharpening his scythe, he looked up: Sona carried water to her reaping husband, laughed when he splashed her shoulders. Dilan resumed. Sideling he saw the kind, sad girl carrying water, slowing, wanting him to ask. He asked and joked. Understanding, she smiled sadly; he joked again, splashed her shoulders twice, she laughed musically.
Beside her husband Sona clouded and grew cold.
Dilan reaped nervously, hastily. The kind, sad girl was unnecessary and left confused.
Dilan played tz with the boys: one palm under his other arm, the other hand covering his eyes so he could not see the striker. Waiting, a little afraid, a little smiling. They struck with a dull clap. Now he should turn sharply and find the striker among buzzing boys with fingers raised. He did not turn or lower his hand. They struck again, he did not seek or guess, they struck again. Eyes shut, he did not want to see Sona passing. With the next blow’s shock a tear trembled on his closed lids.
Sona slowed, looked back: they still struck her Dilan. She bit her lip at his pain, closed her eyelids.
The kind, sad girl walked home from a neighbour’s, pretty and good. His mother elbowed Dilan, admired her; he looked sadly and weakly.
He put a ring on the kind, sad girl’s finger. She accepted it reluctantly, eyes lowered.
His mother gazed delighted at bride and son; to her they suited each other perfectly.
The girl’s mother wept silently; her father repeated, “Oh, oh, we should have let the child grow up properly.”
For Dilan’s mother she was grown, suitable; she herself had found her. With restrained liveliness she pushed her son outside and followed.
He came through the gate and froze. In the orchard’s corner stood Sona, dying of jealousy. She looked at him, he at her, and for both the whole world lacked air. Then he walked, not walking himself, but pushed by his mother.
Under the hot rock he fought quartz, sensed Sona near. Listened: profound silence. Put down iron and descended beside the rock.
On the other side Sona descended for water, heard his blows. They ceased; she knew he came down the other side. They sensed each other’s steps, breath, heartbeat.
Sona stopped, Dilan stopped. He stood waiting, waiting, waiting, turned back.
She heard his dull blows and descended for water.
The spring trickled thinly, thinly. Sona could not help looking at Dilan gnawing stone nervously and quickly. He broke off briefly, said with false cheer:
“How are you, Sona?”
Sad Sona shrugged, did not answer.
“I’m well,” he laughed at himself.
“Be well,” she said, eyes cold.
“The world is big,” he laughed at himself.
She was silent, then whispered, “I don’t know.”
He gnawed stone, she stood by the spring, then took her water. Dilan slipped or lay down, took the iron into his mouth and fell still. Quartz hard and motionless, Dilan motionless upon it.
In the press Dilan rose, drank a bowl of new wine, emptied black grapes into the stone vat. The gun hung on the wall. He brought and emptied a second basket, content with grapes, world, himself, his rolled-up legs. Washing them, he hummed a brisk tune sung many times, slow to leave him that day. Juice stained legs and hand, trickled into the deep, hollow karas jar, ringing and breaking softly inside.
Outside in autumn sun a bird found a plum among yellow leaves, pecked bursting with delight. He came for another basket; it still pecked. Smiled, took the basket in, returned, filled it. Looking up, saw Sona watching from the path. She carried water home.
He emptied grapes, began treading, saw Sona embracing the balcony post, looking towards the press. She seemed to sense he saw her through the crack and went inside.
He trod, seemed to forget her, hummed briskly, but his cheer faded as memory of the wedding song muddied his mind.
Sona again embraced the post, watched the press.
Dilan stopped treading.
She grew confused, went inside. Their house looked with dark window hollows; then Sona appeared, barely, appeared and leaned on the sill.
He turned his back, trod quickly. What did he need another man’s wife for? His was the stone vat, grapes hard to crush, sticking to his feet and joining toes. His sweat, this heat. He removed his shirt, trod long, slowly, continuously. Looking through the crack, saw her absent from window and doors. A hay-laden horse crossed the road; its owner followed looking at something.
In the little apiary her husband lifted a hive roof and folded its cover back. Took a honeycomb frame, turned it in sunlight, replaced it. Sona stood with the smoker, looked towards the press. He spoke; she roused from thought and worked the bellows. His irritated mutter sounded: “As if elsewhere, elsewhere.”
Dilan slammed the vent shutter, trod grapes. It swung open itself; he slammed it again and sat thoughtfully on the vat’s edge.
The gun hung on the wall. Leave the press, fly out towards space and freedom. Distant slopes blue, forest edge visible, reaped fields glittering. Quails sang dully: kakh-kgha, shakh-kgha, kakh-kgha. An eagle quietly circled the same circuit in the white sky.
Dilan grew irritated and left the vat, left the press:
Sona embraced the post and watched. He saw her, she him, but she did not enter and he stood. She descended step by step, disappeared, reappeared holding one end of a saw. With her husband she cut wood beyond the fence.
Dilan adjusted the gun and left the orchard for the road. Sona and her husband worked the saw.
He adjusted the gun, went slowly, unwillingly. Turned through the cemetery where children played hide-and-seek and a tethered horse grieved, reached the plateau with fields glittering in autumn sun.
There was the mounting stone, where they once shared a horse. The rosehip bush with one white flower, the only flower in the dry world. Children Dilan and Sona had run from afar to pick it but could not: thorns kept them away. They circled long and never picked it. When he drew the branch with a stick and was about to pick it for her, it sprang free and shed its petals.
Now with barrel and foresight he drew and held perhaps that same branch, which bore one flower and shed it. Bare, thorny now.
Quails sang in the autumn fields. Almost beneath his feet a family sprang up and arced with dull wingbeats over reaped fields.
He followed their flight, they must be nearby. Approached carefully, they arced again and settled far away. He approached, aimed; the fat quail almost within the sight’s ring rose with dull wingbeats and left.
“Kakh-kgha, kakh-kgha…” One sang close, directly in his ears; he could not find it. It fell silent at the last moment. He almost found it, but it sprang from underfoot and vanished. He aimed, the seeming-visible quail disappeared. Rose from his knees, shouldered the gun, heard a shot. All the quails rose, wheeled, settled and fell quiet.
He thought, could not understand the shot. Entered autumn forest thoughtfully, through knee-deep leaves whispering and rustling. Parting them, reached a clearing and listened. About to step, heard a shot; pheasants crossed the clearing. He did not understand and entered the forest.
Loose sandy soil slipped beneath his feet. He climbed the short steep rise with difficulty. His head above its edge, briefly saw seeming pheasants; next moment gone as he slid back. Barely suppressing a joyful cry, he waited, strained not to pant, flat and careful, fought the loose slope. Birds reappeared, disappeared with his slipping. He clung as though to himself and, whether the gold-coloured pheasant had entered the sight or not, fired. Earth slipped, he slid. With knees, elbows, gun butt, nose and mouth clinging, he reached the top: the bird lay, head raised. Without standing he crawled, reached a hand, soil slipping again, touched it. It fluttered and flew. Wingbeats, then nothing; it had not been and was gone. He looked at its place, saw a hoof sidelong, seeming false, a trick. Looked along its flight, back: a hoof. Slowly raised his eyes, the forest guard’s horse, boot in stirrup, whip beside it. The heavy-jawed man said and did nothing. Then sharply burned Dilan’s thinly covered back, did nothing again. Suddenly whipped again, the lash wrapped his face. Urged the horse near, adjusted, struck; the horse trod on his foot. Riding was awkward, he dismounted and struck repeatedly. “My game! My game!” Nothing else intelligible, only growls and bellows. “My game!” He struck Dilan’s head with the handle, irritated that he swayed but did not fall. Dilan knelt, went on all fours and lay down.
When he raised his head the man swayed away into dark forest. The horse’s rustle faded, ceased; silent silence filled the world. Dilan felt beneath his eye a tingling darkness and swelling. Stroked it, sat below a stone, tried to sit on it, slipped and fell. Tried again, could not. Tried leaning, but his back hurt at the touch. Swayed, smiled foolishly, tried to stand, stood motionless.
Beside the rock the old man sits rubbing beneath his eye. The past’s heavy memory is hard, he will not raise his head. Eyes shut, he shakes his head, wants to deny the memory, not remember, wants it never to have been. Yet it happened, and beneath the eye still hurts. He strokes it, then slowly, as from a distant world, somehow dully, smiles. The smile opens slowly.
Dilan raised his head; the man swayed with the horse from the white-bright clearing into darkness. Horse rump thick, rider’s back broad. Rustle faded, ceased, silent silence everywhere. Dilan felt tingling darkness and swelling under his eye, stroked it, sat beside stone. Tried sitting on it, slipped, tried again, slipped. Leaned, but his back hurt rubbing stone. Unsupported, swayed and smiled bitterly. By effort and will stood so as not to fall, swayed but stayed upright. The guard’s shot burst and echoed in the forest; Dilan began walking.
Descended the narrow rocky path, light blinding, walking difficult. At the stream removed his shirt, wanted immersion, but water barely anointed face, chest, back striped blue.
He slept by the river, woke at night with aching head. Climbed out painfully. Crickets sang, moon large and round, a bird cried in distant forest.
Beneath the rock he struck a few times with the bar, threw it down, cursed or protested.
Entered orchard and press, drank new wine, flung the bowl. Rushed out, found nothing to do. Stopped unwillingly at their lit window and stood long. Crickets sang, moon large and round, a bird cried. Their light went out, the world dark, nightbird crying, tethered horse grieving beyond the fence, Dilan lost in the orchard.
Dawn: he lay in maize broken around him, at first not understanding why. Rubbed his face, felt pain beneath his eye. Smiled at failure, rose to work, trod grapes.
Sona embraced the post. He smirked bitterly at her and himself, trod head down, tirelessly, monotonously.
She left it, moved towards the stairs, descended one by one, resolute, driven. Sometimes hesitated without stopping, descended slowly. Disappeared at the turn, appeared by their fence, crossed the road, opened his gate.
He trod fast, fast. His was the heavy sticky juice, vat, sweat, burning back. Everything else he rejected, rejected. Fast, fast, fast.
Maize stalks rustled. Sona came through them carefully, quickly, slowly, coming and not coming. Emerged towards the press; baskets by its door, vine, press, bucket, bright sun, reddening pepper were familiar and dear. Door and threshold too. She entered full of love, weeping, longing, fear and desire for Dilan. He sat on the vat’s edge, looking repellingly.
“Why have you come?” he said without blinking, then blinking. “Why cry? Am I your husband, father, brother? Why cry here? You have home, place, husband, father, brother; cry with them. What am I to you?” He shut his eyes against everything. A howl began from his soul’s depths. Eyes shut he left the grapes, went towards her and collapsed upon her. The soul’s howl had no space. He restrained it but could not, could not; it moaned briefly in inner folds, then foamed again and filled him.
Sona wept quietly, cherished her beaten Dilan. Weeping over wounds and calming back, she murmured, “The girl is good, marry her, Dilan,” waited for him to reject it, wished to rise and go. Weak Dilan did not hold her, but was not asleep.
When she looked back from the door, his eyes were raised and red. He saw her departing through maize, going and not going, slowing and hurrying.
Firm on both feet, he left, took the bar, shattered himself, iron and stone, tired, broken, crumpled into a weak rag. Sitting to rest, could not endure stillness, continued shattering himself, iron, stone, wearily, evenly, weakly, endlessly, to the years’ end. Sat down to rest grown old…
Sona withdrew through maize, swayed, stopped, went quickly, swayed again. Went, swayed, stopped as though to return, then slanted and sped to the gate. Quickly, slowly, swayed, stopped as though turning back, did not, left for ever, yet slowed and seemed to look back.
The old man sits in autumn sun by the old stream. Memory dissolves before him; the lone dry maize stalk rustles metallically. Leaf heaps smoke, orchard bare, sunflower bowed. A beautiful passenger plane descends, growing loud, raining roar on autumn earth. Passes above Dilan, now distant, engines inaudible, descending silently, mysteriously. Nearby a pocket radio catches and loses music. Boys pass beyond the fence with soft sports shoes over shoulders; one carries a ball on his head while walking. The radio catches and releases music again. Another kicks the ball off his head, breaks away, dribbles, feinting to himself. The owner catches him, takes it after a brief tussle, tosses it onto his head. They pass; the radio finds their music.
The old man sits by the rock’s crack, water trickling thinly.
They brought hay from the mountains. Sona’s husband stood on the cart, she forked hay up. Hard work: summer heaps packed tight, difficult to detach, the cart almost full, high to lift. He arranged, trod it, waited with fork handle at his chin.
Heaps covered the plateau, carts loaded in several places.
Hanging on the rope, Dilan tightened a tie beneath his cart, threw rope over hay, pulled and fastened the other side. Looked: Sona struggled between heap and cart, her husband on the half-load.
Gloomily he twisted and tightened the lengthwise rope with a lever, tucked it under another tie, looked again. She could not tear hay loose; he waited above.
Dilan drove oxen; the cart started hard, rolled easily downhill, then uphill, oxen straining step by step. At the top Sona still fought the heap. He stopped beside them, blocked a wheel with a stone, went for her fork. She refused.
“Leave it, Dilan, leave it.”
He drew back briefly, almost snatched it, thrust into hay. Her husband watched and said kindly, joking, affectionately:
“She won’t die, Dilan, leave her.”
“If she dies, she dies,” he said casually, shook the heap loose, shouldered and lifted it. Turned for the rest: Sona extracted a thorn from her finger, unsuccessfully. Tried teeth, fingers, looked at him. No love, tenderness towards him, no womanliness at all in her gaze.
His fork in the hay, he watched her biting the thorn. Her husband said:
“Well, is it hard?”
“If she dies, she dies,” Dilan said, forked the heap.
She gathered remnants, threw them up and led the oxen to another heap.
“Isn’t it enough?” Dilan said.
“They won’t die,” her husband answered.
Dilan stood thoughtful, echoed aloud, “If they die, they die.” Suddenly went to seize her fork, but she said roughly:
“Your cart’s tied, go.” Her work was rough, she was rough too.
Grimacing, he removed the stone, climbed aboard, drove oxen. Life was so incomprehensible he grimaced on the cart.
Distant mountains snowy in sunlight, plateau shaded and cold, fewer heaps, loaded carts swaying far away. He looked back:
Sona forked hay upwards. Her husband arranged and waited, fork at chin; she struggled with the dense heap.
A sun blade pierced the plateau through leaden clouds.
“Was she pregnant?” he suddenly understood. “Seemed pregnant.” Brought his cart to the edge: below in the deep ravine’s ginger bottom lay the village, evening bells above it, sounding sometimes distant, sometimes near.
He locked wheels with levers through spokes into hay, to stop them turning downhill, descended with locked wheels.
Evening bells. A lever broke but the cart did not overturn. The other slipped out; it rolled fast, oxen unable to hold. Dilan pushed back with all his strength, pleaded and threatened them: “Eesh, eesh!” Hay towered above his head. “Eesh!” he cried and begged helplessly.
From deep silence the world woke with soft rustling. Far away a woodpecker drummed its hollow, a nearby cricket sang, ceased, sang again. Heavy dull rumbling came, ceased, continued. He opened his eyes: an ox’s head chewed before them. Woodpecker distant, cricket singing, deep beastly groan and rattle from afar. He turned: Sona silently wept above him.
He closed his eyes, heard her tears; opened them, she wept.
Sat up: cart tilted, one ox freed beside him, the other sprawled choking in its yoke under the cart. Her husband struggled to free it. She wept and smiled through tears.
He rose, led the free ox by its ear to the cart. Together, almost dying of effort, they raised the front, harnessed it, fixed the wheels and descended slowly towards the still-ringing village.
“Has someone died?” her husband called from before his cart.
Silence, then Dilan said:
“I was to die, but unfortunately didn’t.”
Sona descended beside him, silently, then said:
“I don’t know, Dilan, I don’t know.”
“Your wife’s a crybaby,” he said later. “No use.”
“I say so too,” her husband called. “Want to turn her out.”
“Do, what do you need her for?” Dilan replied later. “Quarrelsome.”
They descended beside each other behind the other cart. It stopped, they almost met its hay. Sona wept softly. Her husband grunted, adjusted something, then answered:
“Yes, she’s worn my life out. I’ll turn her out, bring a proper wife.”
Later Dilan said, “When?” and closed his eyes.
“When I finish bringing hay,” the husband said.
They descended long in silence, Sona weeping. Behind, Dilan spread his arms on the yoke and replied very late:
“You’ll do right. What use is she?”
The husband fell silent, not understanding.
“What?” he called. “What will I do right?”
Dilan echoed late again:
“I don’t know. Don’t know, don’t know.”
They never saw each other again from as close as they stood now.
Dilan gnawed stone, Sona carried water. Then he raised his head: an old woman carried water.
At the smithy he and the smith fitted a wheel rim; Sona passed far away.
Slightly drunk, he played lakht with boys. Far away a woman speaking to another seemed Sona. He strained but could not tell. They snatched the strap beneath his feet and struck his back.
Then Sona died. Her mother, mother-in-law, women, those merry at her wedding murmured song and tears around her. Her husband sat against the wall as if struck on the head. The guard was solemnly sad, stood motionless, suddenly turned and collapsed upon Dilan. Dilan supported him, gave water in another room where people already discussed their business. The guard joined them. Dilan brought water to Sona’s husband, who took it and looked uncomprehendingly. Led him to the balcony, leaned on railings; somehow Dilan embraced Sona’s post, looked at orchard, press, vent, saw himself writhing there, heard the sorrowful wedding song. Saw her asking for the shoe, heard the merry-sad song. Saw her at the post, heard it; saw her speaking to a woman, knew it had been Sona, talking and watching him play, heard the song.
Mouth open he begged for air, none. The guard whispered, “Have they dug the grave?” Dilan descended step by step, took spade and pick. Her husband stumbled down, seized the spade, howled, “Don’t take her!” Dilan embraced and stroked gently, the guard led him upstairs.
Alone in the sunny yard, then outside. Children on fences watched the house of death, dear to him. He went along the hot sunny road.
Lying down, measured the place by his height, dug. Hard earth resisted spade and pick, threw it back, he struck. Dug, threw soil out, vanished inside, threw last spadefuls, pick, spade out, did not emerge.
The procession came.
He stood in the grave, tried to leave, could not. Smiled weakly at the distant procession bringing his great, luminous Sona, smiled again, tried and failed. Folded, half sat, half fell to the bottom.
The procession arrived, grew great; black-clad mourners surrounded luminous Sona. Rain rattled. In an instant they buried her, levelled earth and left, taking her backward-looking husband and mother.
Dilan sat among gravestones in rain, smiled weakly.
He smiled just so at his own wedding, the furious drum hailing directly in his ears, drunken guest crying his sole talent, “ay-shi-ha!”, kind sad girl weeping silently, guard jumping his horse over the fence, mother a grand lady in her happiness. Everything the same. Children ran beside them, perched on fences, watched apples turning above guests’ heads. A girl a little like Sona burst with desire to watch, unable to climb. The clownish zurna still scattered great joy, one wanted to smile and cry out, but Dilan could not. Everything the same; that young man stunned and sad, perhaps loving the bride. Dilan understood, grieved his grief. The bride was good, her dance beautiful. He loved her, loved the guard making her dance, but that clownish weeping seized his throat; he smiled sadly, kindly.
Aside, Sona’s black-clad mother watched and wept; again he lacked air.
The drunken guest recalled his sole gift, cried “ay-shi-ha!” His cry heated the tune and dancers.
Inside they ate, drank, sang the same song of a hundred youthful years, then old age. Hot for Dilan, chokingly hot.
He went out, lost in the yard, outside. The sad youth leaned on the fence looking up; above they sang every wedding’s same song dully.
He approached lost; the youth looked from far worlds’ depths, did not see him. Together they leaned, looked up towards the wedding singing a hundred years of youth. Turned their backs, followed the dark road. Dilan leaned into the karas, drew wine, gave it; leaned again with bowl, drank himself. Far away like dull murmuring they sang a hundred years forever young, then old.
In the house they sang a hundred youthful years, voices hoarse, children dozing on sills. Music muffled as through sleep. The drunk recalled his gift, “ay-shi-ha!” They roused and half-laughed, then one saw, everyone saw the groom was absent.
“The groom’s run away!” they laughed. The bride was anxious.
“The groom’s run away!” they laughed.
The groom was in the cemetery, embracing Sona’s stone, his head on it. White, freshly cut stone. He was as still as it, face and eyes still, looking from the other world’s depths. Distant wedding song; then nearer, scattered, perhaps a guest outside. Then clear: “The groom’s run away, run awa-ay!”
Looking from that other world, Dilan lived his whole life. Pierced stone, mowed hay, trod grapes, ate his wife’s bread, looked without understanding at Sona’s husband’s new soundless wedding, emerging suddenly from a street corner, passing like a silent dream. They danced, the guard jumped his horse, groom smiled at Dilan, drummer drummed, all silent. A woman’s dance, arms raised, stayed long in memory.
Spellbound he wanted to follow; his wife gently held him. He stopped, they walked together looking opposite ways, as though offended.
So he sits now beneath the rock by the stream’s passage. Autumn, light wind, orchard shedding leaves, heaps smoking, dry maize stirring. All silent like distant snowy sunlit mountains, silent as for the deaf. He rises, walks gently through the orchard, closes its gate, goes downhill. Life passes silently beside him: cyclists soundless, beautiful passenger plane soundless in descent, city lying sunlit in the valley soundless, brim-full canal flowing silently. Beneath a light structure they eat ice cream silently. Talk, walk, cross streets, laugh, talk silently. Huge trucks carry concrete structures silently. A kindergarten crosses the street silently. The world seems to move behind glass.
Quietly the old man hears his old maize rustling and the old wedding song of a hundred youthful years. He goes slowly with his quiet song.