The Water Diviner (34 page)

The Greek officer moves towards Hasan and bends to examine him as he would a dog turd stuck to his boot. He picks at the military insignia on the Turkish man’s tunic and tweaks the waxed tips of Hasan’s moustache, sniffing the air and turning to address his troops in Greek.

Indicating Connor, Hasan lifts his head and speaks to the officer in Greek.

He then turns towards Connor. ‘I have told him you are Australian and his ally, that you are my prisoner.’

The partisan leader examines Connor, sceptical. ‘Australia?’ He holds his hands in front of him, mimicking paws. ‘Kangaroo? Speak English?’

Connor nods. ‘Yes. Australian.’

The Greek officer waves away the soldier holding Connor captive. ‘Australia, you stay in here.’

Then he points at Hasan and tosses one of the men a hessian sack, barking an order. He laughs and explains to Connor. ‘We shoot Turk dog with his own gun. Then cut off his head, take to Smyrna.’ The commander vaults down to the side of the track where his men are rounding up the remaining Turkish troops.

Jemal and Hasan are frogmarched to the door on the opposite side of the train and thrown to the gravel below. A wine-red stain covers the front of Jemal’s tunic, and he lets out a loud, frothy exhalation of air as he hits the ground.

Connor is jolted into action by shouts and curses from outside the carriage, punctuated by the crack of a rifle and the ominous thud of a body hitting the dirt. Lifting himself to his hands and knees, he scrambles around on the floor of the railway car, pushing bloodied bodies and fallen crates aside in a desperate attempt to find a weapon. The partisans were too thorough. There is nothing.

As he searches, Connor sees through the slatted boards that at the base of the embankment, a burly partisan has forced Jemal to his knees. The front of the Turk’s tunic and trousers are sodden with dark blood. An involuntary gush of urine runs down Jemal’s thighs as he struggles to conceal his pain. His face blanches as the Greek soldier pulls his arms behind his back, opening up the wound in his gut. The other partisan checks his magazine, tugs on the bolt and presses his rifle into Jemal’s brow.

Inside the carriage Connor’s heart pounds as he continues to search for something to arm himself with. Then he sees it. Wedged between one of the fallen Turks’ bodies and the side of the carriage. He hefts the man aside and grabs it.
Why not?

He hears a distressed shout from outside. ‘Anzac Bey!’ Connor looks up as Jemal locks his rueful eyes on him through the open door.

‘Don’t invade a country if you don’t know where it is.’

The soldier pulls the trigger and Jemal’s lifeless body slumps forwards.

Connor feels his legs give way beneath him. The sound of gunfire continues on the other side of the carriage, accompanied by the soggy thud of bullets penetrating flesh.

Standing beside his fallen comrade, Hasan closes his eyes and holds his hands before him, palms turned towards the sky, murmuring a prayer for Jemal and ignoring the order to kneel. A brutal whack to the back of his legs brings him to his knees and he struggles to remain upright.

The Greek slowly and deliberately reloads Hasan’s revolver. ‘Your head will be coming with us. It will be put on display in our headquarters.’ He presses the muzzle to the base of Hasan’s skull. ‘Less damage to your face,’ he explains.

Hasan doesn’t flinch. Opening his eyes, he fixes his steady gaze on the partisan. He murmurs in Turkish. ‘Allah, protect my family. God is great.’

The partisan responds with a Greek salute: ‘Long live President Venizelos!’

There’s a sickening thud, and the soldier jerks forwards. Hasan starts, anticipating the searing impact of a bullet in his brain. Instead, the Greek collapses, spasming and bleeding from the mouth and ears, his skull caved in. The Turk sees Connor standing motionless behind the soldier, clutching the cricket bat, its edge dripping with gore and sticky clumps of black hair. Spinning as he falls, the Greek reaches out and grabs hold of his attacker’s shirtsleeve, pulling himself close. He coughs, spattering hot droplets of blood on Connor’s face, who looks into the man’s dying eyes with horror.

The other partisan is levelling his weapon, Connor in his sights. Hasan moves like lightning, grabbing his revolver from the mortally wounded partisan’s grasp and shooting the other Greek soldier in the heart. The man drops, dead before he hits the ground. Moving quickly to Connor’s side, Hasan holds the gun to the dying man’s head and pulls the trigger.

Connor is looking down at the bloodied cricket bat in his hands, paralysed by what he has done. Hasan grabs him by the elbow and pushes him under the train. Looking out to the other side, they see the only two remaining Turkish soldiers shot point-blank in the head, their bodies slumping to the side in the gravel.

The sound of these last gunshots rings and echoes along the cutting. The Greeks pause. For a heartbeat, an eerie silence descends.

Their monstrous work accomplished, the Greek commander begins to bark out new orders. ‘Gather up all their weapons and search their bags for gold. Hurry! Then get clear – we’re going to blow up the engine.’

Crawling back out from beneath the train, Hasan glances up and down the track. Towards the rear he can see a group of horses tethered, their riders otherwise occupied on the other side of the train. Connor is going through the motions, his face white, still in shock. Slipping back under the train, Hasan elbows him in the side to get his attention. He gestures at the horses, whispers, ‘There. Wait till I signal, then we run.’ Turning, Hasan checks that the partisans are still occupied, rifling through the dead Turks’ packs and clothes. ‘Yes. Now!’

The two men scramble out and run, crouched over, towards the horses. On Hasan’s whispered instructions, they untie them all, then grab hold of a set of reins each and swing their legs up into the saddles. As they accelerate, the Turk and the Australian scatter the other horses with slaps to their rumps, then spur their mounts up the embankment and away.

C
onnor is mounted on a tall white stallion. He feels the horse’s muscles swell as his strong legs pump, propelling them up the steep, gravel-covered slope. Hasan is astride a stocky Anatolian bay that easily keeps pace with Connor’s horse. As they reach the top of the slope, a sharp cry rings out from below. They have been spotted.

Bullets whiz past their ears, but as they launch themselves over the ridge and onto the plain, they are shielded from the Greek barrage. In the middle distance, a deep river valley cuts through the fields, and the two men dig their heels into the sides of their mounts and gallop at full tilt towards it.

The sounds and smells of death are far behind them when Connor and Hasan eventually slow their mounts to a walk.

The horses’ hooves crunch through the opalescent, smooth river pebbles that cover the floor of the valley, washed to shore by the shallow but wide, fast-running river that cuts through the chasm. Stones bumping against each other in the water sound like hail on a tin roof. Above the gurgle of the crystal-clear water Connor can hear birds warbling and the soft sound of the breeze blowing through tendrils of bright green leaves hanging from willow boughs. The beauty around them seems almost absurd in contrast to the scene they have just left.

‘Will they follow us?’

Hasan has been silent, lost deep in thought. ‘Us? I do not think so. They have a whole country to plunder.’ He shortens his reins and draws his horse to a halt.

‘Our horses need rest.’ Leaning forward Hasan slips his feet out of the stirrups and swings his right leg over the saddle to dismount. He drops to the ground and gently feeds the reins over the horse’s ears, leading him to where the river eddies in a shallow and shady pool.

Connor follows his lead. The horses drop their heads to the water and drink deeply, flicking at flies with their tails and stamping their feet. Bending to grab a handful of wet sand, Connor scrubs at the blood that has dried on his hands, a rosy cloud blooming in the clear water where he washes it away. Dipping his hands into the river again, he scoops up some clean water and splashes it on his face, rubbing it through his hair to sluice away the dust and dried gore.

Connor sits heavily on the pebbly beach. As the rush of adrenaline that has sustained him begins to fade, he reels with horror at the thought of what he has done, is haunted by the dying man’s face. He looks up at Hasan. ‘His breath smelled of garlic and tobacco.’

From the pack hanging from his horse’s saddle, Hasan produces a small bottle with a label on it, printed with heavy, black Greek script. He tosses it to Connor. ‘I carry the breath of hundreds. Wash him down with this.’

Connor holds the glass bottle in a trembling hand and examines the clear liquid. ‘Raki?’

‘Ouzo. Same mother.’

Fumbling as he uncorks the bottle, Connor throws his head back and takes a deep draught. He winces as the thick, sweet aniseed spirit burns the back of his throat. After securing the horses’ reins to a fallen branch in the shade, Hasan joins Connor on the warm pebbly beach and holds out his hand. Connor passes him the bottle and the Turk takes a swig. Then he turns to the Australian and hands the ouzo back.

‘If not for you, I would have died today, Connor Bey. Yet at Çanakkale you would have killed me yourself.’

‘I still might,’ replies Connor dryly. ‘But not before you show me how to get to Afion.’

Connor glances at the hollow eyes and sombre expression on his companion’s face and is reminded of all the Turk has lost. He raises the bottle. ‘To Jemal.’ He takes another drink and passes the ouzo to Hasan so he can do the same.

Hasan takes the bottle and nods his head ‘Thank you, Joshua Bey.’ Connor notes that Hasan has used his Christian name for the first time. Hasan takes a swig. ‘Buried not far from here is the man whom Jemal loved more than anyone, Nasreddin Hoca. He was a famous jester who lived hundreds of years ago. When Jemal was full of raki he would tell his jokes and laugh so much he would cry. His favourite was the story of the time the great Moghul emperor, Tamerlane, saw himself in a mirror and burst into tears when he realised how ugly he was. Everyone in the court told him how handsome he was, to make him feel better. All except Nasreddin Hoca, who had also burst into tears and was still crying. The emperor said to him, “I had a reason to weep, I am the lord of many lands and master of many slaves. But I do not understand why you should weep like this.” Nasreddin replied, “My lord, you wept for two hours when you saw your reflection for an instant, but I have to see you all day long”.’ Hasan shakes his head. ‘It is a miracle Allah turned a blind eye to Jemal for so long.’

‘You believe in a heaven, don’t you?’

‘Yes. But he is not going there.’ Hasan laughs. ‘Jemal is Allah’s one great chance to avenge himself on Satan.’ He raises the bottle to the sky before downing another mouthful. ‘Ah, Jemal. To your awful poetry.’

The two men sit in silence as the water rushes past and dragonflies hover and dip above its surface. Soft, white clouds appear motionless in the pale blue sky, and the air smells of moss, pollen and fresh grass.

Hasan drops his head. ‘No. Even the poetry I will miss.’

The great, golden plain stretches out in all directions, intersected by tiny, dusty tracks and the occasional rutted road. Connor and Hasan had followed the river valley, meandering along its deep cutting as the blinding sun began to descend towards the horizon, then turned and followed a narrow shepherd’s trail as it zigzagged from the river up to the lip of the escarpment.

The landscape before them is strangely devoid of life. In the middle distance is a small cluster of low buildings constructed from rough fieldstones and capped with thatched rooves. But no smoke spirals from the chimneys, and there are no people to be seen.

Spurring their horses on, the two men canter along the track and cautiously enter the village. When Connor peers through the doors left ajar in the modest homes, he sees a chaotic jumble of household possessions: clothes, cutlery and bedding strewn about.