Stork Mountain Read Online Free PDF Page A

covered with blisters so deep I couldn’t bear to look.
    â€œGrandpa,” someone called, and from a rug in the corner a third woman rose, older than the others. A green scarf whose edges were dark from sweat framed her flushed, tired face.
    â€œShe’s slept all day,” the mother whispered. “But we’re afraid to untie her.” She leaned forward and kissed the old man’s hand. “Help us,” she said. Her eyes shone feverish when she looked up at me, and I understood that this woman too was sick.
    â€œElif,” the old man called to our guide. “Fetch me a washbasin and a knife.”
    The first thing he cut with the knife was the rope. He threw the pieces to the floor in disgust. I noticed a large scorched circle, which the rugs could not hide fully, as if someone had built a fire in the middle of the room and let it burn. Sweat was pouring down my back and my throat burned thirsty. A motley rug covered the window and the sun shone muffled behind it. The yellow, the orange, the red bands glowed brightly; the others were black. Across the rug, on a nail in the wall, hung a braid of garlic.
    â€œAnd how are you, kazam ?” the old man asked the woman. He readjusted the rooster under his arm and, still holding the knife in the other, touched her forehead with the back of his hand.
    â€œI’ve been burning, Grandpa.”
    Gently he raised her chin to have a better look. Gently he brushed his fingers across the bruises of her cheek. “I see the imam has opened up the slap factory again,” he said.
    â€œHe worries, Grandpa. His hand is quick to slap, but he means well.”
    â€œAnd where is he now?”
    â€œWhere can an imam be?”
    The old man grumbled. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, and motioned me to join him by the bed. I didn’t have time to hesitate—he’d already shoved the rooster into my hands. Beside me, Elif embraced the metal basin.
    We watched Aysha sleep. As if our eyes had tickled her, she stirred. Her mother followed the old man the way a hungry dog follows the butcher.
    â€œSaint Constantine,” the old man whispered, “are there no Christian girls for you to take? Or are the Muslims sweeter? Go to the Greeks. The Greeks love you.”
    He reached over and removed the tarpaulin pouch from the rooster’s head. The rooster’s chest expanded and, feeling that it wanted to flap, I gripped it tighter. Then came the crowing—so loud and piercing I almost dropped the bird.
    As for the rest, what’s there to say? Aysha woke up startled and began to cry. Her feet took tiny steps in the air, and her heels knocked against the bed. The old man ordered me to hold the rooster tightly, and, eyes closed, I did. I could hear the sound the blood made splashing against the basin. The air thickened with a metallic stink. The rooster thrashed, kicked, and so did Aysha. The whole bed shook and creaked. “Vah, vah, vah,” she cried out, like the old woman at the station. Then she was still.
    The old man had painted crosses of blood on her cheeks and forehead. A big, content smile stretched her burning lips. He painted crosses on her mother’s cheeks, and on Elif’s. He dipped his thumb one last time in the foamy blood and asked Elif to carry the basin out.
    â€œGrandpa,” I said after he’d drawn a cross on my forehead. “I haven’t seen you in fifteen years and this is how you greet me?”
    He called the mother over. He said, “This is my boy, my grandson from America. The one who never calls.”
    â€œOh, please,” I started to say, but now was hardly the time for confrontation. The woman smiled. She lowered the rug and pushed the window open. At the ledge, I filled my lungs with fresh air, gulped it like water. I let the sun above the hills burn itself upon my pupils and listened to the wind in the treetops. The imam began to sing from the