The Storyteller's Granddaughter

by Margaret Redfern

  ‘I cannot work on this child unless he stays still,’ the surgeon had said in that precise voice of his. But nothing could keep the dwt from throwing himself about; in the end, holding him down by force was the only answer.

  ‘See, Master Ieperman cut along the edge of the cleft, only as far as needed, to lift a flap of skin. The raw surface was underneath. Then he brought the edges together with – what was the word now?’

  ‘Sutures?’ murmured Brother Jerome.

  ‘There you go. That’s it. Sutures. Inside and outside the boy’s mouth, close and neat. Then he took a long needle and passed it through both sides, keeping it well away from the sut – sutured wound.’ Facts. Facts were easy to tell but… ‘Truth to tell, turned my stomach, it did. If I hadn’t promised the boy I’d stay close, I’d as soon been away from the sight. He was braver than I’d have been.’

  Promised him? At sight of the strange room and the waiting table and the surgeon’s instruments, the dwt had set up a strangled screaming and grabbed hold of Dai’s arm with a grip that they could not release. So Dai had held the shuddering child and comforted him and then he had held him down by force until the surgeon had done his careful, brutal work.

  ‘Then Master Ieperman wound a thread round the ends of the long needle and put some powder on it – red powder, I remember – then covered it with plaster of egg-white and oil of roses. Smell of roses always takes me back to that time.’

  The child so thin and feeble, feeling the agony of it, his face a mess of stitching and raw flesh and his hands trying to pull at the needle so that Dai had still to hold him down, and the dwt’s knees jerking up-down-up-down and those terrified, strangled noises coming from his throat until Master Ieperman quieted him with the poppy medicine that brings relief from pain. And that smell of roses in the air. Forever and ever it would be with him, and at that moment he had wondered whether he had done the child any good at all. Dai felt a hand touch his arm. He looked down. Rémi, bringing him back from the dark places: smiling, alive, re-made.

  ‘When all was well-joined Master Ieperman removed the needle. And there was Rémi, good as new, smelling of roses.’ Dai smiled at the boy but his face was serious. ‘He suffered for it, did the boy, and bore it bravely.’

  ‘It is indeed extraordinary craftsmanship,’ said Jerome, ‘but the good surgeon had the best of materials to work on.’

  ‘This was true courage, Rémi.’ Thomas was sombre. How could the boy have born such agony? And he so young? He was barely grown, even now.

  ‘Has Master Ieperman written down his instructions for others to follow?’ asked Brother Jerome.

  ‘Now there’s another remarkable thing about the man; he has written it down but not in Latin. It’s in good, solid Flemish, for his own countrymen. Heinrijc Mertens told me Ieperman meant it for his son, who spoke no Latin, but it was the father’s regret that the son did not follow in his footsteps. The son had no taste for war wounds and maimed and hacked limbs and bloody mess and carnage and who can blame him?’

  ‘It must have been a disappointment for Master Ieperman.’

  ‘Truth is now, the son’s made a better merchant than ever he’d have been a surgeon. Sometimes it’s better to choose your own life, isn’t it now, Kazan, as the good grandmother said.’

  ‘And what of the father?’ asked Twm. ‘What does he do now?’

  ‘I expect he is dead. He was on the point of death when I left Ieper for Venezia. He was worn out, poor soul, with all he’d seen of death and suffering. Burnt out, you might say.’ He was silent, remembering the gaunt face and hollow eyes of the old man. ‘Heinrijc will miss his friend.’ He ruffled Rémi’s hair. ‘And it’s this one’s second long journey. It’s clever he is with numbers and counting. We found that out soon enough and Heinrijc put him to schooling. He was the best of his year. The Masters were astonished by him. Now he’s here to keep me in order with the buying and selling – clean sheets to give to Master Mertens. Me, I’ve no head for numbers. I can count on my fingers and two thumbs but book-learning – well, not for me. Can’t read nor write, neither, but Rémi now…’

  ‘Burying your light under a barrel of bushels, Dafydd? You’ve a gift for languages.’

  The brown skin reddened. ‘I’ve picked up what I can. Self-preservation, it is. But Rémi here, I can’t say he’s worth his weight in gold. He’s no more flesh on him than a Jenny Wren, has he now? Wouldn’t weigh heavy enough. Or maybe it’s his spirit that keeps him light.’ He listened closely to the boy’s garbled language. ‘He says you must remember Kara Kemal’s words: there’s always hope. Even when it seems all hope has gone, there’s always a thread.’

  Brother Jerome said, ‘Better to light one small candle than sit and curse the darkness. Isn’t that so, my friends?’

  ‘That is well said.’ Sakoura spoke as quietly as ever. He was half-visible, his dark skin blending into the dark shadows of the room they sat in. ‘Who knows what the future holds, except Allah himself – and your God,’ he added with reverance. They caught the flash of white teeth. ‘It should also be remembered that a good master makes all the difference.’

  ‘That’s well said, Sakoura. None better than Heinrijc Mertens.’

  Sakoura glanced across at Rémi whose rapt gaze was still fixed on Dai.

  ‘Do you say this because you have a good or a bad master, Sakoura?’ asked Thomas.

  ‘I have known both, sir, and so I know the difference.’ He hesitated, dipped his head in deference. ‘With your permission, masters, I would like to tell you my story.’

  ‘Get yersen closer,’ Blue said. ‘Nobody can’t hardly see you back there, with yer black skin an’ all.’

  The cameleteers and muleteers crowded closer as well; this was Sakoura who all knew well, promoted to guide and speaking out in front of these strangers, these infidels.

  20

  Sakoura’s Story

  ‘My country is the great kingdom of Mali far away across the burning lands of the desert. You will have heard of Mali, the fabled kingdom, the land of gold? Yes? Of course you have. All the world has heard tales of Mali and how all that is touched is turned to gold. But what is gold compared with salt? Salt is as good as gold – better! Salt keeps us alive. But that is another story.

  ‘Not all have equal fortune in this great kingdom. My father was a court slave, and my mother, and I was born into slavery. My mother named me Sakoura after Mansa Sakoura who was also born a court slave and lived to become a great general and Mansa. “Mansa” means “King” in our country. When Mansa Sakoura was foully murdered, he was given a kingly burial, in spite of his slave origins.

  ‘My master was a learned man. His home was in our great city of Timbuktu. It is a place of great learning with many schools. There is a great library that contains many scrolls, many books – the law, mathematics, astronomy, the written words of the holy men, all these. My master worked hard at his learning and he would let me help him, though it was forbidden for a slave to learn to read and write. I thought this was how my life would be, pecking at crumbs, but in one year my life changed.

  ‘It happened in this way. You must know that I speak now of a time that is more than ten years distant. The Mansa then was Mansa Musa, a great ruler who made our country very wealthy. He was a devout Muslim and a man who insisted on the strictest honour. All who obey the laws are safe.

  ‘Let me tell you how it was when I lived there. There was a white man, a traveller, who stole from the Mansa four thousand mithquals of gold. This is a great weight of gold. When Mansa Musa knew of it he was so angry with the white man he exiled him for four years to the country of the heathens. This is a country of cannibals and no one expected to see the white man again but he lived and at the end of his time of exile Mansa Musa sent him back to his own country. The heathen cannibals would not eat him, they said, because he was not ripe enough to eat. White flesh cannot be digested. Only black flesh and the choicest parts are the palms, and the breasts of females. This I know to be true.
I have seen these cannibals visit the court and receive hospitality-gifts of female slaves. One was my own good friend who I hoped to take as my woman.

  ‘On certain days the Mansa holds audience with his people. This is not within doors, as you do in your country, but in the open air. He sits on a platform under a tree and it is carpeted in silk and has beautiful cushions placed on it. Over it is a pavilion of beautiful silks. There are musicians and an escort of three hundred armed slaves. My father was one of these. The Mansa’s wives sit with him, and his slave-girls, and all the women wear beautiful robes, and silver and gold headdresses. There are poets who wear the costumes of birds and who recite the noble deeds of our Mansas and young boy acrobats who turn wheels in the air. It is a sight of splendour such as you do not have in this country.

  ‘The day of this audience Mansa Musa told his people that he must go on pilgrimage to Mecca. Many abased themselves before him and covered themselves in dust and ashes, as is the custom, and begged to be allowed to travel with him on his great journey.

  ‘And so a great assembly accompanied him. When we travelled, our caravan stretched for many miles. Many miles, as if there were no beginning and no end. My master was one who begged to go, and I was one of the slaves to accompany him. I shall not tell you of the journey, only to say it was very far and very hot. On the journey and when we arrived in the Holy City, Mansa Musa made so many gifts of gold no one there could believe such wealth existed. They say he gave so much gold it swamped your world as a tidal wave inundates the land.

  ‘As for me, I saw wonderful things and it should have been a time of joy except that my master fell ill of a fever and died. I was given as a hospitality-gift to a white stranger who chained me and took me with him to Attaleia. Many of us were chained together, hands and feet and necks in cruel yokes, and marched many miles over the mountains and through the valleys to Attaleia. If one dropped dead, he was left to rot where he fell and his empty neck yoke reminded us of his fate and ours.

  ‘When we arrived in Attaleia we were a sorry sight; all bones, no flesh except where it was festering in chains. We were jeered at in the market place. Worthless rubbish. Who would spend good money on such wrecks? One man did. A camel-dealer. He bought me and clothed me and fed me and gave me back my life. When he saw how skilful was the way I spoke with the beasts, and how they did my bidding, he made me his headman, and after four years he gave me my freedom. Two years ago he gave me his daughter to wife.

  ‘I still work for my master in Attaleia but now I am his son-by-marriage and there is a little one who is the image of his beautiful mother. And so my mother was right to name me Sakoura, was she not? And as the good Kara Kemal says, there is always faith.’

  Sakoura’s tale ended. No one had spoken throughout and no one spoke now. This was beyond anything they had encountered, anything they had imagined.

  At last Hatice asked, ‘Is it true? About the female slaves? They are killed and eaten?’

  ‘This is true, mistress. Not by my countrymen, you understand, but by the heathen cannibals whose country borders with ours.’

  ‘That is a terrible fate.’

  ‘Is it any worse than what you have suffered? While they are slaves, they are well cared for and food and clothes are lavished on them.’

  ‘Why are the heathens allowed in your country?’

  Sakoura smiled. ‘They have precious gold mines and where there is gold there is always trade.’

  ‘Is it true that a slave became a ruler? A king?’ asked Asperto.

  ‘Indeed it is true. All I have told you is true.’

  ‘They say there are terrible creatures in your country,’ Giles said. ‘Creatures that crawl on four legs with their bellies close to the ground but they can swim and live under water as well. Their flesh is armoured and they have daggers for teeth and they eat men.’

  Sakoura laughed aloud. ‘You speak of the crocodiles that live in the rivers. Yes, they are dangerous flesh-eaters with huge jaws and dagger-sharp teeth but they carry the eggs of their young in their mouths and do not crush a single one.’ He looked round the table at their astonished faces. ‘We have other creatures that live in the rivers, the hippopotami. They have an enormous body bigger than any horse, and their feet are like the feet of an elephant. They come out of the water to pasture ashore and that is when we spear them with strong ropes passed through the spear end so that the animal can be brought down and killed. It is very good eating.’

  ‘If you have such creatures,’ said Giles, ‘perhaps it is true that there are men whose heads are beneath their shoulders?’

  ‘Or them as have a great foot that they shade theirselves with?’

  ‘I have not heard of this,’ Sakoura said gravely.

  ‘Why do your poets wear the costumes of birds?’ asked Kazan. She had been engrossed in the tale, sitting cross-legged and resting her chin on her hand.

  ‘That I do not know, little one, only that it is a very old custom, a custom kept long before we became good Muslims, and so it continues, this reciting of the good deeds of our ancestors. It reminds our Musa that he must try to rule as they did.’

  Later, when the fire was burning low, Mehmi picked up his tanbur. ‘A song for the dead infant,’ he said. ‘A lullaby to rock him to sleep.’ He trembled his hand over the strings, deep and low, a mournful sound. A second sound, a voice, deep and throaty: Hatice. Niko, drowsy and falling back amongst the cushions, recognised the lullaby, a Christian lullaby that sang the boy to sleep night after weary night.

  Lullay lullay sleep baby sleep

  Lullay lullay sleep baby sleep

  With the dawn you will wake

  Safe in the arms of your holy mother

  Sleep baby sleep

  Lullay lullay

  ‘Our babes are asleep,’ said Tom, and laughed, but his voice was choked with emotion. Niko and Kazan sprawled together amongst the cushions. ‘Better get them to bed, Dafydd.’

  Dai and Blue hoisted them up and carried them to mattresses laid ready for sleeping. Neither one stirred though Kazan mumbled something incomprehensible and Niko smiled in his sleep. Dai resisted the urge to smooth the bright hair from her face. Instead, he matter-of-factly tucked covers about them both.

  Dreaming. Sleeping. Dreaming while she slept.

  That was the long winter of my disgrace and the difficult birth of your mother. The woman who attended me thought we must surely die, mother and child, and for my father it would have been a merciful relief from shame. But we are strong, the women in our family – isn’t that so, child? Çiçek’s daughter? We are strong and so we survived, both of us. She was welcomed by no one but me. A girl-child. Perhaps she might have found some favour with my father had she been a boy, a grandson, but not a feeble, half-alive girl-child. A foolish man, my father.

  She was beautiful, your mother. Always, to me, from the moment she was torn out of me, crumpled, red-blotched face, tiny as a doll, always she was beautiful to me. Later, it was clear she would be a rare beauty. She had your grandfather’s brown eyes and my golden hair. Yes, it was golden in those days. Your grandfather admired my hair very much. Now – well – that’s a different story. Brown eyes and golden hair, dimples where we had none, not Will nor I, and a smile to beguile the heart of everyone except my father. Even my dour cousin had a kind word for her. A happy, golden girl, like a flower, and that was my secret name for her, a Welsh name told me by Will. Fflur. You truly are Çiçek’s daughter. How I laughed when I knew what those young boys of the tribe called you. Daughter of a flower. She must have cried. All babies cry. But this I do not remember. Only her smiles and dimples. So precious, as all children are precious. Her death was my death. Only you kept me alive, daughter of my daughter. Çiçek’s child. My Fflur.

  Back by the dying fire, Asperto and Hatice were determined.

  ‘It is not good to stay here,’ said Asperto. ‘The winter is coming and it is harsh in this place. Besides, Hatice will grieve over the grave. Better for us to come with
you to Attaleia and start a new life. There we can find work and make a home for the boy. At least,’ a shrug, ‘if I can find work, useless as I am.’

  ‘Not useless,’ Hatice said, briskly. ‘I can work for all of us if you make a home for the boy. He needs a family. If you truly mean to set us free, master?’

  ‘Truly indeed, madam.’

  ‘Then we shall do very well together in Attaleia.’

  Sakoura said, ‘Perhaps I can help you. There is work for you in my father’s house, and a place to live. My wife also needs a woman about her.’

  ‘You are very kind.’

  ‘That is settled, then.’

  Later still, and the fire built up because the wind blowing down from the mountains carried snow that was, they were told, more than a month early. All were abed apart from Brother Jerome and Giles, Thomas and Dai. They talked in quiet voices that would not disturb the sleepers. Brother Jerome was returning from a visit to a poor friary that tried its best to serve the poor that lived near it. He had taken the opportunity to travel in the footsteps of Paul of blessed memory. ‘Such a man,’ he said. ‘Such a vision, to change a man and his destiny overnight.’ He planned to travel down to the coast by way of Seydişeyhir, to stay in Alaiye at a small monastery in the Greek quarter, though it was not Franciscan. He had friends there who had shared part of his journey. ‘Then home to Assisi in the spring.’ His whole face smiled as he spoke the words. ‘Nothing can compare with the holy places of Jerusalem but, for this tired old man, I confess I shall be content to be home.’

  Dai flicked a glance at Tom, who nodded. ‘That is our road too, Brother,’ he said. ‘You are welcome to travel with us – isn’t it so, Dafydd?’ He mimicked the Welshman’s lilt.