The Lavender Fields

Rays of sunlight pierced through the billowing clouds above. The perfect dance of nature, he thought as a gentle breeze kissed his face. He sat quietly under his favourite tree. The rumble in his stomach let him know that breakfast was on the horizon. He closed his eyes and inhaled. The sweet scent of lavender awakened his senses. He was home. 

His eyes closed as the morning sun washed his balding head. He let the majesty of the morning take him under his wing. A hug from God, as his mother used to say. He missed her. Things were different on this day. So different. He could still feel her. Her voice ran through his head every day. The smell of her cooking. Her gentle touch when he was hurt. The sun held him tighter than usual. 

A bird on a nearby branch sang her morning song, awakening him from his memories. Drawing his attention back to the lavender fields. His favourite place in the world. It had been too long since he had the chance to be back. In peace. Without violence. Without despair. Without genocide. 

He shuddered at the memory of darkness that once swept over the land he once called home.

70 years before...

“Arman, Araxie, come! Breakfast is ready,” Anoush shouted from the kitchen. Arman wasn’t at his best in the morning; he rolled out of bed, grumpy, ready to pick a fight with his little sister Araxie, who was always happy to oblige. 

“Coming” he shouted through his morning agitation. He knew that when he was of age, he would have to wake up as early as his father and older brother to tend to the animals before the sun woke the world. That was the day he was least looking forward to. He didn’t want to wake up before the sun. Arman kicked and scuffled into the kitchen, where he was met with aromas of omelettes and tea. Anoush planted her loud kisses on each of his cheeks. Arman pushed her away with a groan. 

“Is this how you greet your mother in the morning?” Anoush laughed as she kissed him again.

“Come, sit at the table with your sister.” 

Arman climbed up onto his chair; he tried not to look at Araxie, who was too busy humming and crunching on salted cucumbers to notice his arrival. 

“Eat,” Anoush placed a plate of omelette with fresh cucumber, goat's cheese and tomatoes in front of Arman. 

“Shnorhakalutyan Mayrik,” Arman kissed Anoush’s hand. 

“Good boy, always remember to respect your mother, my son,” she smiled as she fluffed the fresh bouquet of lavender in the clay vase which sat in the middle of the kitchen table. Arman looked up at Araxie; he couldn’t help but feel annoyed by her. He picked up a slice of tomato and threw it across the table. The splat of tomato hit Araxie in the eye. He watched on as her happy singing turned into a fit of rage. Araxie let out her usual scream. 

“Why, Arman? Why do you have to disrupt her peace?” Anoush pleaded as she knelt to Araxie to wipe away her tomato-stained tears. Arman wasn’t sure why he wanted to disrupt her peace. He just didn’t like Araxie. She was silly, and got too much attention from everyone. Besides, her teeth were all tiny, and she was always wetting the bed. Araxie’s screams turned to sobs as she wiped her eyes. Arman looked on at the chaos, watching her cry through the lavender centrepiece. His eye caught hers, and for the briefest moment, he saw her. Beyond his disdain for her. He saw Araxie. His little sister. 

A pang of guilt smacked him in his stomach. 

“I’m sorry, Araxie.” The words fell out of his mouth. He meant them. 

“Arman. Be kind to your sister. She is the only one you have. You must treat her like gold, my son.” Anoush finished wiping Araxie’s face “You must treat her like gold.”

“Yes, Mayrik” Arman felt ashamed of his cruelty. 

“Now, who wants some hot tea?”

The clap of a gunshot in the distance sent a jolt of fear through the kitchen. Arman felt his little heart in his throat. He watched his mother for assurance. But Anoush stood there, frozen. Another harrowing gunshot filled the atmosphere. 

“What was that, Mayrik?” he asked. 

The sound of dogs barking and men shouting drew closer; Arman watched as his mother scuffled around the kitchen in a daze. Clearing the table. Hiding their toys. 

“Take Araxie to your room and don’t come out until I say so.” Her tone was filled with calm seriousness; he had never heard her speak like that before. Arman watched on as Anoush snapped two pieces of lavender from the clay vase, giving one to Arman and one to Araxie.

“Take this. God loves you both. Always. Do you hear me? Go, now!” She shoved Araxie into his arms. Arman didn’t have the nerve to ask another question; he wouldn’t defy his mother today. Arman didn’t know what was happening, but he felt trouble brewing at his usually peaceful farm. There was something in the air. An unrest he had never felt before. 

Arman shuffled Araxie into their room and closed the door. While Araxie whimpered and whined, Arman did his best to soothe her by humming her favourite songs. But his attention was on what was happening outside, his mother, and the abrupt ending to their usual morning routine. 

Arman pressed his ear to the floor. He could hear better that way. Footsteps filled the house: angry voices, dogs sniffing, his mother’s pleading.

Another loud clap. The deafening blast of the gunshot screamed in through his body.  

The thud.

Sunlight turned into blood. 

Arman’s heart pounded in his ears. 

Araxie’s screams were dulled by time and stillness. 

Arman held his hands to his mouth. Trying not to scream. There was no amount of humming that could calm Araxie now. He pushed the lavender deep into his vest pocket and did the same for Araxie. He knew they were coming for them.

The bedroom door crashed into a heap of crumbled wood as soldiers filled the bedroom. Arman felt like he was underwater. Everything moved so slowly. Felt heavy. His heartbeat was the only reminder that he was alive and that his world had changed in an instant. 

Soldiers grabbed at Arman; he kicked and punched as best as he could. He remembered when his father had taught him how to punch. Use your body, my son. Arman used his body, with everything he had. He could hear Araxie’s cries. They had never felt more painful.

A hard smack across the head. 

His home didn’t feel like home anymore. It felt like brokenness and violation. What had happened to their peaceful morning with hot tea and goat's cheese? Arman looked over to Araxie, who was being carried by a young soldier; he didn’t look much older than his own brother. What was this madness? 

As Arman and Araxie were dragged out of their room, Arman dreaded what he would see in the kitchen as they passed through. He didn’t want to keep his eyes open, but he needed to know where his mother was. He prayed his suspicions were wrong. The house was drenched in the stench of gunpowder; everything appeared hazy. Arman could see a body slumped on the kitchen floor. 

Her apron. 

Her hair. 

Her hands. 

His mother. Their mother. 

Arman screamed into the dead space that was once their family kitchen. His rage came from somewhere new. His new broken heart. 

“Mayrik!” he wailed. 

As Arman and Araxie were dragged outside. Arman couldn’t help but notice the beauty of the morning. The sun shone bright. The birds sang. The trees rustled. He looked over at the lavender fields; they danced back at him. Something spoke to him. A voice from within whispered. 

“Warriors of the sun.” The voice was soft and soothing.

Nature had never looked so beautiful; how could it be? the sun light was just a helpless bystander. Why wasn’t someone helping them? The soldiers pointed their guns at Arman and Araxie. Demands in a foreign language. Arman could make out a few words. They wanted them to walk. 

“Walk! Come on! Walk!” one soldier yelled. His voice was riddled with ambition. Arman could see the devil in the soldier's eyes.

Arman took Araxie by her hand. She was trembling. The guilt he had felt earlier for throwing a tomato in her eye seemed like a lifetime ago. 

“You are my gold, Araxie,” he whispered to her. 

The path was dusty, with rocks and stones. Although Arman had walked this path many times before, the path appeared extra rocky on this day. The soldiers led them up to the top of the hill where Arman’s favourite sitting spot was. His favourite tree. It had the best view of the valley; the sight of lavender fields seemed endless, and all under the wise and watchful eye of Mt. Ararat. 

Arman took a moment to take in the view one last time. 

“One day, we will return,” he promised Araxie “We will survive.”

The soldiers pushed them on. Down onto the nearby road, where there were other children and some women. Crying. Holding each other. Arman couldn't believe it. His teacher was there. Another neighbour. Some children he knew from the other villages. Arman pulled Araxie by her hand as he ran into his teacher’s arms. Her embrace had never felt better. He let out a deep sob into her chest. Maybe they would be ok. 

Present day...

Arman pulled himself out of his memories. That horrific day. He couldn’t bear to revisit the years that would follow. His pain was too deep. Arman reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. It had seen better days.

Tattered and torn.

Stained and crumpled.

He opened it and pulled out a single piece of lavender and held it to his face. His old, weathered face. He would often laugh at silly people who would worry about getting old, with their modern lotions and beauty regimes. But not Arman; he saw his aging as a sign of strength and resilience. An indication that he had walked many paths and survived them all.

Every wrinkle, every blemish, every scar told his story. 

A gust of wind blew through the valley. He watched on as the lavender fields danced for him. Letting off just the right amount of scent to tickle his nose. He laughed. 

It was a beautiful morning. The sun shone bright. The birds sang. The trees rustled. A voice from within whispered. 

“Warriors of the sun.”

Indeed, He thought. Warriors indeed. 

Arman closed his eyes. He took in a sweet, lavender-filled breath of gratitude. He saw the faces of his children, his grandchildren; he could hear their laughter, feel their warmth. If only his mother could have met them. She would have loved them. All of them. His daughter reminded him of his mother. He named her after his mother. Anoush. Full of wisdom and sweetness. He held himself as he let out a slight whimper. 

“I miss you, Mayrik,” he cried. 

A butterfly circled his head. Fluttering around him with joy. He laughed through his tears.

“May I sit here?” a voice cooed from behind the tree. Arman looked around, only to see a sweet old woman standing there, holding an envelope. Her wide smile, kind eyes full of tears. 

“Araxie!” 

“Arman!” 

Arman found his way to his feet. Tears streamed down his face. He swept her up in his warm embrace. It had never felt so good to hold someone. It had been over seventy years since they were separated as children. His heart ached and danced at the same time. 

“You have always been my gold, my Araxie,” he sobbed. 

“Come and sit with me.” Arman brushed the leaves aside and made a comfortable spot for Araxie. “Please, tell me everything.”

The great mountain watched over them with her wisdom. The breeze sang, the sun shone, and the lavenders danced.

By Danny Nercessian