The Silk Tree Page 36

  The travellers were greatly relieved to be in the warm, and with no shared language, but with Yulduz translating, chatted happily to the family.

  A frothy concoction of tea, salt and butter was served. This was followed by a delicious feast of many dishes – horse-meat sausages, sheep’s liver, a spicy rice dish of chicken and fried shredded carrots in a huge cauldron.

  After everyone could eat no more, Yulduz commanded, ‘We sleep!’ A rickety ladder led up to the open second floor with beds and tables in one communal area.

  In the morning they all helped in the main task: transferring the goods and baggage to the yaks. Yulduz explained that at the higher regions where they were headed the ponies could not stand the altitude.

  The yaks were of impressive bulk: even Marius could barely see over their humped shoulders, and with a dense and hairy undercoat they looked well fitted for the cold. Their horns were a yard across but the huge beasts were imperturbably docile, taking their saddle-frame without pausing as they cropped the snow-littered grass.

  The yak train was sizeable – thirty-five of the shaggy monoliths in all, laden down with salt from the plains, worked silver goods, carpets, baubles from Kashgar’s bazaars.

  Nicander and the others were helped into the saddle by giggling boys. The massive beasts stood unmoving, firm as a rock. Nicander flashed a nervous grin at Marius and the ladies.

  There were no ropes stringing the yaks together as with a camel train. When shrill shouts announced the start of the trail, each animal obediently followed the one in front. The lead yak, which did not carry any load, walked forward and placidly turned to left and right on command as they wound across the upland plain.

  They were easy to ride, reassuringly steady with none of the airy sway – or the goaty smell – of a camel. Yaks were almost scented, even with their slightly oily hair, which hung down below their bellies.

  Ahead, Ying Mei twisted round to wave an assurance to Nicander.

  The plain contracted and then they began following a narrow, stony track around the steep bare flank of a precipice. Nicander saw to the right the mountainside falling away in an awesome drop to a river below. All it needed was a misplaced hoof and …

  The yaks were seemingly unconcerned, plodding forward, one behind the other.

  Before they made the next pass the snow began again, whipping about spitefully in the hard wind. They were all now shuddering with cold. Still the big beasts walked on, their only concession to the bluster being to lower their heads.

  At one point they forded a river in a perilous stumble. On the other side, they picked up another narrow track that led to open upland again, not agreeable meadows but a rocky wilderness.

  Yulduz pointed to the end where a solid white mass half a mile across filled the valley from side to side. ‘Ice river.’

  They traversed the stone-strewn slope, the rounded hoofs of the yaks clicking and knocking as they went. The snow returned, swirling ever thicker it made it impossible to look up and they had to trust to the yaks to follow on after the bell of the one in front.

  Nicander was becoming more and more breathless. The gasping strain gave him a pounding head.

  The chill began a remorseless clamping in. A trial of endurance.

  Still the yak train wound on, past a craggy outcrop that suddenly loomed out of the snow squalls and up to another level.

  Nicander could just see Ying Mei, a dark hump ahead in the swirling snow. She was no doubt suffering as much as him. Was it worth it? Was this really the way to Constantinople and home? In the misery of the unrelenting cold he sank back into his enduring, head hung.

  The yaks came to a stop. Looking up Nicander saw that they were halted in the lee of a bluff which cut off the wind like a knife.

  Frozen and torpid he fell off his yak into a few inches of snow, vaguely sensing someone leading away his mount.

  ‘This snow, I not like!’ Yulduz grunted, squinting up at the heavy grey sky. ‘We have to make Terek very soon or we in trouble!’

  Nevertheless it was decreed that the night be spent there. Miraculously there was a fire: one of the drivers had been tasked to carry a pottery bowl under his cloak with precious embers of charcoal which were blown into life. Dried yak dung was added to make a small blaze.

  They huddled over the life-giving warmth, the flames lurid and golden against the bleak grey of the stony landscape in the falling night. Yak-butter tea was doled out and for a brief time spirits rose.

  There was no question of erecting a tent on the loose scree. The crew wrapped their felt pyramids close about them, pulling the ‘hood’ over their heads then hunching down, clutching their knees to their chests.

  Marius made sure he and the others had their own felt protections on and made use of the tent against the bitter winds that flapped and blustered through the long night. It was opened up and laid over them, held down from the inside. The shelter was suffocating and odorous, but the alternative was worse.

  There was a blizzard in the morning but Yulduz was insistent they start. ‘I worry the Terek!’ he muttered.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  The snow eased but there was a new hazard. The yaks could not see the track under the fresh snowfall and slipped and staggered as they missed their foothold.

  ‘Not far now, Terek Davan!’ Yulduz said.

  Unexpectedly the snow ceased abruptly and the sun glared unbearably bright in a deep-blue sky.

  As the little train continued on around the side of the mountain they squinted against the dazzling white. Before them was the broad snow-covered saddle between the buttresses of two cloud-torn ranges – the long-sought Terek Davan Pass.

  But only two miles below it the snow began again, squally flurries and then solid, driving flakes that blinded and choked and lay a chill deadness thickly on ground and beast.

  It was impossible to go on – blundering over a precipice was a real possibility.

  The train stopped and the yaks quickly came together in a huddle. Forcing their way inside, the humans took refuge from the icy wind in the steamy mass as snow steadily built on the hairy backs. Nicander caught a glimpse of Ying Mei’s pinched but expressionless face; holding on, enduring.

  The snow continued remorselessly.

  It was so unfair – only another couple of miles and …

  Nicander tried to ask Yulduz their chances but in reply only got an ill-tempered gabbling and the man turned away.

  With the pass so close would he wait for the weather to clear and make a desperate attempt to transit, or return to the village and wait for spring?

  The fearful cold made it difficult to think. The yaks could probably wade through a couple of feet of snow but who could tell if conditions the other side of the pass were better or worse? They couldn’t stay where they were indefinitely. The longer they delayed returning, the deeper the snow behind them, and he remembered more than one patch that …

  Had they left it too late either way?

  Nicander felt a swelling dread.

  Time passed and he slipped into a reverie of images and impressions.

  He was abruptly brought back to the present by hurried movement out of the huddle – the snow had stopped!

  Yulduz stared at the grey sky. Then he bent and picked up some snow and let it fall to the ground, watching it closely. His gaze returned to the line of the summit.

  ‘We go!’ he snapped.

  There was a fevered scurry of activity. This time there would be no riding; each would walk beside his yak.

  They set out for the distant top of the pass, stomping the soft snow with every pace and knowing the stakes if they failed.

  The sun came and went. Everyone periodically glanced warily at the sky, dreading what they would see.

  Yulduz was ahead, testing the way and calling out shrill commands to the lead yak.

  The crest drew nearer and, praise be, they were atop it – a slope led gently away on the other side into the same grand panorama of great mountains
and far valleys. Yulduz took a wide, sweeping zigzag down, going as fast as he could get the yaks to follow.

  Nicander, like the others, was numbed and exhausted and it wasn’t until they stopped at a sheltered crag that he realised they were safe.

  Yulduz, now in fine spirits, handed out a ration of chhurpi, a bar of dry yak cheese that took hours to chew.

  ‘Not so bad, now. I don’t think they come after you here, M’ Lady!’ he added with a cackle.

  Nicander found himself smiling. They were through the mountain barrier and were on the road to the west!

  Yulduz gave the order to remount, their way now was a continual downward winding track along the wide flank of a mountain to where green peeped through the snow on the uplands.

  In two days they left the snowline and reached the lower foothills whose terrain made for fast going. Later, wide river plains led through increasingly fertile regions with nomad tents and flocks dotted on the slopes.

  They stopped at tiny settlements for fresh provisions and news and to exchange their trinkets for furs and handworked trifles and then passed on to a majestic river valley.

  ‘To Osh,’ Yulduz said proudly. ‘He goes to my town!’

  They followed him up a steep track littered with sharp stones. It wound around then through a cleft – and they caught their breath. Below was an immense plain ending in a blue-grey haze at the horizon. They could see every detail, the glittering meander of a river, the dots of trees, the smudge of forests and the far-distant sprawl of a city.

  The travellers beamed at each other. The landscape was alive and green, even roads could be picked out. They had left Chang An for a desert of sand, then from Kashgar endured a desert of snow and rock. Now they had won through to what could only be – the Western Lands.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Directly before them was Osh.

  Ying Mei did not speak but her eyes darted everywhere: this was the crowning moment of her journey.

  Nicander glanced at her. Against all the odds they had made it through, over the endless miles. And now she was in the Western Lands he had fulfilled his bargain.

  The ground levelled in the last mile or two and the caravan joined a treelined road. As the travellers drew closer however, they could see that the houses were mean and seedy; the streets and lanes unplanned and dirty, full of ragged children and herds of pigs. Noisy, uncaring and stinking.

  By the time they had come to a halt in the big caravanserai it was clear that this was a trading outpost, a town perched on the frontier.

  Seeing Ying Mei’s set face Yulduz said defensively, ‘Osh is a fine place, M’ Lady, but I’m thinking, not so good for a princess.’

  She gave a confused look to Nicander.

  He had only a hazy idea of the geography. ‘Where is Constantinople from here?’ he asked Yulduz.

  The man just shrugged.

  ‘The Mediterranean – the great sea?’

  ‘I am a man of the mountains, I know not much of what is across the plains. But there is a great city many times the size of Osh. This is the home of the Sogdian people. It is called Samarkand and is only a week or two away. There you will find every kind of comfort and civilisation that would suit you, M’ Lady.’

  ‘How will I …?’

  ‘My brother, he runs caravan there. I will see him directly, you wait.’

  After he had gone Ying Mei forced a smile. ‘Ah Yung, we are in the Western Lands, you have completed your mission.’

  She paused. ‘But can I ask … will you go with us to Samarkand?’

  What else could he do? In all conscience he could not leave Ying Mei and Tai Yi in this town alone. In Samarkand she could settle down in some comfort, yet still keep her ear to the ground for news that it was safe to return to China.

  At the same time hanging over him was his own quandary – how to get to Constantinople from here. What more likely place than the capital of the Sogdians to find out?

  That night Nicander found sleep impossible.

  He now knew it was more probable than not that he and Marius would eventually succeed in getting through to Constantinople. It was no longer a fearful adventure with no end.

  But it was only a very short time before the moment when he would never see Ying Mei ever again.

  He had accepted that their friendship, warm as it was, could go no further. She was a noble lady and would see out her exile in Samarkand. He and Marius would continue on to Constantinople.

  Yet she had entered his heart and mind in a way that no other woman had. A disgraceful thing to admit for a holy man, he reflected ironically. The holy man conceit, of course, was as much a defence against what could not be, as to allow her the trust to be close and he had to see it through. In any case, it would be a shameful thing if he had to admit that he’d deceived her all this time.

  No, it had to be faced, there would be a parting soon and it would be final.

  It were better for both, therefore, that from now on he keep away, withdraw from her company. Be polite – but distant. The only way to get through it.

  Yulduz came back with good news. ‘He can take you. Like I said! If you quick.’

  The caravan was already on its way and they had to chase it on horseback, rendezvousing in the early afternoon with a colourful line of laden camels, packhorses, all the familiar jingle and panoply.

  The caravan master, looking nearly identical to his brother, accepted their fee and it was arranged that their baggage would catch up with them at their first staging.

  Ying Mei’s face was flushed with anticipation. ‘Will they speak Greek in Samarkand, Ah Yung?’

  ‘If it’s as civilised as they say.’ He rode on without taking his eyes from the road.

  ‘I’m so relieved! A new land with all these things to see, to learn about – aren’t you excited, Ah Yung?’

  ‘Yes – I suppose so.’ He couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

  ‘Oh, you worry too much! The bad part is all over now.’

  When he didn’t reply there was a tiny frown. ‘Are you feeling unwell, Ah Yung?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to miss our Greek lessons, now we’re so close to Samarkand.’

  ‘I … I don’t think I’ll have time tonight. I have to … to meditate.’

  ‘Oh. Well, when you’re free you’ll find a ready pupil.’ She quietly fell back to Tai Yi.

  As the days passed, Nicander found it harder and harder.

  In her place, alone in a country that was as different from her own as it was possible to be, he would be clinging to anything that was familiar, secure. Yet she never allowed her fears and anxieties to drag her down, standing before the world as the high-born lady she was.

  He nearly weakened several times over resuming their Greek lessons but he knew he couldn’t, the closeness would be too difficult to bear.

  He told himself that in any case he’d been teaching under false pretences: he’d assumed that here, as everywhere in the civilised world, Greek would be spoken by all but the barbarians but this, it seemed, was not the case. She’d trusted him and …

  If he and Marius safely made Constantinople, in their box of holy scriptures – now mustered daily by Marius – was the means to make both of them insanely rich, never to be troubled by anything again. He should be rejoicing, looking forward to the climax of their adventure.

  Instead, he was being torn in two at the thought of parting from a woman who he now knew he loved but who saw him only as a friend, albeit one she had said she would never forget.

  They were soon approaching Samarkand. The verdant plain was populated by farms – irrigated peach orchards and greenery stretching on and on. In the hazy distance a single massif thrust out of the flatness.

  The caravan headed towards it and as the roads thickened to streets and the traffic choked the way it came into plain view. It seemed peoples from every conceivable corner of the world were streaming there.

  A walled city with impres
sive towers and monuments was atop the rocky eminence. After they had passed through the caravan gate they wound along a wide flat area to the prodigious-sized caravanserai.

  There were two other caravans in the bays and their arrival caused little interest.

  Nicander dismounted. This had been the last time he would be with Ying Mei in a fabled caravan on the silk route. From now on—

  Suddenly she gave a squeal. He wheeled round in alarm to find her pointing to a shabby sign above an alcove that read, ‘Andros and Sons, Merchant Factors’ in Greek.

  She ran across into the office, Nicander quickly following.

  ‘Good morning!’ she said breathlessly in Greek to the clerk.

  ‘What do you want, lady. We’re busy, can’t you see?’ he replied in the same language.

  ‘How wonderful!’ she breathed.

  She turned to Nicander, ‘You see? I can speak – I can talk! Isn’t it marvellous!’

  A lump came to his throat at hearing his native tongue. He thrust outside hoping she did not see the tears welling.

  Ying Mei followed in concern and put her hand on his arm. ‘Something’s the matter, isn’t it, Ah Yung?’

  The touch was all fire and flowers and he strove for control. ‘Oh – only that – someone speaking Greek after all this time.’

  The others came hurrying up.

  ‘Anything wrong?’ Marius wanted to know.

  ‘No, nothing,’ Nicander managed. ‘Well, we’re here, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, o’ course we are, Nico! Now, there’s to be no caravanserai for the ladies any more. This is going to be their home, so we’ve got to find ’em a place to start off.’

  ‘I was just about to ask here if there’s a Greek-speaking lodging house nearby. Somewhere to stay while they find out what they want to do.’

  There was one such, and in a better-quality quarter up the steep slope above the caravanserai.

  The door was answered by a maid who quickly sent for her mistress, a Mrs Malech.

  She was a pleasant-faced woman who took to Ying Mei immediately. A guest of quality who knew Greek: it would be an honour to have her.