‘Don’t let it be another three years, my friend. Who knows? We may all be Osmanlı slaves by next year.’ Kara Kemal was mournful. ‘I may not be here to welcome you,’ he added quietly.
‘Your voice…’ Dai muttered.
‘Tabii. Harsh, isn’t it? Not good. The physician says it’s not good.’
‘You know this?’
‘What’s to know? It is. I must accept it. But come again soon, my son, if you wish to see me on this good earth.’
‘I shall pray for you.’ Though little praying he did these days. ‘Take care, my father.’
There was fresh flatbread baked in the early hours of the morning to take with them, rolled into warm bundles and wrapped in cloth. ‘Little enough to send you on your way, my son,’ Kara Kemal said with regret.
‘Bread is God’s gift. And your blessing is more than enough, my father.’
‘That you gladly have. May Allah go with you and bring you your heart’s desire.’ He paused, added, ‘May Allah protect you.’ His gaze took in the assembled group. ‘All of you,’ he amended. His gaze lingered on Edgar, passed on to Twm, to the rest of the group. ‘May you all find the peace you seek.’
Edgar’s pale face flushed red. Tom frowned in puzzlement at the enigmatic words. The old man chuckled. ‘What was it Jalal al Din Rumi said? Who are you trying to run from? Yourself? That’s impossible.’ He smiled. ‘Go in peace, all of you.’ He watched them from the wall ramparts until the small caravan was no more than a smudge on the horizon.
10
Seek not water, only show you are thirsty
That water may spring up all around you
(Mevlana Jalal al Din Rumi, 1207-1273)
He was still there when the sun was shimmering pale through clouds driven apart by the wind from the plains. He was there when a slight figure stumbled into view. Kemal peered from his high perch; a young man, though he seemed old at first – hunched as he was and with that shuffling gait. Shabby tunic and şalvar, no cloak, no bundle or satchel – nothing to keep out the chill at night. Alone and, judging from the way he was looking about him – look at the way he was eyeing these old buildings, turning to gaze down the road he had travelled – worried about pursuit. A strange young man to be travelling these dangerous roads alone. Beyond him, the straight way twisted between hills. Kara Kemal stared, rubbed his eyes, narrowed them, squinted into the pallid sun and cursed his old age. A scuff of brown dust was hanging in the air. He tilted his head, listening. He saw the youth turn also, saw his body stiffen. Kemal turned and shouted down into the courtyard. ‘Aksay! Here now!’
Aksay, his eldest son, best with arrow and sword.
‘Come up here with me. See? There’s a stranger on the road who needs our help. Go and bring him here to me.’
‘You think it’s safe, father? You know the tricks these bandits play.’
‘No trick. This one needs our help. See – he’s fallen, and not for the first time today, I’m sure. Go quickly. It seems unwelcome visitors are on their way. Take Mehmi with you but don’t frighten our guest.’
Already his men were moving towards the steps and lookouts; the weapons were kept ready at all times and these men of his knew how to use them.
‘Think there’ll be trouble?’
‘Maybe – maybe not, if Allah is merciful.’
He watched from the ramparts, saw his sons ride out bareback on their quick-paced horses, saw the slight figure straighten and fumble at his waist, saw the flash of sun on dagger. His sons reined in, Mehmi leaning down to the youth. He would be speaking words of welcome and warning. He was gesturing towards the dust cloud, grown bigger now; a distant thrum was audible. He gestured up towards the citadel where his father was watching. A long waiting moment before the dagger was thrust back into the stranger’s belt and Mehmi’s hand went out again, this time grasping the youth’s arm, helping him mount behind him on the horse. The stranger stumbled, had to be helped. Aksay waited, horse and rider alert and motionless as the youth was hoisted up. Kemal saw the figure sag forward as if too weary to support himself, then both riders were wheeling, galloping up the hill towards the citadel, little eddies of dust and sand thrown up behind them. Kara Kemal watched them race up the hill, his hands gripping the edge of the stone parapet. The thrum of hooves on the road grew louder, rhythmic. He sighed with relief as the two horses swept through the entrance and he heard the heavy gates crash to behind his sons. The band of horsemen – how many? Eight? Ten? More than that, surely – barely paused in their stampede along the dusty track. They raced past the citadel intent on other prey. Twelve of them at least. There was a flash of red trouser, of gold tassels on the pommels of saddles, of gleaming helmets…then they were past. Kemal watched their dust cloud into the distance. Had the horsemen turned for the valley road or were they continuing on the Konya road? If so, they would surely catch up with Dai and his people. Impossible to say from this distance. The dust cloud was too great and life was too precarious. Kemal edged down the steps, grimacing at the aches and pains of old age. He moved towards his sons and their unexpected guest.
‘Welcome, traveller,’ he said. The boy looked down at him from his pillion place, face expressionless. His eyes were flecked with gold, almond-shaped and long-lashed. Intelligence was there but dulled with fatigue and, try as he would to conceal it, suspicion and anxiety. No wonder. A lone traveller – and on foot – had reason to be afraid.
Mehmi dismounted in that quick, careless way he had and held a hand out to the stranger, catching him as the boy’s legs buckled under him. ‘Steady there,’ he laughed. ‘See, father, we have Blue’s little brother come to visit us!’ True, the boy’s neck and wrists were stained pale blue. He’d travelled in wet clothes, then, that had certainly dried on him. Kemal frowned his son into silence; time enough for jokes later.
‘No need to be afraid of us,’ he said, quietly. ‘You are safe here. You are thirsty and hungry and tired, I think, and welcome to eat and drink with us, to bathe and rest before you continue on your way.’
The golden eyes regarded him steadily, measuringly. When the boy spoke, his voice was low and husky. ‘The last stranger to offer me shelter and food and drink would have made a slave of me.’
‘We shall not do that.’ Kemal paused. ‘A caravan passed by here earlier today. I recognised the man who led it.’
The golden eyes flickered. The slim body stiffened.
‘A slave trader. A well-fed man. His name is Vecdet.’
The boy held himself poised, his hand creeping again to the dagger at his waist.
‘If he is the stranger you mean, you are lucky to escape him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Not without some loss, I think.’
‘My chestnut mare, my curved bow and full quiver, my satchel. My warm cloak.’
‘Loss indeed – but what does it compare to your life?’
‘Nothing.’
‘It is as Allah wills. And Allah has sent you in our way. Come, this chittering is no good when you are tired and hungry. Merih!’ he shouted. ‘Where is that wife of yours, Aksay?’ He was walking them towards the arched way.
‘Waiting until she knows it’s safe to be about,’ Aksay said, calmly. ‘The alarm was given, remember.’
‘Well, it’s safe enough now so… Merih! Fatima! Come – we have a hungry guest to feed.’ He shook his head as the women appeared from the shadowy interior. ‘Hurry now, this one has a hungry mouth. Thirsty, too – bring water.’ To the boy, he said, ‘We are lucky here. We have fine fresh spring water that never dries up, not even in the hottest summer nor the coldest winter. Here – taste for yourself.’ Merih came up to them bearing a pitcher and bowls. She poured a brimming bowl and handed it to the boy. ‘Fresh and cold and delicious. The finest water hereabouts – well, we think so anyway.’ He took the bowl held out to him and drank from it, watching the boy over the rim. He smiled. ‘We like to share our good fortune.’ The boy gave a little sigh and sipped cautiously then gulped dow
n the water and returned the bowl to the waiting woman with a bow of his head and a word of thanks.
‘We have just said a sad goodbye to friends who rested the night with us. I would have kept them longer but no, Dai was determined they must travel on. They are travelling to Attaleia to find a ship to take them home.’
‘Dai?’
‘Hm. Yes.’
‘That is a strange name. Is he a brown man on a brown horse?’
‘I believe he is.’
‘Was there another? A dark man on a grey horse?’
‘There was indeed.’
‘I am searching for them.’
‘Perhaps we can help you find them.’
‘Beyefendi, I hope so.’
The slight figure sagged again, was held by Mehmi.
‘Come, stranger, you must rest. Eat. No one should go hungry.’ He nodded to himself. ‘That is what my friend Dai is so fond of saying. No one should go hungry. Well, come then. What little we have we will share with you.’
How she had covered the miles she had no idea. The road was a blur of scrub and sand and distant mountains that wavered in front of her eyes. A range of hills reared up, an outcrop that was typical of this country. It was here the road divided, one way leading down through the valleys; the other was the straighter road to Konya. This was the way the caravan had taken. Here were the hoof marks of horses and the smaller marks of the mules; blurred imprints of the wide, two-toed, padded foot of the camels; footprints, some bare footed and dragging in the dust and sand that told of exhaustion. Niko, she thought. His sister. Or that strange, angry woman whose outburst had unknowingly saved the girl’s life. And here was another set of prints mingling with the first, leading down from the outcrop of rock. She could see the outline of buildings high up on the outcrop: ruins or lived in? It was impossible to tell. The sun was shining from under cloud cover and dazzling her eyes. Was there a figure up there on the ruins or was it her imagination seeing threats where none existed? But the vibration she felt was not imagination. There were horsemen galloping fast towards her along the length of the road. She looked about her for cover, started to head for the rocky slope. But there were two more horsemen galloping at speed towards her from the ruins. Not deserted, then, and too late, too late to hide. She felt for the dagger in her belt but what chance did she have, exhausted and weak with hunger, against two men, and they on horseback? And beyond them came the thrum of galloping hooves.
The two riders reached her; they were bareback, their thighs and knees gripping tight to the horses’ flanks and the horses were wheeling and rearing until their riders soothed them into quiet. They were two men, one younger than the other and brothers, by their likeness. Both had long, curling dark hair bouncing on their shoulders and high cheekbones and dark bright eyes. One was reaching out his hand, pointing towards the distant horsemen, urging her to mount behind him, it seemed, though his voice came from a great nothingness. The other sat still on his mount, his bow readied. Better to take the hand that was offered. She reached up, felt her hand gripped hard and when she lurched against the horse its rider swept her up behind him in a strong grasp and both men urged their horses up the slope to the ruins that were not ruins but a fortified citadel. They rode in through the big gates and she heard the sound of them close behind her. Rescue – or capture? If capture, escape was cut off. The men halted their horses in a wide courtyard surrounded by shadowy arches. An old man was slowly descending the steps from the ramparts. She waited. He came up to them, the two riders and she, mounted behind one of them, captive.
‘Welcome traveller,’ he said.
How could she know if they were honest? But she was helped down from the horse and held upright because her legs, her wretched, traitorous legs, were collapsing under her and a terrible faintness threatened to overwhelm her. She was given water that was sipped first by the elder with the far-seeing eyes as if to show there was no cause for anxiety. And she was so thirsty how could she not drink? Then the astonishing news that he knew of the brown man and the dark man. That they had been his guests overnight. If that were so, perhaps it was not too late? Perhaps she could catch up with them – if these people were honest and intended letting her go?
She was led into a cool, shady room. A woman brought a bowl of water and washed her feet and hands. She was offered hot broth, steaming and fragrant: it was mountain broth, redolent with herbs, very like that made by the women of the tribe but with subtle differences. There was fresh bread, still warm from the baking. Cheese: ‘My eldest son’s wife makes very good cheese.’ It was good; sheep’s cheese, not plentiful but white, tangy and fresh. She felt herself reviving with every mouthful. ‘Here – take more – you are still hungry.’ She glanced up at her host from under her lashes: he was smiling at her, but not in the leering manner of Vecdet. There was kindness in his eyes. Unexpectedly he leaned across and patted her arm. ‘See – a little colour in your cheeks. Another bowl of hot broth? No? But there is plenty. A little more. A very little.’
‘Indeed, sir, no. No more. Thank you; I have eaten well.’ She sat back, dipping her fingers into the bowl of water at her side. The woman Merih hurried forward with a wiping cloth.
‘There is nothing like hunger to season the meal.’
‘Truly, sir, hunger or no hunger, I have eaten well.’ With food in her stomach and rest it was almost humiliating how much braver she felt.
‘Then you shall take more with you when you leave us.’
‘Then you do intend letting me leave?’
The old man chuckled. ‘You still think I shall make you my prisoner? I would keep you as my guest, if I could, but you wish to find our friends. Now if only Dai had agreed to stay another day, you would not be chasing after him. If you had arrived yesterday you could have feasted with us. Today,’ he shrugged, ‘we have only simple fare to offer our guest.’
‘I am accustomed to simple fare and this was excellently made. Your son’s wife makes excellent cheese. Whoever makes the broth that was also excellent.’
‘Thank you.’ He smiled. ‘I am a fortunate man to have such a family to care for me in my old age.’
‘Indeed – and they are fortunate to have such a father.’ She waited a moment. ‘Your guests – which road did they take?’
‘Konya. They intend going only as far as the next han – a half day’s journey. There is a young man with them recovering from a fever. A long day’s journey is still too much for him, though he is much recovered.’
A flicker of a smile crossed her face. ‘That is good to hear.’
‘You know this young man also?’
‘No. No, I don’t. I have never met him.’ She fumbled for words; lying to this courteous old man was very difficult. ‘In truth, your friends would not know me.’
The old man tched tched, his tongue clicking against his teeth. ‘My apologies; as Dai is always telling me, best ask no questions these days.’
‘I owe you an explanation.’
‘You owe me nothing – thanks to Allah, maybe, for bringing you to our home, Kazan.’ She had given him the name of her friend. ‘And my thanks also to Allah,’ he continued, ‘who has given me the honour of helping a body and soul in need.’
‘You are very kind.’
‘But come – something, perhaps, you can tell me. How did you outwit the loathsome slaver, that Vecdet? This I would love to hear.’
She laughed then. His face was that of a mischievous child, a child longing to hear a story. He looked very like the son who had hoisted her behind him on to his horse and who had made that joke about the blue dye on her neck and face; the blue brother come to visit. And so she told him of the mistake she had made, riding into the camp; how the boy slave had warned her; how she escaped through the felt walls of the tent; how the boy slave had saved her and of her hiding place behind the waterfall. How he had come to her at night to bring her food and hope of escape.
‘That is a remarkable boy.’
‘He is! Bright and sharp
like pine needles and lemons yet brave and caring. He refuses to leave his sister, though I believe he could have escaped a thousand times without her – and yet he is only a young boy. I have promised to rescue him.’ Her eyes, gazing into the old man’s face, were wide, gold-flecked, angry. ‘Niko said there was a very young child who had been taken. Scarcely four summers old.’
‘Dai does not have slaves. He says no one should be enslaved to another.’
‘He is right. It is a terrible thing, to take a man’s freedom – a woman’s – a child’s.’
‘This is strange to you, I think?’
‘I have known only kindness in my life though, it is true I have run away from my tribe, but not because they were cruel. You must not think that.’
‘Adventure, maybe?’
‘I have sworn that I will go in search of my grandfather, who I never knew and who never knew me.’
‘That is a great undertaking. You know where to find him?’
‘My grandmother told me to go the cold country, to England. That is where I shall find him. That is what she said and she was never wrong.’
‘Your grandmother?’
‘She made me swear, before she died. She is buried these days past.’ The husky low voice became huskier. ‘I miss my grandmother. She was a great lady.’
The old man became still, his mind seeing into the mystery of life. Too late she remembered that he would have heard of Nene from his guests. Had they spoken of her granddaughter, the girl who had given them medecine?
‘Then thanks indeed to Allah who has brought you to my hearth. Dai is the very man you need. Oh, he is the man you need. To rescue the young boy and to find your grandfather – and who knows? Your heart’s desire? There is always room for faith, yes? Always room for faith. You must be sure to tell Dai so, when you see him. You must tell him I said so. Are you rested? Are you ready to go on? Yes? Then you should catch up with them at the han this nightfall, if Allah wills it so. Mehmi!’
The Storyteller's Granddaughter Page 10