Bosphorus Rose

مقدّمة

Bosphorus Rose

Prologue

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"It wouldn't flow, the Danube said,

Wouldn't ravage its surroundings, it said.

The most venerable Osman Pasha

would never abandon Plevne, he said."

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Rumelia, 1877

The boy with the red fez didn't understand what was going on – all he knew was that he was tired, hungry and cold.

He didn't understand why his mother was in such a hurry. She told the children that they were going on an adventure, but what kind of adventure was it if everyone looked so sad?

And why would they decide to go for a trip in the freezing winter? The boy shivered underneath his blanket. The cart was rickety and the frozen road bumpy. But Mother told him that the trip was going to be worth it. They'll finally get to see Constantinople, she told them. The tall spires, the spice bazaars, the waterfront. And the ships! They'll get to count the ships passing by in the Bosphorus.

He had asked where Father was, right before leaving.

She didn't answer.

Down the winding road, as far as his eyes could see were people, all headed through the valley surrounded by the mountains. Some were on carts, some were on horseback, others were on foot. Were they all going on an adventure too? Old men with red turbans and greying beards, women in their white veils huddling crying babies to their chest, children staring into the empty distant, their eyes vacant and blank.

They sat there in their cart, trudging down the column. He wanted to go home. He wanted to huddle in bed while his mother tucked him in. He wanted to wake up the next morning and throw open the windows and breathe in the aroma of freshly baked bread like he usually did.

He wondered what Constantinople would be like. Would the people still flash him a kindly smile when he walked past? Would there be the same smell of bread from the bakery in the morning? Would the sweets from there still melt in his mouth?

His younger brother had fallen asleep between him and his mother. He had been crying ever since they left. Mother didn't pack his favourite toy.

But the boy didn't cry. His father had told him that he was going to be a man. And that men had to be brave. Men had to protect the ones they loved.

Father told him to protect his mother and brother, rubbing his head and holding him tight. He told him that he was a man now, his brave little lion. Mother was crying that night. She tried to hide it, but he had seen the tears running down her pretty face.

He didn't understand anything. All he knew was that all of a sudden the bells were ringing and him and his family were on the cart out of the town. He wondered if there were bells in Constantinople. He'd hear them every Sunday, from the large Orthodox church built on the rocky cliffside. He liked the town, it was where he was born and raised. He'd never seen the world beyond the little valley he called home.

It would be much nicer if they travelled later in the year, in the spring or summer, he thought to himself. The sun would be shining brightly and the valley would be teeming with life. He would be listening to the sounds of the birds chirping and the leaves rustling in the wind. Instead, all there was to see now were the dead trees and bare hills, even the sun was blocked out by the light snowfall. And at the very least, if they left in the spring he wouldn't be so cold. Underneath his blanket, he shivered.

But it could be worse, the snow could be heavier.

He was about to drift off to sleep when the cart came to a halt. He opened his eyes in a flurry. Have they finally arrived? He looked around but all he saw was the same snow-covered mountains flanking the valley. Their cart had stopped over a long stone bridge overlooking the river below.

His mother craned her neck to try to take a better look at what was happening, and the boy did the same. He couldn't see much, save for the long line of carts and people in front of him.

And it was then when he heard it – the unmistakable sound of gunfire, those loud bursts piercing through the frigid winter air. Then the screaming started.

The boy didn't know what was happening, his mother grabbed him by his arm, and soon he was on his feet. The chaos engulfed him. People were tripping over each other as shouts and cries filled the air. Bullets whizzed past him as he ran. To his left, he saw an old woman in a colourful headscarf drop to the ground, the snow-covered earth beneath her stained red. A girl beside her screamed as she threw herself on the ground next to her, desperately clawing at her shawl. It had red roses embroidered over it, just like the red blooms blossoming over the pure white snow.

The refugees scattered in all directions, running for the hills in a panic. The boy and his mother scampered down the road, little brother in tow. The younger boy was crying. He was scared.

The boy turned to look behind. He could see the men on horseback in their olive uniforms and fur hats, some brandishing swords and others firing rifles. He was tired but he knew he had to run, as fast as his legs could carry him.

They tried to run towards the west, in the direction of where they came from, but more soldiers arrived, cutting off the refugees' escape. They had no choice.

People began clambering over the railing, old men, little girls, women huddling babies to their chest. The boy stood over the edge, peering down at the river below. The water was roaring underneath them, ravenous for flesh.

The boy's heart raced in his chest. He was terrified, but what choice did they have? In the corner of his eye, he noticed people beginning to jump.

He had to brave. He was the man of the house now. He was his father's little lion.

He linked arms with his mother, as she held the younger boy with her other hand. She turned to look at her oldest son, her dearest boy. He could see her lips curling into a smile underneath her translucent veil, fluttering in the wind.

The boy smiled back. He had to be brave.

He could hear the horses galloping in the background, the shouts and screams getting closer. He couldn't help but feel the fear overcome him.

The boy closed his eyes, and a vision of his family together flashed before him, a warm memory of a moment he that wished would last forever. They were together in the valley, down by the bank of the river. They were all happy back then, at that picnic back in spring. The endless sky was clear and the valley was filled with life. His mother had spread a mat amongst the wildflowers and sat there with a cup of tea, her legs stretched in front of her as she enjoyed the breeze. His younger brother was off to the side, chasing butterflies as his laughter filled the air.

As for the boy, he was standing by the bank as his father thought him how to skip stones. He remembered his father's warm smile, encouraging him as he tried again and again until he finally did it. He almost gave up, but his father's patience helped him through.

"I know you had it in you," he said, rustling his hair. "My little lion."

The boy's lips curled up into a small smile recalling those pleasant memories. He knew he had to do his father proud. He was his brave little lion after all.

On their mother's word, the three of them jumped.

They had nothing to lose – after all, everything that they held dear was gone.