The Walking Drum

by Louis L'Amour

  "Wait." She gave me a cool glance. "You have not met my father."

  The three shouted at her to get down, but she swore at them, swore wickedly and with eloquence. I surmised she was younger than she looked, but whatever her age, a wildcat, and worth the taming.

  "Get down!" The shouter was a big young man who looked like the casual offspring of some Visigoth warrior. "Get down!" he shouted. "Or I shall take him from the saddle!"

  "Try it," I invited, "and I shall ride you down."

  He glared at me, but his courage was all in his mouth. My hand was on my scimitar, and my horse within two jumps of him, and the Barb was a horse who started with a bound. Had he started to lift his bow, I'd have cut him down like the swine he was, but he was a big-muscled swine, and I began to wonder what the girl's father must be like. I was to find out.

  She pointed down a worn path, and we followed it, the Barb pricking his ears and quickening his step. A moment and we rounded a bend into a beautifully green valley, completely hidden by the barren hills. On the floor of the valley, crowning a small knoll, was a walled ruin, an ancient castle that had been repaired somewhat.

  As we rode up to the gate, out walked the biggest man I had ever seen.

  He was a head and a half taller than I, and half again as broad. His hands were huge, his eyes fierce. He wore a black beard, and his hair was to his shoulders, black as a raven's wing.

  He gave me the merest glance, yet his eyes lingered on my scimitar and the Barb. "Get down from there!" he shouted at the girl, as if she were two fields away from him.

  She started to obey, but deliberately, I held her back and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "He will kill you!" she hissed, then dropped to the ground, sauntering away with that fine, impudent way she had.

  He took a swift stride toward me, reaching for the bridle. Sidestepping the Barb, I drew my blade. "Keep your hands off, my big friend, or you will be lacking one of them."

  He took a second look at me. He was big, tough, and mean, and he was used to men being frightened of him. Before he could speak, I spoke quietly. "I have not come for trouble. Your daughter was kind enough to invite me for food and drink. If you can provide them, I shall be on my way."

  He waited while I could have counted a slow ten, then said, "Get down. Come in."

  "I would care for my horse first."

  "Alan will do it." He gestured toward a slim, dark young man with quick, intelligent eyes.

  Swinging down, I said, "Take good care of him. He's a fine animal."

  His eyes lighted up. "Of course," he said. Then under his breath he warned, "Be careful of my uncle. If you touch Sharasa, he will kill you. And," he added, "he may kill you, anyway."

  "A man who wishes to kill," I said, "must also be ready to die."

  Sharasa held the door for me as I entered. Her father was already at the rough board table, pouring wine from a flagon. There was bread on the table, cheese, and a haunch of mutton. Suddenly, I realized I was ravenously hungry. A half hour earlier there had been nothing else on my mind but Sharasa—such influences can be distracting.

  He stared at me from the opposite end of the table. "I am Akim," he said. "This is my valley."

  "And I am Kerbouchard, a soldier."

  "Bah!" he sneered. "There are no soldiers now! In my young days—"

  "In your young days," I said, "the soldiers were no better than now. I will share your food and wine, my friend, but do not think I am one of your goats, or one of those sheep you call men. I am as good a man as you are, or ever were."

  He glared at me, furious. He liked me not one bit, and I liked him no more, nor was I to be put upon by boasting. I could match him, lie for lie, boast for boast. It was true I was no soldier, although trained in arms. My blade had been blooded as a good blade must be, yet at such a time the truth is only for those lacking imagination. If it was war he wanted, I would match him war for war, battle for battle, and lie the better as I was the better read.

  Reaching across the table, I took the mug from in front of him and shoved mine at him. "You would poison me," I said, "before you would try me with a sword. I trust you not at all."

  He tore meat from the slab of mutton before me, but taking out my dagger, I cut thin slices from mine, letting him appreciate its razor-edge.

  He drank with me, eating some of the bread, but my eyes were busy. These were no simple shepherds, but thieves when opportunity offered. No doubt this place had seen the spilled blood of many an innocent traveler, but I would not be among them.

  Akim had the look of a seasoned campaigner, and he would be a dangerous man in battle, but such as he would not be turned aside by soft words. Such as he would kill those who submit, respect only those dangerous to them. My seat, purposely taken, allowed me to watch the door, and no one could come up behind me. Akim had noticed this, and there was surly respect in his eyes.

  Sharasa brought more food, a bowl of fruit and some choicer slices of meat. She walked away from me swaying her hips, and Akim swore at her. She flipped a corner of her skirt at him, and he half started from his seat.

  "She's a likely girl," I said. "Have you found a man for her?"

  There was a glassy look to his eyes when she stared back at me. "I will kill the man who touches her."

  I grinned at him, cheerful with filling my stomach. "Is that what the sheep are afraid of? Well, it does not frighten me. She would be worth it. And as for the killing, two can play that game."

  "When you finish eating, get out of here."

  "You mean you have decided against robbing me? Better think again. That's a fine horse out there." My dagger slid into my hand, and again I cut a paper-thin slice from the roast. "You might be able to get it, and then again, you might not."

  Sharasa returned with a pitcher of cold goat's milk. I could see the sweat on the sides of the pitcher. She had taken this from a well or a cave.

  Pouring some into my empty cup, I drank, and over the edge of the cup I closed one eye at her. She put her chin up and flounced away.

  "I shall stay the night," I told Akim.

  "All right," he said mildly, and I was wise enough to be afraid.

  Akim was no coward, and he had a half-dozen men to help him, but he was accustomed to fear. In the old days he would have met my challenge at once, but he had been spoiled by the fear of those around him, and the idea of facing again a man who was unafraid took some getting used to.

  For me the bold way was the only way. Had I come to the valley in fear, I would be dead by now. As for Sharasa, I had no time for dalliance even should such be possible. Yet she was such a woman as could topple kingdoms and lay dukedoms in the dust. Given her presence and manner, with the proper clothing ...

  Akim got suddenly to his feet and strode from the room. I remained, finishing my goat's milk. Sharasa came quickly. "You must go! He intends to kill you! I know him!"

  "Even with your hair uncombed and in that rag of a dress," I told her, "you are more beautiful than any princess, and I have seen a few."

  She flushed, and unconsciously, a hand pushed at her hair. "I haven't—I mean there's nobody—" She fled from the room.

  A few days ago I had been in prison, expecting to be strangled, yet I had escaped. By now half of Spain was searching for me or aware of my disappearance. Too often had death brushed me closely. I had faced it in the Castle of Othman and again on the sheer face of the cliff. Now each moment of life was a moment stolen from eternity. I wished to live, and tonight Akim planned for me to die.

  Sharasa could be trouble, yet a woman worth having must be fought for, or stolen.

  Akim returned to the room putting a fresh bottle on the table. "More wine?"

  Cheerfully, I reached around the bottle to the flagon Sharasa had brought earlier. He liked it none at all, but said nothing. The others came in then, and Sharasa returned. Despite their animosity they were hungry for news, so I told them of Córdoba and Yusuf's plans to rid the country of banditry.

  The various
governments of Moorish Spain had been until this time unanimously tolerant, accepting Christians and Jews alike and allowing them to practice their religion. Visigoths who owned land were permitted to keep it, paying only a small tax.

  The Almohads, mostly Berbers from North Africa, a strong white people long resident there, were a strict, fanatical lot, and Moorish Spain was changing under their control. Yet there continued to flower there a brilliant society alive with creativity.

  Only in the Athens of Pericles, the Alexandria of a few centuries later, the Gupta period in India, or that great Tamil renaissance from 300 B.C. to A.D. 300 had there been such a period as now existed in Moorish Spain.

  The Arab mind, deprived of any but casual contact with the world of art and intellect until after the time of Mohammed, was an infinitely curious and acquisitive mind, and the Arabs fell upon knowledge, the science and skills of the Persians and the Central Asiatics, as rapaciously as they had fallen on their enemies with the sword.

  Under the caliphs of Islam, scholars were honored as never in the world's history except, possibly, for some periods in China. This was true in Baghdad and Damascus, in Tashkent and Timbuctoo, in Shiraz, Samarkand, and Córdoba.

  Yet now, in this lonely valley in the hills of Spain, I came for the first time to really appreciate the power of the spoken word. So far the sword had been my weapon, and I had not learned that wit and wisdom are keys to open any door, win the heart of any woman.

  There is power in the word whether written or spoken, for words can create images for those who have not themselves seen. Carried away, for when was a Celt not eloquent?—I spoke of Cadiz, of Seville and Córdoba. I spoke of the crowded streets, the bazaars, the women, the clothing, the weapons. I spoke of sword dancers and jugglers, of the magic of color, lights, and beauty. The candles smoked and the hours drew on, but all sat spellbound.

  And I? I was the captive of my audience, yet not eager to escape, knowing that with every word I made myself more secure, and with every word doors opened wider.

  Of the Court of Oranges I told them, of parks hung with bronze lanterns, and I wove with my words a tapestry that all could see. I told them of the Great Mosque with its twenty-one archways decorated with terracotta mosaics in red and yellow, of doors covered with burnished brass, of the fourteen hundred columns that support the roof of the mosque. I spoke of lattices of alabaster, of marble walls, and how during the month of Ramadan the entire mosque was illuminated by twenty thousand lights.

  Returning to the Court of Oranges, I spoke of the hot still days, the sound of falling water in the fountains, the shuffling feet of the worshipers, the scent of jasmine, rose, and orange blossoms. Of travelers from foreign lands, of pomegranate, apricot, of vines and palms ... ah, what did I not tell them?

  A listener who hung on my every word, his eyes glowing with excitement, was Alan. This one, I thought, is worth saving. He has the soul of a poet, imagination, and intelligence, for such as these is the world made.

  "I am tired," I said at last. "I have ridden long this day." Turning to Sharasa, I said, "Will you show me where I am to sleep?"

  Akim scowled. "Alan will show you." He paused. "No need for you to ride on. Stay a few days."

  The big young man sneered. "You come with fine talk, but you come in rags."

  I smiled at him. "Do not get into a sweat, my big-chested friend. When the time comes, you will get your whipping. Do not beg for it beforehand."

  A moment I paused. "If you wish to know, I have but lately escaped from prison." I named the castle. "I have enemies, and they seek me now. My enemies are your enemies also, for I have told you of Yusuf and his seeking of all who lurk in the mountains."

  Turning to Akim, I suggested, "Put out a guard and choose a place in the hills to which you can escape. I warn you. They intend to sweep the hills, and they will find you. Hide what is of value and your flocks."

  It was a concession from Akim that he suggested I stay on, and I learned then that many a victory is easier won with words than a sword—and the results are better.

  "I shall stay, Akim, and you shall tell me stories of your wars. I venture you will have stories worth the telling."

  "That I have." That he was pleased was obvious. "It will be good to talk to another soldier."

  Alan came with a candle, and I followed him. In Moorish homes a room was rarely set aside for sleeping. One slept wherever one might be, yet Alan showed me to a room where there was privacy, and brought me water with which to bathe. When I followed him from the main room, I caught the expression in the eyes of the bastard of the Visigoth, if such he was, and that expression was not pleasant.

  That was one victory that must be won with a sword.

  Sharasa stood in the doorway as I passed, her head tilted back against the doorjamb, looking at me from under lowered lashes.

  And that was a victory that must be won with other weapons.

  18

  AFTER TWO DAYS nothing had been resolved except some of the wrinkles in my belly. Sharasa was just as elusive and just as attractive, but surprisingly, Akim and I had become friends.

  The stories he had to tell were of war and bloodshed, of risk and riot, of scaling walls and single combat. Akim, unwittingly, was teaching me much of war, and not knowing what might lie before me, I was eager to learn.

  He had fought for and against both Goth and Moor, surviving many a bitter battle in the breaches of city walls, in house-to-house combat, and of fighting in the streets.

  The bastard son of the Visigoth was called Aric, and I knew he intended to kill me. Aric had decided Sharasa was for him, and until I arrived on the scene, it had seemed to him inevitable. He glowered about, casting threatening looks in my direction.

  Sharasa was often about, yet vain as I might be, I knew much of her interest was in what I had to say of clothes, cities, and the behavior of other women. This, Aric was too stupid to understand. Sharasa, I think, had long had her own dreams, none of which included Aric. My words fed those dreams.

  Alan, too, was never far from me when I talked of Córdoba.

  Turning to him one evening when we were briefly alone, I said, "Alan, you must go to Córdoba or Seville. You would be happier there.

  "Go to Seville," I advised, "find John of Seville, and tell him Kerbouchard sent you."

  Akim overheard and turned sharply around. He had heard no name for me but Mathurin, and at the time not too many Europeans had family names.

  "Kerbouchard? Your name is Kerbouchard?"

  "It is."

  He slapped the table with the flat of his hand. "Why did I not see it? You resemble him, Kerbouchard the Corsair!"

  What a ring he gave the name! What a sound!

  "I am his son."

  "I saw him once. It was in Almeria, that city of pirates and rovers of the sea. He came with a dozen ships loaded to the gunwales with loot!

  "Ah, how we stared! Our mouths watered to see it! Gold, silks, spices, jewels ... he unloaded them all. Had he asked for volunteers, the city would have emptied to serve him.

  "There was never another like him, not one! He had raided the isles of Greece, captured a rich prize off Tripoli, looted another within sight of Rhodes!

  "There was a soldier with him, a man I knew from another time, another war. His name was Taillefeur, he—"

  "What?" I caught Akim's wrist. "Taillefeur was with my father?"

  "You know him? Then you know him for a rascal, though a first-class fighting man. Yes, Taillefeur was with him, and I wondered at it, for he was not a man to serve another unless he could betray him for a price, and there were many who offered prices for Kerbouchard.

  "Taillefeur fought beside me at the defense of Caltrava in 1158. We fought in the breach together against the Moslems, but I never trusted the man."

  Taillefeur had been with the Baron de Tournemine, my father's enemy. Was it he who brought news of my father's death? Might he not have betrayed my father, if betrayal was his way? It was a thing to conside
r.

  On the morning of the third day Alan came to me. "Be warned," he whispered, "Aric means to kill you."

  It was time for me to ride on. I wished the big lout no harm, but my destiny lay outside this valley. Moreover, I feared the soldiers of Yusuf would find even this long-hidden valley.

  On this morning I arose early and rode down the valley toward a deep pool where I had often gone to bathe. The sky was dull with clouds with a suggestion of coming rain, yet the swim would refresh me, and tomorrow I must be on my way to wherever I was going.

  Which of us knows the direction of his life? Who knows what tomorrow may bring? Often, when pausing at a crossroad, I have wondered what might lie waiting on the road not taken?

  Drawing up in the shelter of some willows, I tied my horse where he could feed but would nevertheless be hidden from a chance passerby. Disrobing, I walked to a rock and plunged into the pool.

  For a few minutes I swam, then returned to the rock from which I had dived and began to dress. Yet scarcely had I begun when I heard an angry cry. It was Sharasa!

  Swiftly, I plunged through the curtain of brush and found myself standing in a cave mouth with Sharasa not ten feet from me and Aric facing us both, holding my scimitar taken from my saddle.

  "I will kill you now," he said. "I shall kill you and her, too!"

  "He has done nothing. He did not know I was here."

  "You expect me to believe that?" Well I knew the razor edge of that scimitar, and I was half naked and unarmed. That blade would sever an arm like butter.

  "Leave him alone. He has done nothing." The shock of his sudden appearance was gone now. He had given me the moment I needed, and my mind grasped desperately for some escape. Nor was there a rock or a stick upon the cave floor. There was nothing. There was no weapon.

  He had moved to block any escape, and there was no way out. I must meet him, face to face. My life was at stake here, but Sharasa's was also.

  Warily, I advanced a step toward him, my hands down. It surprised him, I believe, because he had expected me to shrink from death as he would have done. Only death had become a constant companion, and I was not prepared to die, not at the hands of such as he.