by Alys Clare
Then, holding me carefully, they made me stand in the bowl.
‘You are very much in need of bathing,’ Hanan said matter-of-factly, ‘and so before you sit in the good, clean water, we will first wash off the grime of travel and the sweat of sickness.’
And, enthusiastically but with gentle hands, that is what they did.
I had no knowledge of the white substance in block form, but when it was put in water, rubbed on the sponge and applied to my filthy body, it foamed up and somehow seemed to loosen the dirt. In addition, it smelt delicious. When a jug of clean water was poured over me, the foam ran off and so did the dirt.
And then I was allowed to get into the tub.
The warm, fragrant water came up to my chest, and the sensation was like nothing I’d experienced before. I sank down below the surface, feeling the water run through my hair, and the woman put something from a different bottle on my head and massaged it into my scalp, then rinsed it off with another jug of water.
I would happily have stayed there all day.
But the water cooled, and Hanan said I must not take chill, so she and the other woman helped me out, wrapping me in a thick towel. They rubbed me dry, then dressed me in a robe similar to Hanan’s but in sea-green. The woman brought a comb and set about the tangles in my hair. She sat me in the sunshine, and it finished off the drying process.
She said something to Hanan, who nodded. Turning to me, she said, ‘She remarks that your hair is the colour of new copper.’
I picked up a lock, just as I had done last night. But now my hair was no longer greasy, dull and dark: it shone.
I hadn’t seen it in its true colour since I’d been a child.
TEN
Bathed, sponged all over, clad in clean garments, with a fresh white veil arranged in intricate folds and pleats over my head and hair and my skin smelling of jasmine, I would have liked to go on sitting in the healing sunshine. But impatience to see Gurdyman – to verify with my own eyes that he was neither dead nor about to die – would not let me.
The men came back to remove the tub and the women wiped away the splashes of water and tidied the room. One of them held my filthy under shift, and, seeing my eyes upon it, said something to Hanan. ‘She says to tell you that it will be laundered, with the rest of your clothes, and returned to you,’ she said.
‘I’m most grateful,’ I said.
Hanan’s fine black eyebrows lifted. ‘It is her job.’
‘Please thank her anyway.’ I wasn’t used to anybody doing my washing except myself.
Hanan murmured something to the woman, who looked even more surprised than Hanan. But she gave me a wide smile.
‘To say thank you, the word is shukran,’ Hanan said.
I repeated it several times. One of the departing women giggled.
‘To respond to somebody’s thanks, we say al’afw.’
My attempts with that were even more risible. Laughing along, I was nevertheless pleased to have acquired my first two words.
When Hanan and I were once more alone and it seemed she was about to persuade me back into bed – ‘You must be fatigued after all the exertion!’ – I said firmly, ‘Now, if you please, I wish to see Gurdyman.’
She looked dubiously at me. ‘He is being well looked after,’ she said.
‘I have no doubt about that.’ She smiled faintly. ‘But, you see, his care has been in my hands since we began our journey, and I find it hard to rest until I have seen for myself.’
I was hoping to appeal to her as one healer to another and it worked. She gave a brisk nod and then, taking my arm and with many imprecations to let her know the instant I felt faint, or nauseous, or light-headed, led me out of the room and down a narrow little stair to the outside world.
The street was busy with morning traffic, and I was glad of Hanan’s support as we were hurried along by people busy on their own affairs, many carrying heavy loads, and what seemed to my bemused eyes a constant stream of darting children. There were also donkeys, laden with packages, boxes and barrels, their small feet daintily negotiating the narrow alleys. I wasn’t watching where I was going, for this was my first sight of the town other than the narrow glimpse from my room, and I was trying to look everywhere at once. You would know instantly that you were no longer in England, I reflected, for the architecture was utterly alien: the elegant shape of the window in my room that I had noticed and admired was repeated everywhere, and reproduced in a much-magnified size in archways over the street. Again and again I saw the stone that had shone like pale cream pearl in the moonlight. This morning, in full sunshine, the pearls were golden.
We had only gone perhaps a dozen paces before we turned in beneath one of the curiously shaped arches and into a courtyard encircled with arcades. Fountains played, the drops of water catching the sunlight and sending out rainbows of colour. Hanan led me to an open door at the far end, and we went down a cool, shady stone passage. It twisted this way and that – it struck some deep chord of memory – and then suddenly we were in the sunshine again, in a little enclosed court surrounded by high walls. A vine grew up one wall, and the few of its leaves that still clung to it in this winter season were a rich, rusty red. Jasmine grew all over a second wall. A rose climbed a third one, a few last huge pink blooms scenting the air. In a pot grew a very healthy-looking bay tree, its leaves large and glossy, glinting with a recent watering.
And I knew, of course, why the passage had seemed familiar, for this little courtyard chimed even more chords of memory: it was an exact replica, apart from the jasmine, of Gurdyman’s inner court at the back of the twisty-turny house, hundreds of miles away in Cambridge. No: instantly I corrected myself. The Cambridge courtyard was the replica, for of course Gurdyman had modelled it upon this one.
He was sitting in a chair with a sloping back, armrests and a footstool, his head on a pillow and a soft, fluffy blanket over his knees. A second, identically furnished chair was placed beside him. Like me, he was in clean clothes of local design, but I thought he looked far more comfortable in them than I did.
I dashed over to him and, kneeling by his side, took his hand. I stared up into his face. The bright blue eyes were shadowed with fatigue and the residue of illness, but I could see that he was there; his spirit had come back to him, and he was Gurdyman once more.
I was surreptitiously trying to feel the beat of his heart in his wrist, but I wasn’t nearly subtle enough.
He patted the top of my head with his free hand and chuckled. ‘I am better, child,’ he murmured. ‘You did your very best for me, I understand, and it was enough, for here I am!’
‘There was no more belladonna,’ I mumbled. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’
‘You gave me digitalis, you made me comfortable, you kept me warm.’
‘We had used up nearly all the food!’ I cried, my anguish bursting out of me as I recalled those desperate days. ‘I was able to replenish the water cask, but—’
As I’d said that, I noticed Gurdyman look up, frowning. Turning, I saw a man in the doorway. He was tall, slim, he stood with the elegance of a dancer and he was dressed in black, from the headdress to the hem of the robe pooling over his bare feet. His eyes too were black. His expression was stern as he met Gurdyman’s gaze, but then he turned to look at me and his entire face changed.
He advanced towards me, his hands held out palms upwards. His smile was warm, and it flooded the intense dark eyes with … with love, was all I could think.
‘You are Lassair,’ he said, and his voice was a deep rumble. ‘You are very welcome, and not only because you return our old friend to us.’ He bowed deeply, and, not knowing what else to do, I did the same. Straightening up, he was close enough to take my hands, which he did. His were warm, and I noticed how long and shapely they were, the nails beautifully kept. I was ashamed of mine, so square and with the short-trimmed nails that were the only practical way for someone who did my work.
‘I am Salim,’ he said. ‘This was my fa
ther’s house, his father’s before him, and so on up the generations. It is where Gurdyman came when he was a young man, to be the pupil of my father and my grandfather, and he and I were as brothers.’
I nodded. I had already guessed as much. My attention had snagged on the way he said Gurdyman: it was quite obviously the same name, but it didn’t sound the way I was used to.
‘Please, what did you call Gurdyman?’ I asked him.
‘Gur-dy-man.’
I couldn’t help grinning, for now he was deliberately pronouncing it the way I did.
‘Yes,’ I said, still smiling. ‘But that isn’t what you said the first time.’
He quirked his head in a gesture I was to come to know very well: a sort of amused recognition that somebody had just said something, or done something, that impressed him. ‘You hear well,’ he observed. ‘And you are right, for originally the name bestowed upon young Juan the Englishman when first he came to us was Gudiyyema.’
‘Gudiyyema.’ I repeated it softly once or twice, then a few more times, gradually letting it turn into Gurdyman, which, on the last pronunciation, I said in the broad accents of the men of the fens. Behind me, Gurdyman chuckled.
‘What does it mean?’ I asked. Salim frowned. ‘The woman who has been tending me’ – I turned to look for Hanan, but she wasn’t there – ‘is called Hanan, and she told me it means tenderness.’
‘Ah, I see.’ Salim smiled. ‘Indeed, yes. My name means safe. As you appear to suspect, most of our names do have meaning. If we were to bestow a name upon you, we might select Fizza, which means silver, for the light that dances in your pale eyes. Gudiyyema is not precisely the same, for it is only obliquely that it pertains to your friend here. Gudiyyema is the name of a genie in one of our favourite legends, and his magical powers were manifested in the form of a dazzling beam of light from his brilliant blue eyes. We are for the most part a dark-eyed people, and when Juan came to us, we were amazed that anybody could be so different. The only example we knew of eyes like his was the genie Gudiyyema, and this is the name that attached itself to him.’
I turned to Gurdyman, who I thought was looking rather smug. To be named for a powerful genie in a much-loved legend was no small thing, I reflected, so perhaps the self-satisfaction was no surprise. Still looking at him, I whispered, for his ears only, ‘Gudiyyema,’ and he had the grace to look abashed.
Now Salim said something to him in his own language, and Gurdyman responded, fluently and at some length. I waited until Salim had replied, then said, ‘You know each other’s language.’
‘Indeed,’ Salim said. ‘Many here speak your tongue, for they are eager to learn the ways of strangers. It is one of our most treasured beliefs, that every man and woman possessed of knowledge must share it with others.’
‘I do not think it is a belief that my countrymen share,’ I said softly.
‘It is not,’ Gurdyman said, and I thought he was being careful to keep his tone neutral. ‘Our church, in particular, likes to keep its mysteries to itself, and that has led to the widespread misunderstanding that education – literacy, even – is the prerogative of the rich and powerful.’
‘It is every man’s birthright,’ Salim said softly.
Gurdyman held my eyes. ‘You see why I love this place?’ he murmured.
‘Yes,’ I replied. This place … ‘Where are we?’ I demanded, swinging round to Salim. ‘What is this town?’
His beautiful smile spread once more across his face. ‘It is a city where men and women live in harmony with one another; where they celebrate their similarities and respect their differences. It is not known to many, for the world is not ready for our ways. At least three faiths live here and thrive: Muslims, Christians and Jews each have their places of worship and their traditions, yet they take an active enjoyment in learning about each other, in sharing the knowledge that is peculiar to their own faith and history. The city has three different names in three different tongues, but most of us who call it our home simply refer to it as the City of Pearl.’
I thought of the very different lights of moon and sun and how they had each brought out the beautiful glow on the city walls. City of Pearl was precisely the right name.
‘Our city has of necessity some dealings with the outside world, for we have found it impractical to live in total isolation, but, as I just implied, we restrict these dealings to a minimum.’ Salim hesitated. ‘Other people do not share our tolerance,’ he said simply. ‘We prefer to keep ourselves to ourselves, and the fewer outsiders who know our location, the better. We like to be hidden.’
Yes.
I already knew that.
I heard again the voice that had spoken inside my head, the night I had sat under the vast black sky and looked into the shining stone: Hush! Do not speak of it, for its location is secret and it remains ever hidden.
I was about to ask more questions – I had so many – but, as if he read what was in my mind, Salim held up his hand. ‘Naturally there is much that you wish to know, Lassair, and we are happy to help you learn.’ He glanced down at Gurdyman. ‘It is why you are here.’ I wanted to question that, too, but straight away he spoke again. ‘But today is for you and Gurdyman to spend quietly together, for both of you are convalescents. Your bodies and, even more vitally, your spirits need to recover their strength. Take pleasure in being together, talk when you wish to, rest and sleep when fatigue overcomes you.’ He indicated the empty chair beside Gurdyman. ‘Food and drink will be provided and, when night falls, Hanan will return to take you to your bed.’
It didn’t even occur to me to argue with Salim’s plan for our day, for it was precisely what I would have chosen. I wasn’t at all sure how I would deal with an entire day of leisure, for I couldn’t recall ever having had one before. As Salim made his graceful farewell and glided away, however, I was already making up my mind that I was going to enjoy it.
Left by ourselves in the cool, jasmine-scented courtyard, it was some time before either of us spoke.
Then, when I couldn’t contain myself any longer, I said, ‘It is time, dear Gurdyman, for you to explain yourself. More precisely, to tell me why you have brought me here – or perhaps I should say I have brought you here, for it is certain that you wouldn’t be here had I not been with you and looked after you.’
‘You could not have brought me,’ he said crushingly, ‘for you knew neither our destination nor the road that leads to it.’
His remark stung. ‘Oh, don’t be so logical!’ I said. Until I heard the echoes of the fury with which the words emerged, I hadn’t realized quite how angry I was. Then, to my shame, I felt tears prickle my eyes.
He reached out and took my hand. ‘I apologize,’ he said quietly. ‘I underestimate, perhaps, the distress of the last few days, and the demands it probably made on you.’
Perhaps? Probably? Oh, he had no idea. ‘We almost died, Gurdyman,’ I said, trying to keep my voice level and unemotional. ‘You were very unwell and steadily deteriorating, I had nothing strong enough to treat you, we were nearly out of food, I was sick and had a high fever and—’
‘You were poisoned.’
The coolly-spoken words cut across my increasingly distressed outpourings and at first I didn’t take them in.
Then, in the sudden silence, I heard their echo in my head.
You were poisoned.
‘What?’ In my alarm I wrested my hand free. ‘But there was barely any food left, and what there was we’d been eating for days! And we’d run out of water, so I had to find a stream.’
He nodded. ‘Yes. The poison was in the water with which you topped up our cask.’
‘Was it – was there something bad in it?’ I thought back, trying to picture the scene, trying to recall my own actions. ‘But it was from a narrow little stream that came rushing straight out of the hillside! I tasted it, I did that test you taught me where you put a tiny drop on the lip and wait to see if there is any reaction? Then you—’ He nodded impatiently, and
I realized I was wasting words in repeating to him his own instructions. ‘I was so careful, and I really can’t see how it could have been contaminated.’
‘The water was pure enough,’ he said heavily. ‘Or it was until somebody put poison in it.’
‘But there was nobody there!’ For a moment I was back in the loneliness and the frightening isolation. I stared at him, and I began to read the truth in his face. ‘Somebody was watching us?’ I whispered. ‘Following us? Waiting till we were all alone and vulnerable?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
And then like a blow over the head I remembered my nightmare vision.
The single, huge eye.
And for a heartbeat I heard the summertime drone.
‘I saw something,’ I said. I was speaking so softly that he had to lean closer to hear, but even in that serene place I couldn’t bring myself to say the words aloud. ‘When I was lying out in the open, I thought something was there. A presence, a huge, single eye, and black, shiny talons on the lacings of my gown.’ I fought to control my voice, but I could hear it trembling.
‘What you saw, or thought you saw, might have been the result of the poison,’ Gurdyman said gently.
But I shook my head. ‘Some of it, yes, but there really was someone – something – there,’ I insisted. ‘Besides, whatever it was had the power to put visions in my head, and they were very specific, as if chosen especially for me. I saw—’
I had been about to tell him I’d seen the night when his parents’ inn had burned. That I’d probably witnessed his mother engulfed in flames, his friends and neighbours fighting each other to try to escape out of a narrow doorway and trampled to the ground before they burned. Just in time, I bit the words back.
But I think he knew anyway. He gave a deep sigh and muttered, ‘It is a horror that I too have seen in my mind, too many times.’
