Where the groves bleed ancient secrets

(Please que this song while reading: https://youtu.be/enKo4hXvCvU

PROLOGUE

• My love, my rustling bird, my Arab nightingale
• Your two eyes are boundless skies
• You asked me why I was crying as we made love
• In our garden there were no pomegranate trees

Şükrü Erbaş

FOREWORD

Darkness, arriving from the Mediterranean Sea, covered luscious groves of Pamukkale. Silent fell Hierapolis, the city, overlooking the plain of Cürüksu in Lykos Valley.

The warm winds of Aegea stirred up puffs of bone-white dust, twirling them in a mad dance around the emerald cypresses. A rumble from within the earth itself, shifting the bedrock; Stirred awoken from the long slumber, the bedrock yawned, manifesting in gorges.

Cracked The Ploutonion, sending Corinthian columns downhill to roll with deafening thuds. Down swept the marble, crumpling ample mugwort bushes and sucking in the poppies, scattered over the golden hay fields like droplets of blood...

PART ONE

South of Hierapolis, on the thin ribbon of land, framing the city of Laodicea, sat a tilted white hovel. It's terracotta roof provided enough shade to cover the half of a small sand courtyard, while the other half of it baked and cracked under the ruthless southern sun.

A woman and a boy sat in the shade opening pomegranates with knives that resembled a curved falcon claw, equally as sharp. The knives small enough to be comfortably gripped and tucked in the palm of one's hand.

The woman worked quickly, spinning a pomegranate with her left hand and operating the knife with her right: She nicked the crown of the fruit and picking it up with her thumb, tossed to to the side. The crown exposed a white star pattern, and the woman carved her knife along the tips of it. Then, cradling the apple, she gave it a gentle push and the lobules of it fell apart, exposing the glistening rubies. She smiled looking at the boy, who was trying to get a firm grip on his knife.

She Cradled his little hand in hers, squeezed the knife with his fingers and brought the pomegranate in her own hand closer. She swiftly maneuvered the knife and the fruit separated, falling on the rug they were sitting on. The boy grabbed another ripe pomegranate and slashed it's leathery skin. In a hasty blunder the boy's hand slipped and he carved a gash on his palm.

"-Come." Quietly said the mother and led him in the shade of the open courtyard, through the house, to the pomegranate grove.

The bare soles of boy's feet retained the pleasant coolness of the stone floor, as he stepped onto the scorching sand of the grove.

He held the cut hand curled in a tight fist. His curious eyes catching his mother's gaze, asking the silent question.

"-Patience, Ayhan."

Concealed deep within the emerald grove, stood an old tree. It's bulky branches twisted, carrying ancient secrets in it's sap.

Mother knelt down and so did Ayhan. She pressed his little palm to the knotted bark and prayed in whisper. Ayhan observed. To his surprise the pulsing in his hand stopped. He withdrew his palm from the bark, inspecting it: The cut was sealed, leaving only a thin crescent-shaped scar.

When they returned to the house, mother filled maroon cheesecloth with the pomegranate seeds and twisted it in a tight ball. Ruby liquid spritzed out, dripping down the sides of succotash in thick streams. The juice trickled into the copper bowl beneath, and with it trickled the story..

"Six centuries ago - The mother began - A tired traveler arrived to this very sliver of land, Ayhan. He got off his horse, his leather boots whipping up puffs of dust. He stirred the soil and planted a gentle sapling of a pomegranate tree that he brought from distant lands; and with it he planted a promise: For his bloodline to thrive, grow big and lush like a pomegranate grove".

The humble pomegranate got bigger, fed by man's sweat, blood and love, it grew powerful roots. The man took a wife, and together they cared for the pomegranate grove. Strong branches of trees grew abundant with fruit, and the man became a merchant. His fruit was famous far and wide across the entire Turkey.

The ruby arils of his succulent fruits were sought out everywhere: They were added to tangy salads in Jerusalem and sprinkled oh bitter hummus in Persia. They were roasted with eggs in Azerbaijan, picked with silver needles and sent into the mouths of wives in Harem of Istanbul.

With every new branch growing in the grove, new events unfurled in the man's life. His fruit has become the symbol of wealth and pleasure, prosperity and bounty. As many pomegranate seeds sit in every fruit in the grove - that many people flooded to the man.

Someone said that the pomegranate was mentioned in Quran three times and so the people went on to believe that his - was the garden of Eden on Earth. Everyone from beggar to king wanted his blessed "NAR" (*pomegranate Turk.)

The sweet pomegranates were smashed on the doorsteps for good fortune and given to brides as a wish for fertility...

INTERMISSION

The Earth was shuddering, herding people and animals alike, down, into the ravine. Aziz stopped running, he turned around entranced, looking in the direction of his home, past the valley, past the sparkling river, there on the sliver of land that Allah has given him, remained his entire life undisturbed.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and everything around him fell silent: Bleating of the bewildered goats ceased, screams of women hushed, clapping of sandals on the paved road stopped and terrified children pacified. There was only Aziz, Allah and the oily scent of crushed rosemary filling the air.

Exhaling Aziz had a clear vision: His wife Amira, smiling over the babbling child - Who is going to watch over them? His sight travelled through his bountiful pomegranate grove, to the oldest tree. It was calling to him in a marvelous song, words of which Aziz couldn't make out. The tree was reaching for Aziz with it's curling branches, welcoming him in embrace.

"-You will look after them, Aziz" He heard a voice. Belonging to neither male nor female, yet comforting and familiar. Aziz's soul entered the tree.

PART TWO

She placed the copper dish over the small open firepit in the courtyard and added a heap of sugar. The boy sat beside her on a woven rug, watching. The blood-red liquid came to a boil. Pulling out a few coals to reduce the heat his mother passed Ayhan a long wooden spoon and told him to stir the the syrup.

Going to the sun lit side of the courtyard mother drew a circle on the sand and placed a wooden stick in the center.

"A sundial!" she exclaimed happily. "When the shadow falls here - we will will remove the syrup from the fire."

"-What happened to the merchant, mama?" Mother smiled at Ayhan sadly.

"One day he filled his cart with apples, harnessed the mules and set out for the market. Maybe, that day gods were in a bad mood.. Maybe the warm mineral waters finally broke free and resurfaced, but the land gritted it's teeth and opened it's maw in a raspy breath. It coughed and swallowed Hierapolis, it's people with their temples, young and old, dead and alive- all as one. The landslide churned everything on it's way, leaving behind the spat out century-old bones and upturned rosemary bushes. It raged from the mineral terraces of Pamukkale to the groves of Denizli. It reached Laodicea and.. " She looked above the door of the house, where the faded drawing of the red pomegranate could still be made out, and smiled: "-stopped at our doorstep."

PART THREE

The evening breathed with fresh air: The earth released the heat of the day and the descending desert night hungrily devoured it.

The South-West wind raced the sand through the old grove, carryin the intoxicating, viscous scent of the blooming rosemary and lavender, and the trees nodded their branches, whispering the old tales in it's ears.

Mother bottled up the ruby molasses and closed the door of the house. On the way to the car Ayhan stopped and looked at her curiously:

"-What does this all mean then?" Mother Knelt in front of him and took his palm into his. She traced the thin white scar on his palm with her finger and smiling she answered:

"- He is still looking over us, Ayhan. Our home is still standing. This grove.." - She casted a look over her shoulder- "..These trees, these apples and these traditions- they belong to you. The pomegranates made our family, our people. The pomegranates saved us when we were starving and cheered us in wine when we celebrated. They quench our thirst and they bring us closer to Allah, reminding us that we are all - one. It is everywhere.." She got up and led Ayhan to the car.

"Can you name all the dishes we use nar in?" And an eager small voice answered: "-Pomegranate tea! And nar molasses to marinate the meat!"

"Good" answered the mother "Tonight we will add these molasses to our flatbread and lentil patties.. sprinkle some lemon and parsley.."

"-Add a little bit of syrup with Papa's lamb kebap!?...and the Lokum...and..."

AFTERWORD

The pomegranate grove stood silent. Only one tree, old and crooked still shook it's leaves as if moving fingers in the warm air. The tree shimmered and a handsome man appeared out of it. He looked over the grove, looked at the little shack, he listened to the fading voices of his descendants and smiled. Taking a full chest of clear autumn air, he raised his eyes to the star studded blanket of sky and drew a beautiful lonesome song...

(Please queue https://youtu.be/2QZ2IWlB9NQ )

POMEGRANATE MOLASSES RECIPE

• Take out all the pomegranate seeds and save in a bowl.
• Place a large bowl and a sieve under the sink.
• Squeeze the pomegranate seeds with your hands through a sieve over the large bowl. Try to extract as much of the juice as you can. Discard the left over seeds.
• Pour in the freshly squeezed pomegranate juice in a heavy saucepan. Stir in the sugar.
• Bring the pan to a boil over medium to high heat and stir until the sugar is dissolved.
• Add the lemon juice, mix and reduce the heat to medium to low, just enough for simmering.
• Simmer for about 1 hour and 10 minutes, stirring every 10 minutes; the juice will get thicken and reduce to ¾ cups.
• Turn the heat off and let the pomegranate molasses cool. It will thicken more as it cools down.
• Once cool, pour into a glass jar with an airtight lid on.
• Store in the fridge up to 2 months.
• Makes ¾ cup / 177 ml/ 6 fl oz. pomegranate molasses