CHAPTER
5
THE BLACK GRAVEL PASS
Bren had never seen yak before. More important, he had never smelled yak before. Although to be fair, the foul odor he was inhaling could very well have been coming from the dozen or so unwashed humans he was traveling with, not the half-dozen shaggy oxen.
Ali-Shir’s parting gift to Bren and Sean was to arrange for them to join a caravan traveling west toward India, to a place called Leh, the capital of the Himalayan kingdom of Ladakh. The king there was building a new palace for his family, and all summer caravans of supplies and men and women looking for work had been traveling there. Bren and Sean had been lucky—the weather would soon make the route impassible until the following spring. This was their chance to leave China undetected and escape the League of Blood. At least, they hoped it was.
Yaks were the most extraordinary beasts of burden Bren had ever seen. And they needed to be. Once the caravan crossed the Kunlun Mountains, the possibility of foraging became remote. They were entering a vast, high-altitude desert, unpopulated and scarce of life. South of the Black Jade River were nothing but soda lakes, where in a pinch they might be able to feed on algae blooms or briny shrimp. North of their route were bandits and warlords. In short, the yaks had to carry a month’s supply of food for them, in addition to all their goods for trade.
It reminded Bren of being on the Albatross, and how the Far East traders had to carry months’ or even a year’s worth of supplies with them. One difference was that the yaks weren’t carrying water. Instead, they drank milk from their three cows. Yak’s milk proved to be golden in color, almost like butter and nearly as thick. Bren was reluctant, but the milk was sweet, with a hint of almond flavor.
The herdsmen used the milk to make other food, too—butter, a creamy food they called yogurt, cheese, and something called kashk, where they let the yogurt or milk go sour and harden, then rolled it into ball or broke it off into chunks. Bren never acquired a taste for it, but he never turned it down, for it was filling, if nothing else.
Among the supplies they were carrying to Leh were Chinese silk and spices, as well as works of art, paintings and sculpture that the king of Ladakh wanted for his new palace. But their most important cargo was a sled of timber known as huanghuali, considered the finest wood in Asia and the one used exclusively for furniture by many of the great dynasties. It came exclusively from the island of the Pearl Cliffs, Ali-Shir had told them, and thus was exceedingly rare.
“The Pearl Cliffs?” Bren and Sean had said at once, before proceeding to astonish Ali-Shir by explaining that they had been there, when their guide, Yaozu, had led them through a secret tunnel to mainland China.
When they had first joined the caravan, one of the women reminded Bren of Lady Barrett in a way. It was the old crone who cooked for them at night, using dried yak dung she had collected along the way for fuel since there was no wood. The connection made absolutely no sense. The woman must’ve been a hundred years old, with a face like tanned leather, and she walked with such a pronounced stoop that it looked as if she were constantly searching for something she had dropped. But once, while she was hunched over her kettle, something like a fox sneaked up on her, hoping to snatch a morsel for its own dinner, and the woman grabbed her walking stick and, in one surprisingly graceful motion, swung it behind her to bop the fox right between the eyes, sending it off dazed and hungry.
That was it, just that one gesture. It brought to Bren’s mind the way Lady Barrett had so skillfully wielded her sword, the Tamer of Beasts.
Consider that unlucky fox tamed, the old-fashioned way.
The rest of the caravan were considerably younger and more able-bodied. Most were, after all, planning to stay in Leh and help build the king’s palace. Ali-Shir had explained to Bren that traders like these led a difficult life, making long trips often to be deprived of their wares by bandits. The king of Ladakh had promised good wages and housing for the duration of the build. Ali-Shir also expressed some doubt that those promises would meet the caravaners’ expectations. From what Bren had come to know of powerful men, he suspected Ali-Shir was right.
One night around their dung-fire, one of the men began telling a tale, starting off in solemn, hushed tones, but gradually becoming more animated, at one point pantomiming an attacking animal, or perhaps a monster. The horrified faces of the others made Bren assume he and Sean had just missed out on a good ghost story. Later, after the others had bedded down, the old cook came to them and explained what had happened—in English.
“He was warning us about the Beast of the Black Gravel Pass,” she croaked.
“Warning us?” said Bren. “You mean, it wasn’t just a story?”
The cook’s mouth crinkled a little. “Not to them.”
“Why are you telling us this?” Sean wanted to know. “How are you telling us this? We didn’t think anyone here spoke English.”
Bren too was wondering why the woman had never spoken to them before now. Then again, these were people who seemed to operate solely on the basis of necessity. Perhaps that applied to conversation as well.
“I’m telling you to be careful,” the cook continued, ignoring Sean’s follow-up question.
“So you believe in this beast too?” said Bren.
“I believe the beast is an invention,” she said. “Meant to scare travelers, possibly even enemies. I’ve no doubt a pilgrim or two has been attacked and killed by a large animal up here in the mountains, but no, I don’t believe some legendary creature guards the pass, like a dragon guarding a hoard.”
Sean scratched his head. “So what are you warning us about then?”
The cook lowered her voice even more. “I overheard the man who told the story talking to another, a few nights back. I believe they mean to rob you. The beast is their cover story.”
Bren couldn’t help himself—he laughed. “Rob us of what? We have nothing!”
“That’s not what they think,” she said. “I didn’t make out exactly what they were saying, but they believe you have something quite valuable.” She looked squarely at Bren. “You, in particular.”
He didn’t laugh this time. He shuddered. Was one or both of these men in the League of Blood? How could they have known about the tangka? He could tell Sean was thinking the same thing.
“Should we sneak off during the night?” Sean asked.
“Where would you go?” the cook replied, which was a good question. “Just be on your guard. We’re only a few days from the pass. You have the advantage of knowing who means you harm and where they mean to do it.”
Bren felt sick. Their position felt anything but advantageous to him. His black jade stone was apparently worthless now, and he didn’t see how he and Sean could defeat a pair of trained assassins, if that’s what they were.
Over the next few days, Bren felt as if he were carrying as much weight as one of the yaks. These mountains, despite their altitude, were free of summer snow, but only because of the high winds that seemed to beat directly against you no matter which direction you turned. Bren had never felt colder in his life, despite the caravan supplying him and Sean with animal pelts to wrap themselves in. And Bren was still struggling with breathing normally this high up. He seemed to tire before everyone else, even the ancient cook.
The only blessing was that the road was not terribly steep. When you were already near the top of the world, how much higher could you go?
The toll of this barren route on pack animals became obvious as well. Bren began to notice the bleached and dusty bones littering the path. At least, he assumed they were animal bones. Who’s to say some of them weren’t human? For that matter, had it been the arduous journey that felled them, or was there really a beast lying in wait?
Sean seemed to sense Bren’s concerns, and the day before they were to reach the pass, he led him over to some of the stray bones and picked one up.
“Look at this, lad. What do you see?”
“A bone,” said Br
en, feeling ridiculous for stating the obvious.
“Anything else?” Sean asked.
“A leg bone?”
Sean laughed. “No, I mean, do you see any damage to the bone? Any cuts or teeth marks?”
Bren looked more closely. He shook his head, and Sean picked up several more.
“What about these?”
Again Bren didn’t see anything but bare bone.
“I’ve been keeping an eye out ever since the old woman told us that story,” said Sean. “When I was a kid in Eire and we’d find remains of sheep that’d been taken off by wolves, you’d see teeth marks all over the bones. ’Course the buzzards would pick at the bones, too, but you could tell the difference. If a man or an animal’s been killed with a blade, same thing. You’ll often find cuts along the bone where the blade has gone all the way through flesh and tendon.”
Bren felt his muscles twitch.
“There doesn’t appear to be much evidence that our path is terrorized by some unholy beast or bandits,” Sean continued. “Just a lot of death by natural causes. Exposure, exhaustion, starvation.”
“Men can die of all those things, too,” said Bren.
Sean nodded. “True enough. But in dire situations, the caravan will take care of themselves at the expense of the beasts.”
“But what do you think of the cook’s warning?” Bren wanted to know. “Do you think we’re in danger?”
Sean didn’t answer right away, but finally he nodded again. “I think it’s best to assume we are.”
That did it. Bren decided he wouldn’t dare close his eyes during their last night before reaching the pass. Nor would he lie down, for fear his body would give in to exhaustion. Finally Sean convinced him they shouldn’t behave out of the ordinary, which might arouse suspicion, but instead should take turns watching each other throughout the night.
Bren underestimated just how exhausted his body was. He dozed off an hour into his first watch.
What woke him wasn’t a beast, or a treacherous traveling companion, but a bird. A tiny bird, trying to burrow under his pelt and into the tunic beneath his robe.
“Are you cold?” Bren whispered, cupping the bird in his hands. He tried to tuck it back inside his shirt, but the bird darted away into the night.
Bren rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and stood up to go relieve himself just off the road. When he turned to come back, he saw a shadow moving toward where he had been sleeping—where Sean was still sleeping.
“Sean! Sean!”
Bren’s screams stopped the men in their tracks. There were two of them, and their hesitation gave Sean time to get to his feet. In the moonlight Bren could see that Sean had in his hand the short dagger he had carried with him since they first met on the Albatross. Unfortunately, the two men each carried butterfly swords—wide blades about the length of a man’s forearm.
Bren took a step in their direction when something stopped him. He panicked before realizing his trousers were caught on something, and the moment he reached down to pull them loose, something leaped at him.
He was on his back in a flash, pinned down by two massive paws. He could feel claws pressing through his clothes into his shoulders, and he looked up with horror into a gaping mouth ringed with sharp teeth. He heard others in the caravan screaming in panic, and Bren wanted to join them, but he couldn’t breathe.
And then the big cat closed its mouth and turned its head to the side. Its yellow eyes were fixed on something, and Bren, still pinned to the ground, turned his head to look, too. The old cook was standing there, pointing something at the cat. Not her walking stick, but a sword. For a moment, the gold sword with the scarlet hilt flashed across Bren’s mind . . . the Tamer of Beasts. But no, that magical sword had disappeared along with Lady Barrett. This was just a dull-colored steel blade, but it did have this beast’s full attention.
The cat retracted its claws from Bren’s shoulders and stepped away from him. He could just make out the old cook’s crinkled mouth mumbling something, as if she were baiting the cat, or perhaps casting a spell. She said something aloud, in her own language, and the two men with the butterfly swords reluctantly left Sean and cautiously approached. Others in the caravan produced small weapons, various kinds of knives mostly, or picked up pots and pans if they had nothing else. They were slowly surrounding the wary cat.
The men with butterfly swords attacked first, and when they did, the cook slipped behind one and slashed at his ankles with her sword. He cried out and crumpled to the ground, and as soon as he did, the big cat pounced, clamping its mouth on the back of his neck and dragging him off toward the darkness. The other, unsure whether to save his friend or defend himself, stood momentarily stunned, and the cook thrust her sword right through his stomach. He fell to his knees.
The cook drew out her sword, now red from tip to hilt, and watched the man fall face-forward to the ground. She picked up his sword with her free hand and said something to the rest of the caravan before turning to Bren and Sean. “I told them we’re taking two of the yaks and going on ahead.”
“We?” Sean replied.
“Gather your things quickly,” she continued. “I don’t believe anyone else was in on the plot to rob you, but the farther ahead we get, the better.”
Bren obeyed and Sean did too, eventually. They didn’t have much, and before long they were leading two of the yaks along the road in the moonlight with a bitter wind in their faces. They walked the rest of the night, and when day broke, Bren could see a narrow saddle between two mountains in the distance.
“The Black Gravel Pass,” said the cook. “I’m sure you’re as tired as I am, but let’s keep going until nightfall, if you can.”
What could Bren say? If a hundred-year-old woman could keep going, who were they to argue?
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” he asked.
The cook just looked at him with small bright-blue eyes. “Next time we camp, I’ll build us a fire and explain everything.”
CHAPTER
6
THE LADY VANISHES
They camped just before nightfall, on the other side of the Black Gravel Pass in a flat area of scrubby vegetation off the main road. Sean and Bren set to work stacking the dried yak dung and sparking a flame with the cook’s flint and stone.
Once the fire was going strong, the cook sat cross-legged before it and leaned in toward the flames, close enough that Bren could see her flinch from the heat. He wondered if she was a conjurer or fortune-teller and this was some sort of—what was the word?—pyromancy. Fortune-telling by fire, the word Lady Barrett had used to describe what Mouse had done when she read the oracle bones.
But something else happened. The woman’s face began to melt. Bren glanced at Sean to see if he was seeing the same thing, and Sean’s glassy-eyed expression told Bren he was. He looked back at the cook, whose eyelids were now drooping at the corners, and whose wrinkles were deepening along her cheeks. She put her hands to her face and tugged at the loose skin, and to Bren’s horror, the skin peeled away in strips of flesh, which the woman cast into the fire.
Bren didn’t fully grasp what was happening until the woman pulled off her tangle of grey hair, and Lady Jean Barrett smiled at him from behind blotches of stray makeup.
“Dear Lord,” Sean muttered.
“I thought,” Bren stammered. “I thought you went through the gate. We looked for you after the earthquake. You and Yaozu.”
He had never actually seen Lady Barrett or Yaozu go through the Dragon’s Gate. The ground had begun to tremble once he placed the white and black jade stones in the river, and suddenly Bren had been alone. Until he saw his mother sitting there. Or the ghost of his mother, or a figment of his imagination. Except he had touched her, hadn’t he? Felt his hand in hers? Didn’t he have the black jade stone to prove it?
“If you weren’t—aren’t—dead,” said Bren, “where did you go?”
Lady Barrett pulled a rag from her robes and began to wipe away the
remains of her disguise. Bren wondered how he hadn’t noticed her hands before, how they weren’t covered with fake skin. Maybe it was just a trick of the mind, that once he saw the stooped figure and the aged face, he made the rest of her old, too. Or maybe it was just that even though her hands were those of a young woman, they were dirty and calloused from all her adventures.
“That’s a difficult question to answer, Bren,” she said, her voice still raspy from croaking as the old cook. “Remember when you tried to tell me about what had happened to you and Mouse on the Vanishing Island? How difficult it was to explain?”
“Because I didn’t half understand it myself,” said Bren.
She nodded. “Exactly.”
“What about Yaozu?” said Sean. “I watched the two of you walk through a hole in the mountain.”
“Through to what?” said Bren.
“That’s just it,” said Lady Barrett. “I’m not sure. I don’t know what I was expecting—a bright light, Heaven, Hell—but it wasn’t all that different from where we had been standing. Except you two weren’t there. I called to Yaozu, and he answered me, but I couldn’t see him. I called again, and he was gone. It was as if we had each gone through our own version of the gate.”
Bren understood what she was trying to describe. He had seen his mother sitting there in that rock-strewn landscape. Not in some afterlife or other world.
“Did you feel like you were being given a second chance—to change your mind?” Bren asked, remembering how his mother implored him to turn back.
“Yes!” said Lady Barrett. “It did feel like that, at first. But I kept walking, trying to figure out what was happening. I almost turned back. In fact, I did turn around, but I saw nothing like the opening I’d come through. Then the ground began to tremble, and in the distance I thought I saw a light, so I ran toward it. I never reached it, and the next thing I knew it seemed I’d been walking for days and had no idea where I was.”
“Where did you end up?” said Bren.
The Sea of the Dead Page 4