The Storyteller's Granddaughter

by Margaret Redfern

  The flood of words left her breathless. What had caused it? The mention of her grandmother, surely, but not an insignificant granddaughter. The old man had given no sign that he knew her for an imposter.

  Mehmi-the-handsome hurried into the room. His eyes were bright, curious.

  ‘Mehmi, I have a dangerous task for you.’

  ‘Whatever you wish, father.’

  ‘You are to take this young traveller to join our friends. There may be danger. Those horsemen – did you see which road they took?’

  ‘I think they followed the Konya road, father.’

  ‘Hm. That is a complication.’

  ‘Nothing Dai can’t deal with, father, if that is what worries you. He knows how to deal with bandits.’ The dark eyes flashed and he grinned, a young man’s grin. ‘After all, he used to be one himself, he told me. He knows how they think.’

  ‘Tch tch, enough, boy.’ A pause. ‘Did he indeed tell you so?’

  ‘Last time he was here. Are we to go two-up?’

  ‘No. That would be dangerous. You may need the speed to escape danger. Take an extra mount. And a bow and quiver for you, young friend. Can you use it?’

  ‘Yes. I was accounted the best archer amongst all the young men,’ she said with simple pride.

  ‘Were you indeed!’ He grunted with laughter. ‘Then Mehmi will be safe with you.’

  And then they were out in the courtyard surrounded by the brothers and their wives and the young children shouting with excitement. A satchel of food and skins of water; the precious curved bow and quiver of good arrows; a shining-coated piebald mare for her to ride.

  And then there was the old man carrying another bright-woven satchel and with the tanbur on his back. He held it out to his son.

  ‘What is this, father?’

  ‘Go with them, my son. Go with Allah’s blessing and with mine.’

  ‘Father, I have promised to stay here with you. You need me here.’

  ‘My song bird, I would not clip your wings. You were meant to fly. To sing. It was wrong of me to seek to keep you here. It is wrong to make a slave of any man, woman or child. And never should a songbird be caged. Your words and songs are needed in this dark world, as Yunus Emre’s are needed. As the great Mevlana’s are needed. As the wise fool Nasreddin Hoca’s are needed. As the words of the great Allah and his prophet Mohammed are needed. We mortals need to be reminded of our foolishness and to seek for bliss.’

  The young man Mehmi wept. He embraced his father.

  ‘No mother to weep over you boy – that is Allah’s blessing. If she had begged me to keep you here, I do not know that I could have parted from you.’ He turned to the young boy astride the piebald mare. ‘This mare, her name is Yıldız.’

  ‘Star,’ she murmured, and thought how close Nene’s soul must be to her.

  ‘When you see Dai, tell him this mare is his bride-gift. Remember to tell him that, young friend. This mare, this star, Yıldız, is his bride-gift.’

  ‘And there’s always room for faith,’ she remembered.

  ‘Indeed there is. You should remember that as well, with such a great adventure ahead of you.’

  Always room for faith; it was what her grandmother would have said. She hugged it to her. There was already proof that this was true: the tribe and the chief of her tribe; Niko; Maria and her family; now this Kara Kemal who had helped her on her way. Always room for faith. The Vecdets of this world, what were they compared to those people? To Nene?

  They left the ruined citadel, sweeping out through the gates and down the hillside and along the straight road to Konya. Both were slim, slightly built, no weight for their horses and they made good time, hooves pounding on the dusty, sandy track. Time enough to arrive at the han before the gates were shut for the night.

  The old man watched them leave. He knew he would never see his youngest son again, not in this life.

  They were well on their way, the han not so far, from Dai’s memory of it. Edgar was lively enough and Blue still preening himself over his man-mountain task of the morning. And why shouldn’t he? Dai thought. He’d done well, had the boyo. There was sun on their faces and the han ahead of them. They were rested from their stay with Kemal and his family. Yet he felt uneasy. He wasn’t the only one, he could tell. The guide and the men were twitchy, looking about them, back over their shoulders, as if they expected to be attacked at any moment. Kemal’s stories of bandits, maybe… Maybe not. Twm drew alongside him.

  ‘Our blue boy was the man of the morning, then,’ he said.

  ‘Thoughts out of my head, Twm bach.’

  ‘We’ll give thanks for a new leaf turning, then.’

  ‘We’ll give thanks for small mercies, Twm.’

  ‘You don’t reckon it’ll last, then?’

  Dai didn’t bother to answer; Blue was Blue. There’d be other drunken nights and other brawls.

  ‘You’re a strange one, Dai. Do you really mean to take our blue friend back to Ieper?’

  It was an olive branch after their wrangling over Blue. He accepted it gratefully. ‘Of course. He’s a man after Heinrijc Mertens’ own heart. There’ll be a place for him, though I’ve an idea he’s yearning to be back in his own country.’

  ‘What will you do, after this trip?’

  ‘You’ve said it yourself; it’s hiraeth I have for that poverty-stricken little country I call home.’

  ‘Are you really going back?’

  ‘Really.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t look so amazed. I must go back. Make sure there truly are none of my family left alive. After that…who knows? Heinrijc Mertens has treated me like a son, and I owe him the duty of a son.’

  ‘Is it all duty? Do you ever follow your own heart, Dafydd?’

  ‘Do I have a heart, Twm?’

  ‘Sometimes, my friend, I think you are all heart.’

  Dai grunted. No answer to that one. He was thinking it was time to stop, soon time for their Muslim men’s call to prayer. Better to stop early, here in a place like this, rare enough on the plateau – easily defended if need be, see. Rémi was kneeling on the ground, his forehead touching the earth like a good Musselman himself. He tilted his head, laid an ear to the ground, straightened and looked up at Dai, alarm on his face.

  ‘Trouble, Rémi?’ The boy had acute hearing, as if to make up for his lack of speech. Rémi nodded. He pointed back along the way they had come, held up both hands, all his fingers and both thumbs. He laid his ear to the ground again. Dai knelt with him. He could feel it, the slightest of vibrations that warned of approaching horsemen. A number of them, it seemed. Dai thought a moment, rapped out orders. Edgar to look after the animals – God save him, the cameleteers were better used to fighting than he was.

  ‘Rémi, that iron wire we traded in Bursa – the length I kept back. It’s in my satchel. Quick now.’ The boy raced off.’

  Blue? Keep him ready behind that ridge, hidden from view. ‘Keep your backside down, Blue! It’s a target from here!’

  ‘Two targets.’ Twm scowled at the big man’s efforts to conceal his bulky buttocks. ‘Kara Kemal’s bandits?’ He tilted his head held high, listening to the thrum heard now in the air.

  ‘Seems likely.’

  ‘Preparing a welcome for them, are we?’ He looked down at the thin wire Rémi had thrust into Dai’s hands.

  ‘Bandits’ trick, Twm, learned from bandit friends in the wild hills of my poverty-stricken little country. We’ll need Rémi one end of it – right, Rémi? After that, you keep clear. Understand?’ His hand forced the boy’s face up to him. ‘You keep clear,’ he repeated. ‘I can’t waste time worrying about you. Edgar will need help with the animals. They must be kept safe, and their packs. Can’t say the same for our visitors. This will cripple their horses and there’s a pity.’

  ‘All heart, Dafydd,’ Twm’s voice was dry. ‘Think we can keep the caravan safe?’

  ‘Oh, we should do that, bach. Let’s be at it now. Get your archers where you want them.’

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nbsp; The thin wire was stretched across the road from stunted tree to stunted rock; a good place to choose, this, in case of need, he thought again. Kemal would tell him to give thanks to Allah. And so he did. And thanks to the God of his childhood, and all the austere saints of his poverty-stricken little land. If faith was needed, it was now; and there was always room for faith, Kemal said. Well, maybe so. The cameleteers and muleteers were grim but ready and that was a gift in itself. He’d known hired men slope off in the face of danger. And who could blame them? Hired men, not their fight, not their risk.

  ‘We are tired of these bandits marauding when they will,’ Amir the guide told him. ‘It is time we made a stand against them. Honest men cannot travel the roads these days.’

  Himself and Twm the only trained men, though Giles was as good as a trained man. Well, so be it. They waited, watching the dust cloud whirl closer and closer.

  11

  Be seen as you are

  Or be as you are seen

  (Mevlana Jalal al Din Rumi, 1207–1273)

  They had travelled through the afternoon over the brown land. It was late and the sun sinking when Mehmi reined and held up his hand. ‘Listen,’ he said. She tilted her head, felt rather than heard the soft shuffle of hooves on the dusty track, a faint jingle of harness. A slow-moving group but not a caravan. A party of horsemen moving slowly towards them.

  ‘Are you really skilled with a bow or was that boasting?’

  ‘It was not!’

  ‘That’s good to know but let’s get off the road – see if they pass us by. They’re coming very slowly.’ They wheeled their horses and cantered towards a narrow band of trees. From there, they watched the procession of limping men and stumbling horses and men bent over bloody wounds. Some of the horses were burdened with bodies that lay stiff and still over the saddles. Others were led, themselves halting and lamed.

  ‘No need for your shooting skills today.’ Mehmi said. ‘I recognise those men. Looks like they met up with Dai.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘These are the bandits who have roamed freely over the land for too long now. You were in their path, remember? Father was worried that they would catch up with Dai’s caravan and it looks like they did and had the worst of it. I hope… When they’ve passed, let’s hurry on and see.’

  His mouth closed tight and she thought, yes, the caravan of the brown man and the black man. It was attacked. And her heart beat faster. They waited until the last of the sorry horses and disconsolate men had passed them by, then they quietly urged their horses on. They came to a narrow part of the road where there were rocks and trees on either side, forming a shallow gorge. ‘Here – see?’ Mehmi exclaimed. The earth was trampled and there were dark stains that she knew must be blood. No sign of the caravan. They rode on, closer now, surely, to the han, and the sun sinking lower and lower.

  And then there it was ahead of them, its walls rising high and clear above the plateau and its portal open. Ahead of them, travelling from the opposite direction, an important-looking caravan was arriving. The string of camels stretched away in a distant cloud of sandy dust, silhouetted against the setting sun. The nearest they could see were high-loaded with goods covered over with bright camel cloths. Some were ridden but mostly the cameleteers trudged alongside, weary and dusty at the end of another long day. A pack of hounds kept pace; a mounted armed guard flanked them all, the air bristling with their spears and, in their midst, the glimpse of a turbaned head and rich robes of the merchant.

  ‘Let’s hurry,’ said Mehmi, ‘or we’ll be waiting for hours for this lot to get inside. And it’s almost time for the Evening Call.’ They urged on their tired mounts, came to the gateway, even as the muezzin call rang out: Come to prayer. Come to prayer. Allah is Most Great. Allahu Akbar.

  Mehmi guided them through the huge iron-bound gateway, through the passageway to the guard posts where they were halted by the han guards.

  ‘Two of us,’ Mehmi told the gateman. ‘We are hoping to meet friends here.’

  ‘Oh yes – and who might they be?’

  ‘A small caravan that arrived earlier this afternoon. We think they were attacked on the road. Maybe you know his name: Dai the Welshman?’

  ‘What kind of name is that?’

  A second man leaned across. ‘I know the man you mean. They came in not an hour ago. Seems they had a set-to with our local bandits.’

  ‘I’m wondering who came off worse. The tribe passed us a while back on the road. They looked well beaten.’

  ‘Belki. These folk are nursing wounds as well.’ He looked beyond them to where the first of the new arrivals was crowding through the gateway. ‘You’d best come in, quick as you can. This must be the big caravan we’re expecting. They sent on a rider to warn us to make ready for them. Go through – the attendant will see to your horses and tell you where to find your friends. Go through.’ He waved them on into the din and smells of the great courtyard, open to the sky and seeming lighter now after the gloom of the entrance.

  The girl looked about her with interest. She had never been inside a han before. It was exactly as Nene had described it, teeming with animals and people and noise and smells and activity. So much happening all at once, it was enough to dizzy her. The mecdit was the quiet centre with its cooling, chuckling fountain of fresh water spouting into basins. There were some still rolling up prayer mats after the sunset call but the general activity of the end-of-day was already once again under way. Around the whole vast space of the courtyard was an arched colonnade, some nine pillars in all. On the left were the stables and smithy and laundry and storage space for the goods the caravaneers brought with them. Sweating attendants with strong shoulders and bulging biceps were rapidly unloading the pack horses and mules and kneeling camels of their casks and bundles and sacks of hides and furs and salt, alum, sugar, cloth, spices, gems, silver, gold…all the wealth of the trade routes heaped into the storage space carefully allotted to each caravan so that there would be no mistakes the next morning. On the right was the hamam complex with dusty, drooping men lined up outside it and spruce men with shining clean faces walking out, upright and rejuvenated. Next to that the kitchens with their huge earthen tandoor ovens. One was open and the burning red hotness of its inside was visible. A kitchen boy was nimbly removing flat breads and preparing to load more against the insides of the oven walls. Great cauldrons were steaming, full of fragrantly spiced rice. On the third side was a portico and beyond, in the shadows, were the lodging rooms. At this hour, it was especially hectic with arriving caravans and the bustle of animals being unloaded by the han staff in a practised routine and grooms to stable and rub down and feed the beasts. There were men and their servants to accommodate, as well as the few women travellers and maidservants. Voices mingled in a babble of languages: Genoese, Venetian, Turkish, Arabic, Hebrew, Greek, French, strange dialects that only those speaking and those listening could understand. Already, merchants were greeting each other, preparing the way for deals to be made before the next day’s journey. Rangy hounds were lying with heads on paws in shady corners, too exhausted to snap and growl at each other.

  Mehmi dismounted, held up a hand to her but she slid off the piebald without taking it. She caressed the horse’s nose and patted her sweaty flank; not her lovely chestnut mare but a good horse for all that, patient and untiring. A star. They handed the tired horses to a waiting groom. They were assured that the animals would be well cared for, well looked after, they must come and see for themselves after they had rested and bathed and eaten. The attendant pointed across the courtyard to where Blue and Rémi were helping the han staff to unload the mules and camels and stable them for the night, out-of-doors in the courtyard because the early autumn nights were still warm enough. The animals were restive, fractious after the fraught afternoon but calming under the soft sounds Rémi murmured to them.

  The girl felt her stomach clench with nerves. Now that she was actually here, had caught up with the dark man and t
he brown, the whole idea seemed preposterous. How could she show herself, here, in this man’s world? True, there were women but few and all accompanied by their menfolk, all retreating with their servants into the female quarters. She tugged at Mehmi’s sleeve.

  ‘What is it, little blue brother?’

  ‘They have no idea who I am,’ she said urgently. ‘I…I was away with the men when they came to the camp. They don’t know the old woman was my grandmother.’ She couldn’t meet his eyes, was aware his gaze had narrowed, sharpened.

  ‘You don’t want them to know,’ he guessed.

  ‘No. I can’t say why. I just don’t. I mean no harm. Please…’ She was hardly aware of the pleading in her voice, nor of the way her fingers clutched his sleeve. He stared intently into her face; whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy him. He shrugged. ‘If you want to make a mystery of it, it’s your affair.’ His mouth curled, amusement she realised. ‘And Dai would say best ask no questions. It seems all of you have shady pasts. I’m the only one with nothing to hide.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she breathed. They came up to Blue.

  ‘Greetings, Blue. I’ve brought you a little brother.’ Mehmi said cheerfully. The big man turned, wiping glistening beads of sweat from his forehead. He straightened, easing his back with the other hand, recognised the dark eyed, dark haired young man and grinned. Beside him, Rémi’s face split in a wide smile, the snail-trail white scars stretching with the smile.

  ‘Greätings to yer an’ all. Weer’s yer sprung from, singing-boy? And what’s yow mean, yer’s browt mi’ little brother?’

  Mehmi’s eyebrows quirked upwards. ‘This is going to be difficult,’ he murmured to the girl.’

  ‘Why? What did he say?’

  ‘That’s the problem – the boy has no power of speech and I don’t understand what the big man says. He talks a strange language. He helped us dismantle a wall this morning – it would have taken us hours but he did it in two shakes of a dog’s tail – but the only talking we did was sign-language.’ He grinned up at the big man, pointed to the girl standing beside him.