And then the impossible made possible: she was there with them, talking with them, with him, but unaware of him as she was unaware of her glowing beauty. Her hair: not dark after all but streaked with bronze and copper and gold, rich as those metals and gleaming in the afternoon sun. And her eyes, when she raised them, were gold flecked. Her voice was soft and clear and precise in her instructions. No, not a thought for him. But for Thomas Archer, now, there was different. Time enough she had for him, however she kept her eyes downcast and no outward sign that she cared anything for him. The wonder of it was he’d taken no notice of the girl. ‘Pretty enough,’ he’d agreed, when Dai dared trust himself enough to say anything about her. ‘Too skinny for my taste. I just hope the chief was right and she was well taught by her grandmother, or it’s been a day’s journey for nothing and Edgar sick as a cat.’
‘What will happen now to the girl, I wonder, with her grandmother dead?’
Twm had shrugged. ‘Perhaps there’s some man in the tribe who’s claimed her as bride. Who knows?’
Maybe it was as Twm said. Maybe she was spoken for. It was not Dai’s problem. He couldn’t – mustn’t – think of her. He had his band of misfits to guide to some haven, if not home. Not one of them could go home – didn’t dare go home. All had their own secret that was kept hidden, never shared whatever was suspected. Yet that memory of the girl with gold-copper-bronze streaked hair, her strange gold-flecked eyes, her body lithe and supple as her mind… Dai bach, keep your wits about you now.
The medicine they brought back was doing Edgar good. It was worth the day’s journey, though he had worried about leaving Edgar in Blue’s care. True, young Rémi had a head on his shoulders but Blue…a law to himself he was. A big man, tall and broad with a belly on him, and his head and shoulders were high above the rest of them and towering over young Rémi. It was the dye that marked him out, though – the blue-black staining that looked like bruising on fingers and nails and arms and face. There was a blue-black sheen on the straggled ends of his wiry beard, like a magpie’s coat, though the fresh growth was rusty as old iron. His nails were blackest of all. Easy to tell he’d been a woad man at some time, though no one asked when or where or why he’d quit. And those cures he brought with him from the outlandish country he called home! The Fens, he called it, where sea and land were one and the ague was a constant illness. Blue swore the way to break Edgar’s fever was to roll a live spider in butter and get him to swallow it. He’d made Blue promise not to try it. To wait until they came back from the camp with medicine from the wise woman. Should he ever have let the man travel with them? Twm was against it, of course, but how to refuse a man in need? Besides, in spite of the bluster and loud talk and hard drinking there was a loneliness about the big man that clutched at Dai’s heart. He knew what loneliness was.
Edgar’s fever broke in the small hours. He slept sound then till daybreak. He woke hungry and demanding to break his fast, as much as Edgar ever demanded anything. He whispered for food and drink, bless the boy, as if words were a sin. And maybe, for him, they were. Wel, there you go. Everybody has corners where secrets are hidden. He blessed the old woman, wherever her soul might be, and began to hope they could be on the move, if not next daybreak, then surely the morning after.
5
Until you’ve grown your own beard
Don’t ridicule smooth chins
(Mevlana Jalal al Din Rumi, 1207-1273)
It was luck that had brought her to the merchants’ camp. Not as far as the han at Karaman but at the edge of the flat plateau on a bluff of land that overlooked a steep valley with the wide sky swirling and the camels and donkeys and horses and dogs making noises that sounded so familiar but belonged to strangers. There were bright coloured pavilions set apart from the black tents, and a bright standard placed in front of the largest pavilion, fluttering in the breeze. Camels were grouped in katars; she could see at least ten and that meant over seventy camels. The pack mules and horses and dogs were close by. She could not see the grey horse or the brown horse but that was not surprising. This was a bigger merchant camp than she had expected, a prize for robbers, and she could not understand why they had not taken refuge in one of the hans. The glorious smell of food cooking wafted up to her, caught in the air together with the sounds and smells of animals, and her stomach grumbled with hunger.
It was evening and the sun was slanting long shadows. She had travelled through the black night, she and the mare shivering both when they heard the wild creatures roaming and snuffling and hunting. She had petted the animal, leaning forward to whisper soft words into the flickering ears, stroking her neck, subduing her own fear so as not to alarm the mare who was nervous enough already. She remembered the stories told to children who wouldn’t sleep, stories of three-headed dogs with huge pricked, pointed ears and great drooling mouths and flaring nostrils that sniffed out naughty children. Stories of the leopards that prowled this land and preyed on wakeful children; leopards with glittering eyes and dappled skin so that they were always hidden in the shadows, silently stalking until the moment they pounced on their prey with their snarling mouths and sharp teeth and curved claws. Nene had told her that was long ago. Perhaps there might still be such beasts but no-one in her memory had caught so much as a glimpse of a whisker, not the tip of an ear, not the top of a tail in this part of the country. Not even a flicker of a shadowed body or the gleam of eyes in the dark. Nene was the wisest of all women and Nene’s soul was a new star high above her, watching over her. Even so, the night had been long and the shadows full of peril and the road uneven and stony and pitted with cracks and holes.
When daybreak came she was close to the ruins of the old monastery nesting high on its ridge above the road. She had been here before, with Nene. It was the place where they came to harvest the berries of the plant that made the medicine she had given the strangers.
At the bottom of the great rock were the houses of people she knew, where Greeks and Turks had lived alongside each other time out of mind and coaxed a living from the land. Fruit trees grew here, and olives, and corn. Nene said it used to be monastery land and was where the pilgrims came before making the steep climb to the monastery and the shrine of Tarasis of Blessed Memory, but that was long ago and the place was ruined and empty now of pilgrims though the saint’s shrine was still there. She had seen it. She had walked there in the early morning with Nene and they had watched the sun rise over the crag and seen the tower of the ancient church silhouetted against a pinky lemon sky. Behind and below them was the valley of the Gök Su and, beyond that, Mahras Dağı and blue mountains ranging peak on peak further than the eye could see. A tangle of undergrowth lay thickly over the remains of walls built with the huge tawny stones of the old people.
A door opened in one of the small houses and a woman came out. She was yawning, sleepy-eyed, her mouth an ‘oh’ of yawns and her hair still loose about her shoulders. She was carrying a tall pitcher, walking over to the cistern the girl knew was close to the houses, piped down from the many springs up there on the crags. It was Maria. The girl knew her well from the visits she and her grandmother had made, year after year, to this ruined monastery on its great crag. Maria caught sight of the stranger on the chestnut mare and froze into stillness. One horse, one rider and that only a youth but you never knew these days where the danger came from. The girl guessed the thoughts that ran through the woman’s head. An enemy or just a wayfarer?
A mischievous impulse seized the girl despite her fatigue.
‘Greetings, woman of the house.’
‘Greetings, young stranger. You are welcome.’
‘I thank you. I am tired and hungry. I have ridden through the night.’
‘Then you must break your fast with us, and maybe sleep a while, if your business is not pressing.’
‘That would be welcome indeed.’ The both spoke in the familiar polite phrases always used between householder and traveller. The woman stood stiffly, waiting for the youth say more
about himself. He didn’t.
‘Let me draw the water for you,’ he said instead and slid off the chestnut mare.
The mare nuzzled close and mouthed the girl’s tunic. The terrors of the night were past and the mare could smell water. The girl held her hand out for the pitcher.
‘There’s no need for that, young sir.’
‘But I would like to help, Maria.’
The woman stared warily at the youth. ‘You know my name.’
‘As well as I know my own.’
‘And what is your name, young sir?’
‘They call me Sophia’s Child.’
The woman stared at her, at the cropped hair, at the slight youth before her.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, and now her voice was fraught with fear.
‘Maria, it’s me. It’s Sophia’s child.’ She laughed, rumpled her hair with one hand. ‘Yes, I know – I’ve cut off my hair. But truly it is me.’
‘Sophia’s child?’ The woman’s gaze took in the weary horse, the equally weary rider. ‘Here alone so early in the day? Do I believe you? What are you about?’ She was angry because of her alarm, still disbelieving.
‘Truly, it is me. I am sorry, Maria, I would not vex you for the world. But it’s good to know you really did take me for a young man.’
‘Where is Sophia?’
‘My grandmother is dead. She died four days ago. I have left the tribe because… There are reasons.’ The girl swallowed on the hardness in her throat and she was suddenly the young child again, her grandmother’s shadow, following her up the steep track to the old monastery, eating and drinking in Maria’s house, playing games with the children, so careful of the youngest, the boy with one arm…
Always a practical woman, Maria nodded, accepting, recognising the girl’s fatigue and distress. This was the woman who had cut off the arm of her youngest child to save his life when he had been savaged by a wild boar. ‘You need food and a warm fire. Later tell us your news.’
‘May God bless you, Maria.’
Maria surged towards the house, the water forgotten for now. She would send one of her children. Now, there was this weary young girl to take care of. Inside, a young boy was stirring a pot with his good hand. He was bright-faced with round pink cheeks and shining eyes. The right sleeve of his tunic was flaccid, empty, the sleeve dangling. Later he would pin it out of the way. There was no self-pity in him. Life was good and he was alive and he had his formidable mother to thank for that.
‘See, Rehan, we have a hungry visitor.’
‘He’s here in good time, mother. Mmm. This smells good.’ He looked again at the slim youth who had stepped into the house. ‘Çiçek, welcome. What are you doing here so early? Where is your grandmother? Why have you cut your hair?’
The girl laughed. ‘Dear Rehan, I think you’d see past any disguise. Give me a bowl of your porridge and I’ll answer all your questions.’
And then there was the whole family eager with questions and exclamations and a heaped bowl before her and flat bread and figs and cheese and after that sleep with the knowledge that the mare was looked after and a promise to wake her in two hours’ time.
She had slept but in her sleeping there were dreams of memories. She and Nene climbing up the steep slopes, up to the caves where Nene said the earliest monastery had been. It was a playing ground for a young girl, a honeycomb of rooms painted deep red with a church underground, white-plastered with a red line of paint as ornamentation. Outside was another huge ruined church where she had found her amethyst ring. Nene had shown her the way the old building had been remade, reused, with carved stones bolstering the old walls. It was a mystery. Who had lived here? Why had they left? Who had come back to re-inhabit the old buildings? Here was the Door Beautiful. That was how she always thought of it, the great door to the church, with its archangels, Gabriel and Michael, guarding the entrance, and the lion and the ox and the flying eagle and the angel and the tree that grows by the river of life. It was a miracle of carving, even now in its ruined state.
In her dreams she walked along the colonnaded terrace with the steep-sided valley on one side and the high crags on the other. Here was the shrine of the great Tarasis of Blessed Memory with its huge figures to either side and intertwining vines and a space in the stones where there was a partridge with an angel. What did it all mean?
In her dreams she had moved through the quiet morning towards the old church, roofless now but its walls still reaching to roof height. It was always cool inside, dark and cavernous. The three aisles stretched ahead of her to the central tower. Beyond that lay the high altar. Here was peace and safety. Beyond the church were more caves and springs and the shrubs they had come to find and harvest.
She had woken when the early afternoon sun slanted through the window opening on to her face. She stretched and wondered if she was too late and they were long gone, the dark man and the brown, but Maria had thought not. A comrade who had a sickness? Of course they would stay another day. Of course she would catch up with them. They kissed her and gave her parcels of food and wished her well.
‘And come back to us, Çiçek.’ Rehan’s smile was broad and beaming. ‘You must come back and tell us the story of your great adventure,’ he said. ‘Go with God.’
She and the mare made their way back to the road and hurried on, tiny as ants trailing across this broad land. The road led uphill and out of the trees to the top of the pass where it dipped again down to the clear high land of the plateau. That used to be forested as well, Nene had told her, but the trees were taken by the Selçuk for the new towns, for the mosques and medreses and hospitals and houses and hamams and buildings like the han she was heading for, before the Selçuk too were overthrown. Always that was the way of it, Nene had told her; army after army over years and years and years, conquering, settling, building, and then the wars and crops failing, animals scattered – worse, dead – homes destroyed, families separated; death and despair and suffering. This was how it was, Nene had told her, except that there would always be people like their small tribe, people who cared for each other, helped each other to survive. People like Maria and her family. These were the people who drank the delicious water of life, who loved their neighbours as themselves. These were the true believers. And the two men, the strangers, the dark man and the brown man, they cared enough about their friend to make the journey to find her grandmother, to seek out the draughts that would cure him. These must be men she could trust. She prayed it was so.
And here they were. Here was their camp. It was well protected. She knew she was watched as the mare picked her way across the rocky bluff towards it, little rocks and earth skittering from under her hooves and the pungent scent of thyme where it was trampled.
A group of women clustered round the fire and cooking pots. One of them was turning from the cooking pot, one hand holding the spoon still poised over it and her other hand holding something, herbs maybe, ready to add to the pot. She straightened up and shaded her eyes with the herby hand. A huddle of turbaned men was sitting in the shade of an awning outside the biggest tent, the one with the standard. A young boy was standing behind them, a small dark boy with curly brown hair and wary eyes under slanting brows. He saw her before the men. Strange, how clearly the eye sees details, tiny details that the mind does not acknowledge until later. He had been serving them with drinks, still held the copper tray and the setting sun glanced off the metal. She reached the edge of the camp at the same moment two of the men came to their feet, goblets in hand. Merchants, certainly, and rich, too, by their dress and turbans. She shouted a greeting, keeping her voice low, trying to sound like a boy, like her friend Kazan.
She must have looked the part, dishevelled and grubby, astride the panting horse. They returned her greeting – Turkish then, but not nomad. Nor like the two strangers, the dark man and the brown. Where had she come from, they asked her. Was she travelling alone, and so young? Where was she going? Always the questions to be asked and answered;
that was the custom. She had her story ready, how she longed to travel to the great sea and had left her home and would be willing to work her way in a great merchant train like this one. She looked about her for the dark man and the brown but there was no sign of them. Perhaps they had their own place? She was about to ask about them but the men were nodding, unsmiling; they exchanged long looks with each other. One beckoned her forward, towards the great coloured pavilion.
‘Come. Meet our master. You need to speak with him. Let one of the boys look after your horse.’
Their master? She had thought they were the masters, so rich and fine were their clothes. But they were servants. Perhaps now she would meet Thomas Archer and the brown man with the long, musical name. She turned to follow them and that was when she saw the boy watching her from under long lashes and as she met his gaze he did something very strange. He glanced to right and left. No one had noticed him. He tapped a finger against his lower lip, his mouth open. Then the finger was wagged across a mouth now tight shut. It was but a moment, and then his head was bent again to take empty goblets.
She was taken inside, into the dim coolness of the great tent. It was spread with wonderful carpets and cushions woven in tribal patterns she did not recognise. There was a great beaten copper tepsi on a carved wooden stand and, beside it, copper urns engraved and inlaid with silver. Beyond, a curtain screened off an inner part of the tent. A man emerged.
‘What is it?’ The high-pitched voice was querulous.
‘Sir, we have a visitor. A young boy anxious to travel the world.’
‘Indeed? Well, let him come forward.’
She saw a solid, square, swarthy man. Not tall but wide and plump, with a thick fleshy neck like an ox and buttocks like an ox and the sheen of good living on his face, and a mouth that was loose-lipped and sensual. Strange that such a man should have nothing but a high piping voice, like a gelding. This is not a man to trust. Nene’s voice was clear in her head. Take care what you are about, child.
The Storyteller's Granddaughter Page 4