Barid's Story

by J F Mehentee

  ‘For a small donation, I will bless the land and restore its fertility.’ Gaurang performed a grand wave to indicate the fields below them.

  Jangid shook his head, hawked loudly, then spat, his spittle hitting the side of Gaurang’s begging bowl. ‘You’ve had your drink,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Now get out and stop wasting my time.’

  ‘So, you want proof, then?’ Gaurang said.

  Barid stood. He positioned himself between Jangid and the monk. His back to the village head, Barid bent down and placed a hand on Gaurang’s shoulder. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘It’s best you leave.’

  Gaurang nodded as he rose. ‘Thank you, Barid,’ he said softly. He retrieved his begging bowl. ‘I’d be happy to perform a miracle to prove my blessing’s potency,’ he added, this time so that everyone in the compound could hear, ‘but I don’t want to waste these people’s time. I have other kots to visit. I know Rohit Kakkar in the next kot will allow me to bless his land. Then, after harvest, he’ll be able to charge a premium price for his crops, because Kot Pulta’s will be nowhere near as productive.’

  With the loose end of his robe, Gaurang wiped Jangid's spittle from his begging bowl. He turned to leave.

  ‘Wait,’ Jangid said, then stepped around Barid. ‘Show me this miracle of yours.’

  Gaurang turned slowly. ‘Are you sure?’ he said. ‘I really don’t want to waste anyone’s time.’

  ‘Show me your miracle,’ Jangid repeated. This time, his jaw muscles bunched.

  ‘Very well.’ Gaurang nodded twice. ‘I will.’

  The villagers congregated behind Jangid, their anticipation palpable.

  ‘Well?’ Jangid said. ‘Show me.’

  ‘I will,’ Gaurang replied. ‘But for this miracle to work, I must perform it at dusk.’

  The villagers gave out a collective groan.

  ‘Why not now?’ Jangid said.

  ‘Because, if I’m to perform a miracle that will convince you all of my blessing’s potency, I need to rest.’ Gaurang gazed up at the sky. ‘What’s a few hours of waiting?’

  Jangid opened his mouth, appeared to reach a decision, then closed it.

  ‘Is there somewhere I could stay, perhaps have a meal?’ Gaurang said.

  The villagers began to disband.

  ‘All I need is somewhere to lie down,’ Gaurang continued. ‘A little food, some water, that’s all I need.’

  The villagers muttered and looked everywhere except at Gaurang.

  Angry at the villagers’ meanness, Barid said, ‘You can stay with me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Gaurang said. He turned to leave.

  ‘Wait.’

  There was a hush as Gaurang turned to face Jangid.

  ‘You can’t stay with that kothi,’ Jangid said. ‘You must… You will stay with me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Gaurang said. ‘That’s most kind of you, but I must accept the first offer. It would be rude to do otherwise. A scrupulous man such as yourself would understand.’

  Some of the villagers protested, but Jangid cut them short with a wave of his hand.

  ‘Come, Barid,’ Gaurang said. ‘Show me where you live.’

  Barid felt thirteen pairs of eyes bore into him as he left the compound. But that did not stop him from grinning.

  4

  After they had reached the edge of the perimeter wall and passed through its exit, Barid led Gaurang down the hill and toward the smithy.

  Halfway down, Gaurang chuckled and shook his head. ‘I don’t think your village head knew what I meant by scrupulous. Was it me, or did he look confused?’

  Barid grinned. ‘You’re right. I’ve never seen him look so unsure of himself.’

  ‘Tell me, why does he call you kothi?’

  Barid rubbed his forearm, but there was no pain. He stopped to examine it. Instead of a day-old burn, he saw unblemished skin.

  ‘If living here hurts so much that you deliberately burn yourself, why don’t you leave?’

  Not only had the burn healed, but all the other scars on his forearms had disappeared. All seven years of them.

  Remembering Gaurang’s touch, Barid held out his arms. ‘You did this. How?’

  ‘Do you drink tea?’

  ‘Yes. But you haven’t answered my question. Are you a magus?’

  ‘Make some tea, and I’ll answer your questions.’

  5

  The smithy was a single room covered by a high, sloping roof that overshot the west wall by fifteen paces. The forge sat beneath the overshoot, open on three sides, its stone hearth facing the west wall.

  The two of them sat silently on the floor of the forge, waiting for Barid’s soot-blackened kettle to come to the boil. When it was ready, Barid stood and poured the hot water into a wooden cup, his only cup. Before handing it to Gaurang, he added three shrivelled mint leaves to the water.

  ‘You have your tea,’ Barid said. ‘Now tell me: did Sultan Subhan send you?’ A sudden thought set his heart pounding. ‘Or was it Noor?’

  ‘I’m afraid the answer to both your questions is no. I came here to collect alms.’

  ‘But my burns.’ The weight of his disappointment forced Barid to sit. ‘Healing a wound is something a magus would do, not a monk.’

  Gaurang frowned.

  ‘I meant no offence,’ Barid said. ‘It’s just that I’ve never heard of a monk who can heal wounds by touching them.’

  ‘Have you visited our monastery in Tun Chahardah?’

  Tun Chahardah was quite a journey to make for the sake of alms. Barid pushed aside the thought and shook his head.

  ‘Then I won’t take offence,’ Gaurang said and smiled. ‘Part of my monastic life was spent studying the energy of things. When obstacles are removed and energy flows along its intended path, the change is so dramatic and instant, it’s mistaken for a miracle.’ Gaurang sipped his tea. ‘So, now you know my secret.’ He pointed a finger at Barid. ‘Now it’s your turn.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Barid said, wary of Gaurang’s gaze.

  ‘You thought Sultan Subhan sent me.’ Gaurang’s eyes narrowed. ‘Which means that you’re not a local.’

  Reluctantly, Barid nodded.

  ‘So, you must be from Tun Do.’

  Barid nodded again.

  ‘And you mentioned the Sultan by name.’ Gaurang rubbed his chin. ‘I’m guessing you might have served the Sultan before coming here.’ He jabbed his forefinger at Barid. ‘I’m right. Aren’t I?’

  Barid met Gaurang’s gaze.

  Gaurang stood. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can see my nosiness is upsetting you. I’ve been walking for weeks with only my thoughts for company. I’m thinking out loud, nothing more. Is there somewhere I can rest for a while?’

  Once on his feet, Barid led Gaurang to the side of the smithy and the door to its single room. Inside, he pushed the wooden trunk—which also served as a table—from the centre of the floor to the side, next to his haphazardly stacked books and beneath the room’s only window.

  Barid began to unroll his sleeping blanket.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Gaurang said.

  Barid nodded, rolled up the blanket and placed it against the back wall. Ready to leave, he reached for the door’s latch.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’

  ‘Barley stew and bread.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Gaurang said, grinning, ‘that’s what you’ll have for breakfast, too.’

  Barid smiled. ‘I’ll wake you when it’s time to eat,’ he said, and then closed the door behind him.

  Back at the forge, he rinsed the cup Gaurang had used, and once the kettle had boiled again, he made himself some tea. Having seen lemongrass growing beside the kot’s well, he made a mental note to collect some tomorrow morning. Perched on his anvil, he blew across the surface of the cup and stared westward toward the Sinkian Range. Grey clouds converged above the mountains. Whatever rain they carried would be let loose upon those peaks, leaving Tun Bistse dry. A while back, he had stopped questio
ning why Noor had chosen this dry, depressing tun. He had no right to do so. If he considered living in Kot Pulta a punishment, then it paled in comparison to the punishment Noor had received.

  ‘Where are you, Noor?’ he whispered. ‘Why haven’t you found your pear tree, found me?’

  After finishing his tea, he set to work attaching a hilt to the dagger he had been making.

  Seven years earlier, on the morning of Noor’s sentencing, Barid had fled the Tabaqa, the dagger’s steel among the few possessions he took with him. The moment he had lit the forge as Kot Pulta’s new blacksmith, he set to work making the dagger—his gift to Noor. But with each passing year, watching Noor’s sapling become a tree, it grew harder to finish the gift.

  6

  Barid had just screwed the steel pommel onto the dagger’s threaded tang when he heard a lid clacking against its iron pot—Widow Verma had arrived with lunch. Barid placed the dagger on the anvil and went out to meet her.

  ‘I brought you some extra stew,’ the widow said. ‘Aadesh’s wife told me you have a visitor.’ She licked her toothless gums. ‘A priest.’

  ‘No, Auntie, a monk,’ Barid said. He took the pot from her. ‘You shouldn’t have to climb up and down that hill. Tomorrow, I’ll meet you outside the kot.’

  The widow placed a cloth bag of unleavened bread on top of the pot and said, ‘Aadesh’s wife says the priest is going to perform a miracle.’ She tapped the gold wedding bangle on her wrist. ‘Do you think, if I give him this, he’ll perform a miracle for me?’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t know. He’s sleeping. Perhaps, when he wakes, you could ask him.’

  With a dry, callused hand, the widow grasped his wrist. She whispered, ‘Do you know what I’d ask for?’ and then stroked her silver hair. Unlike the other women, Widow Verma never used her sari’s pallu to cover her hair.

  Certain that she wanted a new pair of teeth, but not wishing to offend her, he said, ‘I don’t know.’

  The widow grinned lasciviously. ‘One last night of passion before I die. One last time with a young man. Big and strong with muscles.’ The widow let go of his wrist and patted his bicep. ‘Perhaps someone like you.’

  ‘You’d be wasting your gold bangle, Auntie.’

  ‘Which would be the miracle, Barid dear?’ The widow’s leer disappeared. ‘You sleeping with this old hag, or you leaving this place for somewhere you’d be happy?’

  Barid looked from the widow to the Imperial Highway. ‘You know I can’t leave,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Bah.’ The widow shook her head, turned and trod wearily toward the hill. ‘Wake the priest before that stew gets cold.’

  ‘He’s a monk, Auntie.’

  ‘And I’m the Emperor’s favourite concubine,’ she called without turning.

  Having placed the pot of stew among the forge’s lambent coals, Barid went to wake Gaurang.

  7

  Barid found the room empty, the wooden trunk returned to the centre of the floor and the books stacked neatly. The hollowness he felt at Gaurang’s disappearance disturbed him. After seven years of waiting for Noor, was he, like the villagers, hoping for a miracle?

  He closed the door but then felt compelled to check the back of the smithy. Barid shook his head. Gaurang had slunk off, no doubt unwilling to have his bluff called by Jangid. Leaving was the sensible thing to do.

  ‘How does such a tree grow in these parts?’

  The voice came from behind the smithy. Tamping down his excitement, Barid hurried toward it. He swallowed a sigh of relief when he saw Gaurang standing beside the pear tree, his hands behind his back, his begging bowl resting on its side.

  ‘Thought I’d gone?’ Gaurang said.

  ‘Yes. That’s what I’d have done.’

  ‘But you haven’t.’ He gestured with his thumb at the smithy behind them. ‘The walls are thin. I overheard you talking.’

  ‘Everyone around here knows my business.’ Barid caught the resignation in his voice. ‘Why should you be any different?’

  ‘But I am,’ Gaurang said. ‘You can tell me however much or little you want to. I won’t judge you.’

  ‘Because you’re a monk?’

  Gaurang shook his head. ‘I haven’t always been a monk.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that before I became one, I did something I regret, even now.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because I recognise your regret,’ Gaurang said. ‘And so does that woman you spoke to. And because of it, you’re unhappy, unable to move on.’

  From the day he arrived, Widow Verma had adopted him. She had accepted the kot’s responsibility for feeding, supplying and outfitting their blacksmith. With her husband dead, and with no child to inherit his wealth, the widow had used his money to start a farming-tool business with Barid making the wares she carted around the other kots. She was his benefactor. And, four years earlier, after he had unwittingly insulted Jangid, she had stood by him and had become his confidant.

  Their friendship had taken months to develop. So why, suddenly, did he want to confide in this monk from a tun he had never visited?

  ‘Are you sure you’re not a magus?’

  Gaurang shook his head. ‘Would you trust me if I were?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I have a friend, and he has a dog,’ Gaurang said. ‘This pet, once feral, chose my friend. It walked up to him and rolled over on its back. And then it followed him everywhere, and it still does to this day. Why do you think that is?’

  Barid considered the question. The dogs he knew roamed the streets outside the sultan’s palace. They were quick to accept handouts and even quicker to return to their pack. If a dog followed you, it did so with the expectation of further food—nothing more.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said.

  ‘You know, Barid, you think too much. From time to time, you need to listen to what this is saying.’ Gaurang patted his chest. ‘Was that dog thinking with its head or its heart?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve no idea how a dog thinks.’

  ‘When was the last time you followed your heart?’

  Barid stared at the pear tree and thought of Noor. He remembered the day he had given Noor his father’s silver ring, with its dark red carnelian. That was the last time he had followed his heart. And that ring had played a part in their undoing.

  ‘Dinner’s getting cold,’ Barid said. He turned and strode back to the forge, all the while rubbing his forearm.

  ‘If your instinct is to trust me, Barid, what’s stopping you? What could I possibly do to harm you?’

  Disappoint me, he said to himself.

  8

  Inside the forge, Gaurang took his seat on the anvil. He held up the dagger. ‘Did you make this?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Barid said, and took it from him. He placed the dagger on the workbench behind him.

  ‘That’s hardly nothing,’ Gaurang said. ‘Such workmanship would put the Emperor’s swordsmith to shame.’

  Barid shrugged. ‘How hungry are you?’ He opened a chest next to the workbench and retrieved his bowl and spoon.

  ‘Is that bread?’ Gaurang said.

  ‘And stew.’

  ‘Seeing how you only have the one bowl, I’ll just have bread.’ Gaurang stepped over to the pot and the bag of bread on top of it, then tore himself a piece.

  For a while, they ate in silence, Gaurang gazing at the fallow fields, Barid seated on the floor, pushing the stew around his bowl.

  Gaurang spoke first.

  ‘You never told me about the pear tree,’ he said, ‘how you’ve managed to get it to grow out here.’

  ‘I just water it every morning,’ Barid said. ‘It’s suited to this soil.’

  ‘And its fruit? What do they taste like?’

  ‘They’re all right.’

  ‘Was the tree here before you arrived?’

  Barid put down his bowl. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘No p
articular reason. But it does seem strange for a man to tend a tree, to know what soil it’s suited to and then to express little interest in its fruit.’

  The monk was relentless, and now his indifference towards pears had trapped him. Barid twisted around so that he could reach into the chest again. ‘Here.’ He tossed a pear over to Gaurang. ‘Try it. Tell me what you think.’

  Gaurang sniffed the fruit, turned it in his hand and took a large bite. He chewed, his eyes searching the cobwebbed roof of the forge. He swallowed. ‘It’s not very sweet—a little bland.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  Gaurang nodded and smiled. ‘A fair description.’ He took another bite and turned to face the fields.

  Barid went back to stirring his stew.

  9

  Sunset approached and the clouds nesting above the Sinkian Range turned the colours of a fresh bruise.

  The air cooled as Barid and Gaurang trod the path up to Kot Pulta. Cool, but still arid, Barid thought.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ he said to Gaurang.

  ‘You seem nervous.’

  Barid slapped his hands against his sides. ‘You don’t know Jangid,’ he said. ‘He turns nasty when he doesn’t get what he wants. And if you make him lose face, there’s no telling what he’ll do.’

  ‘And what was it you did, Barid?’ They came to a halt a third of the way up the hill. ‘Did you prevent him from getting what he wanted, or did you make him lose face?’

  ‘Why must you persist with these questions?’

  ‘Because you’re unhappy. I’ve seen how he treats you. I want to know why a man, a talented swordsmith, chooses to remain here, an ostracised blacksmith.’

  ‘I refused to marry Jangid’s daughter,’ Barid said. ‘There, you know now. Can we go?’

  Gaurang nodded. ‘So you did both: you refused him and you made him lose face,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Enough of the questions, Gaurang.’ Barid resumed his climb.