Susan Fletcher - Alphabet of Dreams

by Susan Fletcher

  Rhagae. It was nearly two years since we had come there. We had been hungry, too hot and too cold, scorned by the lowest of the low, forced to beg and steal and to live in the City of the Dead. Even so, I felt a strange hollowness in my heart to leave the city behind.

  We had been family there, my two brothers and I.

  Now we were each of us alone.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE CARAVAN ROAD

  It wasn’t much of a road, just a narrow rut in the dirt. We followed it west, toward the blue, humped shapes of the Zagros Mountains. I walked and rode in equal measure; the donkey’s spine was knobby and uncomfortable, but not long after I dismounted, the hot sand and lacerating stones on the road drove me to mount again. When the sun stood directly overhead, another road came into view—wider, longer, one of the ancient trade routes. In days of old this road had been paved. Now broken stones littered the edges of a wide dirt track. I could see that a large caravan had recently passed, because of a churning of sand and dust, and the fresh mounds of horse and camel dung. Here and there I could make out the clear print of a horse’s hoof. It seemed the caravan was going southwest. I squinted in that direction, for I could see far along the desolate plain.

  But there was no sign of them—neither the caravan itself nor its telltale plume of dust. They must have left early, perhaps not long after Zoya came to them with Babak.

  If it was the Magus’s caravan.

  If Zoya had spoken true.

  Something stood out from the dust a little way down the road. I urged the donkey forward; for once she obeyed. I dismounted and picked it up.

  It was a potsherd, with a fine green glaze. Part of a very costly pot. I rubbed it on my tunic to clean off the dirt. There was the winged insignia of those who worship the Wise God.

  It might have belonged to someone besides the Magus. But it could very well have been his. I stuffed it into one of the saddlebags—the kitten was napping in the other—and mounted again. “Hurry!” I said, switching the donkey’s flank. She turned her head, eyed me reproachfully with her huge, sorrowful eyes, then eased into a disconsolate slog.

  Still, a caravan does not move quickly—especially one so large. This one would surely crawl, with its heavy-laden camels, with its women and entertainers and cooks. And even if I traveled more slowly than they, they would stop to rest, in time.

  I would not. I would ride until I found Babak.

  The afternoon sun stabbed like a dagger in the eyes. I could not get relief even by looking away, for shiny bits of rock spit back the light in blinding flashes that pricked my eyes like so many needles. The heat weighed me down, sapped my strength. Little whirlwinds arose from time to time, flinging grit into my eyes and mouth. Even after wrapping my headcloth about my face, I still breathed in the smell of scorched dust and salt.

  The water went fast, rationed out in gulps to me, in dribbles to the kitten, and in half calabashes to the donkey. We came across a stream, where we all drank of cloudy, silted water. I refilled the waterskin; we went on.

  We met with few travelers on the road. There was one caravan—a small one, with only a few horsemen and a dozen or so pack camels. Later, near a tiny village, I passed a man and a woman leading a small donkey carrying great bundles of thornbush. I feared meeting up with brigands, but one good thing about poverty is that no one deems you worthy of the trouble it would take to rob you. I would be clear to view if the Eyes and Ears came this way. But they were seeking a five-year-old boy.

  And still no sign of the Magus’s caravan! This donkey covered ground more slowly than any beast I had ever seen. It was not that she couldn’t go faster; she could. Every so often, for no reason I could surmise, she would break into a tooth-jarring jog. But in a moment she would halt—again for no reason—and switch her tail at flies or root in her fur for fleas or simply gaze, seerlike, into the distance. Neither kicking the sorry beast, nor scolding her, nor lashing her with a rope, nor dismounting her, nor mounting up again, made a jot of difference. “Gorizpa,” I took to calling her, mockingly. Fleet-of-foot.

  Still, our laggardly pace gave me time to ponder. What would I do when we reached the caravan? Would I throw myself on the Magus’s mercy, ask him to take me with him? Or …

  How difficult could it be to snatch a small, willing boy from a caravan while all about him slept?

  I’ve done you a favor, Zoya had said, and you don’t even know it.

  What had she meant? Not the donkey, surely. Had she meant that she could have sold Babak to the king’s Eyes and Ears instead of the Magus?

  Pah! Just like her, to pretend it was for us she’d done it.

  Nevertheless, it had been only yesterday, after the Eyes and Ears had shown themselves, that she’d turned up with the white sash. Maybe she did truly worry about what Phraates would do to Babak.

  Or maybe she was using us to serve herself, as ever!

  And who do you serve, oh high-and-mighty one? she had asked. We’re more alike than you think.

  I felt the barb of truth in that. But truly it was different in my case. Everything I asked Babak to do was for his own good!

  On we trudged, until the sun set the western sky aflame. The mountains glowed like molten gold, then faded to the pink of my mother’s dog roses, then darkened to the color of ripe plums, and then blackened against a deep blue sky. Stars flickered into view, shedding a pale luminosity that we could see by. The winds died down and the plateau seemed to sigh, possessed by a great peace. There was something comforting about the rhythmic clop of the donkey’s feet, about the coolness that gathered about my shoulders. The kitten clawed his way out of the saddlebag and climbed up my trousers into my lap, hooking his tiny claws into the fabric. I set him within the folds of my sash, from whence he surveyed the scene about us with his good eye as if all were his to rule.

  “Little lion,” I said to him. “Ferocious beast.”

  I had meant to keep on until I overtook the caravan. But sometime after the moon had risen, I found that I could not. The pleasant coolness of early evening had sharpened into a biting chill. My feet and legs ached from walking; long ago Gorizpa had begun to stumble, either from weariness or because she could not see well where to put her feet in the odd shadows cast by moonlight. A few outcroppings of rock stood near the side of the road ahead, extending in broken rows back toward the foothills. I stopped behind one of the outcroppings, out of sight of the road. Brigands, at least, might pass us by.

  A snake slithered away on the ground; I shivered.

  Gorizpa, once unloaded, rolled over and flopped about in the dust, scratching her back. When she had done, she began to crop a clump of dry scrub, making loud, grunchy noises. I drew near to hobble her; she swiveled an ear round and gazed at me soberly with great, brown, liquid eyes. I must be getting soft, I thought, stroking her grizzled muzzle. I reached inside one hairy ear and rubbed a smooth place with my fingertips. The thin, disapproving line of her lips went slack; she moaned and began to drool.

  “Silly old creature,” I said.

  Shirak stalked off into the darkness and, despite his one blind eye, soon returned with some kind of small rodent, probably a mouse. He tortured it mercilessly for a little while, then ate.

  I made short work of a pomegranate, a handful of dried melon seeds, and several dates, then wrapped my coat about me and curled up on the hard ground. My coat had conferred some small protection against the blistering sun, but the nighttime chill of the plateau cut through it as if it were made of shadows and stitched together with threads of air. In the distance I heard the howling of wolves. Once, I heard a lion roar. I tried not to think of snakes.

  My own lion leaned against me and began to give himself a bath. He delicately licked his paws and rubbed them across his eyes—the bad one, then the good one—scrubbing the high planes of his cheeks. At last he nestled into the curve of my body and began to purr with a sleepy, trilling sound. He was warm and yielding, almost liquid.

  Not that it made any differen
ce to me. But Babak would be glad of his company.

  The next day we plodded on through the dry pebble-and-scrub terrain. From time to time we came upon a pond or stream surrounded by lush vegetation; then I refilled my waterskin and let Gorizpa graze and drink. By now the tracks of the Magus’s caravan had merged with those of thousands of caravans before. We saw places where they might have stopped—where the scrub was flattened and the ground trodden by many hooves and feet—but it was impossible to know for certain who had stopped there. Just go on, I told myself. Still, by late afternoon the heat had sucked the life out of me, and fatigue crept over me like sand before the desert wind. We stopped again to rest and set off at sunset.

  I think it was because darkness obscured the dust plume, until I saw it drift across the lowest stars, that I was so late in noticing him. A single rider, on horseback, galloping down the old road toward me. One, not two; that was a good sign. He was far enough away that he might not have seen us; at any rate, he gave no sign.

  A messenger?

  Or something more ominous?

  Best to be safe. I cast about quickly for somewhere to hide. Outcroppings of boulders dotted the landscape to the west, toward the foothills. Hurry. I picked the nearest cluster and urged Gorizpa toward it; for once she did not resist. When we reached the rocks, though, she balked. Hurry. I dismounted and, scrambling up the gap between two large boulders, pulled on Gorizpa’s lead. She snorted, brayed, and struck sharp, echoing clops on the stony ground. “Shh!” I told her. I prayed that the rider couldn’t hear, comforting myself that I couldn’t yet hear him. Out of sight of the road, I stuffed Shirak into a saddlebag. I rubbed Gorizpa’s soft muzzle, then scratched all along the dark stripe on her back, hoping to keep her quiet. She made a little humming sound in her throat, pressed the bony front of her massive head against my belly and chest. Shirak mewed softly. “Shh,” I told them both. “Shh.”

  I tried to close my mind off from the rider, tried not to think about who he might be or what might happen if he were to find us. But I couldn’t quite stave off thoughts of brigands. Or of the king’s Eyes and Ears.

  I could hear him now, could hear the crunch of his horse’s hooves on the sand and loose rock of the road. I waited a long while, until the hoof sounds receded in the direction we had come. At last I peered out, saw nothing, let out a sigh.

  He came out from behind a rock. I heard a swish of metal on metal, caught the quick gleam of a dagger.

  “Ah,” he said. “I was hoping it was you.”

  CHAPTER 16

  HE CRIES for YOU

  Lean, leathery face, fiercely lined and hollowed, covered with the dust of travel. Watchful eyes, faded to the color of honey. Cropped, graying beard. High, jutting cheekbones. Hawk nose, slit in one nostril:

  Slit-Nose.

  He sheathed his blade, and the ghost of a smile flickered across his harsh features. “So I should thank you, then,” he said. “You’ve done half my work for me. Come along.”

  I backed away. I had wanted to meet up with the caravan, but not like this.

  “Your brother. He needs you.”

  Fear shut my throat. “Is he …” It came out as a whisper; I couldn’t finish.

  “Nay, he is well. At least, not badly ailing, other than missing you. He cries for you day and night, refuses to tell the Magus his dreams, refuses to eat—”

  “You call that well?”

  “His health is in no danger at present. But we fear it will be soon, unless … He needs you.” The man put his fingers to his mouth; a whistle pierced the night. A horse appeared from behind a rocky crag some distance away and began to trot toward us.

  The man turned back to me. “The Magus is generous. He invites you to stay with your brother. He promises you will be well treated.”

  I pulled myself up to my full height, as so often I had seen my father do. “Are we free, then? Free to come and go as we please? Free to dream—or not dream? Pah! The Magus did not invite my brother—he bought him.”

  The man’s eyes grew hard. “Your brother cries for you. Will you refuse him?”

  Babak. My heart clutched as I pictured him crying, with no one to give him comfort. And I knew it would make no difference whether or not I refused. This man wouldn’t return to the caravan without me. We were stripped of our freedom already. The only question was whether I would come willingly or no.

  The man—Giv, he was called—grumbled about taking Gorizpa, but I wouldn’t leave her behind. She was the only thing I owned, besides her saddlebags, the clothes on my back, and the small cache of coins. I didn’t count Shirak. No one can own a cat. Besides, Gorizpa, slow as she was, might come in useful later. Babak could ride her when he and I escaped. As we would.

  Muttering, with that slight rustic lilt of his, Giv tethered her behind his horse.

  I climbed up pillion behind him, holding him loosely, my right knee knocking against his bow case and quiver. I hoped he would not feel my body through my garments and perceive that I was a girl. Though there was precious little to feel, I knew. My cousin Atoosa, at my age, had blossomed like two ripe peaches. But I was still skin and bones.

  I tried to shift Shirak round to the back of my sash, but he hissed fiercely and let out an indignant cry. Giv twisted round, scowling. I feared he would fling Shirak to the ground. Instead Giv plucked him up by the scruff of the neck and, cupping him in a massive, dark, and callused hand—adorned only by a horned thumb ring such as archers wear—set him gently into a saddlebag. Shirak gave a single protesting yowl, then yawned, curled up, and promptly went to sleep.

  A gibbous moon had risen by the time we came to the caravansary. A guard hailed us; Giv replied; the tall gate creaked open to admit us. The courtyard was dark but puddled with golden light from torches set in cressets in the walls and lanterns tucked into niches. From a dim corner wafted a soft, sad flute melody; across the courtyard three men sat on a spread-out carpet playing a hushed game of draughts. Someone was cooking in an iron pot on a stick fire set on the cobblestones. The rich, fat smell of simmering meat made my mouth water. Other men, nestled against bundles and carpet rolls, snored in droning counterpoint.

  I slid down off the horse; Giv dismounted. A servant approached and led horse and donkey away.

  “The donkey is mine,” I called to him.

  The draughts players broke off their game, turned to stare at me.

  Giv’s scowl deepened. “No one would steal that donkey,” he said. “Now, come.”

  I stood with my feet rooted to the stones. “Are you taking me to Babak?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I want to see Babak.”

  “And so you will. But first you must see my master, Melchior.”

  Melchior. The Magus.

  I had seen Magi before, of course, in our home in the hills above Susa. They would come to visit my father, to stay with us when they were on journeys. Revered priests, they were, servants of the Wise God, Ahura Mazda. Although we had honored Ahura Mazda and his prophet, Zoroaster, we had been neither pure nor regular in our practice, especially our mother and her women. So there was always a frenzy of cleaning and purification on such occasions. My mother’s household gods would vanish as if they had never existed, to reappear mysteriously soon after the Magi had departed.

  My grandmother, though—my father’s mother—had spoken to me often of the Wise God and of the teachings of his prophet. “There are the Light and the Dark,” she would say, “and all who live have the power to choose between them. Good thoughts, good words, and good deeds lead the way to paradise.”

  Then she would exhort us not to forget that we were heirs to an old line of kings who truly revered the Wise God—kings who paid him genuine homage, not just empty words. “Remember who you are,” she would say.

  Sometimes, I had peeked through gaps in the arras while one Magus or another met with my father. I stared at their tall, domed caps with long tails and ear flaps; at the bundles of barsom rods they held; at their wide ne
ckbands of hammered gold, graven with the winged symbol of divine grace. Now and then I stole up by the fire altar at midnight and watched them pray: washing the dust from their faces, hands, and feet; tying and untying the kusti cords about their waists; intoning solemn words in the old language; casting incense into the sacred fire.

  I had sinned grievously since those days, having given up any pretense at purification. I had lived among bones and touched blood. I seldom prayed, and when I did, it might be to any of a number of gods. True, I was not yet fifteen years old and therefore considered a child, so the sacred obligations did not yet lie upon me. Still … what would this one think of me? Do to me?

  Even more worrisome: Had Babak let slip that I was not a boy?

  CHAPTER 17

  MELCHIOR

  Giv, carrying a lamp, led me past the stables and servants’ quarters on the lower level and up a steep, turning torchlit staircase. We walked along the roof terrace, past a row of wooden doors until we came to a large, ornately carved one that fit snug within a high stone arch.

  Giv thumped on the door. It opened a crack; Giv murmured to someone, then motioned me within.

  It was a small, square anteroom, tended by an armed guard.

  “Stay,” Giv told me. “I’ll come for you.”

  He and the guard disappeared behind a curtained arch.

  Light flickered from the crack between the leather curtain and the wall. I could hear many voices. I pulled aside the drape a tiny bit, peered into the room.

  There, reclining upon a divan, was the Magus, a roundish melon of a man, swaddled head to toe in woolen blankets and coverlets of bright-hued silk. Beside him sat a silver tripod, from which issued clouds of incense. Many servants attended him. One brought him a cup of steaming liquid, another added coal to a brazier at his feet, still others offered him bits of food. The Magus’s cap sat askew on his head; his gray beard bristled like an untidy bird’s nest and harbored a collection of fallen crumbs. At once he wrinkled his nose and waved the food away. He drew in a couple of quick, shaky breaths. Someone thrust a cloth into his hand, and then, “Achoo!” It was more piercing than a donkey’s bray and twice as loud. He sniffed, dabbed at his bright red nose, then jabbed one finger in the direction of the cup. A servant hastily gave it to him. The Magus slurped, then made as if to set down the cup in thin air. There was a scramble of servants, and an inlaid table, no bigger than a round of flatbread, appeared beneath the cup, just in time.