The Storyteller's Granddaughter

by Margaret Redfern

  ‘He will take my place and guide your caravan to Suleymanşehir and to my cousin.’

  Dai thought a moment. ‘Amir, you come from Alaiye?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘Your wife, now, she’ll be wanting to hear about you and your son?’

  ‘She must wait, master, until we return.’

  ‘But she will worry. Let me take news to her. Let me tell her how you are. How your son is.’

  ‘There will be no time before the sailing.’

  ‘Yes there is. It’s almost in our way, if we take the road down to Manavgat. I’ll send the men along the coast road to Attaleia and go alone. It’s not even a day’s journey to Alaiye, travelling alone. Let me do this. You have been a good guide, none better, and more than that. Without you and your son and your men, the bandits would have beaten us. I owe it to you. Let me give news to your wife that you and your son are well and safe here in Konya and will return before the winter.’

  ‘I would be grateful, Dai bey.’

  ‘There you are, then.’

  ‘Master?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wonder, master, if you will let me do something for you in return. Let me take the boy with me this evening to my cousin’s house.’

  ‘The boy?’ He knew, of course. There was only one boy Amir had in mind.

  ‘Kazan, master.’

  ‘Why do you wish this?’

  ‘He is good with Rashid.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And we will send him back bathed and rested.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There will be no problems, no questions, no worries about the hamam or where he will sleep.’

  Dai breathed in. ‘No?’

  ‘No, master. My cousin and his wife – she is a friend of my older sister, my abla – they know how to keep secrets.’

  ‘I see.’ Dai drew the words out. ‘So, it seems, do you.’

  How did this man know when the others did not?

  Amir answered as if he had spoken the question aloud. ‘I know that tribe of yürük. Sometimes we have traded with them. It was well known that a Christian woman and her grandchild were living with them, and the old woman was good with cures for many illnesses. I was sorry to hear of her death.’ Amir shook his head. ‘Last night, at first I didn’t recognise the boy but when he laid his hand on my son’s head, and kissed me, then I knew. It is what the grandmother would have done.’

  ‘Yet you said nothing.’

  ‘There was no reason. He is a good boy. The men like him very much even though he is young and impetuous – perhaps because of this. He has much courage.’

  He. How careful Amir was. Kazan would be safe with the man, Dai was sure, and with the comfort of womenfolk for the night.

  ‘Will you let me do this thing, Dai bey?’

  ‘Willingly. Take Kazan with you and – take care of him.’

  ‘Of course, master. I shall return him to you tomorrow morning early.’

  Dai looked around for the girl. She was still with the mare, brushing the piebald’s mane. He strolled across to her, saw the flash of anxiety in her face, quickly hidden behind a blankness that gave nothing away.

  ‘Tonight you are to go with Amir and his son.’

  She rested her head against the mare’s flank. ‘You wish me to leave,’ she stated.

  ‘You will stay the night with him and his family and make yourself useful looking after Rashid.’

  ‘If that is your wish.’

  ‘It is Amir’s wish.’ He paused. ‘Amir knew your grandmother.’ He added quietly, ‘Don’t worry,’ as she turned startled eyes on him. ‘Your secrets are safe with him. It is why he asked to take you with him. His cousin and his wife will make you comfortable – but don’t be late in the morning.’

  ‘I am to travel with you, then, tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I thought you would leave me here.’

  ‘Why would I be doing such a thing?’

  ‘But you were so angry and truly I am sorry. Nene said I am too impulsive and she was right. She was always right. She said pride comes before a fall.’

  He sighed. ‘I was too hasty. I should not have spoken so. It was my fault also.’ He looked away from her, across the courtyard. ‘I thought you had fallen,’ he said, his voice curt because the words in his heart came out crooked. Oh this woeful Welshman outside his land of Wales! ‘When you dipped down in the saddle. I thought the mare had thrown you.’

  ‘That is why you were angry? I was a risk to you all?’

  A hair’s breadth of hesitation. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you still angry?’

  ‘No – but no more tricks like that one, Kazan.’

  ‘We are still friends?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But I am to go with Amir and Rashid?’

  ‘For tonight. To the home of his cousin – well, the cousin of a cousin – and the man’s wife who is a friend of Amir’s oldest sister. Yes, I know,’ as he saw her lips curve, ‘so many cousins they rival the Karamanğlus themselves. But they will look after you. You will be safe with them.’

  She was missed. ‘Peaceful, innit,’ said Blue, ‘without Fustilugs yapping.’ But he sniffed and coughed and scratched until Giles snapped at him to shut it or go elsewhere. The men of the hospice had taken them to the hamam then to the meal house. It was Konya hospitality, with many dishes followed by sweetmeats and fruit, but for once Dai had no interest and less appetite.

  ‘Not even a mouthful of this one? It’s delicious.’ Twm held up a triangle of sweetmeat dripping with honey and rosewater and stuffed full of ground pistachios. There was another Dai liked, stuffed with ground almonds and sugar and musk, thrown in batter and fried then thrown in syrup and sprinkled with sugar. But not tonight. Tonight he had no appetite.

  ‘Missing the boy, Dafydd?’ Twm popped the triangle in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. ‘Mmm. Good. Not like you to miss out on a feed, Dafydd.’

  ‘All mouth and stomach, you mean?’

  ‘All heart, maybe, hankering after a pair of golden eyes?’ Twm raised one eyebrow in that way he had. He raised the other as he observed the blood creep up Dafydd’s throat. He had meant it as a joke, a jibe; he had not expected a straight hit. Not Dafydd. This was a new and unsettling thought. This was something to be mulled over.

  Now they were sitting in the flickering light and shadow cast by the torches, too tired to move and somehow melancholic. The holiday mood was gone. Mehmi sat apart from them in his own world, muttering under his breath and plucking softly at the strings of the tanbur; Rémi was making his nightly visit to the animals; Twm rested his arm, now out of its sling, rebound by an expert physician who praised the work of the han doctor. ‘And your own health and strength, young sir?’

  ‘No pain,’ Twm said, but he was even more withdrawn than usual.

  ‘The boy’s gone with Amir, you say, Dafydd?’

  ‘Amir asked for the boy.’ Dai shrugged. ‘He took it into his head that Kazan knew some medicine. Maybe he does. I don’t know. He seems to keep Rashid calm. It will be good for him to be of use.’

  ‘He is coming back, isn’t he?’ Edgar asked. ‘He comes with us? He’ll not stay behind with Amir and Rashid?’

  They were all looking at him now, waiting for his answer as if it mattered to them.

  ‘Tomorrow morning – an early start, I said.’

  All of them sighed with relief.

  ‘He’s nobbut a bairn when all’s said and done,’ Blue said. ‘He’s a bit wild, but he’s easy snaapped if ’e knows yer mean it. He were right down in the mouth after yer fettled ’im, Dai.’

  ‘He’ll get over it.’

  ‘We’d promised him a night out, an’ all. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, all Dai’s men shall goä to ’ eaven,’ he warbled.

  ‘What’s this then?’

  ‘We were going wenching, like A says.’

  ‘Were you now? Who was this “we”?’

>   ‘All on us! Yow, me, Giles, Thomas – do Thomas good to have a night out – rebel-boy, blue-boy and finger-boy.’ He ticked them off on his fingers.

  ‘And you’d promised this to Kazan? And he agreed?’

  ‘He didn’t exactly agree, did he, Blue?’

  Blue laughed. ‘Thowt as he’d go pop, he were that red ’i the faäce. A reckon that’s why he went galloping off like he did – acting the man though he’s nowt but a pip-squeak.’

  ‘He’s a crafty rider,’ Giles said. ‘That trick of shooting while galloping. I’ve seen that before. Tried it myself. Couldn’t get the hang of it. Couldn’t keep my balance.’

  The strings of the tanbur reverberated more loudly. ‘Kazan the keenest bowman, the swiftest rider,’ Mehmi half sang, half spoke then, unexpectedly, ‘my father took a liking to him.’

  ‘We all have,’ said Twm. ‘Yes – even me. Laugh if you like. Impudent wretch that he is. Seems to have fallen from favour with you, though, Dafydd?’ The one eyebrow lifted.

  Dai was at his most impassive. ‘He’s well enough but there’s to be no encouraging him in his tricks. He must ride steady with the rest of us.’

  Giles laughed out loud. ‘Ride steady? That one ride steady? He’s like that flaming star the old men still talk of. You know the one I mean? Must do. The star with the fiery, flaming tail. Burned its way through the night skies for almost a year. Must be near enough thirty years ago.’ He stopped, his ruddy face reddening even deeper as he realised they were all staring at him, Giles the laconic, the uncommunicative.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a poet, Giles, all these years we’ve travelled together. You’ll be competition for Mehmi here.’

  ‘Bright fiery star,’ carolled Mehmi and twanged dischords on the strings. They were chuckling now, relaxing.

  It was the girl again, Dai thought, and speaking of her. He said, ‘That star – it was more than thirty years ago. Nearer thirty-five years. Taid – my grandfather – spoke of it.’ He had been told of it, Dai could have said, by the storyteller saved from drowning when he was just a skinny brat, and who had returned years later, a grown man who had travelled the world searching for his lost brother. Was still searching for him. A never-ending story, Taid had said. Strange it was, now, to think the storyteller had seen the fiery star when he was here in this very place, in Konya. But he said nothing of this.

  Dai was glad to get to bed, glad of the quiet, but he missed her, and the sound of her steady breathing, and that he could put out his hand, if he wished, and know that she was there in the darkness. He wondered if she was wakeful like him, or if she was cocooned in her blankets and sound sleeping.

  Early morning and the Imsak Call to Prayer echoing and re-echoing around the city, the call from the nearest minaret taken up by the next and the next…and Blue’s own call: ‘Yer ’ere then, yer wench-faced blaggard. ’ Bout time yer showed up. We’ve to fettle them beasts yet. Coöme on, Fustilugs, set to.’

  And there she was, bright faced, with her hair gleaming gold-copper-bronze in the early morning sun.

  Kazan was glad to be back with them. Amir and his family had been kind. His cousin and the wife who was a friend of his abla had shown no surprise at the appearance of this strange boy-girl. Indeed, the wife was more shocked and worried by the boy Rashid. She hurried around making him comfortable, putting him to bed, calling a physician to re-dress his wound, happy that it was clean and knitting together already, and there was no sign of fever. But he was pale and listless for all that, exhausted by the day’s travel. Then she had bathed the girl herself, massaged her body with sweet-smelling oils, washed her hair and brushed it dry, sorrowing over its short length. ‘I have sons,’ she said, ‘and I give thanks to Allah that is so but sometimes – like now – I think it would be very pleasant to have a daughter.’

  Yes, she was a kind woman but the girl was relieved to be given her mat in a quiet place in the women’s sleeping chamber, and to be alone to think about the day and the place where she was. She did not think of Thomas Archer but of her grandmother because this was the place where Nene and her lover, the storyteller, her grandfather, had met in secret. It was the place where her mother had been conceived.

  He followed me to our home in Ihlara. It is where Christians have lived for many years. There is a deep gorge and at the bottom is the great Menderes River. I always thought it a beautiful place but that spring it was more beautiful than ever because he was there. He was well-liked, of course, because of his stories. We all love to hear stories. That is what he said. It makes children of us all and we forget to fight. Sharing tales and laughter is what makes peace amongst us. So wise, your grandfather. Then one day a neighbour returned from a pilgrimage to the tomb of the Mevlana in Konya. The Mevlana was not long dead and many still mourned him and came to see the holy place where he was buried. This man brought news of two strangers. One was a tall, thin, black-haired heron of a man who was without words; the other was small, grey-haired, with a wizened hand. It was the one without words who played music for the heart and soul. They were the guests of the qadi.

  He knew who it was and he had to go, no question of that. I begged him to take me with him but he would not. He said I was too young, so much younger than he; that he was penniless, that his life was that of a wanderer on the earth. How could he expect me to travel with him, wherever he went? How could he expect me to share his hard life and harder bed? He loved me too much to see me suffer. I was used to a comfortable home, he said, and it’s true my father was a wealthy man; not rich but wealthy enough. I told him my comfort was with him; my life was rich when I was with him. He would not give way though I knew he wanted to. This searching of his, he said, would destroy the love I had for him. I deserved better: a home of my own, a man who would love and honour me; children and grandchildren to fill my heart and my life. This is what he wished for me. But not with him. It could not be. He had sworn to search for his brother, however long the journey, wherever it led him, even to the end of his life.

  He never said that I would be a burden. Perhaps he never thought it. I don’t know, child. All I knew was that I loved him and there would never be any other man for me. I determined to find a way to be together for a while longer, to at least have memories to nourish me. Besides, if his brother truly was in Konya I wished to meet him, this strange dark man who played music for the heart and soul but who could not speak the simplest of words.

  You must understand, child, that my father knew nothing about us, about our love, our meetings. He liked the storyteller well enough, had entertained him in our home, but to my father he was merely a wayfarer, a traveller who would soon be gone. I think perhaps my mother guessed but she said nothing. My father was not a kind man for all he professed to love God and his Son our Lord. My father had wanted a son and instead he was given a difficult daughter.

  I plotted. I planned to go with your grandfather to Konya, whatever he said. I was headstrong – much like you, child. There was a girl-cousin who lived in Konya. She was betrothed and wedding preparations were underway. We would be guests at the wedding but I begged my mother to let me go to help, to be a companion to my cousin. She talked with my father and he agreed. I think he was pleased to be rid of me for a few weeks. Maybe he hoped the family would find me a husband where he had failed.

  So I was packed off to my uncle and aunt. Agnes, my cousin, thought it romantic to help me escape the house to meet my foreigner. Lucky for me she was happy in her father’s choice of husband. It was one of the houses with a long garden and orchards. It was easy to pretend to spend time there, where it was cool and shady in the heat of summer. Easy, as well, to pretend to be about the business of the wedding, with so many coming and going. Easy to meet.

  It was the year of the comet, the great star trailing a fiery burning tail. Air and fire and, the learned ones said, it foretold death and plague and famine. It meant strong winds and earthquakes and clouds and rain. It meant wars and murder and massacre. It meant illness and
pain for women who bore children, and miscarriages and difficult deliveries. It meant visions.

  And it was at that time and in that place your mother was conceived. In that holy city under the night sky and its burning comet. Was it an omen? Perhaps. At the time I thought only of him, and the short time we had together, burning with our love as the comet burned above us.

  As for the brother and the grey-haired man, they had gone. It was true they had been there but two – maybe three – years before. There was no trace of them. They had left the hospitality of the qadi and travelled on. Perhaps north to the cold countries; perhaps east to Mecca. Nobody knew. There was one man, one of the Mevlevi, who remembered them and their music. Your grandfather took out the swan pipe and played. Not well – he was never a musician – but the man recognised the song. ‘That is the song of Ieuan ap y Gof,’ said your grandfather. But the man said, ‘Listen! He played this also, your brother, and he wept while he played.’ And he played haunting, lilting notes on the ney, the reed pipe, one of the instruments of the holy men. ‘My song,’ said your grandfather. ‘That is the song he wrote for me and played for me before we parted.’

  I knew then for certain he would leave me. Before that, there had always been a little hope that he would stay, that he would give up his search. We shared a great love but the love he had for his brother ah! That was greater still. And it was right and proper in this place of the Mevlana. ‘The way of our prophet is a way of love. If you want to live, die in love; die in love if you want to remain alive.’

  He left in the last days of summer. There were more rumours, this time that the two had been seen travelling westwards. It seemed to me he followed the comet and those who foretold illness and pain and difficult deliveries were in the right of it. My cousin was married, my father and mother took me home. It was not long before my mother realised that I was with child. That was the long winter of my disgrace and the difficult birth of your mother.

  Amir’s choice of guide was Sakoura, the leader of the cameleteers. He was a whip-thin, black-skinned man with a quiet patience to rival Dai’s. His legs were so skinny it was wonderful how they supported his body, Giles said; his hair was wiry black, and his full lips were blue-black, as if dyed in indigo, said Blue. He had been fascinated by the black man since the first day he’d joined the caravan. He marvelled over the man’s pale palms and paler nails, over the burnished darkness of his skin. ‘And his blood as red as any of us.’ He’d seen it spilt that day when they were attacked by the bandits. Sakoura had laughed, showing white teeth and the red inside of his mouth. ‘You are a blue man,’ he said, ‘but your blood is red too.’ And he had continued winding an indigo-dyed cloth around the blade slash on his forearm.