That made my day.
Dhars identified his personal baggage which Camille took in tow. He left instructions that the rest be brought to the Inn for storage until we should depart.
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Just six days later our small party was camped for the first night in the pasture of an outlying farm. The group consisted of Verek Dan Greeb our cartographer/survey officer, Polc Delos-Llail, our scientist/healer, Melek Culmdevi Llial our scribe/historian. Melek was a cousin and assistant to Dhars.
The farm couple had little variety of foodstuffs to offer but they shared generously the contents of their root cellar. We paid the market value plus a moderate bonus. They, in turn, gave us some additional dried fruit to be added to the porridge that was such standard fare for travelers.
"Good Friend" the Calixtian trader bargained to feed his pack animals from the farmer's graineries. According to the farmer’s wife they went through this same ritual of haggling over prices each season. She added “The price hasn’t changed one dimmit over the last 10 seasons”. Seems this was a regular stop on the Friend's annual trading junkets.
Shortly after sundown we turned in for a relatively cold and comfortless night in our sleeping sacks. The evening was clear so most bedded down out doors. We elected not to erect the shelters we carried. If rain threatened we could flee to the shelter of the dry but odiferous stock barn.
Camille was somewhere nearby--probably grazing. I'd just dozed off when the varnettras that served as watchdogs for the premises set up an excited round of howling and whistling. Reaching for the dagger inside my bag I rolled to my feet. A shadowy figure emerged from the woods at the edge of the pasture. The farmer stepped from his dwelling simultaneously pulling on his garments and whistling his varnettas silent. We were alert but had little to fear from a lone traveler even if he did travel like a bandit at night. He approached to within hailing distance.
"Pe-tar, Lord Flonstad" the familar voice shouted "it is I, Soltan".
He stumbled into camp winded and seemingly unable to drag his himself much further. With him he carried only a large pan which I'd seen him use many times for cooking and for washing dishes. In that pan were what I took to be the most prized of his transportable possessions.
Haltingly he blurted out. . ."Due to a change of circumstances I find that I an able to volunteer my services as cook for your expedition. I shall start in the morning."
With that he took the blanket and a large slab of baked tuber the farmer's wife had offered and stumbled off to bed in the nearest barn.
We awoke the next morning to find him crouched beside a cooking fire. Bowls of steaming porridge were ready as were portions of the dried fruit he had simmered back to tasty plumpness. All in all, not a bad breakfast. When we had eaten he had boiling water ready to cleanse the dishes.
Over the course of the next three days he suffered horribly as we scrambled ever upward toward the pass. His basin had been added to Lady Camille's load. She accepted it readily. On several occasions I’d seen him slipping her treats and scratching her ears when we were at the inn. As we walked Soltan's story and his poorly made shoes unraveled before us. . . a piece here and another piece there.
The expedition had received a big send off as we strode through the north gate on the morning of the festival of the "Founding" of the city. Stones for the first permanent building had been laid on this date more four seta (i.e. more than 500 years) ago. And since that time a cooking contest had always been part of the traditional events.
Local chefs and housewives cooked all year trying to devise the winning entry for the "alviso-tal!!". This firey dish had been made by the founding travelers with virtually anything from water skraggets to wharf skints. To kill the taste the dishes were always liberally seasoned.
Soltan, we later discovered, had decided to add zest to his entry by using the leaves of a local bush which was so hot the even the insects left them alone. Soltan had “perfected” his recipe, served it to practically everyone in town . . . and damn near poisoned them all. Half drunk, pain crazed, river men with cramping stomachs and diarrhea are not to be taken lightly. Having a keen sense of self preservation Soltan took talk of a public stoning seriously. He snatched up what few possessions he could carry and fled from the quays where an enraged populace alternated between the hasty emptying bowels and angrily searching for him. He'd made better time to the first camp than we had. I began to understand how Soltan had been able to spend his life around foodstuffs and still remain thin to the point of appearing emaciated.
At each evening's camp we examined the best maps available for the area. They were of fair quality. The absence of aerial mapping capability necessitated a certain lack of detail. The topographic contours were only approximate but at least as far as the pass the maps were accurate and quite serviceable.
Beyond the pass the cartographic details of the terrain were sketchy beyond what could be viewed from the trail to the "Friend's home port of Cstlana. Beyound Cstlana itself, was only an area of white parchment indicating a vast salt flat, all that remained of an ancient shallow sea.We had been climbing steadily toward a mountain pass for the better part of 6 days. Just after breaking camp one morning we’d fallen into our usual order of march and were crossing a small rock slide. From behind be I heard a sudden cry of anguish followed by a string or curses. Turning I saw Melek had fallen. The ankle of his left leg remained wedged in a cleft between two rocks. From the near right angle between his tibia/fibula and his ankle wedged in the rock. . . there was no doubt his leg had been broken.
Verek and Polc were closest in the line of march and rushed to his aid. He was carried off the rock slide and placed gently in the shelter of a shrub. Polc had already removed his boot and turned back the garments. The broken bone had not broken through the skin. Verek indicated he would need an hour or more to begin treating the fracture. Friend led his pack animals to a relatively flat area about 40 meters further up the trail where we all sat down to wait. While Verek opened his medical supplies Soltan built a fire and before long had steaming cups of broth ready for Melek and anyone else wanting something hot.
Within about half an hour we heard voices from higher up the trail. Another trader with a small caravan was making his way toward MonTon. Friend knew him well and introduced us to his fellow Calixtian Selden-tc'tl. While the Calixtians discussed trail conditions above and below, the prices for trade goods this year, and even the results of the Winterfest boat races. . . Polc motioned to Dhars and to me. We joined him in a sheltered spot just out of earshot from where Melek lay.
“This is not good. Melek didn’t see there was still frost on the rock when he planted his foot. He slid into a hole. That alone would have given him a bad scrape or perhaps a sprain but he was off balance and fell to the side. When he did his leg bones snapped above the ankle. Imagine breaking a green stick across your knee. The break was not clean and would be difficult to heal. Unless he has intense care for the next two or three passages he may never heal properly. If infection sets in he could die. He must be sent back to Monton. To have the best chance for healing I should go along and continue his treatments with the medications I have.
There was no discussion. We began separating out the items they would need for the trip back to Monton with Selden-tc’tl. With one misstep we had lost our scribe/historian and our map maker/ healer. It was not the most auspicious beginning.
================
At noon on the ninth day we stood at the top of the pass looking down to the other side of the watershed. Ankle deep in snow (for those of us who had ankles) we looked out on vast and mostly barren scene. To the northeast and southwest we could see a number of peaks in the chain to which this pass belonged. All were capped in snow. I estimated most to be around 6,500m or about 20,000 feet. The tallest might have been half again higher. At this altitude there was none of the lush vegetation which had been so common further down. Plant life hugged the ground. Below the snow line a few stunted trees and squat, g
narled, bushes hung on rocky slopes. Here, above the tree line, only a few mosses and lichens grew.
The view to the southwest was partially blocked by nearby peaks. Looking straight west, however I saw nothingness, featureless, empty salt flats, with very little variation in color, texture or topography. I felt like a polar explorer of the 19th century looking out on unchanging whiteness. The scene was at once awesome and intimidating, like nothing I'd experienced even back on Luna. Although the day was clear and our vantage point quite high the flats stretched away beyond the horizon. Trying to see what lay beyond was a bit like trying to see Japan from the high mountains of California. Could anything live in such a desolate place?
"Friend, where is your home and when will we be there?
"In 5 or perhaps 6 days I will sleep once more in my own stable/harem. From here the smoke of the morning cooking can be seen if you look closely." Here he swept a limb a bit south of west and downward to where a row of foothills blocked the view to the edge of the salt flats.
Though I'd failed to see it before it was now obvious that there was some vegetation along what may have been waterways, and that some of the hillsides had been terraced for cultivation.
Sensing that warmer --if not much greener--pastures lay ahead even the pack animals seemed anxious to begin the descent. Rivulets of icy water followed us down as we left the pass under the mid-day sun. By mid afternoon the waters from the snow melt had combined to form a sizeable stream along whose banks we were making our way. Although there were signs of a trail here and there at other points the combined effects of the winter weather and a season of disuse had wiped away any hints that the area had ever been traveled.
The western sky soon filled with a deep rosy glow reminding us of approaching darkness. Already we were within the deep shadows of a gorge through which both the trail and the snow swollen stream now ran. "Friend" as yet had given no instructions to make camp. Above the caravan sheer cliffs of granite loomed, sometimes overhanging the narrow trail. All were exhausted by the climb through snow to the pass. Although we had since descended as much as 700m the air was still thin. My brain was sluggish from insufficient oxygen. The rush of the water amplified by the canyon walls made casual conversation difficult. There was only the skuffle of feet and the occasional calls to the pack animals from caravan members.
Ahead the trail disappeared around a sharp bend in the canyon. Here and there it had been partially washed away by high waters. Bridging the gaps were incredibly flimsy looking constructions of a bamboo-like material braced below against the rock of the cliff or stream bank. They were lashed together like scaffolding beneath. Another, thick woven mat of the same material covered the upper surface. It was just wide enough for the laden pack animals to pass along in single file.
In the fast fading light "Friend" and the first his beast crossed without pause. I hesitated. Behind me the others were also forced to halt. "It's stronger than it appears" Lady Camille whispered from behind me. She had quite correctly guessed the object of my apprehension. I took a deep breath, allowed the beast ahead of me time to be fully clear and stepped out. Scraping along with my back to the cliff face I sidled across. On rounding the curve 500 meters on we pulled up in a small open area before a stone gatehouse. Built of the local materials the structure effectively blocked further passage. From the trail floor it rose to join the overhanging walls of the canyon itself. On the riverside wicked looking metal spikes set in the stonework met with their counterparts set on the opposite stream bank. They prevented anything larger than a soccer ball from passing down stream.
Friend had stopped, fished around in a pouch, and pulled out an ocarina-like clay pipe. He was now using it to produce an intricate progression of tones which I assumed were his signature song. He sounded like some boson piping an admiral aboard. There was an elaborate answering call from inside as the enormous single door was slowly cranked up to permit our entry.
CHAPTER 20
Soft eastern light echoed down. . . from snowy peaks. . .to cliff face. . .to canyon floor. Too faint to yet show colors, it did reveal the layout of the camp we'd entered last night. Behind me slung like a mud wasp's nest directly against the rock between the cliffs was the stone barracks which sheltered both the small garrison and my fellow travelers.
Ahead was the river where several flat bottomed boats tugged at mooring lines made fast to a crude stone pier. Friend described last night how he'd had them drawn up to this point before the spring melt had swollen the river. Down stream, and (thankfully!) downwind were the corral and crude sheds where the animals were housed. I shook my head as I considered the night Lady Camille must have had for the sake of maintaining the ruse that she was just another pack animal.
She had insisted she actually preferred the aroma among the animals to another night in close quarters with "unwashed aliens". It was not by chance that while offering this comment her soft brown eyes fell directly on me.
Breakfast this morning had consisted of a slab of fried mush, the lightly toasted remains of last night's meal. Overnight it had congealed to become like soft cheese. Soltan had sliced and fired it in deep oil. Served hot with a sauce of piquant herbs it really wasn't bad. Immediately after eating I made my way to the river's edge and splashed on as much of the icy water as I could stand. It cleared my head and represented at least a token effort at cleanliness. Others were busy organizing supplies and repacking the loads by the time I joined them.
"So Pe-tar," Dhars shouted looking up with a broad grin from the bundle he was tying, "today we will be river men again! There was an enthusiasm in his voice I could not match. I murmured something in reply.
Though the trek from the pass had been tiring I had at least felt in control of my own steps. On the river that control would be gone. Despite training with the crew of the Rikki II I retained a healthy regard for swift waters. When they seized a craft the results could be disastrous even with a skillful pilot at the helm. I recalled accounts of John Wesley Powell's 1869 expedition through the Grand Canyon and hoped our boat ride would be much less exciting. I sought out Friend to ask what lay ahead. The old walrus said only:
"Petar, you need not trouble yourself about it. Such trips as we are about to make most often go without problems. . . though we are a bit over loaded. . . and in any event, death is a fine medicine against old age". Thus reassured?? I joined those packing goods into each of the three boats. Friend had been puzzled that I'd insisted on having Lady Camille join us. "Why does the beast not join the others who make the passage by way of the tow path? In one passage (12 days) they will rejoin us in Oost."
I explained that apart from being a compliant and docile beast that Camille had been a sort of good omen, a good luck charm, a pet, since my arrival and that I would walk with the pack animals rather than leave her behind.
"Very well, Petar" Friend said somewhat patronizingly "if you can get her in the boat without difficulty your animal may accompany us".
I knew from his tone that he expected her to resist vigorously being removed from the security and stability of the dock. I feared he was right. When the time came The Lady rushed aboard, as if she knew that to hesitate an instant meant failure to board at all. She panted heavily and her eyes were wide and glazed as we pushed into the current. Even stroking her ears failed to calm her.
Only half the size of the Rikki, these boats bobbed over every ripple. Friend commanded the lead boat, and Dhars the second while I manned the tiller of the third. I lacked the experience of the four Calixtians at rowing. My job was simply to follow on in the course set by Friend and Dhars.
Three days, four portages, and two very narrow escapes later, the three overloaded craft arrived with cargo and crew intact near the port of Oost. I say "near" because the mighty river of the mountains broadened gradually as it swept into the low lands. For the last half day there had been no perceptible current. After two or three turns at the oars I found myself thinking the rapids, rocks, and deadly whirlpools hadn't rea
lly been that bad. The river had become broad, shallow and almost stagnant. It would reach its ignominious end in a salt marsh a few kilometers from where we now sat.
We had tied up with a dozen or more similar craft before a row of low buildings. Their walls of cut stone and gracefully curved roofs of thatched fiber displayed the skilled use of local materials by the Calixtians.
Friend made arrangements to have his goods temporarily stored until they could be moved to his own warehouses in town. Lady Camille proved once again her inestimable worth by carrying almost three times her normal load. Perhaps she was just showing off. She had, she whispered, carried even larger loads even longer distances "in her youth". Nonetheless, I was sure that I heard groans of relief when at last we arrived in Friend's compound. There was much whistling and stamping of feet to "applaud" the feat she had performed. The animal wranglers in Friend's employ looked at me with scorn for having overloaded so worthy a beast in such a shameful manner.
Two well rested days later, we rose before dawn and made our way "dockside". The first touches of sun were just reaching the roof tops of Cstlana. To the north and east the white tops of the mountains were already in full light. To the west the unbroken sheet of white which was "The Great Salt" was beginning to sparkle. In contrast to the featureless salt, the shoreline was awash with texture and color. Here and there crops or orchards pushed near the edges of the great blanket of white. Where the waters of a stream emptied onto the salt green fingers stretched out as if to grab the blanket by its border. The green intruders never reached beyond fringe of the salt's empire. Their water supply was too quickly absorbed and even the most saline tolerant plants could not grow in the nearly pure salt.
As the sun floated higher the light reflecting from the salt became bright, then intense, then almost unbearable. Each of the locals donned eye protectors crafted from the breast bone of a ticlea fowl. Through narrow slits the scene could be viewed comfortably. Friend provide us each with a pair.
The Ways Between Worlds: Peter Cooper Page 16