Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

You are sleeping with your head on my lap. Who are you? What kind of sleep is this? You are bleeding. In the village, they used to a say a wounded man should not sleep. There were always people being shot; by soldiers, by the guerrillas, because of vendettas or land disputes … They used to try to keep the wounded awake. They wouldn’t let them lose consciousness. They used to call it the sleep of death. Is this your sleep of death? How were you shot? Who are you? It is almost dark in here; I can’t quite see your face. I’m feeling with my fingertips to get an idea of what you look like. I’m stroking your hair. I don’t want you to die. I don’t want to remain here all by myself. I’m frightened.

When he woke up or came round, his head was still buried in that soft, warm pillow. Someone was gently stroking his hair as his mother used to do. At first he thought he was dreaming. He was in pain, his shoulder was killing him and there was no sensation in the fingers of his wounded arm. He tried to straighten up and work out where he was. The pain shot into his chest, making him moan. He made another attempt to get up. It was then that he saw the girl.

‘Tu birîndarî, tu ji ser hişê xewê, çû û kete xewê. You are wounded. You passed out here, fell asleep,’ says the girl in Kurdish. Her voice flows softly like limpid waters or snow melting in the spring.

It is then that Mahmut understands that he is where he shouldn’t be. So I couldn’t make it to the woods. I fell where I was. And what about this girl? He can’t bring himself to ask if she is some sort of a sprite. If I do, she will think I’m afraid. He tries to get up, leaning on her for support.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Whatever it is that you are doing, I’m doing the same.’

Well, just look at her! Mahmut adds a wry smile to his voice. ‘So were you in the fighting, too?’

‘No, I’m running away. I’m hiding.’

He is surprised at the reckless tone in the girl’s voice. He can’t work out whether it shows courage or merely indifference to her fate.

‘How can you talk like that without knowing who or what I am? Aren’t you afraid I might turn you in?’

‘No. You’re obviously a fugitive, too, and you’re wounded. You won’t harm me.’

‘Where are you running to? Who are you running from? You’ll be prey to wolves and vultures in these mountains and caves.’

‘The wolves and vultures have long since eaten. They won’t bother me.’

He doesn’t understand what she means. His arm hurts, and he feels faint. I mustn’t pass out, I mustn’t faint, I mustn’t stay in this cave. And as if that isn’t enough this mysterious girl has sprung out of the blue. He can barely see the girl’s face in the dim light of the cave as she tries to place her arm behind his head to keep it from coming in contact with the rock. Am I dead and in paradise? He slightly lowers his eyelids, deliberately…

‘You are wounded,’ she repeats, like the clear water that skims over pebbles. ‘Are you from the mountain?’ she asks. ‘Many bullets were fired. There was a lot of shooting. I could hear it even from here.’

‘Yes, I’m one of the hevals. I got shot and rolled down the hill.’ He doesn’t tell her the truth. He doesn’t say I was running away from the mountain.

‘I had a brother on the mountain.’ Her voice is broken, sad and full of reproach. In spite of his pain, his exhaustion, his stricken heart, Mahmut notices the tremor in the girl’s voice. Her brother must be dead, he thinks. He doesn’t dwell on it.

‘But he has come down from the mountain now. Perhaps you know him. His name is Mesut. Or have you confessed, too?’

‘No,’ he says, mustering as much force as he can into his voice. ‘I haven’t confessed, and I don’t know your brother. Anyway on the mountain people are known by different names. Things like that aren’t discussed openly.’ His wound hurts even more. If only this girl would take a look at his shoulder, do something about his wound instead of talking.

‘All right. We won’t talk then. Here, drink some water. It’ll be good for your wound and your soul.’

He takes a few gulps from the plastic bottle she holds out to him. A bottle of water with her … The girl has come prepared. Perhaps I have walked into a trap. Whose trap? He shudders. ‘Take a look at my shoulder. It’s bleeding badly.’

‘It has been bleeding, but there’s less blood now. You’ve had a close shave. The bullet grazed the bone, but it hasn’t lodged in the flesh.’

‘I tried to bandage it, but I couldn’t. Could you bandage it again, tightly?’

‘OK. First I’ll wash it, then I’ll bandage it with a clean piece of cloth.’ She gently undoes the dirty bandage that has adhered to the injury and which is soaked with blood. She tries to clean the wound with a little water. Mahmut moans between his teeth, in pain.

‘Stay still. Don’t faint again. Your wound isn’t that bad. What sort of a heval are you!’

‘Oh yes. So you’re an expert! I studied to become a doctor, so I know about wounds. This sort of injury can have complications.’ Then he changes the subject and to put her on the spot he asks this mysterious impertinent girl in this cave in the middle of nowhere, ‘You haven’t yet told me who you’re running away from. Is there someone you love or what? Are you eloping?’

He panics at his own question. Hell, why didn’t I think of this before? Why did I assume the girl was alone? These people run away with their lovers. Who gives a damn about battles, operations, war, that we are dying and killing on the mountain?

‘I’m running from our code of honour,’ says the girl in a dry voice. She doesn’t elaborate with any explanation, any details.

His constricted heart relaxes, feels lighter. So there is no imminent danger! He tries to make out the girl’s face in the dim light of the cave. Dishevelled heads of wheat, snowdrops, wild roses, fresh thyme, chicory, cool springs, waterfalls … All the beauty he knows is reflected in her face. It merges with a milk-blue cloud and disappears. This time he really does faint.

How many days and nights did they spend in the cave? The girl who knew about numbers counted the rising and setting sun. One early morning just before dawn, at the darkest hour, they left the cave and took shelter in the most secluded part of the woods opposite.

Just as in the legends of the dengbej and the tales of the woman storyteller in the village, Zelal carried water from a secret magical spring that the mountain elves and forest fairies had created in the wood for the two lovers, Mahmut and Zelal. And with that healing water she cleansed his wound. She collected all sorts of plants, boiled and mashed them and spread the mixture as a poultice on his wound. Although it had started to heal his arm was still in a bad way, and he couldn’t really use it. They giggled, saying one arm was enough to make love.

It was more than enough. It was that kind of love. It was Leyla and Mecnun, Tahir and Zühre, Yusuf and Züleyha. It was a legend, a folk tale … It was a fire that fed on confinement, grew with helplessness, in which they were bewitched with the intensity of their love and which burnt them in their passion. They were two innocent children, banished from hell for their innocence and yet banned from paradise and hurled on to earth for the sins of their ancestors. Their bodies were cleansed every time they made love, and as their bodies were cleansed their hearts grew big enough to embrace the whole world. They were free of evil, sin, blood and death. The bullets fired on mountaintops and distant slopes did not reach them. Flames from the bushes and burning fields kept their distance. Neither soldier nor guerrilla came their way. It was as though all roads had been closed or as if this side of the mountain had melted away and disappeared. Angels were watching over them, as they do all innocents, because such passion defeats sin, because in the eye of the creator, love purifies and cleanses both the innocent and the culpable. A legend, a miracle was happening and they were unaware of it. They did not know about miracles; they knew only each other’s bodies, hearts and minds.