The Storyteller's Granddaughter

by Margaret Redfern

  ‘It’s clear you think so.’

  Dai didn’t answer. How could Twm not see for himself that this was the marvellous maid, the gold-copper-bronze maid of the yürük summer camp?

  Twm sighed. ‘The words of the Mevlana, Dafydd – to have your sins forgiven again and again and again no matter whether you are… What was it? Pagan or fire worshipper?’

  So he had been listening. ‘Or Muslim or Christian or Jew. What would the Pope in Avignon make of that, now?’

  ‘He’d have had him burnt at the stake,’ Twm said with certainty.

  Dai opened his mouth to agree but he didn’t get the words out. From the back of the caravan came shouting. Loud shouting. Mehmi? Blue? Dai’s head came up. He turned his brown horse, rose up in the saddle, trying to see beyond the swaying heads of the camels, their bulky loads, cursing himself for his carelessness. They were alone, weakened. Close to Konya, true, they could see it already, silhouetted against two breast-shaped mountains and, behind them, the sinking sun, but they were not safe. Not yet safe. A horse and its rider were galloping at full stretch across the level land of the plateau, the rider almost flattened on the horse’s back. Its mane and tail were blown in the wind of its own making and its hooves were kicking up spurts of dust. Away from the caravan. A rider at full pelt cantering away from the caravan. Had a horse bolted? Who with?

  14

  Warrior on the prancing Arab horse

  What warrior are you?

  (Book of Dede Korkut, c. 9thC)

  ‘What’s happening?’ Dai yelled across the wide flat spaces. It was then he realised there was laughter and cheering mixed in with the shouting, and the muleteers and cameleteers were joining in as well, and the late afternoon sun was glinting off the horse and rider, catching the white and dark chestnut patches of the piebald and the gold-copper-bronze of the rider’s head: Kazan. The rider was Kazan. She suddenly dropped sideways in the saddle. Thrown, he thought, at that speed, and his breath caught in his throat, choking him, stifling words. But no. She was up again with a strung curved bow in her hands. In both hands. A horse cantering at that speed and the girl without a hand on the reins? And suddenly she had drawn the bow and loosed an arrow in less time than it took him to drag air gasping into his body. And another arrow, curving high in the air before it was rushing back earthwards. Then rider and horse were wheeling, racing back towards the caravan.

  The ambling caravan had come to a stop, dogs circling anxiously, mules shifting nervously. The camels waited, motionless, incurious. ‘Stay here,’ Dai flung at Twm and rode past the halted caravan to the last riders: Blue nursing Edgar and Edgar nursing Rashid and Mehmi nursing the tanbur and Rémi dog-like following Edgar. They were cheering and clapping their hands as Kazan and the mare called Star covered the final distance. Even Rashid was wide-awake and smiling. The girl reined in and Star reared up, front legs air-dancing before dropping down. Kazan leaned forward to rub the mare’s head between pricked ears.

  ‘See what a star she is!’

  Dai heard the girl’s praise for the mare. His gaze took in the laughing faces of the men, the girl’s bright excitement, and he felt anger rise in him. Such anger that he had not felt for a long time. Where now were the high ideals of the Mevlana’s love and tolerance? Vanished, swallowed in his rage.

  It had begun in the dawdling, ambling afternoon. Five of them with as many languages but not one they could all understand. ‘It’s Pentecostal,’ said Edgar.

  ‘Eh, that’s heretical, innit?’

  ‘According to some it might seem so.’

  Edgar nursing Rashid, determined to take his turn; Mehmi with his tanbur playing music to heal the wounded one; Blue lurking protectively; Rémi never far from Edgar now; Kazan, moving through her first day with these strangers. Strangers no longer after last night’s story-telling and then, today, their cheerful acceptance of her as Kazan, the new boy, the little blue brother, Fustilugs, though she had no idea what Blue meant by that. Nothing flattering, that was for sure. And now this talking together in five languages but not one they could all understand. As for that strange conversation with the dark, handsome Thomas, she would think about that later, would unwrap each cherished word they had exchanged, would rejoice because he had sought her out. No. Kazan. She must remember it was Kazan he had spoken with.

  ‘I only meant,’ said Edgar, ‘we are blessed with many tongues.’ There was a hasty translation from one to the other.

  ‘My father would tell the story of the man who gave money to four friends.’

  ‘One of the Mevlana’s stories?’

  ‘Of course. What else?’ Mehmi smiled at the joke but in his smile there was love and awed respect also for his father

  ‘Tell us it then, music man.’

  ‘A man gave money to four friends – a Persian, an Arab, a Turk, and a Greek. The Persian said, “Let’s spend the money on angur,” but the Arab wouldn’t agree. “No,” he said, “I want to spend the money on inab.” “No,” said the Turk, “that’s not what I want. I want to spend the money on üzüm.” The Greek shouted, “Stop all this nonsense! All this arguing! We’re going to buy istafil.” And they fell to fighting – all because they did not know each one of them was talking about grapes.’

  The story went from one to the other, laughter following like waves breaking on the shore on a calm day.

  ‘Knoäw what we should do?’ said Blue. ‘Once we’re all off-loäded in Konya and we’re fresh washed, we should go wenching.’

  ‘All of us?’ Mehmi asked.

  ‘Well, not Rashid. Not that it wouldn’t do him a deal of good, heh Rashid? But Edgar’s gaäme, en’t yer, rebel-boy?’ He watched the red creep up Edgar’s face, saw the brightness in his eyes. ‘Yer’ll be saying yer allelujahs to a right lovely shrine this night. Fustilugs, and Rémi too – caän’t leave them behind, can we now?’

  Kazan would have liked to go with them in this new guise of boy’s freedom, seen the wonderful city, known more of how men spoke and acted when they were private together and no women present. But to go with them to a brothel? Her face was aflame.

  ‘Konya is a holy city,’ she said. ‘How can such places be there?’

  ‘Where men gather,’ Mehmi said cynically, ‘there will always be need of the blessing of a good woman.’

  ‘Or moöre than one,’ Blue sniggered and Mehmi laughed. They were in holiday mood, already anticipating the evening, already lusty with longing.

  ‘Seven,’ Blue said. ‘One for eäch on us. A’m not shaäring. one, two, three, four, five, six, seven – all Dai’s men shall goä to ’eaven,’ he warbled.

  ‘Look at our young friend!’ Mehmi was laughing, teasing. ‘Kazan, the red-faced!’ He reached over and clapped her vigorously on the shoulder. ‘Our Kazan here was set to rescue you all yesterday and now look at him!’

  ‘What? This wench-faced recklin? A thowt that fancy bow and quiver yer’s carrying were nowt but decoraätion.’

  ‘Gifts from my father for Kazan, the keenest bowman, the swiftest rider,’ Mehmi teased.

  ‘Coöme on, Fustilugs, show us what yer maäde on!

  She laughed, leaned forward to whisper love words to Yıldız the star, her face alight with the mischief that had always been the signal for Nene’s words of caution. Then they were galloping fast, she and the mare, and she was gripping tight with her knees, feeling the air rushing past her and the mare’s mane streaming bright in the sun and then the sideways slip she’d taken so long to perfect and up again balancing with the bow in her hands and a shaft ready to loose and riding, riding fast but not as fast as the arrow hurtling through the bright air and a second close behind then they were wheeling and turning and galloping back across the flat land and she was pulling on the reins so the mare reared up, dancing her forelegs in the air.

  ‘Now do you believe me? See what a star she is!’

  She was panting and exultant and glowing and Dai felt his anger raging through him. He saw again the moment she slipped sideways
in the saddle and felt again the terror that she would fall under the pounding hooves of the mare, be dragged along the stony ground, her body trampled, all that precious gold-copper-bronze beauty destroyed.

  ‘What is it you think you are doing, now? What idiot game? Playing the hero, is it? Where’s your sense, boy?’ He bit out the word ‘boy’, white-faced with anger so that the men were open-mouthed with the shock of it. Quiet fury, yes, iron-willed when it suited him, but never this sharp, white anger.

  ‘Nay, Dai lad, it were us as egged ’im on.’

  ‘We were teasing him, Dai-bey, we’re to blame.’

  ‘We must share the blame, Dai.’

  ‘It was Kazan’s choice to play the fool.’

  The girl had cringed under his anger but now she lifted her head, her chin up-lifted and her eyes sparking gold. ‘Yes, it was my choice. They wanted to see me ride and shoot. That is nothing so bad.’

  ‘We’ve no need of another wounded – or maimed – or worse.’

  ‘There was no risk. I know what I am doing. And this little mare, she knows what I want from her. I told you, I am the best of all my tribe – the fastest rider, the best with a straight arrow.’

  ‘Yer can shoöt well enough, that’s fer sure, but can yer hit yer taärget?’

  ‘Enough, Blue. You…’ a jerk of his head towards the girl, ‘ride with me.’ He turned the brown stallion towards the head of the caravan, waving the men to continue.

  Kazan rolled her eyes at the shamefaced men, poked out her tongue at Dai’s back and followed sedately behind him, her colour high. Edgar hastily controlled a nervous snigger; Blue nodded to himself. So young Fustilugs didn’t lack courage. He’d never have dared take on Dai, not like that. And ’ow was that for fancy riding and shooting? He’d not never seen the like. Nor had he never seen Dai in such a taking.

  They came up to Twm. ‘That was pretty riding, Kazan. Where did you learn tricks like that?’

  ‘From the yürük,’ she said shortly.

  ‘Are they all as skilled as you, boy?’

  She shot a smouldering glance at Dai. ‘I am the best of my tribe.’

  Twm raised an eyebrow, looking from the boy’s angry red face to Dai, frowning and tight-lipped.

  ‘Don’t encourage him, Twm. It was a fool’s trick and so I’ve told him.’

  Angry words were burning his mouth. ‘She – she – she,’ he wanted to shout and was afraid he would in his anger. Better say nothing. Better ride along in silence until he could talk quiet. Already he was ashamed of his anger; sorry that it had destroyed her bright gladness and pride. She was alone in the world and only he to know her for what she was. He should have had more care of her. But that moment when he thought she had fallen!

  She rode behind the two men, the brown man on the brown horse and the dark man on the grey. The wave of shock and anger was ebbing and shame was washing over her. Shame at the public humiliation before all the men but shame also because she had wanted to boast, to prove herself, to impress them with her skill. It was exactly what Nene had warned her against. She was a fool, as he had said, and now she had lost his goodwill. He had been kind and patient and willing to keep her secret with no questions asked and now she had repaid him like this. He wouldn’t want her to stay, that was for sure. He had problems enough without her. He’d leave her behind in Konya and she would be alone again and there was Niko still to be rescued. The thought caused her stomach to clench and her eyes to burn tearless.

  The sun was dipping further behind the mountains, casting long light over the walls and towers which in their turn cast long shadows over the land. A spider’s web of roads led to Konya and the dusty cloud of a large caravan was visible on the Ereğli road but it was heading towards another gateway, one of many that led into the city because this was where the great trade routes crossed and roads led north and south and east and west; had done since time out of mind. Their own gateway was dead ahead and leading straight to the bedestan with its safe storage for precious goods, and its market places with separate areas for each trade and craft, and lodgings and hamams and mosques and medreses, all in the Turkish quarter. In the south of the city, behind its own high wall, was the Greek quarter. This was an ancient city, well used to travellers and merchants, and secure in the knowledge that the great Mevlana protected all, Turk and Christian alike. The city walls and its many towers had been breached and repaired and breached and repaired again and again; it was no longer the glittering capital of the Selçuk Empire and, truth to tell, parts of it were ruinous now that Laranda was made the chief place and renamed Karaman. But this city was still Konya, the burial place of the holy Jalal al Din Rumi, the Mevlana, and because of that it would forever outshine the new capital.

  They were halted at the checkpoint; all caravans were required to register outside the city before they were allowed entry. The high walls and higher towers stretched away as far as the eye could see. Then they were in the gloom of the gateway, with the great double eagle of Konya carved in relief, and its stone vaulting high above them, and out again into the broad streets of the city, passing fine stone houses and fruit gardens and streams running through them, and houses less fine, sinking into ruin, and their gardens unkempt. But here as well were the learning schools, the medrese, some small with their courtyards open to the sky but there were other, grander buildings surmounted and enclosed by a huge dome. ‘But that is very clever,’ the cousin-in-marriage had told them, ‘because the memory of the courtyard is kept by means of a skylight and perhaps a fountain and it protects all from the terrible winters of the plateau.’ Soaring high above all the buildings, dizzyingly high until it seemed its tip would touch the sky itself, and so slender that it was a miracle it could stand upright, was the thin minaret, the ince minaret, the masterpiece of a master builder, now almost a hundred years old and still a marvel. There were two balconies for the muezzin but who dared climb so high?

  They came to the bedestan and the place where they would lodge for the night. It was like the day before: the noise, the orderly confusion of travellers and townsmen and animals; the dismounting and handing over of animals to the servants used to handling larger caravans than this; their sleeping places and the offer of a servant to take them to the hamam; directions to the place where they would eat their evening meal. But here, as well, was a servant to take Dai and Rémi to the bedestan where they could secure the most valuable items they carried.

  ‘Will you go with Rémi?’ he said to Twm. ‘I’ve things to do here.’

  ‘You’d trust me with this?’

  ‘Of course. But, look you, trust no one. Keep sharp eyes.’

  Twm glanced across to where a despondent Kazan was fondling the piebald mare. ‘You were very harsh, Dafydd.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He’s young and impetuous. He’s learned his lesson.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So what will you do?’

  Dai sighed. What would he do? He hardly knew. It was his fault all the happiness of the day was destroyed. The men were subdued and there were anxious looks cast his way. And Kazan? If she chose to leave them now, where would she go? How could she survive, alone and unprotected?

  ‘You go with Rémi,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll deal with problems here.’

  Twm still hesitated. ‘You won’t cast him off, will you, Dafydd?’

  ‘I won’t do that. But what’s this, now? You’ve taken a liking to the boy?’

  ‘Yes, I have. He’s a strange one but – I don’t know – there’s something about him, Dafydd. The men feel it as well. All of them.’

  Well, this was something, Dai thought, the cynical, suspicious Twm pleading for Kazan to stay. And for sure he was right, something stranger about the boy than he realised. ‘I’ll deal with it,’ he said.

  Twm was not content, that he knew, and Rémi was anxious but they left together taking the precious bundles, with Giles and Blue to guard them. Amir came up to him.

  ‘A word, if you please, mast
er.’

  Dai nodded and they retreated to the side of the stable where the noise was less. Dai waited but Amir did not speak. He scratched his neck under the edge of his turban. Dai prompted him.

  ‘Your boy is not worse for the journey, I hope?’

  ‘He is well enough.’

  ‘No fresh bleeding or fever?’

  ‘Thanks be to Allah.’

  ‘But he is tired out, of course, by the journey.’ It was a statement, not a question. The man nodded.

  ‘That is so, master.’ Another silence. This time Dai waited.

  ‘I have a cousin of a cousin here in Konya. I can take my son to him, Dai bey, if you are willing, and I can leave him there.’

  ‘You have a cousin here?’

  ‘A cousin of a cousin, Dai bey.’

  ‘Do you have cousins in every part of this country?’

  ‘Not in every part, master, but we are many.’ He pulled a face. ‘I have many sisters.’

  ‘I see. Well, Amir, that seems a good plan but I have a better one.’

  Amir waited; the brown man took his time.

  ‘What I think you should do is stay here in Konya, Amir. Stay here until your son is recovered.’

  ‘I cannot do that, master. We agreed terms and I have promised to take you safe to Attaleia.’

  ‘Haven’t you a cousin of a cousin who can take us to Attaleia in your place?’

  ‘Certainly, sir. There is one who lives in Süleymanşehir.’

  ‘That’s sorted then. You stay here and your cousin of a cousin of a cousin takes us on to Attaleia. We can see ourselves to Süleymans,ehir. The road is good. There’ll be others travelling west, from this place and at this time of year. It’s no more than two days’ travel, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is possible in two days. Three is more comfortable.’

  ‘We’ll have to stir ourselves. Two days is better, isn’t it now?’

  ‘You are a good master.’ The man’s eyes were bleared with unshed tears. ‘That is an honest man who leads the camels. Honest and dependable. He is honoured in his own city.’

  ‘Sakoura?’