‘So I came at night and stole you away to save your life, even if I was too late to save my daughter from her painful death. Such pain she suffered. Nobody told me she was sick with the cave sickness. They kept it from me. But they forgot how news travels in our world. I was living then in my cousin’s home. My father and mother were dead and my cousin took me in, but it was not an act of kindness. He was not a kind man. I was more servant than cousin. If I had taken you to that home, he would have sent you back. It didn’t matter to him that my daughter was dead.’
It would have saved so much trouble if she had died sooner. Is that what the cousin said or was it what the girl imagined he said and not what Nene told her?
‘He said he was lucky to find her any husband at all, let alone a good Christian husband like Pavlo, and that was true enough. That was because I was not married. I had no man, and your mother had no father. My father and then my cousin gave us a home and not many would have done so. My cousin was a rich merchant, like his father, like my father, so he could offer a good bride price and would have found me a willing man but I refused. When Pavlo offered for your mother, she did not refuse. I think she was pleased to leave my cousin’s home. It was not a happy one.
‘But when your mother died so young – much too young and so painfully – I took you far away from that place. I walked and walked until I could walk no further and I wondered then if I had done right after all, or if it was just another way to die. And then these good people found us and cared for us and we made our home with them.’
A small tribe with no more than nine yurts who gave life back to a woman no longer young and to a girl child; two Christians seeking shelter amongst the children of Mohammed. They were welcomed for their own sakes as much as for Nene’s skill in medicine. ‘To be of our household there is no need to come from the same blood,’ said the old chief. ‘Ours is a household of the heart. Whoever is of our heart is of our household.’ That was the Sufi faith.
Of course, the family found them. News travels in the merchant world. That’s how fortunes are made. But they were content to let it be. ‘Until I am dead,’ Nene said. ‘That is the agreement we made. When I am dead they will come to claim you.’
But that day had seemed far off and the girl forgot it. And now Nene was dead. The girl wanted to bury her in the earth of the ancient basilica on the mountainside. It seemed fitting; the basilica was marked with the Christian cross and she was Christian after all, though happy to follow the Sufi way of life. ‘All is one,’ she said. ‘All is one.’ There was part of a carved angel that the girl took to mark the grave – the head and shoulders and two curving wings, one broken, but an angel for all that. In spite of rain that had fallen earlier in the week, the ground was baked stony hard by the summer sun, so they could barely dig deep enough. The girl had them lift a huge weighty slab of carved stone. She had seen such slabs covering the graves of the ancient ones and wanted to honour her grandmother in the old way. This one had a beaded carved edge and a Greek cross enclosed in a circle in the middle of the slab. It was well made, a craftsman’s hand for sure, and warm from the sun; if anyone had taken the girl’s heart in their hands they would have found it cold stone.
‘Don’t weep for me, don’t say, Alas what a pity!
‘The grave is but a veil before the gathering in Paradise.
‘You have seen the setting, now see the rising…’
The Father Chief spoke the words of the great Sufi poet-philosopher, Jalal al Din Rumi, the Mevlana. The women mourned but her eyes were dry. Be still, Nene had taught her and so she was still, with the passion of grief locked inside her and pondering, pondering on the promise she had made.
A day later the horsemen arrived, cantering down the mountainside and into the broad valley of the summer dwelling. It was a day when the sky was spinning clouds like women twirling spindles to make yarn from fleece. Most of the men were away with the flocks because this was the end of summer and new pasture was needed. The chief was sleeping the afternoon sleep of the very old. The watchdogs that had been left behind were yelping and barking at their approach. They were huge, shaggy animals with spiked collars and the men’s horses were prancing and shying and shaking their heads nervously. The men halted, keeping a safe distance from the circling dogs. The women gathered outside the yurts, leaving their weaving and spinning and stretching and tossing from arm to arm the thin dough that would be baked so quickly on a shield of metal laid over the fire. The children clung to their skirts. The girl stayed in the shadow of the black tent. Were these the uncles come to claim her already?
They were young men and foreign, dressed in the manner of the merchants from Venezia but neatly bearded like the tribesmen. One spoke in bad Turkish.
‘Peace be with you. Good day to you. Last time we passed this way we bought yoghurt and cheese. We’d welcome the chance of trading for more.’
He was handsome, dark haired and dark eyed, on a grey horse like Bamsi Beyrek. His flesh clung to his cheekbones, his nose was arched, his jaw firm. He looked noble. He could have passed for a yürük chieftain except that he couldn’t speak their language. Not well. His speech was riddled with strange sounds and only half intelligible and the women held the ends of their head-shawls to their mouths, hiding their mirth. The girl recognised him. He had come more than a year ago in the early summer, cantering down the valley side just as he had done now. Nene had bid her stay in the black tent. Who knew who these strangers might be? Slave traders or her father’s kinsmen or robbers who preyed on merchants? Nene had gone out to greet them and the girl had watched through the framework of the black tent. She had thought him very handsome. Now he was here again.
The women huddled together, and she listened to their talk. They were debating the profit and loss of bartering with these barely remembered strangers, and their own men two days’ ride away. That first visit, the strangers had brought soap, good soap from their own country, made in small pieces and packed in small boxes. Turkish soap was made from tallow and, while it served its purpose, the soap that these foreigners brought was far preferable.
‘There was an old lady, the grandmother with grey eyes,’ the dark man said suddenly. ‘She gave us medicine for the summer sickness. One of our men is ill. She promised us more medicine when we returned this way. We hoped to ask for her help.’
Merih, the chief’s daughter said, gravely, ‘Our Anatolian sister is newly dead.’
‘I am sorry for your loss. She was a great lady. I admired her very much.’
It wasn’t the dark-haired man on the prancing grey horse who spoke but a quiet man, a brown man – brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin on a quiet brown horse. Beside the other, he seemed dull and plain, slight in build but his voice was soft as the threads of silk carpets, and had music wefted through it. He spoke in careful Turkish, though the lift and fall of his voice betrayed his foreignness. Was he the same companion of the other visit? The girl did not remember him.
‘It is the will of Allah,’ said Merih.
‘May she be remembered forever.’
It was the accepted response, but she felt he meant it and her eyes burned. Nene, her grandmother, was a great lady.
The man spoke again. ‘I would like to remember her name.’
‘Sophia. Her name was Sophia.’
‘Sophia,’ he repeated, and he didn’t comment on the strangeness of the Greek name of a woman who lived amongst the Sufi yürük. Instead, his head lifted and he was gazing straight at the yurt, into the shadows where the girl was hiding, and she had the strangest feeling that he saw her, though she knew he could not. She was invisible in the dappled shadows. And she remembered him then; Nene had brought the men to the open flap of the yurt. She had gestured to the girl to remove herself into the shadowy interior but the brown man had already seen her, his eyes steady and considering and she had looked back at him, challenging stare for stare, until Nene had gestured again and she had withdrawn. The dark man, the handsome one, had not noticed her a
t all and it irked her. Was she so invisible to him? His eyes were grey. Not clear grey like Nene’s but smoky, like hearth fires, and his lashes were thick and long like a girl’s. Beautiful eyes.
‘Will you share your name with us, sir?’
‘Of course. I am Dafydd ap Heddwyn ap Rhickert.’ The names rolled proudly from his tongue though it was clear to him they made little sense to the women. A smile flickered and went. ‘Mostly they call me Dai – easier on the tongue, isn’t it? And my friend here goes by the name of Thomas Archer.’
The dark man dipped his head in greeting. So he was Thomas Archer. Or went by the name of Thomas Archer, the brown man said, and that was strange when he had announced his own name in that proud way. Thomas Archer, she repeated, and the name sounded strange on her tongue.
Time to puzzle later because the dogs were called to heel and two men dismounted, holding the reins to keep the horses quiet before one of the women led them to the corral where two of their sturdy mountain ponies had been left behind. The grey and the brown were turned loose with them, and the girl saw the brown whicker softly in greeting to the chestnut mare that was her favourite.
The chief was coming out from his yurt with the meagre retinue of elders, the old men who had stayed behind. They sat with their guests on one of the kilims woven in the tribal motif in the shade of tall walnut trees already heavy with green fruit while the women served bowls of cool, tangy yoghurt mixed with clear, sweet water from the bubbling springs. There were little biscuits sweetened with dried grapes and almonds that were Nene’s favourite and fat figs ripe and bursting and warm from the sun and dribbled with mountain honey. The two young men were guests, and so they were welcomed, and were asked the questions all travellers were asked. Where have you come from? Where are you going?
Their merchant train was encamped at one of the hans on the Karaman road; they were bound for Attaleia, travelling from the far countries. It was late summer, and time they reached the coast before autumn gales made sailing impossible, except they had to halt until their companion was recovered. Where then were they bound?
‘Venezia.’
Venezia, a name only though Nene had spoken of Venezia, the miraculous city that floated on water. And of Genoa, its great rival, and how merchants travelled from those prosperous cities across the sea to this broad land, crossing it from han to han, the resting places built by the Selçuk, each a camel’s day journey apart, though the Selçuk were vanquished now and the land ruled by the Beyliks, each with his own province and some his own mint to cast the coins that said he was a powerful ruler. The coins were worthless down on the coast land, unless they came from the mint of their own Bey. It was one of the reasons they bartered goods; strange coins were no use to them up here in the high valley.
Merih’s daughter, Gül, came into the tent to find her. The two girls were about the same age and Gül looked curiously at the girl’s dark head bent over a basket of herbs.
‘Why are you hiding away? Why don’t you come and see the strangers? It’s not often we get visitors as handsome as these two.’
The girl shook her head. She stood up with a small-stoppered earthen bottle in her hands. ‘This is good for sickness. They will need to add six drops of this to fresh water. On no account use stale water. Make that clear to these strangers. They do not value fresh water as we do. Three cups a day, perhaps for three or four days. It’s difficult to know without seeing him.’
‘Why not come and tell them yourself?’ The look she slanted at the girl was sly, teasing. The girl shook her head again and Gül sighed at her stubbornness.
‘Your loss, then,’ she said and took the bottle from the girl and walked back to the group of men, hips swaying, pleased to be the centre of attention. The girl stayed behind in the shelter of the tent. She didn’t know why she had refused. Not shyness, not embarrassment, nothing as simple as that. She watched as Gül relayed the instructions, saw the brown man shake his head and those around him shaking theirs in agreement. Then Gül was swaying back to the tent, all too aware that her rounded haunches displayed tempting plumpness.
‘You have to come. They say they need to talk to you. It’s all guesswork, otherwise.’
The girl nodded and silently followed Gül across the space to the group of elders and the two guests. She stood before them, hands folded, head bent. Out of the corner of her eye she observed the dark man with the smoky, long-lashed grey eyes. He was watching her, eyebrows raised.
‘She is very young.’
‘That may be so,’ said the Chief, ‘but she has been well taught by her grandmother. We have every confidence in Sophia’s child.
‘Come, girl; hear what our guests have to say concerning their friend who is ill. It may be you need to add to your medicine.’
The brown man leaned forward. His gaze had not left her and she found it disturbing. His eyes were dark brown, almost black; they were the eyes of one who would look into your soul but his face was taut as a tent rope. A hard man, hardened by life. Not a man to be treated lightly. Deliberately, she distanced herself, became still, an empty vessel, as her grandmother had taught her.
‘Of course, Father of our tribe. It shall be as you will.’
It was the brown man who talked, describing fever, a swollen throat, a wracking cough, sickness. Well, the sickness she had dealt with. The fever? She considered. What was it Nene had prescribed? Nene had followed the teachings of Ibn Sina, that greatest of great men of philosophy and medicine who the foreigners called Avicenna. What was it Nene had used for sickness of the lungs? Of course, the seeds of the plant they gathered every year at the ruins of the old monastery on the high crag. She could not remember its name but it was the one that was used for the incense in the Christian churches and was also the best for reducing inflammation and fever and clearing the lungs. Quietly, as Nene would have done, she explained how to burn the substance so that the vapours could be inhaled and breathing relieved and fever reduced. The brown man listened in that still way he had and the dark man – how pleased he was, how grateful. Her lashes fluttered over her lowered lids. It was enough to have served him, to have been of use. She would have left them then except that the Father Chief indicated that she stay; it was an honour and she could not refuse. She sat silently listening to them.
The dark man was talking again.
‘Dai here must go to Flanders. That’s where our employer lives – Heinrijc Mertens, a rich merchant of Ieper whose business we are engaged on. But we’ll not be going to England, that’s for sure.’ England: that strange, cold, far-off land that was her grandfather’s country. She had sworn to Nene that she would travel there. The dark man laughed though there was no merriment in it. ‘We haven’t seen England for many a year and our companions are none too keen to see it again. But my friend here is homesick for the poverty-stricken little country he calls home.’
The brown man said nothing and his face gave nothing away. If he was homesick for his country he gave no sign. He had the gift of stillness and it disturbed her. The chief bartered cheese and yoghurt for soap – the last few boxes, he was told, saved specially for this tribe – and a parcel of bright patterned silk cloth they were carrying from the far countries, and she could see how much he was enjoying himself playing merchants’ games with these two young men. He was like one of the small lizards, all wizened skin and bright dark eyes that shifted this way and that. When he was excited, spittle flecked the sides of his mouth and he flicked it away with his tongue. He was doing that now, gloating over his treasures.
Then the men were leave-taking, though they were pressed to stay and eat with the tribe and the brown man cast a hungry look towards the bubbling pot. They had some distance to travel, they said, and their friends were waiting for them. And they were away up the valley side, the brown man on a brown horse and the dark, handsome man astride the grey, away and gone out of her life.
3
Such is the ordinance of the Mighty One,
the all-knowing
. It is he that has created for you
the stars, so that they may guide you in the
darkness of the land and sea.
(Quran: 6:95-96)
When the sun was sitting just on the rim of the mountains the chief summoned her to his great tent. It was one of the yurts like an upturned boat and inside was dark. He watched the girl as she walked towards him in that light, graceful way she had. Such a small girl, skinny as well, but fearless and with a surprising strength of arm for a girl of such small size. He’d heard them teasing her, calling her ‘Çiçek’s daughter’, and there was much truth in that. Strength of mind, too. Stubborn. Once she’d set her mind to something, she didn’t let go. Like that grave she’d had them make for her grandmother, with its lid of carved stone so heavy it took all their strength to lift it into place. Not that any of the old men had the strength of their youth. Not now. These were the autumn years and he had no regrets. A good life he’d had. But the girl! What would her life be now that the grandmother was dead? Not a sound out of her, not a tear. She had done well today, explaining to the visitors what medicine they must take; so very like her grandmother. He told her so.
She sat very still in front of him though her heart was beating fast. Through the opening she could see the round red ball of the sun sliding behind the mountains and the glow from it turned the valley to fire. For a moment, it seemed as if Nene’s funeral mound was ablaze.
‘We regret the death of Sophia our friend,’ he said, as if he, too, had the same thought. He looked uncomfortable, his eyes flickering this way and that, and she wondered what next. ‘Now that you have no kin…’ He stopped and she waited. ‘Now that you have no kin—’
‘You are my kin,’ she said. She kept her voice even and low. ‘The tribe is all I know, all I have ever known.’
The Storyteller's Granddaughter Page 2