The Storyteller's Granddaughter

by Margaret Redfern

  ‘You’re safest with me.’ Again, his words were lightly spoken. He had been rummaging in a saddlebag woven in many colours, like a kilim. Now he thrust a bundle into her hands. ‘Here – fresh clothes.’

  She felt the fineness of good cotton beneath her fingers, caught the glow of crimson and blue patterned cloth so like the one left behind she caught her breath though these were the clothes of the merchants.

  ‘But these are fine clothes.’

  ‘Rémi’s best. His clothes will best fit you. You’re of a size. He’ll be happy enough – I’ll get him new clothes when we get to Attaleia. Don’t argue. Come.’

  They were in the courtyard again, in the dusk, heading for the hamam. Blue and Rémi came towards them shining clean.

  ‘Scrubbed and polished, the pair of you! Kazan needs fresh clothes, Rémi. I am giving him yours. I’ll get you new clothes in Attaleia.’

  The boy nodded, not at all perturbed by the news.

  ‘And you, Rémi, will sleep with Blue tonight. If he snores, it’s my permission you have to throttle him.’

  The boy chuckled and drew a finger across his throat. The girl protested: ‘His clothes, his bed…I cannot.’

  ‘Rémi does as I ask – isn’t it, Rémi?’ The boy nodded. He thrust his thumbs upwards. ‘See – that is the archer’s sign for all is well. Not to worry, now. He knows what I do is for a purpose.’

  She was still frowning. The boy placed a thin hand on her arm. He nodded, raised his thumb, grinned at her so that the snail-trail scars above his upper lip stretched and glistened in the torchlight. She laughed, suddenly light-hearted. ‘Thank you, Rémi. You are very kind to a stranger.’

  ‘Now come, Kazan. You are in greater need of the hamam than even I.’

  ‘Kazan the uncleän,’ Blue agreed. Her cheeks reddened; it was true. She was rank with the sweat and dirt of the days’ journeyings and the nights’ rough sleeping. Even so, her chin lifted and her eyes flashed.

  ‘You only say so because you come fresh from your bath. Your smell was rank enough when I first met you, blue man.’

  ‘Grubby little fustilugs, baärely up to my kneecaps and brusting fer a fight.’ But he was grinning.

  It was as the brown man had said; the hamam was ready to close its doors to the men and already a huge, broad-shouldered woman had arrived, clearly the hamam female overseer. She glared at Dai and Kazan.

  ‘You’re the last,’ she said. ‘Lucky for you – you’re almost too late. Another few minutes and you’d have to have come back later tonight. Hurry along now.’

  ‘Hanımefendi, we have a great favour to ask,’ Dai said. He beckoned her to him, to where they were out of hearing of the rest, and started to explain. The woman’s eyes rounded with astonishment and suspicion then she eyed the girl with a hard look.

  ‘Not a boy? You ask me to believe this? What kind of han do you think we keep here? You foreigners, you’re all the same, no sense of shame.’

  The girl bent her head. ‘It’s all right,’ she murmured to the man next to her. ‘You go. You’re tired and as dirty and dusty as I am and you fought off the bandits.’

  The woman stared at them again, squinting and screwing up her eyes so that they all but disappeared into her broad, fleshy face.

  ‘So you’re the one who thrashed those thieves and robbers who’ve been tormenting us all this summer. Is it true then? This is a little maid and travelling as a boy amongst you great men? And she’s been on her own these past days? The poor little rabbit. You go on, sir. You’ll have to hurry. There’s little enough time for a proper scrubbing and soaping let alone massaging and oiling those aching muscles of yours. That’s a fine bruise showing on your cheekbone. Make sure Mehmet uses a cold cloth on that. Don’t have a care about this little pigeon. We’ll look after her and no one will be any the wiser. Come now, my little lamb, let’s make you more comfortable. No sir, put away your coins. I want no pay for this. May Allah and his Prophet bless you.’

  Dai hurried into the cool interior of the hamam. He grinned then winced at the bruising: rabbit? pigeon? little lamb? The woman looked formidable but her heart, now, was soft as melted butter. He was sure he could rely on her. And now there was the pleasure of marble slabs on which to relax, and flowing warm water, and the bath attendant to scrub and soap and massage. Nothing like this in his own land. Above him was the domed ceiling with its light holes hazed over with dusk and now should be the time to relax and dream. But not tonight. No dreaming tonight. The girl was here, against all expectations and he held her secret – for once, for the first time, a secret he wished he did not have to guard. A girl alone amongst a world of men needed a brother, not a would-be lover. Besides, she had no glances to spare for him.

  ‘My son, who are you to decide what is and what is not to be? Only Allah the all-compassionate, the all-knowing decides.’

  Well, I’m here and she’s there. Allah has decided.

  The old man chuckled. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘There is always room for faith.’

  Old man, Kara Kemal, how did you know?

  The bath attendant tapped him on the shoulder. Time to turn over. He blanked his mind.

  There was no sign of her when he emerged from the hamam. The few female travellers still waiting were talking quietly amongst themselves. They turned their eyes demurely from him but he felt their sidelong glances and heard whispered comments and soft giggles. They’d doubtless take him for one of the Turks, with his brown skin and hair and the comfortable s,alvar and gömlek and kaftan he’d put on. Bright yellow gömlek and blue patterned kaftan and deep red and green şalvar. Gaudy colours, tell the truth, but he liked the looseness of the şalvar and the softness of the fine cotton. He’d tied a dark blue cloth belt about the kaftan. The clothes had been a gift some years ago, from another generous soul like Kara Kemal. Not long after he’d parted company with Ibn Battuta, he remembered. He sat down on a bench outside the hamam and settled himself to wait for the girl. It was dark now. The pale half moon was drifting behind thin cloud and the stars glittered in an infinity of silence. For a moment he envied those great men of learning, those stargazers, whose lives were lived in the infinite, ineffable peace of the vast firmament. Had any one of them truly heard the inaudible, endless singing of the cosmos?

  A burst of laughter came from a noisy group of Genoese. He dragged himself back from the half-trance he’d fallen into. He grunted: silence above and cacophony below in the courtyard where animals and men were penned for the night. The animals were quiet enough, stabled and fed and thankful to rest themselves. The men it was who brayed and snorted and bellowed. They were gathered in groups around the great platters of food. Torches and lamps cast shadows, lit up faces that were laughing, intent, worried, pensive. Over there was a group of merchant men intent on business. Next to them, a bickering pair. In the shadows where they thought themselves unseen, a discreet flirtation. Someone was playing the tanbur softly, and he thought of their own new-come musician, Mehmi-the-youngest, the favourite, the well-beloved. What had it cost the old man to let him go, his son, his darling? Not long for this world – death had him by the throat, his hoarse throat. Odds were, he’d not see his son again, not in this life. Did the boy know? Dai doubted it. Not in the old man’s nature, see, to give with one hand and take with the other. A two-handed man he was, like Taid. And shall I ever see him again? Not in this life. He closed his ears to the laughter and buzz of talk and fixed his eyes on the vast firmament wheeling and swinging and singing above him. There’s always room for faith.

  She thought he was asleep at first. She was relieved to see him sitting there, waiting for her, as if he felt no hunger, as if he had no men to look after. She’d wondered how she would find them in this huge, heaving mass of travellers. But there he was and it was as if she had always known him, this brown, enigmatic man. He opened his eyes and smiled at her.

  ‘Good. Better? Ready to eat?’

  She nodded. ‘That woman – Fatima – she was so kind. She gav
e me a new cloth to bind myself.’

  ‘Bind yourself?’

  ‘Of course. I am very thin but not so thin, you see? I must bind myself to look like a boy.’

  He understood. How could he not? He tried not to think of the body beneath the covering of clothes.

  ‘You look nice,’ she said shyly. ‘Like a yürük.’ He felt the blood rush up his throat and into his cheeks then he was laughing because she was patting and stroking the material of her tunic and preening like a courting peacock. ‘Rémi’s clothes are very beautiful. I think I look nice as well. Don’t I?’

  ‘Indeed you do.’ He paused. ‘Kazan,’ he said deliberately.

  At once she became still. ‘I must be Kazan. For a little while. I cannot tell you why I feel this.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘You are very good.’

  ‘Twm says I am a fool.’ He introduced the name deliberately.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He is not badly hurt.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear this. But the son, the young man, he is not so good.’

  Dai grimaced. ‘Not so good. It is in God’s hands. And Allah’s.’

  ‘With all the gods,’ she said, surprising him. ‘It is what my grandfather used to say.’

  A strange thing to say and dangerously heretical, in the western world. He shrugged. ‘Twm should be with the men now. Let’s go. Let’s see if Twm recognises you.’

  ‘What if he does not?’

  ‘Then you are Kazan.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come – little rabbit.’

  She laughed, a low chuckle. ‘I am a little lamb, I think. She is a good woman.’

  ‘Indeed she is. Little pigeon. Come on now, I’m hungry.’

  ‘You are always hungry. It seems to me you were born with a hungry mouth.’

  ‘That’s truer than you know.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Another time – maybe.’

  He was silent, regretting his words. She thought, ‘No one should go hungry. That is what he says. This man has known hardship but he says nothing. And that bruise is fierce but he has not gone to the physician for himself. What kind of man is this brown man? This quiet man with the all-seeing eyes? He knows my secret but he says he will say nothing.’ She thought, ‘I am in his power,’ but she didn’t feel fear. Instead, there was a strange sense of comfort.

  They had found their group easily, already eating.

  ‘We waited for you, Dai.’

  ‘Blame this one, strutting like a peacock in Rémi’s fine clothes.’

  ‘I was not!’

  ‘Looks better on yow than on ’im, Fustilugs.’

  ‘And you look better for a good scrubbing, blue man.’

  Rémi patted the empty place next to him. Dai pushed her into it. She was next to the big man.

  ‘Nice dye, that,’ he said. ‘Good colour.’

  She looked at him with gold-flecked eyes. ‘A dyer knows these things.’

  ‘That they do. It’s magic, it is. Woad magic.’

  ‘I have seen it, blue man.’

  ‘Have yer now? Have yer seen that moment when the cloth comes out of the vat? Green and stinking and right there in front of yer eyes it turns blue? All manner of blue, like God ’imself was doing it.’

  If she listened closely, she could understand some of his words; but it was his face she watched, his face that told her who he was, this big man with the big voice and big opinions. He was very like Yavuz the drunk, always loud and full of argument but inside himself he was delicate like spring blossom. Look at him now, tongue-tied and blushing because he had shown his soul and making silly coarse jokes to hide it from the world.

  She looked around them all. There was Edgar, her patient, recovered now; she felt a quiet satisfaction and gave thanks to Nene whose skill had saved him. But so young and handsome and his eyes so blue, like the summer sea. He sat quietly listening to the talk but she knew he was not so quiet. His soul was troubled. Rémi-the-speechless, Rémi who obeyed his master without question, as a slave would, but this was no slave. Ah Rémi! A gentle soul. He had the patient face of an old man but he was only a young boy. How had he come by those snail-trail scars? Giles the fighting man, lean and tough. An enigma. Straightforward it seemed but who knew if it was so? He was loyal to his master, Thomas Archer, or so he called himself. Proud, beautiful, like the hero Bamsi Beyrek. She hardly dared look at him. Such beauty. His cheekbones and his brow, his bow-lipped mouth, his arched eyebrows and dark grey eyes like the smoke. His body – ah – was lithe and sleek and his skin had a sheen like the purest of silk. His arm was bandaged and he moved it stiffly as if it pained him. It was his fighting arm. He stretched out his left hand to take morsels of food, apologising as he did so because this was not the hand that should take food. A man of manners; a noble man.

  There was the other, the boy who was wounded. Rashid. He was badly hurt. Before they came to the evening meal, she and the brown man had gone again to the physician’s room. The boy was lying there, still and pale. His father had returned, sat close by. Guide and servant to the foreigners, father of this pale, frail boy: where did his loyalties lie? He respected the man who employed him; respected him for a man who took care of all who worked for him. He had promised to serve him, guide him safely back to Attaleia. Now his son needed him but a promise was a promise. Kazan the stranger, the newcomer, had passed a hand over his son’s forehead.

  ‘No heat.’

  ‘Is that good, Kazan?’

  ‘Yes. This man, this physician, he is good. He knows his craft.’ The stranger had smiled at the father. ‘It is well. Your son will live. He is strong, like his father.’

  And the man had felt comforted which was ridiculous because this was a young boy who knew nothing of the skills of medicine. Yet there had been something in that dark, gold-flecked stare and the way in which he stood beside the bed so confident, so sure that all would be well. Tears had streamed down the father’s cheeks. The boy leant forward and kissed him on the forehead and it felt like a blessing.

  Later. They had eaten hungrily; drunk thirstily. ‘Clam,’ Blue said. ‘I’m that clam I could sup a gallon.’

  ‘I was so hungry I could have died,’ confessed Edgar.

  Thomas Archer had eaten little. He was pale, his arm bandaged and supported in a sling. A dagger wound, he said, but not serious.

  ‘He swears he’s well enough,’ Giles said, ‘but he’s lost an armful of blood and gained an armful of sutures.’

  ‘Well, what of that?’ Tom Archer said. He sounded bad tempered. ‘It was nothing. A glancing wound. That young muleteer – the guide’s son – he had it worse.’

  ‘Rashid? True enough,’ Dai said. ‘He’s going on well enough but we’ll not be moving from here tomorrow.’

  ‘Can’t we put him on one of the horses?’

  ‘Not if you want to keep Amir happy – his father and our guide, remember?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Come now, Twm, you’ll be better for a day’s rest, isn’t it now?’

  ‘Don’t you mollycoddle me. Giles’s fussing is bad enough. He’s like an old woman.’

  The dark man was angry. She saw Dai and the man Giles exchange looks. Giles rolled his eyes. This she could tell, but the rapid to-and-fro of language was too difficult for her to follow. It was not the language of the merchants, nor the strange tongue of the blue man. She was perplexed, worried. He looked pale and she longed to smooth his head, ease his pain. She wondered if the physician had given him the opiate that brought sweet relief. The brown man was looking at her now.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, quietly. ‘We’re all tired and, tell the truth, bad-tempered now it’s all over.’

  ‘I do not understand what it is you say to each other.’

  ‘That’s the strange Norman English tongue – though Blue’s tongue is stranger than most.’ He said something to the big man that had him laughing. ‘We’re a mixed bunch. Twm and Edgar are
English; young Rémi here is Flemish; Giles is from the Marches, the in-between country. I am from Wales. From Cymru.’

  ‘I have heard of that country.’

  ‘Have you now?’ He was surprised.

  ‘Nene. She talked of it.’ The girl stopped, flushed. They were all listening. ‘We all called her Nene. She was the grandmother of our tribe though she was not a yürük.’

  Thomas Archer was scathing. ‘And you say this grandmother had heard of Dai’s poverty stricken little country? Can we believe this?’

  ‘Why should you not believe? I do not tell lies, me.’ She raised her chin, flashing him an angry look then away because she was forgetting he was wounded and tired and in pain and she was, after all, living a lie in her boy’s disguise. ‘Our Nene talked of Cymru,’ she said more quietly. ‘She had met a…traveller who had been there. He told her it was a land full of song makers and storytellers.’ She looked at Dai. ‘This is so, is it not?’

  ‘It is so.’ He sighed. ‘Well, it was so. Our bards would sing the stories of our great days and great princes and great chiefs. The English kings have ended much of that. Now we are, truth to tell,’ he slanted a glance at Twm Archer, ‘a poverty stricken little country. Once, we had our own princes and our own laws given to us by Hywel Dda. Now, the Edwards have taken away our right to rule ourselves. We’ve lost…wel, more than enough.’

  It was more than he usually said. He shrugged. ‘I am a Welshman. These things matter.’

  Mehmi broke into the little silence. His poet’s soul longed to hear more of the singers and storytellers but he felt also the unease of this man his father called ‘son’. He said, ‘I want to hear about your great adventure. The bandits passed us. They were a sorry sight and Kazan here did not need to show his prowess with a bow. What did you do? There must have been great deeds.’

  The men laughed, relieved because the talk had turned into a different course. Dai flashed Mehmi a grateful look. ‘Let Blue tell,’ he said, mischievously.

  ‘But no one can understand him!’

  ‘Edgar can – Edgar, you tell what he says.’

  The pale boy smiled. ‘I’ll try. Go on, Blue – though your story telling is far better than mine. It’s a shame these infidels can’t understand the good Fen language.’