The Book of Crows

by Sam Meekings

  ‘Ah, you. I haven’t heard from you for a while. I was beginning to think maybe you’d had enough of me.’

  ‘I’ve been busy. Work stuff. Anyway, I tried phoning yesterday, and the day before. You never picked up …’

  ‘Oh, I’ve had a run of formal dinners. I have to go, they’re all friends of Daddy’s. But each one was awful, just smiling and trying to look interested through a hundred boring conversations with old Party men. I spent most of the time thinking about you.’

  ‘Are you busy tonight? Maybe we could —’

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry, I can’t. I wish I could, but I’ve got company. Now promise you won’t be upset with me. Tomorrow I’m completely free and there’ll be no one here but me. Come over. Around eight, say?’

  ‘Well, tomorrow could be —’

  ‘Fantastic. Don’t forget how much I love you.’

  ‘Yes, I —’

  Li Yang hung up and I started wondering how I let myself get manipulated so easily. There were other people there. Who? And what were they up to? I picked up the phone again to try to distract myself from those worrying thoughts.

  ‘Xiang? It’s me. What’ve you got?’

  ‘You know, you’ve really got to work on your telephone manner. Nothing wrong with a bit of polite chatter – How was your morning, perhaps, or It was very nice to see you last night. But no, you just leap in with your requests. You’re lucky I don’t start charging you for all this information.’

  ‘All right, how was your morning?’

  I could hear him laughing. ‘Fine, thank you. You’ll be pleased to know my contact at the bank found just what you were looking for.’

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘Sure. They’ve got everything stored on electric brains these days. Saves a lot of time and energy.’

  ‘So, what is it?’

  ‘Monthly payments, starting last autumn, from the Black Light Mining Company. Pretty interesting, huh?’

  ‘Not bad, not bad. I owe you one.’

  ‘Forget about it. If I started counting all the favours I’ve done for you, we’d be here all day. So what are you going to do now?’

  ‘What do you think? I’m going to find out what this Black Light Mining Company has been playing at.’

  ‘Huh. Just try not to get yourself into too much trouble, all right?’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  I set the phone down, paid the guy at the kiosk and started walking towards my car. I couldn’t go back to the office now. It would eat at my mind till I knew what had happened. And now I’d seen those bodies, I couldn’t go back to pretending it was none of my business. I had the name of the company, so things ought to be simple from now on. I would make a quick visit to the public records office nearest Jawbone Hills then get back to work in time for the afternoon shift.

  I drove over the bridge and out of the city once again. If I ever found Wei Shan, I’d give him a right kicking for getting me into this mess. I was never one of those saps who got a kick out of going somewhere new. Whenever Wei Shan used to blabber on about the sense of unbounded freedom and possibility he got from working the land I wanted to tell him to shut up. Or step up – I mean, if he liked it so much up there in the middle of nowhere, then why the hell was he in the middle of the city yapping at me? But I never said any of that out loud. Nor did I ever tell him how much I’d loathed my own experiences during that time.

  I had thought the country would be a bit like home, where I wore my father’s name like a shield, where I could boss people around and get my own way without anyone daring to snap back at me. I turned up thinking that I’d be giving the orders to shepherds and peasants, and that they would be in awe of my family’s Party connections, of the whole pages of the Little Red Book I had memorised, of the speeches from Beijing I had heard on my father’s radio and could repeat word for word. But no one gave a toss about who I was or where I came from. Not the locals, not the other young exiles either picking fights amongst themselves or chasing the local shepherds’ daughters, and not the sheep I spent years mucking out and herding and sheering and slaughtering.

  Did it make me a man? Did I learn anything? I learnt how to bite my tongue to stop from complaining when fed a bowl of boiled grass for the tenth time in a week, how to make time go a little quicker by retreating into my thoughts, how to regret and how to hate. My father would have been proud.

  On the Principles of Nature

  PART 1 · SUMMER 1288 CE

  Tommaso di Lovari, brother of the holy Franciscan order, former prior of the abbey of Ancona, renowned scholar of the various apocryphal apocalypses, emissary of the honourable Giovanni da Montecorvino, student of the great Bonaventure, translator, traveller, polyglot and noted cartographer, is dying.

  I know this from the way his legs stir and twitch, the smell of his hair, the flaky red skin on the shaved patch at the crown. I can see it in the way his long fingers, which had once been so steadfast and unwavering when pressing a blessing to a burning brow, now clutch at shadows. I know it because this is how it also began with the others.

  Since our party has recently been fully occupied with performing the most respectful rites of Christian burial, we have not moved from this dreary spot for three days. Lovari told me that we are a full week from the caves of Mogao, and, according to my calculations, it will take us at least a year before we might complete the return journey and give our report to Father Montercorvino in Sicily. We put our faith in the Lord and let him guide us. Last night, after we had said our last farewells to the young Nazario and delivered his soul unto the Lord, I gathered our party together and led them in prayer. As I proclaimed the holiest of truths to them it took all my reserves of patience to keep from losing my temper with the constant mutterings of the native guides, the incessant fidgeting of the stable-hands and the sedan-carriers, and the interminable itching of those chefs and servants from our homeland who have caught one of these foul diseases from the locals. Yet the men are weak, and they need spiritual sustenance, so I must do all I can to keep them strong while they remain so far from home.

  The sun slithers up the hillside, scorching what scant tufts of grass remain among the dust and stones, and the sweat soaks our clothes. I give thanks that we are sheltered from the winds of sand that sweep across this land, winds that are enough to send a man tumbling from his horse, to blind a man or steal his speech and forever clot his calls to heaven. I cannot but remember Christ’s hardships in the wilderness and the torments visited upon him, and I vow that our party shall make steady our will as He did, by taking nourishment from the blessed Psalms, the words of His Father. I give thanks too that we have adequate supplies of food as well as shelter from the elemental rages, both of which were denied to our Lord when he faced his trials.

  After my morning ablutions, which are regrettably curtailed by the water ration that the master of the victuals has imposed, I take my customary stroll around the camp. It gives the men comfort seeing a man of God among them, and I feel it helps them to concentrate on their given tasks. Some of our number have been much bothered by the songs our Tartar guides sing at night to communicate with the spirits of the desert, and many more have been made fearful by the recent outbreaks of the desert sickness that has claimed three of our retinue in the same number of days. I wear out my voice telling the men that they have nothing to fear if they welcome the Holy Spirit into their lives, but nonetheless they continue to cleave to their irrational superstitions in attempts to ward off the evil humours that abound here.

  I make my way from my own tent towards the circle of awnings where some of the men are tending the breakfast fires. The horses and mules are tethered not far from there, and I make a point of speaking to them first, to let our retinue know that no living thing is exempt from the Lord’s plan. It was, after all, the uplifting stories of the words and deeds of Francis, the patron of our Order, that first inspired me to follow this path. I give each beast a short benediction, and check for mites, watery eyes o
r split hooves, to ensure that the servants are not neglecting any of their duties.

  I am still somewhat sluggish as I make my rounds, since my night was interrupted by the call from Lovari’s tent, and after that episode I found it difficult to sleep. Thus I make my way around the camp a little more slowly than usual, and eventually reach the supplies tent, where I hope to speak with Paul. He is somewhat typical of the locals of this strange country, being short, lithe and dark, with eyes that always seem to be in danger of becoming permanently crossed. The fine hairs of his beard resemble the frayed trails of cheap rope, hanging limply from his round cheeks, and like his fellow countrymen he seems to enjoy nothing so much as squatting down on his haunches for many hours on end. However, I make a point never to pay attention to a man’s appearance. The Lord, after all, sees only our souls.

  I know well enough the secret shame that stares and comments can cause, having suffered from the pox as a child back in the monastery in Assisi. I was kept in an isolated cloister for close to three months, with only the Holy Bible and an ancient, scarred monk for company. At first I greatly feared the elderly patient in the room next to mine, for not only did he seem as old as the crumbling building itself, but he had also suffered burns so terrible that his purple face looked like the bubbling, waxy mess that gathers at the stump of a candle. His face was a mask of sores and blisters; dark eyes stared out from great hooded scabs, and his nostrils and mouth were as holes carved in hardened clay. He was bedridden, and made a sound like dice rattling around in a cup when he spoke.

  Yet I soon found that beneath those gruesome features he retained a keen mind, and it was he who elucidated many of the passages in the Bible that most troubled me as a child. We spent whole days in question and response, and even after the pox left me, I continued to return to the infirmary so that I might converse with my elderly friend. He seemed to understand more than anyone the worries that struck sometimes at my heart, and he saved me from loneliness by educating me about all the creatures in the Lord’s kingdom, of which he had an unsurpassable knowledge. He taught me the names and unique attributes of every beast, every insect and every bird in every different country, that I might understand the wonders of creation. Though in truth I listened to the burnt man for the most part because I enjoyed his company, I have since found vital uses for the knowledge he imparted to me. I do greatly miss him, and I pray that despite his most advanced age the Lord will not deliver him to Heaven before I have returned from this mission. Though the pox left these scars and hollows dotted across my cheeks and forehead, I would gladly suffer them again for such a friend.

  Already the sun is burning my toes, and I turn and scan the camp for Paul. The white sand sparks, the grey stones threaten to melt. Paul is not, of course, our chief guide’s real name. The name his parents gave him is some mess of syllables that requires laborious twisting of the tongue to pronounce. I have called him Paul on account of the fact that he is responsible for leading us out of this idolatrous land and back to the countries of true faith, although he has as yet refused my offers to baptise him. As he is integral to our mission, I have not pushed this point too much.

  He has an adequate knowledge of Latin, and so, despite his inability to modify the verbs according to tense, we communicate in that grand old language. Thus he has also become the intermediary between the natives and myself, keeping me informed of the concerns of our guides and the customs of the locals while also translating the lessons I have been giving the men to help them understand the sacrifice the Son of God made for every one of us. I always ensure that the whole party sups together at dusk, so that everyone might remember that we are equal in the eyes of the Lord, though thanks to the cacophonous din made by the disparate groups in our retinue as they gorge themselves, dinner more closely resembles the chaos of a country inn than the silent unity of Christian brotherhood I remember from the monastery. The only thing that binds the locals and our own men, in fact, is their drink – since the rations of wine ran out some time ago, our servants have been forced to share the translucent spirit drunk by the locals, and many seem to have become quite fond of it. I have tried to warn them from it, since I fear it may lodge heathen ideas in their stomachs or unbalance their humours, but to no avail. I alone keep watch over our men in the evenings, for, since we left Dadu, the usually sociable Lovari has been in the habit of eating by himself in his tent, and gave the strictest of instructions that even I was not to disturb him.

  Paul is standing with a stick in his hand, arguing with one of his boys. In front of them the sand has been etched with strange markings, and I take it that these are the source of their disagreement. When Paul catches sight of me his voice drops to a whisper and he sends the boy scurrying off with a scowl on his face.

  ‘I hope you are not experiencing any difficulties with your retinue. It would be quite a shame if I had to dock your men’s rations again. I assumed they would have learnt after last time, but …’ I raise my hands and give him a smile, eager to show that I am nothing if not a fair man.

  ‘No. No trouble. He sees big dark. But I do not see.’

  ‘Big dark? What ever do you mean? Really, Paul, how are we to talk of civilised things if you keep using such cloudy and oblique phrases?’

  ‘Yes, yes. A cloud. A big dark cloud.’

  ‘Oh. I see. A storm coming?’

  ‘No storm. No trouble. He sees anything he wants. I see what really happens. Sun and wind. No cloud.’

  ‘So there is nothing to worry about?’

  Paul says nothing in response to this question, so I must assume he either did not hear me properly or did not understand what I meant.

  ‘How is the situation with the supplies? With the water?’

  ‘Enough water. Enough food. Insect and snake. Desert gives us more. You need more insects?’

  I smile patiently.

  ‘Paul, the question might better be phrased as “Do you require any more insects, sir?” Why don’t you try it again?’

  He cocks his head and lets his tongue run leisurely over his brown teeth. His skin, like the other natives, resembles well-used leather. After a moment he scratches a stubby finger through his lank black hair. I sigh.

  ‘No, I shall not be needing any more at present. You need not trouble yourself, for I am coming to the end of my experiment. Soon I shall write up the results and so be done with these repulsive beasts. Father Montercorvino will be much impressed if we bring back a rudimentary catalogue of the unique creatures, flora and fauna found in this land. What I shall need, however, is for more water to be taken to Prior Lovari’s tent. No doubt you have heard that he has been struck with the desert sickness, so we must do all we can to bring him comfort.’

  ‘I will send it.’ Paul bows curtly and then turns back to the sand.

  Our customary morning interview being over, I walk back towards the other side of the camp. As I go, I notice that Paul is kicking at the sand in order to remove the markings his boy has etched there.

  After finishing my breakfast, I retire to my own quarters. I wait in here so as to be available to the servants, chefs, horsemen, guides, cartographers and apprentices who may wish to pay me a private visit, since I have given each my assurance that as I am one of the few Holy men on this mission, I will happily hear their confessions and give absolution should their spirits falter during our long journey through this strange land, particularly now that their doubts and fears are being stoked by the terrible sickness that is striking down man after man in our party. Like yesterday, however, and indeed the three days that preceded it, no one comes.

  I try to devote myself to a little contemplation of Athanasius’s Life of Saint Anthony, but I find it difficult to concentrate given my tiredness and the persistent scuttling sound coming from the small box beneath my desk. I peer down through the air holes in the side and see two of the small creatures strutting about in their rusty-looking armour. I have whimsically named this classification sand prawns because of their bulkier bodi
es and paler appearance than their European counterparts, though in truth their fierce tail marks them out as quite distinct from their cousins. A third is lying curled in the corner of the box, no doubt a sad example of the creatures’ violent tendencies towards one another (undoubtedly exacerbated by captivity). I must admit that I am gladdened by the knowledge that Paul will not bring me any more of these vicious beasts.

  Notice soon arrives from Lovari’s tent that my brother has awoken, and thus I set aside my books and boxes and make my way across the camp. I collect two bowls of pottage from the cooks on the way, and carry them both to Lovari’s tent. Since the news has gone round about his sickness, many of the men seem wary to go near him for fear of ill luck, yet I have spent much of my life nursing the frail and the diseased, and have no qualms about eating with my dearest brother. At such dark times men need comfort and reassurance, and I have decided that, if he is feeling well enough, we might read the Gospel of John together.

  I slip past the thick cloth and the fine netting to find Lovari lying on a pile of cushions. Despite the insufferable heat, he seems to be wrapped in at least three blankets, his brow wet with perspiration. Ever since we first met, I have thought of him as an unusually large man, filling every room he enters with his hearty laugh, his sonorous voice commanding attention from everyone. Yet now, as I kneel by his side, he seems suddenly childlike, small.

  ‘Is that you, Rosso?’ His eyes are heavy and they force themselves open only after a couple of attempts.

  ‘Brother, I am glad you have woken. I have brought you a little food.’

  ‘Ah, bless you, brother.’

  He pushes himself clumsily up onto his elbows, this smallest of exertions drawing from him sighs and gasps at which he is clearly embarrassed. I give him the bowl.

  ‘Do you feel any better? Were you able to rest after I left you last night?’

  ‘The spasms are gone, and I am glad to report that the pain has lessened a little. But my legs are swollen, a fever burns in my chest and I feel as though my breath has been stolen from me.’