Susan Fletcher - Alphabet of Dreams

by Susan Fletcher

  Next we tended to the donkeys. Koosha drew up skins of water from the qanat as easily as Pacorus had done from the caravansary well, and poured them into calabashes. My gaze seemed to linger upon Koosha of its own accord. He was not tall and willow lean like Pacorus, but sturdy, compressed, like Ardalan and Kouros. I adjusted his age upward. Seventeen, perhaps, or eighteen.

  We combed the donkeys’ manes and tails with our fingers and beat great clouds of dust off their coats with palm fronds kept for that purpose. Babak joined in with gusto. Koosha, I saw, had a gentle way with animals. He lifted their feet and, with a stick, scraped dirt and sand from their hooves; they eyed him trustingly from beneath shaggy brows, and not once did they protest. He checked the smallest donkey’s withers, gently rubbed her knees. “Are you hurting, then, old girl?” he murmured.

  “Old?” I said. “She looks but half grown.”

  “She was sickly small aborning. Too weak to live without coddling. My father craved to put her down quick, but …” He shrugged.

  “Why didn’t he?”

  Koosha grinned at me. “I made quite the plague of myself! Begged. Wheedled. Wept. All manner of rash promises passed my lips. Father let by, thinking to teach me a hard lesson, but he misjudged the flint in me.”

  “So, what did you do?”

  “Fed her day and night, I did, with a teat fashioned from goatskin. Scarce slept a wink for weeks. But in the end she was thriving.”

  “My father would have called that a waste of effort—catering to the weak. She’ll never be the same as the others.”

  Koosha bristled. “So, then! I have two working donkeys I wouldn’t have else, and eleven goats besides. And—though your father’d call it a waste of time to hand-feed a brood of orphaned nestlings—we now have seven more larks in the trees, singing music that’s savage sweet.”

  You and Babak, I thought. Two of a kind. But I held my tongue.

  Koosha showed Babak how to saddle the donkey and stood patiently by as Babak began to fumble with the leather ties. But then the ties slipped from Babak’s hands. His eyes went vacant and a look crossed his face, a look of listening to something no one else could hear. Koosha picked up the ties and was about to return them to him when Babak began to hum in that tuneless, absent way of his.

  Koosha looked at me, questioning.

  “I told you he was ill,” I said, and abruptly turned away.

  “Ill?” Koosha asked. “Perhaps I can help him, help you to heal him. I know how to—”

  “He’s not one of your strays,” I snapped, “and neither am I.”

  Now Babak blinked, looked about him. Koosha shot me a level gaze, then handed Babak the ties and showed him again what to do.

  I felt myself flush. Koosha had meant no harm.

  Still, I didn’t need some rustic telling me how to care for my own brother!

  When Babak had finished saddling the donkey, Koosha laid a hand lightly on his shoulder. He smiled at a droll thing Babak said, and the smile lingered on his mouth while a faraway look gathered in his gray eyes. But he did not look straight at me again that day, even when he spoke to me. Which made it easier somehow—because the tenderness in him pulled at me hard, in a way that was new and strange and unsettling.

  CHAPTER 30

  EYES to SEE

  Pirouz did not take long to find us. He turned up late that day—a cloud of white dust, then two horses, one of them riderless. No Arman. Ardalan motioned Babak and me into the tent. But Pirouz had seen us, Babak and me.

  I felt a flicker of unease about the lie I’d told about Arman, about Babak’s dream.

  I did not hear all of what was said, for the convocation started out quietly. But soon Pirouz was ranting that he would come back with many men to fetch us, and that Ardalan and Kouros and Koosha would live to regret protecting us. Babak huddled against me, trembling.

  I heard only Ardalan reply. He did not shout, but spoke firm and low. And I wondered how these villagers came by such nobility of manner—not deigning to honor Pirouz’s threats with anger or fear—when they had not a drop of noble blood among them.

  In a while I heard hoofbeats, then Ardalan and Koosha entered the tent.

  “Is he gone?” I asked.

  Ardalan nodded. “Aye. For now.”

  I breathed out slowly, released my hold on Babak.

  “There’s one thing puzzling me,” Ardalan said. “This Pirouz. He claims he’s returning you to your father, though he will not tell who your father is. A great nobleman, is all he says.”

  “He lies,” I said. Which was true, at least partly. Pirouz was not returning us to our father.

  “Then, if you’ll pardon my asking, who is your father?”

  I didn’t like lying to him; he deserved better. But if Pirouz hadn’t let drop who we were, best not divulge it myself. I held his gaze, said nothing. Ardalan waited. At last he sighed and said, “And so why did Pirouz steal you from your Magus, then, I’m wondering? Why does he come here to fetch you back?”

  Still I held his gaze.

  Ardalan frowned. He started to say something, then stopped and frowned again, this time to himself, as if deep in thought. He gazed out through the tent opening, across the plain. “So,” he said. “We may yet have seen the last of Pirouz. But watch for him, that we will.” He turned and left the tent.

  Babak crawled into my lap and whimpered softly. I glanced at Koosha. “He’s very young,” I murmured. Though I knew it was more than that. Though I knew there was something soft about Babak, something that could not close itself off against the pain or rage of others and had nothing to do with his age.

  “Don’t apologize for him,” Koosha said. “There isn’t any need.”

  I felt my eyes drawn again to Koosha’s, but I could read no disapproval there. Nor pity, either—that I could not abide. Only a kind of sadness—and a steady strength that warmed me like a drink of good wine.

  On the third night it was Koosha’s turn to stand the early watch. Ardalan offered the tent to Babak and me, but I declined. Babak craved to stay by the fire with Koosha, and it would be good for me to share the duty for once.

  Babak lay with his head in Koosha’s lap; I had to content myself with my brother’s feet. The night was cool but, wrapped in warm wool, I didn’t mind. Silence lay upon the land, broken only by the snap of the fire, a donkey’s groan, the hoot of a nearby night bird. Babak wanted to know about the village where Koosha lived, and he asked a thousand questions—softly, so as not to disturb Ardalan and Kouros in the tent. “Is it a house that you live in or a tent? Do you have servants? Do you have a great stable with horses and ponies? Do you have a well in your courtyard? A fountain?”

  Koosha answered patiently, laughing when Babak asked about servants and horses and fountains. “We’re not of noble blood, Babak. We’ve only ourselves to do our work for us. We’ve sheds for the donkeys and sheepcotes carved out of the mountainsides, but neither horses nor great stables. They’re for finer folk than us. As to wells,” Koosha went on, “we’ve no need of them. There are three springs in the village, and a river flowing beside, with the sweetest water that ever cooled a man’s throat.”

  “Does your father live there with you?” Babak asked. “Does … your mother?”

  I felt the heat of Koosha’s gaze upon me. Perhaps he wondered what had happened to our family, that Babak would ask such a question.

  “Aye,” Koosha said. “They do.”

  “I want to live there,” Babak said. He turned to me. “Can we go to live with Koosha, in his village?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “No, Babak, we have our own ki—” I bethought myself. The less said about our kin, the better. “Think, Babak,” I said, “of the delicious food the Magus gives us—five different kinds of melon. And of the fine leather boots he had made for us, and—”

  “I don’t want to go back to him. I want to go with Koosha!”

  The dreams. He didn’t want to dream for the Magus anymore. Didn’t want to lose hi
mself in that other place he went to—blank eyed, rocking and humming. And I don’t want that for him, I told myself. That dreaming. I don’t! Hadn’t I taken him away from it? Hadn’t I tried?

  Still, giving up on Palmyra, giving up the chance of finding our true kinsmen and the life we were meant to live … That would be losing himself in another way. He couldn’t see it now, but one day he would. Those dreams aren’t truly hurting him, I told myself. Babak would survive.

  But now it seemed I had offended Koosha as well, for he said to Babak, “Tell your brother that though we’re not wealthy—not like your Magus, with his five kinds of melon—there’s nothing in this world like melon grown in mountain air and fresh from the vine. Tell him that in our village there’s fruit and grain and cheese sufficient and to spare for winter and into spring. Tell him that great trays of apricots and grapes are laid out on the roofs, so all through the snowy months we’re tasting summer on our tongues.”

  “Snow …” Babak yawned.

  “Tell your brother it’s a savage lovely thing to live amid mountains garbed in snow, that they catch the light like jewels and dazzle the eye. Tell him that the breath of snow sets the lungs to tingling and the spirit astir. Tell him that our cottage nestles into the lee of the hills, sheltered from the wind, but the winter sun sits warm upon our shoulders as we overlook the valley from our terrace.”

  Babak’s eyelids sagged; his breath came slow and even.

  “Tell your brother,” Koosha said, more softly now, “that the summer breeze goes whispering along the skin of the river. It wicks up the cool of it and sweeps it into every alley, every terrace. Tell him that the hillsides fill to bursting with tender grasses and blooms—savage good grazing for our sheep and goats. Tell him that the sighing of the willows and the rippling of the stream make music more tuneful than any lute you’ve ever heard. And tell your brother”—he turned from Babak, now asleep, and looked straight into my eyes—“that the women of our village crave neither fine leather boots nor robes thick with embroiderings….”

  I felt something leap between us, then all within me went still. At last I tore my gaze from his and looked down at the coat the Magus had provided, the embroidery on the sleeves now soiled and snagged.

  “But they prize softness in cloth,” Koosha went on, “and breathing air sweet with the scent of lemon blossoms, and freedom to stroll about the village as they please.”

  An odd, new, disturbing heat burned in my face. I became aware of his closeness, of the leather-and-animal smell of him. “I did not mean to offend you,” I said in a low voice.

  Koosha nodded, did not reply. The fire snapped. Babak’s feet twitched, but his breathing did not alter.

  I could see it now, this village. Though very different from Susa, it brought to mind the hill country there, where we used to live, before all had gone to ruin. Where you could gaze great distances across the land below. Where there were groves of fruit trees, and gardens lush with flowers, and good things to eat. Where brooks chuckled along beds of rounded stones. Where you had a place, among kin and friends. Where you were looked after. Cherished. And loved.

  My chest opened up. I tipped back my head; the stars shimmered, blurred, swelled into bright, silvery globes that swam before my eyes. I breathed in the sky—all of it—swallowing stars. Something wet my cheeks; I dashed it away.

  “You are no stray to be tamed or broken to a man’s will,” Koosha said, very softly now. “You are entirely yourself, no matter how you hide. I don’t have to know who your father is to know this: The man who takes you to wife will have fire to contend with. He had best like fire.”

  I stared, could not think of a single word to say. At last I protested lamely, “But … but I’m a boy!”

  “Oh, aye,” he murmured. “So you say. But I have eyes to see.”

  CHAPTER 31

  HOW WOULD IT BE?

  I couldn’t sleep that night, haunted by Koosha’s village—the red mudbrick houses nestled against the mountainside, the air perfumed with blossoms, the clear, rippling stream. And Koosha himself, the way he had looked at me. Knew me, it seemed.

  I have eyes to see.

  But no. I would not squeeze down my dreams until they fit inside his wretched village. I would not shape my tongue to the rhythms of his rustic speech.

  I grew hot and threw off my cloak, then grew cold and drew it on, and then grew hot again.

  Palmyra. Our kin, bloodline of kings. That was where we belonged.

  And yet …

  How would it be, I couldn’t help wondering, to cease with struggling and let go of it all—of our hopes of finding Mother and Father and all our noble kin, of my life to come as a highborn lady among the Persians in Palmyra, of Babak’s life to come as a scion of our great line? How would it be to let go of my longing to return one day to Susa, with its fine house and gardens and stables? How would it be to live out our lives and our children’s lives and our children’s children’s lives as mere villagers in the mountains?

  How would it be if Giv did not come?

  But come he did.

  The following morning, under a low roof of clouds painted red with dawn, a dark speck appeared far off against the mountains to the north. It grew until it became a shimmering cloud of dust and sand, and then two moving things separated out: two horses. My heart seized. The Eyes and Ears? But in a moment I saw that only one horse was mounted, the other tethered behind. We five stood before the tent, the three villagers gripping the hilts of their daggers, and watched. The drumming of hoofbeats began to rumble beneath our feet. Pirouz again? Or …

  “Giv,” Babak said. He reached up his hand and slipped it into mine.

  “Yes.” I knew him now from the way he sat his horse—straight upright, but swaying easy in the saddle, like poplar boughs in a breeze.

  A bit of the tautness drained out of the villagers, but they removed neither their eyes from Giv nor their hands from their daggers.

  Something warmed inside me at the sight of him. After these long years of living among people who didn’t care whether we lived or died, it seemed a miracle to have someone who would search so far to rescue us. Even though he had been sent by one who meant to use us. Even though we must betray him again, in time.

  My eyes strayed toward Koosha and caught him gazing at me. Heat rose into my face; I studied the pebbly ground at my feet.

  Giv, all-over gray with dust, greeted Ardalan first, introducing himself as a servant of Melchior. It was only after greeting Kouros and Koosha that Giv turned round to us.

  He scowled, as ever, but his eyes seemed different, as if the hard, wary mask had slipped for a moment. Babak broke away from me and ran, flung himself at Giv, who picked him up and clasped him to his chest. I recalled some bit of gossip I had heard about Giv, that his mother and young brother had been taken by brigands many years before, that he had never seen them again.

  Gently Giv set Babak down. He stepped forward, as if he might embrace me too, but then nodded gravely instead.

  “Will you come in, then?” Ardalan asked him, motioning to the tent.

  Giv ducked inside, followed by Kouros. Koosha began to do the same, but Ardalan stopped him. “Stay here with …” He nodded at Babak and me.

  “Nay, but I must talk to you. To him,” Koosha said, indicating Giv.

  Ardalan’s glance lit upon me so briefly that if I had blinked, I would have missed it. “Very well, then,” he said grudgingly.

  Giv peered out. “See to the horses,” he told me. Trusting me not to ride off with them. For a fleeting moment I imagined leaping onto the back of Giv’s horse, pulling up Babak behind me, and galloping, galloping toward the mountains, through the high passes, down into the great, crescent-shaped river valley Suren had told me of, and across the desert to Palmyra.

  But I fetched water instead, fastening a waterskin to a rope and sending it down into the qanat. Babak followed, peppering me with questions and hope. “What will we do now? Can we go with Koosha to the Villag
e of the Red Mountain? Giv could come too! Can we find Suren and take him there?”

  Suren. A pang seized my heart to hear his name spoken aloud. Could Babak still have hopes of finding Suren?

  “Babak,” I said, “Suren …”

  He turned from me and ran ahead to the horses.

  Perhaps Babak truly didn’t understand about Suren.

  Perhaps he did, but didn’t want to.

  We gathered brush for fodder. The horses nosed through it and ate only the tenderest parts; donkeys would not have been so fussy. I turned again and again toward the tent, wishing I could hear what they were saying, wondering what was taking them so long.

  And Koosha. What did he want with Giv?

  The man who takes you to wife …

  In time the tent flap rose and the men filed out. Each glanced at me in turn—Giv first, then Ardalan, Kouros, and Koosha—but I could not fathom the meaning of their looks. Giv took his leave, giving thanks to the villagers for their hospitality and many kindnesses. Then he turned to us and gruffly said, “Come.” Babak let out a wail. Giv scooped him up and set him upon his horse.

  So. It was back to the Magus.

  Of course, this is the only way, I thought, as I mounted the second horse and turned it to follow Giv and Babak. Of course Melchior would not give up Babak, and Babak needed me, and anyhow, to sever him from me would be the same as lopping off one of my hands, one of my feet.

  So.

  When the caravan ceased going west, we would escape somehow and make our own way to Palmyra.

  It was better this way. Koosha and his people were rustics. Lowborn. We would find our own kin, and the lives we were meant to live.

  I did not look at Koosha as I passed him. I didn’t intend to look back, either, and yet I did after we had gone a little way. Something pulled at me, forced me to turn.

  Ardalan and Kouros, I saw, had returned to the tent.

  But Koosha stood gazing after us, alone on the wide plateau.