The Lotus and the Wind

by John Masters

  He thought again of Selim Beg’s last message. ‘Horses, north.’ Sooner or later Muralev would go north, where the empty plains were.

  He said, ‘Turfan, saddle up. We’ll go back to Bukhara.’

  CHAPTER 14

  They re-entered Bukhara late in the evening, lodged in a different serai, and for two days did not venture out before dark. They had sold the donkeys in Karshi and burned the Muralevs’ boxes on the trailside.

  If Jagbir was right the Muralevs would also return to Bukhara, there, presumably, to pick up the threads of whatever they had been doing before they decided to deal with the British agents. Robin kept watch on their house, but they did not return, and after five days he became so worried that he determined to ask the servant directly what had happened. He had to know where the Muralevs were. They might easily have gone north--to Samarkand or Tashkent--without coming through Bukhara at all.

  In the house a light shone upstairs. Robin called and called again, and at last the pompous Turki servant came to the door. His eyes and the filthy disorder of his dress told Robin that the Muralevs were not here. The servant, tormented by the dying fumes of hashish, snapped, ‘Well?’

  ‘Where are your masters? We were attacked by bandits and had to split up. Afterwards I could not find them again, so returned here.’

  ‘They’re not back.’ The man glared at him with large eyes and held the doorjamb to support himself. ‘You’re lying! You’ve murdered them!’

  ‘Shut up, fool! Would I come here if I had? The donkey with their boxes was lost in the sandstorm. I wish to explain to them. Come to me in the serai by the Mir-Arab mosque when they return.’

  He left the house and went back to Jagbir, suppressing a desire to run. Surely the servant would suspect something? The fellow would not be an agent himself, probably, but he might have orders to report to the chief Russian official here if anything untoward happened to the Muralevs. Then the Amir’s soldiers would come out hunting.

  At the serai he said to Jagbir, ‘We’ve got to go. You stocked up the food, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yesterday. Where are we going?’

  ‘Samarkand.’

  They set off on the Golden Road to Samarkand, a hundred and twenty miles away. Now, towards the end of September, the air at night carried a breath of the hard winter lying in wait on the steppes. The fevers that had hidden themselves during the summer crept out, and Jagbir’s teeth rattled, and at night he lay sweating, wearing all his clothes and some of Robin’s. In the morning the travellers at the camp sites coughed much and were taken by unusual stiffness and thought aloud that they were getting old.

  Every day Robin watched the road ahead for the Muralevs, but he did not see them. On the fifth evening he came with Jagbir to Samarkand. The routine began again--of talking, drinking tea, listening. Here the air was fresher than in Bukhara and the city incomparably more beautiful. The turquoise cupola of Tamerlane’s tomb hung like a vision above Robin’s fretful comings and goings. In the evenings he said his prayers in a street where he could see it. A cold wind blew off the Zarafshan at night, and in the daytime, from a minaret, he could see the mountains. Here Alexander had murdered his special companion, Cleitus. Where was Peter Muralev?

  He devised the plan of mentioning in his conversations that two Russians had bilked him of his dues farther south--a man and a woman. He described them angrily. Had any one seen them? He would like to find them and force them to pay what they, kafirs, owed him, a believer. It was in vain. Neither in Samarkand by the Zarafshan nor in the desert caravanserais had anyone seen or heard of the Muralevs. There was news of other Russians. They were moving up and down this road in increasing numbers, soldiers and civilians, but there was never mention of a woman. No one could ever mistake Lenya Muralev for a man, whatever clothes she wore.

  Still searching north-eastwards, he came to Jizak in a bitter rain. The wind blew drops like spears into his face. A rock defile funnelled it as it screamed in from the Hungry Steppe and whistled through the desolation of what had once been a great city. Here Alexander had stood and made his final decision--to go on or to go back. Bombastic petty conquerors, passing this way, had carved their fame in the rock and were forgotten. He had written nothing, and had retreated, but was remembered. The steppe stretched away, as black and empty as dreams of death, beyond the town.

  Alexander died at last, without finding what he was looking for. If here, at Jizak, he had gone on, what would he have found in the north? This road led to Andijan, to the enclosed Farghana, which Baber had loved. There were horses there, the best in the world. But the season was far advanced, the horse-traders were winging south like swallows, and Peter Muralev had not passed this way. Slowly Robin blinked his eyes, turned his back, and went to find shelter for the night.

  He hurried back to Bukhara. If the Muralevs had not continued south after the affair with the bandits, and if he had not been able to find any trace of them in the northeast, they must have gone north-west, to Khiva. Khiva was the third of the world’s three forbidden cities--Lhasa, Mecca, Khiva. He would inquire again in Bukhara before setting out.

  When he saw the towers and minarets of Bukhara rise out of the surrounding orchards, the sun was high. When he came close to the walls the sun was low, and a furious red sky hung above the city. Citizens strolled, talking, on top of the thirty-foot walls. Soldiers stood guard at the gates. A string of camels and horses marched out of one gate as they approached it, and at once turned right on to the Karshi road. Robin recognized the Powindah who had sent him to the Muralevs, riding a short-barrelled grey stallion. It would soon be dark, but sometimes the caravans left at this hour to march through the night, if they knew the road. The Powindah was a link; perhaps he was an enemy too, but that didn’t matter now. Robin raised his hand and shouted across the hundred yards of intervening wasteland, ‘Starrai mashe!’

  The Powindah looked, swung the little stallion, and galloped across to him. When he was close he muttered, ‘Join me at once. Do not argue. Perhaps the guards at the gate have not yet noticed you.’

  Robin gestured to Jagbir, and they turned left, joined the Powindah’s party, and began to move away from the city. Robin said quietly, ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘The Amir’s jackals are after you for helping those Russians travel in forbidden territory. Of course there was always that risk, you knew that when you took the--?’

  Robin said absently, ‘Yes, of course. Are those two in Bukhara?’

  ‘No. They came in not long ago, then left again. Deported, it was said, but of course they weren’t really. Anyway, they’ve gone.’

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘I didn’t hear--but if you didn’t meet them on the road from Samarkand they must have gone to Khiva.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ve got to get into the city. I need food and fodder.’

  ‘For the sake of Allah, don’t go! I’ll give you a few sacks.’ A mile farther on the Powindah halted the caravan and handed over the food, brusquely refusing payment. When all was again reloaded and they were ready to part, Robin said, ‘Again, thank you, and may God guide your footsteps.’ He watched until the caravan disappeared in the gathering twilight. He did not know what the Powindah’s role was, if he had one, but the man certainly arrived at the most opportune moments and with the most useful information.

  It was dark. Until dawn Robin and Jagbir stumbled westward through the gardens surrounding the city. In the earliest light they found a hiding-place among a wilderness of tamarisk scrub and settled down to pass the day. There was no water nearby, so they set out again as soon in the evening as they dared, ate and drank beside a branch of the Zarafshan, and once more faced the road to Khiva, two hundred and fifty miles away.

  The road ran for most of the distance beside the Oxus, and the horses found good grazing. In the silence between the river and the desert Robin was content, and on the tenth day, early in November, they reached Khiva.

  In these heartlands of civilization each city h
ad grown a spirit distinctly its own. The greatest tides of history had rolled over them, from the China Sea to the gates of Vienna, from Xanadu to the Nile. The cities had faced history and been moulded by it into different forms. Bukhara was secretive, Samarkand gracious, Balkh a desiccated and squalid resentment. Now Khiva confronted them, and Robin saw a dark, cruel, closed city. The walls were high and thick, the gates tall and narrow. In the streets the citizens scowled narrowly at each other.

  The familiar routine began. Horses? Two, three days in succession he asked his questions. Nothing. The Muralevs? He began to feel the presence of a rumour, and behind that a fact. The town contained more Russians than Bukhara, so the Muralevs ought, by logic, to have been less remarked. But he became sure that they had been seen here. It was the woman the Khivans had noticed. The Russians were not allowed to bring their families here, yet everyone knew that Russian women did come to Khiva. The Russians smuggled them in occasionally, and the Khivan’s expressions showed what sort of women they were. Among all this there was talk of a different woman. If she existed, she had been here ten days ago. The gossipers thought she had gone. They were not sure. She might still be living somewhere in the gloomy recesses of the city. They did not know, because she was different and because the Russians did not make a trail to her door every night.

  The fourth morning, as he and Jagbir passed down one of Khiva’s sunless alleys, a roughly-dressed Turki pressed past them from behind. As he drew abreast of Robin he said quietly, ‘The Khan’s men are coming for you to-night. What’s that worth?’ He had his hand out, palm up, at his side. Robin heard, said, ‘A lot,’ and began to fumble for money. Before he could get at it the man drew away ahead, Jagbir pushing hard on his heels. Thirty yards on, the stranger and Jagbir turned into a side lane that was no more than a slit between neighbouring houses. Robin followed them and saw that Jagbir held a knife, concealed against his body, pressed to the stranger’s ribs.

  Jagbir said, ‘Ask him, why does he tell us?’

  Robin realized then that he had to know the answer to that question. If this had been the first case of the sort he might have accepted it as good fortune. But now Jagbir had awakened old nagging suspicions about the other times. Why had the Powindah sought him out in the beginning? Why had not the Muralevs been more careful before engaging him? Why had the Powindah been there at the gate of Bukhara, ready to warn him and deflect him from danger? Singly, each incident was nothing. Together--he felt a bit in his mouth and the pressure of reins on his neck. Jagbir, the animal, had felt them earlier.

  The Turki was angry and not frightened. He said, ‘That’s a grateful bastard of a Persian horse-trader for you! We’re all enemies of the Russians, aren’t we? I overhear something, I’m a ditch-digger in the Khan’s gardens, why shouldn’t I earn some money by telling you, in the name of Allah? A patrol of the Amir of Bukhara’s cavalry came in yesterday to take you back.’

  ‘Why should the Khan of Khiva obey the orders of the Amir of Bukhara?’

  ‘They both have to do what the Russians tell them, don’t they? By God, I don’t think your life’s worth a snap of the fingers, but I thought you would.’

  ‘Put up your knife, Turfan,’ Robin said slowly. He gave the Turki ten roubles, and the man went away, scowling and muttering. His story made sense in every particular; standing by itself, it could not be faulted--only it came on top of all the others. But they had no choice now. They had to get out. Jagbir had long since restocked with food and fodder.

  In the serai Robin said, ‘How are we going to pass through the gates? They’re closely guarded.’

  ‘Only one sentry on each. He’s asleep on his feet from two till four--all the ones I’ve seen. We ought to go separately. They’ll be looking for two of us together if they’re looking at all. I don’t think they will be.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If that Turki’s lying, they want us to escape. So they won’t try and stop us. If he’s not, they still won’t warn all the soldiers in town. Only the troop, who are going to arrest us will be told. Half these people would give us the news at once, for money.’

  In the drowsy afternoon they passed through the south gate, Robin half an hour before Jagbir. The sentry dozed against the wall, his eyes hardly open. It was impossible to tell which of Jagbir’s suspicions was correct. Having met again, a mile outside the walls, they moved on until nightfall, stopped, and built a fire. The fire crackled, and they huddled close over it. The dry, biting cold of the deserts to north, south, east, and west crept in as far as the edge of the fire and touched their backs to make them shiver, while their faces glowed in the heat. They had ten days’ food for themselves, and perhaps six for the horses, not including whatever grazing they could find.

  Robin knew where he was going. He could not go back to Bukhara, south-east down the Oxus. Northward lay Russia proper; Khussro the Persian and Turfan the Hazara would be conspicuous there, and the advancing season would shortly bind the land in snow. But southward across the Kara Kum--which meant ‘Black Desert’--lay the Akkal oasis and the new town the jeweller of Balkh had talked of. From there he might go up and down the Russian centre route of invasion, or he might go on south and look at the southern route. The Akkal would be about two hundred and seventy miles away, and the direction south by west.

  Before light they loaded up the patient horses. The black wind hissed steadily from hidden horizon to hidden stars. No road existed. Travellers marched by the wind, by the stars when they shone, by the sun and the tattered prayer flags on the graves of those who had died. They steered by the arched bones of dead camels, by the green brilliance of grass at a waterhole, by the very hostility of the desert, which closed in more fiercely about them, and so made known their mistake, as soon as they left the right path.

  The hours drew past, one behind the other. The ponies plodded ever more slowly, pace by pace. The sun swung across the sky in front of them but seemed not to move until the evening came, when it dropped down into the earth like a monstrous ball. Before dark they halted in the shelter of a horseshoe dune and off-saddled. Nothing marked the place but the dune, one among a thousand like it, and a single leather sandal, corroded with sand, desiccated and brittle as a cracker. They gave the ponies water from the skins and drank a little themselves, and set out to collect fuel. Stunted saxaul and calligonium grew on the dune, trying vainly to bind it to the earth against the thrust and drag of the wind. The wind blew without cease from north-west to south-east.

  So went the next day, when they came to a waterhole, a grey depression in the dark soil, its water so muddy and saline that the ponies would not drink.

  And the next, when they found no water and camped again in the lee of a dune.

  They rode on broad reaches of baked clay, across ridge after ridge of grey-black sand, over walking dunes that moved with the wind. There were sand waves seventy feet high and four hundred feet apart that rolled ahead for as far as they could see. There were tamarisk and artemisia and the withered leaves of spring tulips--and, for miles on end, there was nothing.

  On the third evening two men mounted on camels came rolling up out of the south, like ships under bare masts. They were desert nomads and as they came close they stopped, but at a wary distance. Robin shouted the Turki greeting and discharged his rifle in the air. Jagbir did the same; then the nomads. So, when the four rifles were empty and the four-sharply watching pairs of eyes had seen no one attempt to reload, they all came together.

  ‘Where to?’ asked one of the strangers, perched on the rear hump of a hairy, thickset Bactrian.

  ‘The Akkal. Is the water on the road good?’

  ‘Bad enough. But passable unless the two Franks and their train in front have emptied the wells.’

  ‘Franks?’ Robin asked. ‘Are they men of peace? Is it safe to close with them? We travel fast.’

  ‘They seem harmless. They are mad--birdcatchers--one a woman, as bold-faced as her they call the Well, in Khiva. With bigger breasts too, but no har
lot for all that. They are a day ahead.’

  A day ahead. Jagbir would suggest catching up with them and shooting them. That wouldn’t do any good. Besides, Jagbir must not be allowed to shoot Muralev. Robin thought slowly, his lips burning, his eyes swollen and red-rimmed. He could continue to follow, as he was doing. But if the Muralevs increased their pace he might lose them. Or if the Muralevs slowed down he’d run into them unawares. He said carefully, ‘Those two Franks--I fear we know them. We had a little difficulty with them in Bukhara. They say we stole some trash of theirs. Is there another way to the Akkal?’

  ‘There is and there isn’t. A couple of miles on from here you come on a flat place of clay. There is a flag where Uluz my uncle died of fever, may he rest in peace. The true road goes straight across the flat, but if you bear left at the flag and cross the high sand ridge, there you come to a wide plain. Sometimes we go that way with camels. There are four oases, a long way apart, and then you reach Bezmein in the Akkal oasis.’

  ‘Is it shorter than the other way?’

  ‘By twenty miles. But at this season not a soul lives in any of those oases. Our people have gone south. There may be water at some, there may be no water. The stages are forty and fifty miles each.’

  When the nomads had gone, floating north over the sand sea, Robin said to Jagbir, ‘We must take this other road. We may die of thirst and exhaustion.’

  He wanted to explain the risks to his servant and friend and ask him whether he wished to turn back. Like a dog, Jagbir felt his need before he could express it in words. The Gurkha carefully scanned the empty desert, assured himself that the nomads were indeed a mile away and receding fast, then muttered, ‘Hawas, huzoor!’--the Gurkhali phrase that accepts an order. A minute later he added, ‘Natra, kya garun?’--What else can we do?