by Alys Clare
Our days passed comfortably enough. The tracks and the occasional larger roads we travelled on were in reasonable repair, and the many rivers we crossed offered either bridges – some of them alarmingly fragile-looking and rickety – or fords. Itzal had provided us with a good stock of food from the stores in the stable where we had collected the horses, and occasionally we passed through small towns and villages where we were able to augment our supplies with fresh produce. The weather varied between warm, damp days when the wind came from the west or south-west and bright, cold ones when it shifted to the north and the east, sometimes bringing snow, for we were high up on our mountain-enclosed plateau and here winter had not yet passed.
All the time the coastal range up ahead grew steadily closer.
When we were perhaps a day’s ride from the foothills, Itzal broke a long silence and said, ‘Do you believe that our lives have a pattern, Lassair?’
Since his previous remark had been about whether or not we needed to purchase more bread, this took me aback. ‘Er—’
‘They do, you know,’ he went on before I’d had a chance to enlarge on my dim-witted response. ‘And the pattern plays out over many lifetimes.’ He paused. ‘You and I are here today, for example, riding towards our destination and not far from it now, because many years ago a son was born to two people who had given up on parenthood.’
Gurdyman. He had to be speaking of Gurdyman.
‘The little boy was precociously intelligent, but the humble little village where he had been born lacked the least opportunity for a poor man’s son to receive the sort of education worthy of him. And so fate acted. The infant’s parents, who had never once strayed from their village and had previously exhibited no wish whatsoever to do so, suddenly decided to travel to Santiago de Compostela to give thanks for the miracle of their son’s birth.’
‘But—’ I stopped. I’d been going to protest that surely setting off on a pilgrimage to give thanks was quite a common thing to do, for it was what I had thought when Gurdyman told me the story. What, perhaps, Gurdyman had wanted me to think.
Now, however, Itzal had shaded it differently.
‘They did not return to their ignorant backwater,’ he was saying now, ‘for, once again, fate stepped in and it so happened that the woman was too weak for the long and arduous journey. They put up in a village beside the road, intending for it only to be temporary, but they found they liked life in the northern mountains of Cantabria, and instead they stayed.’
‘It suited Gurdyman’s mother’s health!’ I said. ‘For the first time ever, she didn’t spend the winter coughing!’
‘But why was that?’ Itzal asked. ‘The weather in the mountains is harsh in winter, as you have no doubt discovered for yourself. And was it not unexpected, to say the least, for two humble, unsophisticated people no longer young to give up everything and everybody they had ever known and settle in a little village in a distant land full of strangers?’
When he put it like that, I had to admit that it was.
‘The plan was thus put into operation,’ Itzal murmured, half to himself, ‘and the wheel began to turn.’ Before I could ask what he meant, he went on. ‘Tutors and teachers appeared for the bright young boy, seemingly at random and as and when he needed them. When he had outstripped the village man and the parish priest, the smooth path was laid out before his feet and it took him south, to where the greatest learning of the age was to be found and, after many miles of far-flung travels, finally he was led to the City of Pearl.’
‘They loved him there!’ I cried. ‘Salim told me! His father and his grandfather welcomed Gurdyman into their household, he and Salim were like brothers!’
Itzal gave me a long, intense look.
‘Yes,’ he said. Then, sighing, ‘Yes indeed, that is how Salim would see it, for he too bears the guilt, and it blinds him so that he cannot see the truth that lies beyond.’
‘What is he guilty about?’
Now he was looking away from me, up ahead towards the mountains. ‘Salim and Gurdyman studied long and hard under Nabil and Makram. Those were the names of Salim’s father and grandfather,’ he added, apparently perceiving that I didn’t know. ‘There were many other teachers too, great men who had given their lives to the study of every subject from medicine and the stars to the delights of the table and the wide and beautiful realm of the imagination, which they made tangible in their verse and their paintings. As is their way, these men of prodigious learning understood that their duty was to pass their knowledge on to others; to teach, to inspire, to stretch the minds of their pupils to the utmost. In those young men, one a son of the house, one a blue-eyed stranger, they encountered two of the most eager, receptive minds they had ever known.’ He turned to me again, and now something very fierce burned in his golden-brown eyes. ‘But Salim and Gurdyman shared the great masters’ attention with another. And, when the moment came for the brightest star of the three to be rewarded with the great prize, it was clear to all three who should receive it. Salim stepped back. So, too, should Gurdyman have done. Outstanding though he was – perhaps one of the finest ever to have been taught in the City of Pearl – yet the third pupil was better still.’
He stopped, and he was silent for so long that I thought he wasn’t going to continue. The bay mare was all at once uneasy, as if she sensed whatever was humming in the air.
If so, she wasn’t alone.
I felt as if a storm was brewing, right overhead, and yet the sky was clear. And, quite clearly, I heard that strange sound like a thousand summer insects, a gentle drone inside my head.
Then, speaking lightly and breaking up the alarming tension as if it had never been, Itzal said, ‘But, enough. It is almost midday, and we still have not found anyone who will sell us fresh bread.’
We reached the foothills late that day. I had imagined we would stop and find somewhere to sleep, for the horses needed rest even if we didn’t.
We went on.
We paused for over an hour beside a stream as the path began to climb, and both we and the horses drank deep from the sparkling water. Then after another interminable time of struggling up the increasingly steep tracks, we came to a small settlement. It consisted of no more than a long, low building under a very steep roof, beside which were some small areas of rough grass enclosed by sparse-growing, stubby trees and bushes. There was a rudimentary stable on the far side of the grassy area. A mule looked up from its grazing to inspect us. Lights showed within the low dwelling.
‘Go inside,’ Itzal said as we dismounted. ‘They know who you are and they are expecting you.’
Stiff and weary, I did as he said. He had turned away towards the stable, and I was relieved he hadn’t suggested I help him to settle the horses. I would have liked to say a grateful word to my mare but I was too tired.
I knew, without his having told me, that I’d finished with riding for now.
Was this, then, our destination? I stared up in dismay at the humble building. If so, I had to admit it was a disappointment …
The woman who was within looked up at me as I opened the heavy door and entered. I saw an expression flit across her face that looked very like fear. Then, without a word, she disappeared through a second, smaller door leading into a back room, returning presently with a laden tray containing a basket of bread, a jug of ale and two mugs, and two wooden bowls of stew. It smelt good. She put the food and ale down on a small table, then, with a sort of bow, backed away through the door to the inner room and closed it, softly but firmly, behind her.
I was staring hungrily at the basket of bread and the large pat of golden butter, wondering how long I was going to resist it, when Itzal came in. ‘Food, oh, good!’ he said. ‘The horses also have provender, and someone is tending to them. Eat!’ he added.
I obeyed. The stew was very tasty, and consisted of lumps of root vegetables, onions and pieces of lamb in a rich, spicy gravy. The bread was fresh, the butter sweet and creamy, the ale excellent.
‘Of a sort, I suppose,’ Itzal replied, ‘although it is a long way from the frequented paths and tracks and it serves the needs of few.’
Of people like you, I thought, who have mysterious business up in the mountains. Deep within the painted darkness. I recalled the phrase he had used.
Which, he had informed me enigmatically, was waiting for me …
We settled for the night, lying on benches set against the walls. It was comfortable enough, for pillows and blankets had been set out and I had my warm cloak.
I dreamt vividly.
I saw Gurdyman, propped against pillows and saying to Salim, She will understand. I cannot prevent her from finding out, but she is loving and does not condemn.
I saw my father, arguing with someone who looked like Hrype. Who was Hrype. Hrype seemed to be demanding something of him that my father didn’t want to give. No, you can’t! He’s far too old! Father shouted, his face distorted by anger. And Hrype, annoyingly calm as only Hrype can be, replied coolly, Is that not for him to decide?
In a flash so brief that I almost missed it I saw Jack, standing over the fire that had consumed Rollo’s body. Then he turned around and looked straight at me.
I must have cried in my sleep, for Itzal was beside me, a hand on my shoulder, tucking the blanket more closely around me. ‘Sleep,’ he said gently. ‘It is not yet dawn.’
I must have slept again, this time dreamlessly, and next time I woke the thin light of early morning was coming in through the tiny window.
The woman I had seen last night brought food and a hot infusion, still without saying a word. Itzal gave her some coins. I packed my satchel, put on my cloak and we went outside. I paused to say farewell to my bay mare, who pushed her nose affectionately into me in response.
Then Itzal led the way to where a narrow little path set off up the mountainside, and the next phase of our journey began.
We climbed for most of the morning, stopping frequently to rest. Below us to the south the high plateau we had crossed spread out beneath us. If I half-closed my eyes, I thought I could see the ranges of mountains that contained it to the east and the south, but it was probably my imagination.
We went on.
I lost track of the hours. But there were far too many of them, and the muscles of my calves, thighs and buttocks were hot with pain.
Then, when the sun was starting to tip down into the west, we came to a place where a rocky outcrop hung forbiddingly over a small hollow. Nothing grew but some sparse lichens, for we were above the tree line. I didn’t think I’d seen anything moving, except for Itzal and some huge birds wheeling and circling over the plateau so far below, for ages.
Itzal was crouching before a crack in the rocky rear wall of the dell. It was low and narrow, and so well concealed that I hadn’t spotted it until his presence in front of it made it apparent. He took the pack off his shoulders, pushing it on before him. Then, turning, he said, ‘You are slighter than me, so you should not find it such a squeeze. Wait until I call out, then follow.’
I don’t want to! I cried silently.
Oh, dear sweet Lord, I didn’t want to. The crack, ominously dark, was like a frown line between two eyebrows clenched in angry disapproval, and the air coming from it was dank and very, very cold. Everything about the place was yelling at me to get away, to return where I’d come from, not to venture any nearer.
But then, as Itzal’s legs and feet followed the rest of him inside, it was as if a cool, calm voice called out to me. You may enter, it said. The warning is not for you.
And Itzal called out, ‘Come on!’
I stood undecided. I could go back down the mountain, find the little settlement with the stable, find my mare, hand over enough money to purchase her and ride off south, back to the City of Pearl. Or I could even set out for the coast, which I knew was away to the north, and find a ship to take me back to the fens.
But if I did that – if I obeyed the momentary cowardly impulse to run away – I would never know why I’d been brought here, and what lay within waiting for me.
The painted darkness.
It might have been foolhardy, irresponsible and unwise. But it was also irresistible.
I took my satchel off my shoulder, pushed it ahead of me as Itzal had done, dropped to my hands and knees and followed him through the crack.
At first the going wasn’t too hard. We seemed to be on a path that ran up and down at random, and either by good luck or the work of human hands, there weren’t too many rocks projecting from the walls or embedded in the ground beneath to trip or damage the unwary. Itzal had picked up and lit a lamp from a small rock shelf inside the entrance, and in the utter darkness its small flame gave a surprising amount of light.
Sometimes we had to crouch down very low to get under the roof. Sometimes we had to turn sideways and force our way through very narrow gaps. Once we had to get down on our bellies and wriggle like snakes down a long, rocky slope that seemed to go on for far too long, and at the tightest point the roof pressing down immediately above me drove me close to screaming. The entire mountaintop rested there, just over my fragile body, and my mind was filled with images of horror as I saw its colossal, unimaginable weight collapse on top of me.
But just as I thought I would break, I heard an unexpected sound: the rushing of water, quite close by.
I don’t know why it should have reassured me and given me such renewed heart; there was no clear reason. But it did. An image of longships flashed into my mind and I thought of my ancestors travelling the length and breadth of their world, full of courage, fighting fear, hunger, injury, illness, homesickness. I was of their blood, through my grandfather. None of them would start screaming merely because they were forced to wriggle through a tiny passage deep in the mountain.
My fast, panicked breathing calmed down, and the race of my rapidly beating heart began to slow. I crawled on.
At last I reached the far end, and scrambled out. Itzal, waiting for me, smiled. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Most people cry out in panic the first time they come through, usually at the place where that rock sticks out on the left and you are absolutely sure you can’t get past.’
I grinned back. ‘I very nearly did,’ I replied.
He put his head on one side. ‘What stopped you?’
I held back from telling him about my forebears and their courage. ‘I reasoned that you got through,’ I said lightly, ‘and you’re bigger than me.’
His laugh told me he didn’t believe the explanation but wasn’t going to challenge it.
And I realized, with a chilling sort of thrill, that I was beginning to read his thoughts.
We went on.
I was tiring now, and only pride stopped me from asking for a rest.
Time passed.
I was hungry and thirsty, and it seemed at times that the walls all around me were pulsating, coming closer in a cold, hard hug and then receding again.
I noticed that, just in front of me, Itzal had stopped.
‘Wait,’ he said very softly; just a breath.
I waited.
He blew the light out.
I stifled a cry.
He had stepped away from me. Being robbed of sight seemed to have heightened my other senses and, for all that he had made no sound, I knew he was no longer anywhere near.
I was alone, in the dark, and I had no idea what lay ahead.
I couldn’t hear water now. The silence was total, as if my hearing had failed as totally as my sight. Nervously I stretched out my arms, fingers spread wide. They met empty air. Had the sense of touch gone, too? Or had the black, rocky walls of this strange world simply fallen away?
I waited.
Nothing.
Had he left me? Was this a test, to see what I would do?
A small impulse of anger rose in me.
Well, I wasn’t going to stand here trembling
for the rest of my life!
I took a pace sideways, stretching out my arms again. The fingers of my left hand touched the rocky wall. Good: something solid.
I edged a foot forward. Then another, feeling with my toes before I put my weight down, for in the course of our long progress into the mountain we had come to many places where there were sudden and unexpected drops; where the floor fell away and we’d had to ease ourselves down.
One step. Two. Now the gentle downward slope was rapidly increasing.
I kept my hand on the wall, my other arm outstretched too. Then suddenly my right hand came in contact with the wall on the other side, and quickly I put my left hand above my head to check on the ceiling height. My fingers banged into rock so quickly that I knew the roof was descending.
I was in a narrow funnel, and it was closing in on me with every step I took.
Still I went on. The little spark of anger had grown, and with it my determination not to yield to fear. Well, it was more than fear now, but I didn’t let myself think about it.
I went on.
I was crouching now, the walls holding me like a hard, cold birth canal. The air was thick and heavy, making it difficult to draw breath.
I shut down firmly on the images forming in my mind. Images in which I walked into a dead end, in which the rocks fell behind me, in which I was trapped and crushed, dying from broken ribs and smashed limbs and lack of air.
Squeezed all around now, I forced a way on.
And then several things happened all at once.
The rocky prison suddenly relented.
I could breathe again.
Brilliant light illuminated the scene.
Dazzled, I tried to look in every direction at once, and to my horror all around me there were animals – horses, bulls, bison, huge cattle with great curving horns – and all of them were rushing past me and threatening to smash me to the ground and trample me beneath the huge hooves.
Then someone laughed.
A robed figure stepped out straight in front of me, and someone who smelt of musk and lemons held out their hands.
‘Welcome!’ a voice said.