Susan Fletcher - Alphabet of Dreams

by Susan Fletcher

  “Forget, he won’t. You don’t forget a thing like that, a firstborn son. He lives here in Rhagae, the Scythian does. Not just passing through.”

  He lived in Rhagae. We could be confined inside the caves for a very long time. And if the Scythian couldn’t find us, he might begin talking. He’d likely talk in time, no matter what. As for Old Zoya, if she didn’t get her way, she might talk as well. True, she’d told no one I was a girl, but there was no gain for her in telling that.

  If only Babak had never had that dream! If only he’d kept his mouth shut!

  “Here’s what I’ll do.” Old Zoya picked up her lamp and clambered down from the heap of rocks to stand before me. “I’ll go to the Scythian, tell him I have knowledge he seeks. Fetch me his cap, and I’ll return it to him, as a token, like, of good faith. I’ll find out what he wants and convey it to you.”

  “And you’ll make no promises until I know what he wants. Until I say you can.”

  She looked at me as if astonished I’d think she’d do such a thing.

  “And how if the Scythian follows you?” I asked.

  “I have my ways. Slow I am, but sly.”

  This was true. I had seen her slip in and out among the stalls of the marketplace. If you looked away for a moment, poof! She was gone.

  “So how do you profit from this?” She always profited from her acts of kindness, one way or another. A gift of food when you were starving would cost you a portion of what you begged or stole for weeks to come. An herbal draught when you were sick could bind you to her as one of her spies.

  “I? Profit?” The lamp flame wavered from the force of her breath, sending shadows leaping up the cave walls. She was performing again, her face open wide with incredulity. “It’s only little Babak I’m thinking of.”

  “Let me put it to you this way: If the Scythian is willing to pay for dreams, and if I were to allow it, what would be your share?”

  “Two portions out of three seems fair.”

  “Two of three? Babak would be doing the dreaming; you’re just—”

  “Eh, half then.”

  “No. Too much.”

  “So, one of three. Three of us there are in this, sharing the risk. If Babak’s dream was only happenstance and he can nevermore do it again, we’ll all have the Scythian after us.” She chuckled.

  “I see no humor in it! If we do this, and if the dream doesn’t come true, we’ll return the coin. Babak and I can’t keep on hiding; that would be—”

  Old Zoya patted my arm, suddenly solicitous. “Of course! Of course! Truly, the risk is very small.”

  I brushed her hand off my sleeve. I didn’t trust her. Suren had; he had even liked her, but not I. “I’m surprised you’re so smitten with this plan,” I said, “when yesterday you were full of dire warnings. ‘The gravest peril for Babak,’ you said.”

  “I’ve had time to think on it. Think, Mitra—”

  “Ramin.”

  “As you wish. But think. Never again to beg for food nor lamp oil. You could buy yourself a fine wool gown. I might even find you a husband….” She squinted, eyeing me critically. “Though ’twould take some doing.”

  “I don’t want any husband you could find me!”

  “Hmmph. You’re no beauty, oh high-and-mighty one. You think you’re better’n the rest of us, but that noble blood of yours means nothing here.”

  Royal, I corrected her silently. Not just noble. Royal.

  “But now,” Zoya said, “where was it Suren looked to take you? Palmyra, was it?”

  Palmyra. To sweep up my aunts and my uncles, and then …

  “This could fall out well for all of us,” Zoya said.

  Perhaps. But I doubted it. Zoya would cheat us, that was certain. And if Babak did have prophetic dreams, word would get out in time. And then our lives would take some form I could scarcely imagine.

  All at once I recalled a tale that Suren’s Greek tutor had told him. A tale about a girl named … what was it? Pandora? She had opened a forbidden box and let out all the woes and evils of the world.

  It’s far easier to let things out of boxes, I reflected as I crept up the tunnel to fetch the cap, than to pack them back in again.

  CHAPTER 6

  SHAGGY BEASTIES

  The next night, after Babak had gone to sleep, Old Zoya called again up the passageway. She summoned me to follow to her chamber, then held out a length of cloth. In the swathe of moonlight that spilled into the room, I could see that the fabric was of a yellowish hue. Some shade of ocher, or maybe, in sunlight, saffron.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “What do you think? A headcloth, belonging to the Scythian’s wife. She craves one of Babak’s dreams.”

  I folded my arms in front of me, refusing to touch the thing. I’d known it was a mistake to confide in Zoya. “You told me you’d convey a message, nothing more. I never said Babak would dream for them. What did you promise those Scythians? Why did you bring me this?”

  “Eh, don’t have a palsy. I promised nothing. But if you decide you want Babak to dream for the woman”—she shrugged—“he can begin this very day.”

  “And how did they know you speak for him? They’ve never seen you with him; you’re not our kin.”

  “They believed me when I told them! Not everyone’s as slit eyed and suspicious as you, oh high-and-mighty one. Besides, I gave him back his cap, remember? And I described Babak … and his ugly older brother, you.” She cackled at her pitiful joke; I ignored her. “The proof’ll be,” she went on at last, “in the dream. You should thank me. This way they need never meet with Babak again.” She thrust the headcloth at me. “Take it.”

  Reluctantly I unclasped my arms and took the thing between two fingers. It was much softer than the coarse-grained cloth I now wore, though not nearly so fine as the linen of my gowns in Susa. My hands, of their own accord, gathered the headcloth between them, brought it to my face. It smelled nothing like the garments from home, which had wicked up the perfumed oils on our bodies. Still, this smelled of something … not unpleasant. Of cloves, maybe. Of a woman’s skin.

  “I’ll talk to Babak about this,” I said, “tomorrow.”

  “Don’t. You might plant the idea for him to dream of this woman, and we’d never know whence the dream truly arose. We’d best know,” Zoya said, “if the other dream was happenstance. If not, they’ll pay us well. We can take their money this once and never treat with them again.”

  It would not be so simple. I knew that. And yet …

  Something was stirring in me. A restlessness. A hunger. Palmyra. We could save for passage to Palmyra. So even if Suren returned empty handed, we could leave these wretched caves forever. We could find our kin and the life we were meant to live.

  Back in our chamber, I squatted down beside Babak. My lamplight dimly showed the shape of him—his belly moving in sleep breathing, the crescents of his lashes, the sleep-slack curves of his mouth. The kitten, curled up beside him, stretched, opening its one good eye, then curled up again.

  What was Babak dreaming? I wondered. Could other people’s dreams seep in through that skin of his, as their feelings seemed to?

  A scratchy, scuttling sound—rats. Then came a laugh—or a cry—from far back in the caves. I watched Babak for a time, watched him breathe, watched him kick suddenly and roll onto his back, watched him mumble some garbled word, then smile.

  But I could not divine his dreams.

  I took the headcloth from my girdle, reached toward him, then pulled back. Slipping this cloth next to his flesh seemed like sin somehow. Infecting him with something unknown, without his knowledge or permission.

  How if he had nightmares? How if he saw something so terrible, it poisoned his waking life too? Dreams can be dangerous things.

  Yet still. I closed my eyes and home came flooding in. The cool, shaded courtyard, the soft folds of linen against my skin, the smell of incense and jasmine blossoms, the mingled murmurings of running water and of women’s
voices.

  Mother.

  Women screaming, soldiers through the gate. The flash of sun on swords, a seething crush of men inside the courtyard—soldiers and my kinsmen. Blood spilling on the cobblestones, bloodbeat roaring in my ears, a din of metal-clash and bellow. Mother calling, “Suren, come! Come take them, flee!”

  I wrenched my thoughts away, nudged Mother backward through the procession of days and nights and days to when the courtyard was peaceful and safe. I tried to will the contours of her face into my mind, but she shimmered and blurred. Each time I tried, she came hazier, fainter. I could still see the silver bracelets on her wrists, twinkling with gems and glass; I could still see the pale green silk of her gown; I could still see the sweep of her dark hair, sleek and gleaming as a raven’s wing. But her face had disappeared.

  Palmyra. Surely she would have found her way there. Surely she would be waiting for us when we arrived.

  I let out a deep breath, let the old, sickening grief crash against me.

  This is not just for me, I pleaded silently with Babak. This could mean a life for you as well.

  And still I hesitated. Suren, what would he do?

  Don’t, I imagined him saying. It’s too much to risk. Suren had grown listless and morose of late, seemed no longer to care that we—the children of Vardan, seed of Mithradates—had been reduced to living in a cave among outcasts and rabble. When I’d pressed him to go to Susa, he’d protested that the Eyes and Ears of the king—Phraates’ secret spies—might still be seeking us and it was best to lie low. But it had been three years! If they were going to find us, they’d have done so well before now. King Phraates’ enemies were legion; surely the Eyes and Ears had bigger fish to fry.

  Sometimes you had to risk! You couldn’t just fritter your life away in fear—afraid to take a chance, afraid to act—as Suren seemed content to do before I persuaded him to leave.

  Quickly I drew aside Babak’s tunic, slipped the headcloth next to his skin.

  There. It was done.

  *

  When he awoke the next morning, Babak said nothing of his dreams. I had eased the head-cloth from beneath his tunic at the first signs of his waking; I’d tucked it furtively into my sash. Now I searched Babak’s countenance for signs. Signs of … what? Of nightmares? Of demon possession? Of worry? Of sickness? When I asked him how he felt, he sleepily rubbed his eyes and mumbled that he was well. I set my hand upon his forehead, checking for fever, but nothing seemed amiss, except that now he was annoyed with me. He brushed my hand away. “I am well.”

  He did seem well enough. I breathed out a silent sigh, felt myself unclench. But there remained an itching in my mind. Had he dreamed at all? Or did he just not want to tell? I decided not to push him. To wait.

  But for how long? We were desperately low on food, and my precious store of lamp oil wouldn’t hold out much longer. And I dared not go to the marketplace. The Scythian would doubtless be there. He would demand to know.

  I divided our last pomegranate, feeling the restlessness stirring within me, trying to squeeze it down. If Babak guessed how eager I was to hear of a dream, he might conjure up a false one just to please me. Or he might balk, retreat within himself, and refuse to talk at all.

  “Is there more?” Babak asked. “I’m hungry!”

  Hungry. So, most likely he had not had one of his food dreams, for they seemed to satisfy his hunger. For a time.

  “Just these.” I poured what remained of the chickpeas into his hands. He offered one to the kitten; it sniffed and turned away in disdain.

  Babak leveled his thick-lashed gaze upon me. His eyes turned slightly down at the outer edges, giving him a look of sadness, never entirely dispelled, even when a smile lit up his face. “Sister, can we go to the marketplace today? Can we buy more melons?”

  Only if you tell me what you dreamed!

  But I couldn’t say it aloud.

  “We’ll see,” I replied.

  I was relieved when Zoya called up through our passage not long after. I wanted to meet her alone, but Babak was eager to come with me, and I couldn’t think of a convincing reason why he shouldn’t. Zoya greeted Babak, then held her lamp aloft and, over his head, shot me an inquiring look.

  I shrugged, turned up the palms of my hands. “Babak’s hungry,” I said pointedly. “We haven’t been to the marketplace these past two days.”

  “Eh, such a lazy one, your Ramin!” she said to Babak, chucking him on the chin. “Won’t bestir himself to feed you!” She wagged a finger at me. “Shame on you, Ramin. Babak, come with me.”

  She flashed me a wicked grin, reached for Babak’s hand. He made her wait while he picked up the kitten and clutched it to his chest, murmuring, “Roar! Roar!” Then he bravely offered his free hand to Zoya and commenced to regale her with accounts of the kitten’s antics as they wended through the maze of dark passages to Zoya’s chamber.

  Fuming, I followed.

  The slow-witted boy was there; Zoya blew out her lamp and told him to give Babak a round of bread and some cheese. There was a gentleness to the boy’s manner that I had not remarked before. He broke the tough bread into pieces and handed them to Babak one at a time.

  “Did you have food today?” Babak asked him.

  The slow-witted boy nodded.

  Impatient, Zoya motioned him to leave. The boy set down the bread and cheese on a flat rock. Backing slowly out of the chamber, he smiled at Babak, pantomiming for him to eat.

  “Go!” Zoya barked; he turned round and fled.

  Babak settled in a shaft of morning sunshine at the opening of the cave. As the kitten licked crumbles of cheese from his fingers, Zoya, speaking low, pressed me to probe Babak about his dreams. Asking him after he’d dreamed couldn’t hurt, she said. The Scythians would be impatient, she said. If I didn’t want to ask, she’d be happy to, she said.

  “No!”

  It came out louder than I’d intended. Babak turned to look at me, worried. I smiled at him, tried to let the vexation seep out of me so that he wouldn’t sense it. He turned back toward the sunshine again.

  Truth to tell, I ached to ask, but Zoya’s pushing made me dig in my heels. “He wouldn’t tell you anyway,” I whispered. “If he doesn’t want to do a thing, no amount of badgering will persuade him.”

  Zoya leaned back, crossed her arms, regarded me with one eyebrow raised. “Who does that remind me of?” she muttered.

  So hard I was straining to rein in my ire at Zoya, lest it disturb Babak, that I didn’t notice what he was about until Zoya set a hand on my sleeve. She jerked her head toward him.

  He was scratching at the dirt on the floor with a stick and mumbling something over and over in a singsongy sort of voice.

  It sounded like: “Shaggy beasties, shaggy beasts.”

  Something went still within me. I turned to Zoya; our glances snagged. I set a finger to my lips, then got up and moved toward Babak.

  I could see that he was drawing in the dirt, but I couldn’t tell what.

  “What’s that, Babak?” I asked, pointing down at it.

  “Shaggy beasties, shaggy beasts.”

  “What kind of beasties? Lions?”

  He shook his head.

  “Camels?”

  He shook his head.

  “Donkeys?”

  “No!” He frowned up at me.

  I had insulted him. Now I held my tongue. He was scratching little lines all over some roundish shapes—the fur of the shaggy beasties, I supposed. They looked like nothing so much as long-haired rats. I watched for a little longer. Must be careful. Mustn’t seem too eager.

  “Have you … seen … these shaggy beasties?” I asked at last.

  Babak nodded. “I dreamed them,” he said.

  Dreamed them.

  “A whole great herd. I rode on one. It took me home …”

  Home. Susa, coming home to Susa …

  “High in some pointy mountains. There was snow. We had a little round house, with straw on its roof.” />
  I felt myself slump. Not Susa.

  “Where was this, Babak? Do you know?”

  “No,” he said, and by his tone I knew he would tell me no more.

  I looked over at Zoya, who was listening intently. She nodded, smiled, rose to leave.

  Shaggy beasties? Whatever could that mean?

  CHAPTER 7

  TO STEAL a DREAM

  “Yaks,” Zoya said later that day, counting the coppers into my hand:

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four.

  She leaned back against the wall of her cave and grinned her toothless grin. Babak was napping with the kitten in our chamber; Zoya and I were alone. “Did you ever see a yak?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “What are they?”

  “Shaggy beasties indeed! Great, lolloping critters”—she held her arms wide—“with freakish, curling horns. I saw one many years since. A trader bought it—as a curiosity, like.” She pointed to the coppers. “See, even with me taking my share you’re better off than before. I know how to strike a deal.”

  Oh, yes. Of that I was certain. But I would have wagered all of our coppers that she’d received more than two. Still, nothing to be done about it. And four coppers. I tilted my hand, watched the afternoon sunlight glide across the surfaces of them. One for food and lamp oil. Three for passage to Palmyra.

  “So the dream meant something to this man?” I asked. “The pointy mountains? The shaggy beasties, er, yaks?”

  “The Scythian’s wife is not of his tribe. She’s of the high mountain peoples, somewhere to the north and east of Bactria. She’s been craving to journey to her father’s home. She takes this as an omen.”

  “Like the dream about the baby. But we don’t know if this will come true—”

  “What matter if it’s true or not? It’s what she wants to be true. Besides, Babak’s dream never said when. It’s a safer dream than the one about the baby. Harder to disprove. And it didn’t pass without notice that we couldn’t have known she was of the high mountain peoples. I’d met only her Scythian husband, and he didn’t say.”