The King’s Gathering and the Secret of the Moonstone of Lake Van

Long ago, in the year 315, the city of Van—capital of the mighty Ararat Kingdom—buzzed with excitement. At its heart stood a grand theatre built by the famed architect Nalbantian, a hexagonal marvel of tuff stones, their hues ranging from pale gold to rose dust. Six towering windows bathed the space in sunlight, while iron-forged candlesticks gleamed along the walls. At the center, elliptical wooden benches adorned with intricate carvings awaited eager visitors.

When the massive wooden doors—engraved with fruits and animal heads—finally swung open, a crowd flooded inside, their eyes alight with curiosity. A middle-aged orator stepped into the theatre’s center, raising his hand to address the assembly.

“Welcome, proud people of the Ararat Kingdom! Today, I bring you the words of our great King.”

Cheers erupted, faces glowing with pride and reverence. The orator continued:

“Your words are the laws of the Kingdom.
Your faith is the strength and eternity of the Kingdom.
Your skills are the future of the Kingdom.”

Thunderous applause echoed through the cloister, voices mingling with the architecture’s natural acoustics.

The orator raised his voice:

“Soon, kings and khans from the Caucasus, Persia, and the Balkans will gather here. Their mission: peace.”

From the crowd, a young woman named Zabel stood up, holding aloft a wooden Khachkar cross inlaid with stones from Lake Van and a handkerchief embroidered with Mount Ararat’s sacred image.

“Let us trade beyond Ararat!” she proclaimed.

The orator smiled, taking her gifts as symbols of the people’s desires.

“I will present these to the King along with your plea for trade and peace.”

Suddenly, a venerable old man with snow-white hair stepped forward. His voice, though soft, carried the weight of ages.

“I have seen wars and peace, conquest and betrayal. After each battle, I climbed Mount Ararat, seeking solace in its pure air. I crafted special canes shaped like the talons of the majestic bird that lives only on Ararat, so I could survive the snowy avalanches. But remember—our power lies in one word.”

The crowd waited breathlessly.

Then Zabel whispered, “Ararat.”

“Ararat! Ararat!” the people echoed in unison, their voices reverberating like a sacred chant.

The orator raised his hand once more. “In twelve sunrises and sunsets, we shall host the World Gathering Council. Let us welcome our guests with a market filled with crafts, music, and joy.”

As days passed, the city prepared with vibrant markets selling wooden dolls, copper artifacts, colorful rugs, and wine vessels. The spirit of Urartu, their ancestral kingdom, lived on in their artistry.

Among the visitors was a stranger, Ara, a young man from Persia. His dark grey eyes gleamed with curiosity as he admired a Khachkar carved into a stone wall.

Elsewhere, two young friends, Rose and Thelma, navigated the market crowd. Thelma carried a wooden doll adorned with a moonstone necklace—said to resemble the jewels of the Persian Queen Mother.

“My grandpa Vosken says the Queen Mother of Persia once received a Moonstone from our King and wrote a poem about it,” said Rose.

“I wish we could hear that poem!” Thelma sighed.

Just then, Grandpa Vosken appeared, accompanied by Zabel and a mischievous boy named Karen. Soon, Ara joined their group, and together they journeyed toward Mount Ararat and the turquoise expanse of Lake Van.

During their trek, they discovered an old cave filled with canes shaped like bird talons—the very “helpers” the old man had described. They rested, shared tea brewed from mountain herbs, and laughed, despite Karen’s playful antics of snatching Thelma’s doll.

At the lake, disaster struck—Karen accidentally tossed the wooden doll into the water. Despair filled the air, but Grandpa Vosken soothed the children with a tale:

“This lake hides the fortress of ancient Urartu. Who knows? Perhaps your doll will become a princess beneath the waves.”

Inspired, Ara recited:

The Moon has sent its glance to Lake Van,
And there she left a part of her charm.
The Lake, in gratitude, returned her pledge—
The Moonstone, aglow with Ararat’s magic,
Shining in pearl-white for peace, grace, and wisdom.

“The poem of the Queen Mother!” exclaimed Rose.

“Yes,” confessed Ara. “She was my grandmother. She loved this land and dreamed of peace between Persia and Ararat. My father, the Persian King, is among the guests inside the cloister.”

Back at the hexagonal theatre, the King of the Ararat Kingdom stood before the gathered monarchs. He lifted the grand key given by the blacksmith, spun it three times, and declared:

“The words of my people are our laws.
Their faith is our strength.
Their skills are our future.”

Suddenly, faint voices penetrated the cloister walls—voices of the people, calling for peace, for trade, for unity. The monarchs listened, moved by the authenticity of the people’s desires.

Thus, peace was forged, lasting decades.

Zabel accompanied Prince Ara to Persia, where she was celebrated as the Princess of Peace and the Moonstone. Karen, Rose, and Thelma continued their adventures under Grandpa Vosken’s wise guidance, while the old man remained the keeper of Mount Ararat’s secrets in his cozy cave.

Moral of the Story:

True strength lies in the unity of people, the wisdom of the past, and the courage of youth. Through shared dreams and respect for heritage, even kingdoms can forge peace that lasts generations.