Archag, the Little Armenian

by Charles H. Schnapps

The sun had just risen, and its first rays were gilding the blue waters of the lake. After following the shore for two hours, our travelers began to ascend toward the higher ranges of mountains. Archag was leaving Van for the first time, and his eyes were charmed by the beauty of the landscape. At this season the vegetation was wonderfully luxuriant; the horses now trod on carpets of hyacinths and wild tulips, or again, they pressed their way between hedges of yellow eglantine. Great blue-green butterflies chased each other, flitting from flower to flower. Presently the travelers entered an immense tract of pine forest, and the horses neighed with content as they sniffed the good resinous odors. Occasionally, their way was impeded by a stream, swollen to a torrent by the snows of spring. The water leaped over huge bowlders, sweeping along in its mad course the trunks of ancient pines weary of battling against the elements. At this time of year it was often difficult to find a ford, and when his horse had bravely gone breast-deep into the stream, Archag, confused by the deafening noise of the water, would be seized with dizziness, close his eyes and cling to his Mustang. But what joy to arrive safe and sound on the other side! He would dry himself in the sun, and then go on his way. Toward evening, they observed, far away to the north, an isolated cone of purest white, rising above the dark mountains which loomed up all around, and glistening in the sunlight.

“Ararat!” cried Boghos Effendi, pointing it out to his companions.

Ararat! What memories the name awakened in Archag’s mind! He gazed with awe at this storied mountain, which was said to have been the northern boundary of the earthly Paradise, and the resting-place of Noah’s Ark. Presently it vanished in the clouds, and the little boy had a fancy that now, after having bounded the Garden of Eden, it was about to become part of the heavenly Paradise.

Soon after this, they arrived at a khan (a sort of inn), and on entering the courtyard they found the place in a state of great excitement. The harem of the kaimakan (governor) of Erzeroum had just arrived, and the ladies, veiled in black from head to foot, were hurrying out of their carriages, and gliding into the house like shadows. Eunuchs followed carrying their baggage, and the sight of these supercilious-looking black men made Archag draw closer to his father. At the farther end of the courtyard there were merchants engaged in unloading their camels; they stacked against the wall great bales of rugs, woven in far-away Kurdistan, which they were taking to Trebizond. From there the Kurd rugs would go to Europe and find their places in the homes of rich people in Paris or London.

In front of the house some Gregorian priests, returning from a pilgrimage to Echmiadzin, were drinking coffee and smoking narguilehs (water-pipes). They were sitting on the ground around a mangal,[3] for in Armenia the nights are still very cold in the month of May. Boghos Effendi approached them to kiss their hands, as a mark of respect due to hadjis (pilgrims), whereupon the priests received him in a friendly way, and made room for him by their side.

Night had fallen, a dark night, with no moon. The other travelers drew near to the pleasant warmth of the mangal. There they all were: the Armenian pilgrims, the Kurd merchants, the Turkish pashas with their suite, traveling on official business, an old Persian on his way to Angora, and the camel-drivers, with their weather-stained faces, chewing balls of resin, without pause. Pretty soon, an Arab, a native of Bagdad, began to tell a story worthy of a place in “The Arabian Nights.” Except for his voice there were no sounds but the bubbling of the narguilehs or the distant cry of a hyena lying in wait for prey. Our friend Archag, sitting beside his father, with his pretty red slippers placed in front of him, heard the monotonous drone of the story-teller as if in a dream. The gurgling of a camel roused him from his drowsiness for an instant, but he soon relapsed into the blessed sleep of childhood. His father had to take him up in his arms, and lay him as he was, all dressed, on the bed which had been prepared for him.

Boghos Effendi stayed several days at Bayazid, a fortress on the Russian frontier, crowning a great rock; and here Archag was much impressed by the Tartars, with their high boots, their poniards at their side, and their tall Astrakhan caps. These men spent their evenings in wild rides about the valley below the town, flourishing their sabers above their heads, and uttering shrill cries which re-echoed from the great rocks. But the boy was beginning to grow impatient at the length of the journey, so he was very glad when his father told him that they were to leave Bayazid the next morning, and would arrive at their destination two days later.

The country now was quite barren and uncultivated; from time to time they would meet a Kurd shepherd, clad only in a sheep-skin, who cast unfriendly glances at them. Everyday, at noon, the travelers stopped near some spring to eat their luncheon; then, wearied by the long hours in the saddle, they would stretch themselves out and take a good nap, before proceeding on their journey.

This hour of quiet was the hardest part of the day for our friend Archag; he hated to sleep, and his father had strictly forbidden him to roam about. The two zaptiehs used to snore away with a good conscience, without compunction, and Krikor would respond to them with a nasal grunt very much like a pig. Usually, Archag amused himself by plucking a spear of grass and tickling the sleepers under their noses; sometimes, to give variety to his diversion, he would pinch the tips of their ears or pull their hair. Then the men would swear in their sleep, turn over, or strike out into the air with their fists, to the great amusement of the culprit. Luckily for him, they never woke up, or they would have made him pay well for his impudence.

Now, on the second day after leaving Bayazid, Archag found no amusement in his usual sport; he was bored, and began to throw stones at the cones on the pine-trees. He seldom missed his aim, and gave a shout of triumph whenever a cone fell to the ground. In the midst of this sport a slight noise above his head made him look up, and he saw a pretty brown squirrel perched on the branch of a tree. The little creature looked at him in a mocking way, then sprang to another tree, and the boy followed him softly, forgetting all his fine resolutions.