The Storyteller's Granddaughter

by Margaret Redfern

  She had given up any hope of catching up with Thomas Archer and the brown man with the long, rhythmic name and their caravan. Perhaps she might, just might, meet up with them in Attaleia but by then she would not be useful to them. She wasn’t even useful to herself this morning; she was dizzy with cold and fatigue and hunger. It was difficult to focus on the road, and the caravans following her, and there were swirls of mist obscuring everything. She heard the great caravan long before it loomed up and passed her, grey shapes in a sun-blocked land, hooves churning the road into a mass of wet sand and mud, whistles and shouts from the muleteers, curses too, and cracking whips. She had sidestepped into the shelter of a rock outcrop and shrank into it, invisible, feeling sharp prickly shrubs crushed against her. She watched the caravan unseen. She recognised fat Vecdet’s outline. There was no sign of the Venetian lord. She looked and looked for Niko but there was no sign of him either amongst the rest of the slaves, roped together now and marching in a solemn column. She wondered where he was. She caught a glimpse of a slim, fragile-seeming girl with pale plaits hanging below her head shawl. It must be his sister, Agathi. Where the sister was, there he would be. ‘Wait for me, Niko,’ Kazan murmured. ‘Wait for me. Stay alive. I’ll find you.’

  9

  Who are you trying to run from?

  Yourself? That’s impossible.

  (Mevlana Jalal al Din Rumi, 1207 – 1273)

  There’d been no hope of reaching the next han by sunset. They knew that. No hope, either, of travelling with another caravan, as they often did for safety. Too late in setting off. Then one of the mules shed its load and they had to stop again to repack and refasten ropes. Blue hung his head in shame because it was his drunken fumbling that was the cause, not the muleteer’s fault at all. Twm glared at him, his lips a tight line, but he said nothing. Uneasy they all were. Well known it was, this stretch of the road, for robbers and bandits. They had taken over a town high in the mountains, see, and launched raids from their stronghold.

  There was an ancient citadel close by, not far from where the roads divided, one leading straight across the plain to Konya; the other winding down through the valleys and gorges towards Sūleymans¸eyhir and the lake. They were still undecided which route to take: Twm was in favour of the shorter route through the valleys but the guide, now, he was wanting to take the longer, straighter route to Konya then another straight road well-serviced with hans. Safer it was, he said, and his men agreed with him. They were fair to quarrelling over it and, what with Blue still sulking and Edgar swearing he was fit when he wasn’t, there was trouble brewing right enough. Well, for tonight there was no need for deciding. The small caravan wound its way up the bare hill to the citadel. All was ruins now, except for the walls soundly rebuilt and a few of the buildings good enough to repair and use. There was a good, high, stone building, easy to defend. Dai knew the chief there, had stayed there before. Men shouted down from the walls, wanting to know who they were, where they were bound, the usual security. Then there was silence and a new figure joined those on the walls, his stooped gait betraying his age; his voice was rasping and hoarse.

  ‘Dai – is that you? You’re welcome, dear boy, welcome, you and your friends.’ And then the opening of the gates and wiry arms reaching up to clasp him and exclamations. ‘Where have you been? How long is it since you came to see us? Too long!’ His three sons stood by him, two of them towering over him, the third slim and slight, all with dark, hooded eyes like their father and hair that was as dark as their father’s had been when he was a young man, wild with curls hanging loose to their shoulders. A clutch of young boys hovered near them, all with the same dark eyes, dark hair. ‘My grandsons,’ Kara Kemal said. ‘See how they’ve grown!’

  Three years’ growth it was; the youngest a babe-in-arms he was then and now a plump toddler trailing after his brothers. The women held back under the shadow of the arched colonnade, their heads shawled and faces half-hidden, shy where the yürük women were bold. ‘We are quite a family now, don’t you agree, my friend?’ Kara Kemal was complacent with satisfaction. ‘What more can an old man desire than the comfort of his home and his family?’ His eyes glittered under their heavy lids. ‘Now I have only to find a good wife for my Mehmi, my youngest. Better to be home than travelling the roads, hey? Time you were settling down with a brood of your own, hey?’

  Dai laughed. ‘That’s what you said last time. And the answer’s still the same: time enough.’

  ‘There’s never time enough, boy. Find yourself a wife!’

  The eyes still glittered but moisture had gathered there. Dai reached out a hand and grasped the older man’s arm. No words spoken, none needed; Kara Kemal’s first wife, the mother of his sons, had been a good woman. Kemal had told him so though Dai had never known her. Kemal had married again late in life; he had adored his beautiful young wife, had never ceased to wonder at his good fortune in winning her. He had laughed at himself, quoting from the Masnavi, the book of the teachings of Jalal al Din Rumi, the Mevlana, the Sufi mystic revered by Kemal. Always there was a quotation, a lesson to be learned from the great teacher, he said, and that time he had recalled the story of the man whose hair was half grey who came hurrying to a barber who was a friend of his:

  ‘“Pluck out the white hairs from my beard, for I have selected a young bride.” Remember this, my friend?’ Dai remembered the story and remembered how Kemal had spluttered with laughter in the telling, holding his young wife by her slim hand, his eyes softened with love for her. ‘Remember how the barber cut off the man’s beard and laid it before him? “Do you part them for the task is beyond me.”’ He shook with laughter. ‘“The task is beyond me,”’ he repeated. ‘This one says there is no need to separate the white from the dark. She tells me it is a sign of wisdom. I am become a wise man in my old age, Dai, my friend!’

  ‘Wise in the choice of a wife, that is certain,’ he had responded. Dai had met her but once; he remembered a beautiful, gentle creature years younger than her husband and devoted to him. She had died one hot summer. Out of sorts one day, feverish the next, dead two days after that. And Kara Kemal a ghost of a man he’d been, haunting his own household. Good it was to see him bright and spry again.

  ‘How long can you stay? No longer than a night? But it’s not safe – the bandits are on the move again. There’s little we can do to stop them. The best we can do is make our home safe against them. You must stay longer – stay until a big caravan passes this way.’ The words spilled out of him and the sons shook their heads, laughing. He had always been one for the words before he became a ghost.

  ‘There’s a caravan on our heels, Kemal,’ Dai said, drily.

  ‘Then wait for it, wait for it.’

  ‘It’s a slaver.’

  ‘Ah, my friend, still the same as you ever were, aching to make this world a better place.’

  ‘You and your conscience, Dai,’ muttered Twm.

  Dai grinned. ‘That’s what they said about Taid, my grandfather. Besides, Kemal, I’m only following your Mevlana’s teaching – he didn’t hold with slaves, did he now? Reckoned we were all free from birth, didn’t he now? No, friend, we’ll make our own way. We must leave tomorrow. Time we were heading for the port and the Venezia fleet. I promised Heinrijc Mertens we’d be home this year end.’

  ‘Well, a promise is a promise and if it must be tonight only, come in, come in – welcome. We shall make a feast in your honour.’

  Tomorrow they must leave, Dai said, but he was worried. Far enough it had been for Edgar to travel that day. As it was, he was wan-faced and feeble by the time they reached the ruined citadel and glad to rest his bones. Best place for him, for sure. Kara Kemal couldn’t do enough for him. ‘He’s your friend,’ Kara Kemal said again and again. ‘Any friend of yours we honour for your sake, Dai my friend.’ When he greeted Blue, his head tilted on one side in the way Dai remembered from his first meeting, mischief glittering in his dark eyes as he noted the blue-black stains on the man’s hands a
nd arms and face and measured the height of the Fenlander. He himself barely reached as high as Blue’s broad chest. ‘And now you bring me a blue man-mountain, my friend. Well, all are welcome for your sake – and maybe for theirs. Who knows except Allah the great, the all-compassionate?’ His hands went out to the big man’s fleshy paws to welcome him into his home. His gaze moved on to Rémi, stroking and soothing a skittish mule. ‘You still have the boy with you, then. And how he’s grown. He’s a credit to you, my friend.’

  Rémi’s thin face split into a grin, pleased to be remembered, pleased to be praised for his master’s sake.

  ‘And these?’

  ‘Twm Archer and Edgar and Giles, Twm’s man. Heinrijc Mertens thought I should have more protection; Twm’s a fighting man. Giles combines his duties of servant with those of a very competent man-at-arms. Heinrijc was in the right of it, as he always is. It’s grateful I’ve been for Twm’s company this journey, and for Giles’s.’

  Tom lifted an eyebrow in that quizzical, questioning way he had and between them lay memories of dangers past and passed by.

  ‘He’s a handsome man!’ Kara Kemal chuckled. ‘They are both handsome men, Edgar and this Tom Archer: one so dark, the other so fair. My women folk think so as well.’ Behind him in the shadows the women were whispering and giggling in the way women do when handsome strangers arrive unexpectedly. ‘Go and tell your mistress we have guests,’ he called to them. ‘Make some refreshment for our visitors instead of making such cackling. You’re nothing but hens, the lot of you!’ But he was smiling, well pleased. ‘And this golden haired one with the so-blue eyes? This is Edgar?’

  Edgar’s face was flushed with embarrassment.

  ‘Edgar was chance-found on our way and glad we are for his company.’

  ‘More strays, my friend?’ the old man murmured. ‘Still the same as you ever were. Come, come – the old mother will be glad of your company. She’d a fondness for you, remember? She’s not so busy about everybody’s business now. All that nagging and chittering – she’s too old for that now. And the thing is, I miss it. Isn’t that a strange thing?’ He was leading them into the courtyard Dai remembered, surrounded by pillars and arches and shadowy rooms within. ‘Mother!’ Kemal shouted. ‘We have visitors. See who is come! Will you remember this stranger?’

  Another thing almost forgotten: shouting his news. Never talk quietly if you could shout, that was Kara Kemal. Dai wondered if that was why his voice was hoarse and rasping or if it was only age creeping up on him.

  The mother was three years older and three years frailer, her flesh shrunk on her bones and her eyes hooded and whitened, but her wits were as sharp as ever. ‘About time you came to see us again, my son.’ That was what she had always called him, ever since that first meeting so many years ago now. She stroked the thick Flemish cloth Dai heaped into her hands, crooning over its warmth.

  And then the evening meal, though it was clear they hadn’t provisions enough for themselves, let alone a whole company, but it was impossible to say anything, make any protest. That was to dishonour the whole tribe and their hospitality. He’d learnt that lesson many years ago now. It was one of the reasons he loved this country. Hadn’t his own grandfather taught him to share, to make sacrifices so that others should benefit whatever the cost? And such a cost.

  They must sacrifice a kid, Kara Kemal insisted. This was a celebration, a reunion. Dai sent one of the muleteers to unpack a sack of rice. Their offering, he insisted, given in gratitude for hospitality and friendship, and Kemal didn’t refuse. Another packet followed, of sugar, and another of olives, and gladly given. No one should ever go hungry. They sat late over the meal, round the great platter of rice and meat spiced with cardamom and cinnamon and pepper, dipping in their right hands to take dainty mouthfuls. Even Blue took less than his share, recognising the hunger of their hosts. And Edgar – Edgar ate sparingly, true, but he ate, a sign that he was on the way to recovering. There was a dish of aruzza, the rice and sugar a trembling mass drowned in melting butter. Kara Kemal’s delight betrayed how rarely such a dish was served. ‘Come, eat,’ he said again and again, pressing on them another morsel, just another…

  There was music and storytelling. Mehmi, the youngest son, was a gifted storyteller and once had dreams of being apprenticed to a famous storyteller who lived in Akşehir. Not only that, this was where the great joker Nasreddin Hoca was buried. No more than fifty years since his death, his stories were told everywhere there was a gathering, and there were old men still living who claimed they had known him and who were always asked, ‘Is this what he said? Truly?’ and they would nod and swear it was so, however outrageous and incredible the tale, and say, ‘That Hoca, that Nasreddin, he was a wise man, a wise fool. Listen to him; be sure you listen to him.’ This night was no exception.

  Mehmi began:

  ‘One day Nasreddin Hoca got on his donkey the wrong way, facing towards the tail. “Hoca,” the people said, “You are sitting on your donkey backwards!” “No,” he replied. “It’s not that I am sitting on the donkey backwards…”’

  ‘…the donkey’s facing the wrong way,’ everyone chorused, and laughed. They knew this story but always there were stories they had never heard before. Some said the Hoca was telling them from his grave.

  Mehmi continued:

  ‘The Hoca was going to the mosque with his mullahs. He was riding his donkey backwards…’

  ‘The same donkey?’ someone shouted.

  ‘The same donkey, Omar. The mullahs asked, “Why are you riding on the donkey backwards? Isn’t that very uncomfortable?” “No,” he replied, “if I sat facing forwards, you would be behind me. If you went in front of me, I would be behind you. Either way, I would not be facing you. This is the logical way.”’

  He waited for the laughter to die down.

  ‘One of Hoca’s friends wanted to borrow his donkey – the same donkey – for a day, to go to the mill, but Hoca told him it wasn’t there that day. Just as he finished speaking the donkey started braying in the shed. “Your donkey is in the shed. I am disappointed in you. You won’t let an old friend like me borrow your donkey just for a day!” “Oh,” he replied, “you are a strange man! You don’t believe your old friend and me a respectable old man as well; instead you believe the donkey.”’

  He held up a hand before the applause started, a mischievous grin on his dark face. He looked in that moment so very like the child he had been that Kara Kemal felt his eyes brim with tears.

  ‘Hoca had no money and it was getting worse day after day. He cut down on everything he could, including the food he gave to his donkey. The donkey didn’t seem any the worse for it so he kept on cutting down on the food he gave to the donkey.’ They were quiet. This story they hadn’t heard before. ‘One day the donkey died. Hoca was very sad. “What a shame,” he said, “just as it was getting used to hunger, it died.”’

  Laughter broke out and some stamped their feet and others tapped their drinking cups. More than one glance flashed towards Kara Kemal: they were always having to cut back on food, trying not to complain of hunger, and now these visitors had provided them with a feast. It was a subtle compliment – and Kemal enjoyed the joke as much as any of them. ‘Another,’ they shouted. ‘The letter, Mehmi, tell the letter!’

  Mehmi cleared his throat and picked up the stumpy pot he liked to drink from. He made a play of peering inside it, tipping it upside down and shaking out the last drops of wine until one of the men heaved himself to his feet and poured more wine from the jug and that too was emptied so that one of the wives was sent running to fill it. Mehmi waited until she returned. All the women and children were there, the children sleepy now, heads drooping, the youngest sucking his thumb. Years later, he would remember this night when the visitors came and they feasted and his uncle Mehmi the Storyteller held them spellbound.

  ‘A man brought a letter to the Hoca: “Hoca could you read this letter?” Hoca looked at the letter, which was all in Arabic. He couldn�
��t read it and gave it back to man. “Take this to someone else, I can’t read it,” said the Hoca. “But why not? You are wearing the turban of a learned man yet you can’t read a letter…” The Hoca took off his turban and placed it in front of the man. “If it is the skill of a turban, put it on and…”’ Mehmi trailed off, waiting, smiling.

  ‘…read your letter yourself!’ His audience roared and clapped. Kara Kemal smiled, but if anyone had been watching him they would have seen sadness in his smile. But all eyes were on his youngest son.

  It had seemed certain that Mehmi would go to Akşehir but the times were troubled and then, just when it seemed there was peace again, the bandits started their marauding and he had been needed here with the family and so it had come to nothing. But he played and sang for the family and it seemed that was audience enough. After the Hoca tales he balanced the tanbur in one hand, its long neck leaning against his shoulder, his right hand whispering the strings. He began to sing the story of Karoğlu.

  ‘A hero’s son doesn’t mix with wine drinkers.

  ‘A hero’s son doesn’t waste time in music…’

  His face when he played was absorbed, transported to a different place from the room in which they were and Dai wondered if a wife and children would be enough for this hero’s son who had not, after all, wasted his time in music.

  ‘Let the white horse come

  ‘Let it go free

  ‘And let go of your grief

  ‘Set that free as well…’

  All around him were silent, listening like children. Dai’s small troupe as well: Blue’s face filled with wonder, Edgar’s face transfigured, Rémi’s glowing with the magic of it all, Giles bleary-eyed and softened, somehow, his ruddy face relaxed. Twm…Twm was intent, wholly absorbed, drinking in the words. The song, the words, had a meaning for all of these lost souls. For himself too, truth be told.