by Lazlo Ferran
Damnation. This was the wrong time to have to halt. I signaled for a scout, close behind me. At first I was puzzled why none of our flanking scouts had reported this to me. Then I realised that, because it was traffic on the road, they might not consider it worthy of reporting.
“Ride ahead and see what is making that dust! Report back immediately.”
“Yes Sire.”
He returned shortly, his horse foaming at the mouth with the effort.
“Travelers Sire. Just a peasant family!”
“Oh is that all?” I laughed. “They picked a bad time to travel. Let’s go and meet them.”
The cloud of dust had disappeared and as we drew nearer, I could see they had stopped to wait for us.
“Greetings.” I said to the man leading the small family, consisting of one old woman, a younger one, presumably his wife, two very young girls and a young boy. They were all seated on two mangy looking camels led by the man. A small dog yapping defensively at us.
“Greetings!” he said. He smiled but he also looked slightly angry. “Where are you going?”
“We are going to fight Korim.” He obviously didn’t recognise me.
“I suppose the King is still in his Castle!” There was a question in his eyes. Perhaps he guessed but was not sure, of my identity.
“No. He rides with us.” I was enjoying the game.
“Introduce me to him!” He was obviously enjoying it too. Because I had not revealed my identity, he was free to refer to me as a common soldier. This was no doubt a very rare privilege for a common man and one he would make the most of.
“Perhaps later. We will talk tonight. For now, we must try to outrun the storm.” I glanced over my shoulder.
“Ah yes! The storm. We have been watching it too. But my camels are weary. We were just hoping to find shelter.”
“And you will, with us, tonight.”
I signaled for the column to advance.
“Do not hurry. We will have food and shelter prepared for you.”
As the men passed, some laughed in a good-natured way, at the small family tribe, the first friendly faces they had seen since entering the desert. The dog chased around all the horses, bravely fighting off this terrible hoard.
With the wind rising, grit being thrown across our faces, and in the blackest, coldest part of the night, I sent a scout back in the dark to find out how far behind the last Battalion, the travelers were. I myself would consider it discourteous, as the hosts, if we did not wait for our guests, before making camp. He reported back that they were only a few minutes behind, keeping station with us.
So we continued to march for another hour, until the flying grit and sand was causing me to grit my teeth and visibility was down to just a single sachine.
“Halt! We camp here.”
Later, in my tent, I entertained the head of the family – a man called Ahmed.
“Sallaam al lekum.” he said, as he entered.
“Salaam al lekum.”
“May the blessings of the Eternal Blue Heaven be upon you,” he said.
I smiled, my eyebrows raised at this. It was a declaration of his ancestral roots and his deepest beliefs.
“So, you are of the old tribes?”
“Yes. He smiled.”
“Is Ahmed your full name?”
“The villagers called me Ahmed the Itinerant!” he said, laughing.
“Please, have some wine.” I said, gesturing towards the gold jug on the low table.
He poured some carefully into the goblet in front of him and broke off a large piece of the bread on a platter.
“It is good to have the opinion of one such as you, in a situation such as this.”
His dark, quick, penetrating eyes held the gaze of a bunch of grapes in front of him. The phrase ‘such as you’ of course alluded to his lean circumstances but since he had already jested about his condition, I was simply sharing in the joke. I suspected there was a lot more to this man than just a simple poor tradesman.
“And what situation do you find yourself in?” he asked.
I was about to say, “A King, with the very last of his men, riding out to defend his Country.” But I changed my mind and said, “A man, riding out to defend his house.”
“Ah but a man, alone, would not have to concern himself with the loyalty of those around him.”
I smiled and with a piece of bread half way to his mouth, Ahmed smiled at me. His beard was already peppered with bread crumbs and his full lips, shone with the wetness of the red wine. He was not a man accustomed to eating well. He had guessed my predicaments immediately.
“Yes. That is of concern to me. Would you know of any who should concern me?”
“Ummm.”
I wasn’t sure if he was voicing his pleasure at the food, or simply indicating that he was thinking.
“Perhaps.”
For a moment I saw a flicker of something dark, merciless and mercenary flicker across his eyes. Had he considered, for a moment, in a cold light, how to make use of this situation, of me?
But then he seemed to remember his old ways. Perhaps the road of life had taught him to be merciless most of the time but then, he remembered that it was not always good to be so.
He carried on eating for some minutes, unhurried, and I waited patiently for him. Occasionally he would wash down the food with some red wine. He seemed to be organising his thoughts.
I was cross-legged and he reclined on his right side, leaning on silk cushions. I still had not revealed to him my Kingship and so he was free to treat me as he wished, albeit with the respect one would show to any man. Indeed, I may not even be his King as he may not be from my Country. I thought I recognised his accent but I could not be sure. His rough beard and weather-beaten face were the hallmarks of many mountain tribes and he could be from my country, or almost any other. Whether or not he was my Subject, was academic though. Since he was in my Country, he would have to pay obeisance to me, if he knew I was a King.
“My Father, long ago now, was a Shaman.” He said some minutes later. He paused, waiting for that to sink in.
“Of course he was highly respected and I felt his example too difficult to live up to. Also I had an older brother and, it was always believed by the elders, that he would become the next Shaman. But he never believed it. I was a tearaway, always trying to make a few rubles here, a few there, wheeling and dealing. I never considered life as a Shaman. I only ever considered myself a businessman and a poor one at that. My Father is long dead now. My Brother too.” He shook his head and was silent for a moment.
“Yes. I can see some of your problems. As can anybody in this Country who listens and looks. Your childhood friend, Lord Bulya-gim is no longer your friend. He has new friends.” This seemed to be all he was going to say.
“And you know who they are?”
“No. That is too deeply hidden from me. Lord Bulya-gim’s mind is like a mirror, or the surface of a black lake. But I know what they want and we all know where they come from. They want your Throne and you are marching towards their land.”
“Tell me of your Army and Korim’s and of your plans. I like to hear of such things.”
I started to tell him of the size and shape of my Army and how they were equipped. I was careful not to reveal too much of how they were trained, as I was not completely sure of this man yet. As I talked, we both ate, until we were full. It was now late and soon, I thought, I should sleep.
I finally finished speaking. I thought I had told him all that I could.
“It is fascinating. I once served as a soldier, not in your Army, actually I was conscripted.” He shook his shoulders. “It was not much fun.” He added. “Not very profitable.”
“Anyway, your Army has a good reputation. You are fair to your men and you have won many battles.”
He paused again.
“I am going to regret this. I have always tried to stay away from trouble.” He was the picture of concentration, staring at the table in
front of him, as he started to talk.
“The ability of your men, your Army, is not what is in question here. They are good men and well equipped but the body of a viper is only as quick at its head. You, my friend, are in a dark place, though you know not, its full extent. You are in the place where the souls of men are walking. Where their deepest needs are looking, searching for the way forward. They are like boats on a river, seeking the one way through. Sometimes, I think you may follow the wrong stream but you must become cleverer than that. You must relearn the way of your ancestors and learn to see the one true path. You will find that many of the men you thought of as bad are actually only men with different ideas to you and they will follow you if the path is true. You must relearn the ways of the wolf. You are in a hall of mirrors and you must learn to differentiate between mirrors and water.”
“No doubt, in the last few days you have found out how hard water is, to find in the desert. You must learn how to find water, in the desert.”
I listened to his words intently. While he had been talking, I noticed his shoulders hunch, as if he were taking on some great burden. In that moment, he took on the mantle of seer.
My Mother had been a Christian from Europe and my father a Muslim but I remembered my Grandmother, speaking to me of wolves and the Blue Eternal Heaven and other such things when I was very small. She had been a follower of Shamanism. My Father had tut-tutted her and told me not to listen to her strange old stories but they had fascinated me. This man sounded just like her, or rather, just like the Shamans she had told me about.
The Sandstorm howled around the tent, flapping the cotton sheets, but I suddenly felt very calm and alert. We were both silent, for a very long time, each with his thoughts.
Finally, I said, “We will speak some more.” And he nodded and lifted the flap of the tent and left, shielding his face.
I was surprised and dismayed to see the two guards outside my tent, both being tussled by the howling wind.
I quickly opened the flap and dismissed them.
As they saluted, I had a thought.
“When that man is in my presence, you are not to treat me as King. You are not to salute me, or call me King. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Very well. Dismissed.”
I lay, my thoughts calm, on my back for some time. I did not notice myself drift off to sleep. I awoke very refreshed and still on my back.
After a while, I became conscious of a strange howling sound and then realised that the storm was still blowing.
“Damn.” I said to myself. More delays.
After breakfast, I called an assembly of the Generals. I invited Geb too. I was actually considering making him a General. I would probably need his small but highly experienced force of men. They were some of the most experienced men I had. They could almost be considered as an elite force.
I looked at the faces gathered around me at the table. In days gone by, I remembered looking at my Generals and smiling to myself, thinking that we were school children again. Most of the old Generals I had known since childhood. Now of course, most of those had gone. There was only Abdil’khan who I remembered from long ago. He was still a proud and independently minded man. He would never give me any quarter in an argument.
“How far from the next Water Station do you think we are, Abdil’khan?” I was not the only one who used their first names when referring to, or speaking of the Lords of my land. It had been a fashion started when we were young. In those days, Lords had all had very long and complicated family names indicating the different strands of their Ancestors, but we had rebelled against this tradition, thinking it old and stuffy. The fashion had now become tradition and almost all the time, we used each other’s first names.
They were all there. Abdil’khan, Zhuan’zhuan, Kasangap, Abutalip, Sabitzan, Yedigei and the youngest, Edil’bai.
Lord Abdil’khan, armour shining, rough looking and muscular with deep blue eyes which gave little away about his deeper thoughts.
Zhuan’zhuan, white haired, small and wiry with green loyal eyes.
Kazangap, the thinker, though often bold, who played the devil’s advocate, with dark hair and moustache and beard.
Abutalip, shiny pated, stocky and with green eyes, a jovial soul who often laughed and was always telling raucous jokes.
“Possibly three of four verst. Hard to tell as we were going slower and slower last night. Also, we don’t know if the Water Station was set up in the right place.”
Earlier, outside, I had not even been able to tell if it was full daylight or not. There seemed to be some dim light, through the blizzard of grit and sand, but I did not know what time it was. It was definitely Day though and each passing hour was precious. We could not last long without water.
“Should we go on?” I asked. “The storm may last days.”
There was much discussion but Edil’bai’s voice was louder than the rest.
“We cannot. It would be madness. The men are tired and this would exhaust them!”
Several other opinions were expressed. One, that we should wait until the last moment before moving on and another, that we should wait one day. Finally, Abdil’khan spoke. In a calm, weary voice, he said, “Of course we cannot go on. Even if the Water Station is only a few sachine from the edge of the road, we will not see it.”
This was my opinion, of course, but I had wanted somebody else to day it. No storm, in my memory, had ever lasted three days, the time it would take us to die from thirst.
‘Then it is settled. We will wait here. Tonight, we will have a Chess Championship. I will award the prize. Make sure all your men know.
With that, I dismissed them.
The Championship had been full of hilarity and backslapping. Many of the men could probably not even play just a few hours earlier and had been hurriedly shown the rules by a friend. Others were renowned players and others still, had not played for years. In the end, a soldier in Kasangap’s command was pitted against the great Abdil’Khan himself, in the final match. It was, we guessed, early morning and the tent had been cleared of furnishings to fit as many men in as possible. A rough passage to the next tent had been constructed so that more men could be gathered there and news of the game, move by move, passed on to all those gathered.
It was a tense match, with much at stake. Abdil’khan had been taught by traveling courtiers, some from Europe, and he had a quick and cunning mind. He was proud too and at first, underestimated his opponent.
That man, Attik, it has to be said, was the hero of the people. Being of a lower rank, only Captain, in fact, nearly all the men desperately wanted him to win. They saw it as their only chance to prove themselves better than their Generals. I suspect a great deal of betting took place, although personally, did not read too much into the sly movement of hands passing something back and forth among the crowd. The last of the wine was being drunk. It is not good to drink alcohol during the heat of the day, it can cause one to perspire and dehydrate even quicker, but at night it can be beneficial.
The match was incredibly tight, even in the mid-stages. Both men had been bold and had lost their Queens within the first twenty moves. In the end, going in to the endgame, Abdil-khan, more cautious and devious, had gained the upper hand and had forced Attik’s King, along with its defenders, into his left corner. The look of tense concentration on the men’s faces, leaning almost right over the two players, was a picture. You could have cut the air with a knife. It seemed almost over, when suddenly, Attik let out an exclamation of delight. Checking his move, he then moved his bishop and and sat back, content. Abdil’khan looked nervously at his pieces and seemed, finally to grasp that he had been caught. Perhaps he had been overconfident after all. In another two moves, he was in Checkmate and it was all over. A great roar went up from all the men gathered and rippled away through the other tents. Men quickly left the tent so they could claim their money, leaving only Attik and Abdil’khan behind.
I walked to my tent, looked around for a suitable prize and came back carrying a gold goblet. It was probably worth a lot of money but I was only too happy to give it away.
Attik smiled a great grinning smile and his few friends that had returned, lifted him high on their shoulders and marched him off to get fiercely drink.
“It seems you were over confident, Abdil’khan.”
“Perhaps.”
But I saw the look in his eyes.
I must have slept most of the rest of that day but I awoke, choking. My neck was sore and my mouth felt like it was full of cotton wool. My lips were so cracked it hurt to move them. Still the storm was raging.
I summoned the cook, asking him to bring two apples.
We sat there, licking the juices so that we could talk. At first, the sharp, sweet juice was so painful, as it penetrated the cracks in my lips, I had to close my eyes and a few salty tears came to them.
“How much fruit is there?”
“A few barrels.”
“Is there enough, for a piece for each man?”
“I can make sure there is.”
“Very well. Pass it out. We must last until tomorrow.”
Just then I felt my stomach cramping.
I slept very fitfully that night. Before I tried to sleep, I had Ahmed come to my tent again and I talked to him of small things.
Sometime after dawn, I finally raised myself and opened the flap of the tent. I looked long and hard at the maddening cloud in front of me, sheltering my eyes with my hands. I could not see any difference from the day before. I could not believe our bad luck. This must be the worst storm in centuries.
I was maddened by this and lay on my back for hours, my arm across my face, as if shielding myself from the harsh day. Finally, impatient, I got up and took another look outside. There were others, standing there looking up at the sky. I trudged over to one and tried to speak.
On my second attempt I managed to croak, “Is it clearing.”
After trying to speak, himself, he finally uttered, “I don’t know Sire.”
We stood there, perhaps five men near me, all turning this way and that, trying to compare what we could see now, with what we could see a few minutes before. I fixed my eyes on a peg of my tent and moved away until I could just see it. Then I stepped away another pace. I could still, occasionally, see it so I stepped away one more pace. Now I could not see it. Other men were trying similar things.