On the morning of the eighteenth day since I was taken from my sister and from our father’s tents, I went looking for Sokath, His Eyes Uncovered. I had not sought him out during the starfall. He had been every night upon the walls, watching the skies with the other Skeptics and the Priests, and debating with them. Lo-Melkhiin had told me this for no reason that I could determine, but I was never bade to join them. I liked Lo-Melkhiin little enough in my chamber, with the lamps to show me his face. I did not like him at all in the dark.
Instead, I used the days of the falling stars to find all of the qasr gardens that I could. When I was upon the wall with Lo-Melkhiin’s mother, I had seen that the part of the qasr I lived in was in fact very small, and rather isolated from the rest. I was not sure how much longer I would live in this place, but I was determined to learn my way about it. Also, I was very bored.
No one ever tried to halt my wanderings, and so on the morning I went to find Sokath, His Eyes Uncovered, I did not expect to be stopped. I met the same serving girls and footmen as always. They bowed their heads when I passed, and moved to the side of the corridors to let me by if we were in close quarters when we met. I tried to avoid this: it made me uncomfortable to watch them get out of my way, particularly if they labored with some heavy burden, but I knew they would not stop if I asked them to. They looked at me now, because they thought I might just live. And accordingly, they treated me as their queen. If my brief discomfort was the price I paid for living, then I would pay it. The loneliness was less easy to bear, but I was bearing it as best I could.
I walked through the water garden, where the statue of Lo-Melkhiin’s mother stood astride the lions. I passed into a little hall, used by the women who brought lamp oil up from the storerooms beneath the qasr. I had learned quite a bit from following them discreetly, and from listening to their talk. They were the ones who went into the most rooms and gardens of the qasr, filling lamps and trimming wicks every day, so that when night time came again the lamps would be ready to hold back the darkness. It was not unlike following our goats, when my sister and I had watched them; we could not always tell where the grazing would be, but the goats knew, and would lead us to it—along with the sheep, who were much less wise.
I was content to be a sheep for now, following the lamp-women when they were too busy at their tasks to notice me, and then pretending to be engrossed in some tapestry or vine sculpture if they did. In this way, I learned the rooms closest to mine, and by hearing their talk, I learned what sort of people were likely to be in which places at certain times every day.
The mornings, so the lamp-women said, were the best time to change the oil in the Skeptics’ workrooms. They went out every day to watch the sun rise and break their fasts, and often did not return indoors for several hours, particularly if they were arguing about something that they felt was important. They laughed when they said the last part. Skeptics were useful: they had given us the water clock and the way to make words on paper, but sometimes they wandered into a thicket of their own making, and, like our ram did, tried to push their way out of it instead of just backing up the way they’d come.
I knew the Skeptics would be on the east wall. It was not the highest, but it was high enough to see the sun rise, and there was a small balcony there. It was not half as grand as the one from which we had watched the stars, but it was large enough for them to gather to watch the sun, and there was a cover to keep the sun from baking their thoughts out of their ears before they were finished making them. Sokath, His Eyes Uncovered, did not always join them. He tired of their babble, the lamp-women said, and wished to have his own thoughts in peace before the day began. He went by himself to the south wall, where the view was not as grand but the silence was better assured.
I climbed the stairs as quietly as I could, not wishing to disturb his thoughts. It was easy to talk to my mother and to my sister’s mother, even when they wore their priestly-whites. I had not ever had occasion to speak to a Priest, much less a Skeptic, and it felt a bit like when I spoke to our father. I took a deep breath before I stepped out onto the narrow walkway at the top of the wall, and then stood behind him, breathing as softly as I could while the sun fully cleared the horizon and began its daily trek across the sky.
“Do you know,” Sokath, His Eyes Uncovered said to me after a time, “I think the world is round. And I think we are near the side of it, not at the top.”
I had never thought what shape the world was. For so long, it had been the shape of our father’s tents. The shape of our father’s herds. The shape of my sister.
“Why?” I asked of him. I had not meant to pester him with questions, but it seemed that I was invited.
“I have watched the shadows here for many years,” he said to me. “You see how tall they are?”
I looked at the flagstones by his feet. The shadows were two full stones out from the high part of the wall, but there were scratches in the stone farther away from there, as well as several that were closer.
“I do,” I said to him.
“They do not move very much,” he said to me, and pointed. “Here on the Longest Day, here on the Longest Night.”
Both marks were placed so that I could have spanned the distance between them with both hands. It did not seem like much distance to travel, especially for something as big as the sun, and I said as much to him.
“If we were closer to the top of the world, the space would be bigger,” he said to me. “It is possible that at the very top or very bottom, there might be days with no sun at all.”
I looked at the marks on the floor and thought about making shadow animals on the walls of our father’s tent.
“Could you not find out?” I asked of him. “I mean, revered Skeptic, if you took a ball and a lamp, could you not tell?”
He laughed then, and winked one eye at me.
“I could,” he said to me. “And I have. Never tell the other Skeptics that, for they will think it blasphemous. They would rather argue about it forever.”
“But then how will they know?” I asked.
“They do know,” he said to me, “more or less. But in arguing, they will ask and answer a dozen other questions.”
“I suppose that is worthwhile, then,” I said. No wonder he came up here to avoid the babble. I would rather know than talk.
He turned and bowed then, and I bowed back, forgetting who I was to him in this place.
“My queen,” he said to me. “Do you seek me out for a reason?”
“Yes,” I said to him. “I have questions about the smallgods.”
“Those are questions for the Priests,” he said to me.
“They may be,” I said to him. “But I thought to ask a Skeptic first.”
“I am intrigued by that, at least,” he said to me. “Come, let us get out of the sun.”
We went down the stairs and into the garden there. It was a water garden, like the one by my rooms. The fountain sang quietly in one corner, and vines grew up the sides of the walls. There was a canopy and two cushions beneath it, along with a tray of oils and flatbread. Whoever it was that followed me whenever I left my chambers had arranged for enough food for both of us to break our fast, and since my stomach rumbled when I saw the tray, I was grateful.
“I will do my best to answer your questions,” said Sokath, His Eyes Uncovered. “In return, I would like a story from your village.”
“That is fair,” I said to him, and wondered what tale I would tell. “I am not certain we have any great wisdom for you.”
“Wisdom is the currency of young men,” he said to me. “They seek it, thinking it is something they will find. You are young, and a woman besides, and yet still clever enough to find me here today. That is wisdom few of my own students would have.”
He sat, and took an olive from the bowl. He put it in his mouth as I sat down beside him, and then spat the pit across the garden. I could not help myself, and laughed.
“That was no great distance,” he said.
“When I was a young man, I could have cleared the wall.”
I looked up, and knew that he was jesting, but it had been a very long time since anyone had said anything light-hearted to me. I caught myself: it had not been a long time. It had been only the time since I came to the qasr, and that was still short enough that I could number the days.
I took an olive and removed the pit with my thumbnail as I had been taught. Sokath, His Eyes Uncovered looked almost disappointed, so once I had eaten the olive I put the pit in my mouth and spat it out as hard as I could. It barely cleared the cushion, and he laughed again.
“You will learn the trick of it if you practice,” he said to me. “Life is too short to pull out olive pits, when spitting them is so much more fun.”
He said it in a friendly way, but I looked at his eyes, and they were sad. He had more years than our father, and I would be lucky to live another day. I took another olive, this time wrapped in flatbread. It nearly stuck in my throat, but I forced myself to swallow it, and then spat out the pit. It went no farther than the first one, but I felt I understood why; it had to do with where I put my tongue.
“Now,” said Sokath, His Eyes Uncovered. “Ask me your questions, and we will see if we can find the answers you seek.”
IN THE FIRE OF OUR TWELFTH SUMMER, before we were proficient enough with our needles to stitch the purple cloth, but after we had come in from the herds, my mother and my sister’s mother told us the story of our father’s father’s father, and how he had become our smallgod. We had heard versions of the tale before, sung around the fire or whispered to his bones when our father was away with the caravan. This time, they promised us, it would be the secret tale. Our father knew it, as was his right, but my brothers did not, which was of course how they bribed us to keep our seats instead of chasing each other off into the desert to play, as we would rather have done.
Our father’s father’s father had been born on a different wadi, one closer to the city than where we lived now. The wadi’s path through the desert was not straight as the sand-crow flies, but it was a safer path. The camels could find water there, and green enough to eat. A good hunter could find prey as come to drink, and when lions came, they came only at night, and roared aplenty to announce themselves. Our father’s father’s father was not a hunter, save at need, and though he was a good enough shot to keep the hyenas and wild dogs off his herd animals, he was not good enough to get sufficient meat for the whole camp that way. He was content, though, as a herdsman; and by the time he was twenty summers old, he was herd master.
It was the herd master’s job to pick which animals were fit to eat and which were fit to mate, and to pick the path the herds would take. A wise man, it was said, followed his goats. A fool was led by his sheep. A master, though, picked his own way, and that is what our father’s father’s father did. He had no Skeptic to tell him how the water moved in relation to the sun, and no Priest to tell him which smallgods to ask for guidance and what offerings to make to catch their attention. He had only himself, and the craft he had learned from his summers under the desert sun.
The wadi was crowded. Many families made their camps along it, and used the water for small fields and for their own use to drink. Our father’s father’s father’s village was small, and their herds suffered because there was not enough space for them at the wells. There were many merchants crammed together as well, and they bought and sold and traded the same goods over and over, until the prices were so high that our father’s father’s father could not afford them. One of the merchants who had the highest prices also had a camel. It was an older beast, one which knew the desert well. The merchant always left the camel tied to a post in the middle of the market square while he went to talk with the other men. Even when the sun was at its hottest, the camel would stand patiently in the heat and wait for its master.
One day, when the others had taken the sheep and goats, our father’s father’s father came to the market. He needed to buy a milk goat, because none of his goats were in milk; one of the village women had died in childbirth, and there was no one to feed her baby girl. The only merchant with a milk goat was the man who also owned the camel, and when our father’s father’s father saw this, he despaired; for surely he could not afford the price, and then he would lose another member of his village, tiny though she was.
Our father’s father’s father went up to the camel, standing in the hot sun as ever, and stroked its brown nose softly.
“Where is your master?” he said to the camel.
“He has gone to the tents by the wadi, where it is cooler,” said the camel.
Now, our father’s father’s father was surprised. He had not expected the camel to answer him. But he knew that surprise was no reason to be impolite, so he continued, talking to the camel as he would to the old men who played backgammon in the shade.
“Thank you, revered elder,” he said.
“Why do you seek my master?” asked the camel.
“I need a milk goat for a babe in my village,” said our father’s father’s father. “And your master is the only one on the wadi that has one today.”
“Buy me instead,” said the camel. “I am old, and my master will part with me for less than he will the milk goat.”
“But you cannot feed a child,” protested our father’s father’s father.
“Buy me,” said the camel again. “Buy me and you will not regret it.”
Our father’s father’s father felt foolish indeed, taking advice from a camel. He did not follow the goats, after all, as lesser herdsmen did. On the other hand, the goats did not actually speak, as the camel had done. So he sighed and went to the tents by the wadi. He haggled with the merchant, who was surprised to be offered anything at all for the camel, and came away with a good price and an old camel.
They walked back along the wadi together. Our father’s father’s father was sad. The babe had not been fed for almost a day, except on thin porridge, and the women assured him that it would not be enough. And now he had only an old camel to show for his efforts. He was so downhearted that he did not notice when the camel stopped walking until he ran out of rope and was jerked backward.
“Master,” said the old camel. “We must go into the desert.”
“Camel,” said our father’s father’s father, “if we go into the desert, we will die.”
“Master,” said the camel again. “We will not.”
The camel turned away from the wadi and pulled our father’s father’s father after him. Though he could have hit the camel and made it turn right, he did not. The camel talked, after all. It must have had a good reason.
They walked into the desert together. Our father’s father’s father counted his steps as he had been taught, to be sure that he would not walk farther than half his water could sustain. When he reached the number that said he should turn back, he pulled gently on the camel’s rope.
“Camel,” he said. “I must turn back, or I will run out of water.”
“Master,” said the camel. “Look ahead.”
Our father’s father’s father looked, and there at the edge of his gaze was a familiar sight. There was a low green line, where oleander bushes grew in clumps. When he got closer, he knew, he would see the pink flowers. Those only grew where there was water. They only grew where there was a wadi.
“Camel!” said our father’s father’s father. “How did you know that this was here?”
“I am a camel,” said the camel. “We can find water.”
“Why show it to me?” he asked.
“My old master never listened,” said the camel. “You did.”
They walked to the wadi together. Our father’s father’s father’s mind teemed with plans. They could move the whole village here. Yes, it was farther from the city walls, but that didn’t matter if they had more space, and more water. They could expand the herds and not worry about fighting for their food and drink. All at once, he remembered the baby, and was sore-hearted. He knew
that prices must be paid, but this seemed like a very steep one.
“Master,” said the camel. “Look again.”
Our father’s father’s father heard it before he saw, and recognized the sound. In the shade of the oleanders there was a goat, laid down to have her kids in the cooler sand on the wadi bank. Our father’s father’s father knelt beside her, and saw that she was wild and claimed by no one’s herd. He helped her birth her kids, and then lifted them up in his arms. The she-goat he placed on the camel’s neck, and she lay there as calmly as if she had been born to mind his touch. The kids he bore himself, back across the desert to his tents.
There was great rejoicing that night. Our father’s father’s father had gone to market for a milk goat and returned with not only that, but three kids and a camel besides. And even better, he told them of the second wadi. In the morning, they packed up their things and went out from that place. They crossed the burning sand, and found shade under the oleanders where to pitch their tents. Soon enough, they found the cave where to bury their dead.
As our father’s father’s father had hoped, the herds flourished there. He led the caravans in trade, and oversaw the wealth of the village. When he died, they wrapped him up in fine white cloth and set him in the hillside, next to where he had seen the old camel buried, and then they built the shrine.
“Your father and your brothers,” my mother said to us, “pray to your father’s father’s father because of the way the herds multiplied and the way the trade increased. We pray to him as you do, for those reasons too. But that is not the only reason we pray to him.”
“This is the secret,” my sister’s mother said to us. Her eyes burned the way they did when she wore the priestly-whites and sang with my mother before our father’s tents, even though we were only sitting in the shade of the oleanders and spinning thread. “This is the part of the tale that you must keep close to your hearts, all your days.”
A Thousand Nights Page 8