We must, gestured Ragoczy Franciscus reluctantly, and nudged his mare off the trail toward the cabin.
“Yes. The animals need treatment before they tie up or take Black Sores,” said Rojeh.
Ragoczy Franciscus made no response as they neared the cabin. A short distance from the place, he dismounted and led his horse and mule on foot. At the door he stopped to take stock of the cabin and its surroundings. Noticing a little creek near the rear of the cabin, he led his mare and mule there to drink, and when they had, he went back to the cabin and forced the door open, stepping inside with his two animals. He signaled to Rojeh, Water. Come in.
“My animals, too,” Rojeh said, just to be sure.
Yes. All in.
The interior was cramped, but there were sleeping shelves around the walls that accommodated more than twenty grown men and women; these were separated by stanchions to which chains could be locked. Deliberately ignoring the purpose for which all this was intended, Ragoczy Franciscus knelt down to look at the gashes that the dog had made in his mare’s hide; the injuries were fairly superficial, but they had bled steadily for some little while, which troubled Ragoczy Franciscus. He took his blue roan’s lead and knotted it to one of the stanchions in the wall. Then he led the mule to the other side of the cabin and tied it to another of the stanchions before removing his small chest of medicaments from the pack saddle. He opened it and took out his longest needle, threaded it with twisted silk, and went to stitch the mare’s cuts closed.
“At least this looks deserted,” Rojeh said as he came in with his spotted horse and mule; he secured his horse and his mule to stanchions, saying as he did, “If the slavers are coming, they won’t be here until late in the spring, and by the look of it, no one else has used the cabin.”
No, Ragoczy Franciscus agreed as he set his last stitch. He patted his mare’s neck to reassure her, then took a jar of ointment from his case and smeared a generous amount of the odd-smelling compound over the closed gashes. “Which of your animals is—” he said in an undervoice.
“The mule. One of the dogs got to his on-side fore pastern and cannon bone,” Rojeh said. “He’s been bleeding most of the way here, and favoring his foot.” He caught the sharp look Ragoczy Franciscus gave him. “Yes. Between your mare and this mule, there’s a clear path any hungry hunter could follow.”
“Wolves,” Ragoczy Franciscus whispered. “Or tigers.”
“I’m afraid so,” said Rojeh, stepping aside to allow Ragoczy Franciscus sufficient room to kneel down and examine the slashes; the mule cocked his hoof and gave a dispirited kick before allowing Ragoczy Franciscus to touch the messy wounds that were still oozing blood. “Is there any risk of Black Sores?” This possibility distressed Rojeh as much as his worries about predators.
Ragoczy Franciscus turned his palms up to show he had no answer to offer. He brought his case next to the mule and squatted down again, brushed the wound clean with a bit of cotton bandage, then brought out his needle again, threaded it, and set to work. When he finished, he dressed the injuries with the same ointment he had used on his mare, then wrapped a bandage around the pastern and up the leg, tying it off with care. As he got to his feet, he managed to murmur, “I will dose all four of them.”
“With the sovereign remedy? Do you think it will be enough?” Rojeh asked.
“I hope so,” Ragoczy Franciscus said silently, and removed two vials from the case.
Rojeh started to unload the pack saddles, but had trouble making a place for the chests, cases, and crates in the confines of the cabin. He finally put most of the items on the sleeping shelves, thus leaving the four animals a small amount of room to move. As he reached for his grooming supplies, Ragoczy Franciscus came back into the cabin. “How was the exploring?”
Ragoczy Franciscus sat down on the chest of his native earth, patting the cover with affection. Rest, he signaled, and rubbed his eyes. Midafternoon.
“Midafternoon it is,” said Rojeh. “You can deal with the animals then.”
When he had finished with the horses and mules, Rojeh left the cabin to hunt for something to eat. He found what he sought in a large hare, which he killed, gutted, and skinned before going back to the cabin, where he sat on a stump where he could watch the door, and sliced collops of meat from the skeleton, eating them off the blade of his knife; when he was done, he carried the bones a fair distance from the cabin to discourage predators. Then he went to wake Ragoczy Franciscus and to get some rest of his own.
Ragoczy Franciscus rose promptly and motioned his Thank you as soon as he got to his feet. He had benefited from the respite from the sun, and he was no longer weighed down with exhaustion. You fed. There was approval and a tinge of wistfulness in his demeanor.
“Yes. I caught a hare; thin and stringy, but still satisfactory,” said Rojeh.
Very good. Looking down at the chest on which he had slept, he said without sound, “When this is gone, I will have to move only at night.”
“I’ve thought about that,” said Rojeh. “I believe there are ways to accommodate your problem. Think how we have managed before. What we did then—”
“My throat was not cut,” Ragoczy Franciscus breathed.
“No, but we can try some of the same methods, if we plan carefully.” He broke off, recalling what had happened the last time Ragoczy Franciscus had endured long hunger.
Good, Ragoczy Franciscus gestured, then left Rojeh to nap while he did his various chores. When Ragoczy Franciscus was done, he began to saddle the animals, beginning with the mules. He had time enough to balance the loads they carried, and to adjust and tighten the ropes, thongs, and nets that held their chests, crates, casks, and cases in place. Next, he saddled Rojeh’s spotted stallion, and last, he saddled his blue roan mare and gave each animal a small amount of grain to eat.
Rojeh came awake without prompting and went to check the buckles on his horse’s bridle. “I don’t know why I always do this.”
“Habit,” Ragoczy Franciscus said with his lips.
“Certainly; habit.” Rojeh untied the leads of his mule and then his horse.
Yes, said Ragoczy Franciscus, leading his horse and mule to the door.
“We should be able to ride until after sundown; there are no clouds in the sky, and the moon should be bright.” He was immediately behind Ragoczy Franciscus.
“We will not be the only creatures abroad tonight,” Ragoczy Franciscus warned, raising his voice to a soft mutter, then coughing from the strain of it.
“No, probably not,” said Rojeh as he put his foot in the iron foot-loop and swung up into the saddle.
Ragoczy Franciscus mounted and came up next to Rojeh. “I smelled smoke earlier,” he whispered.
“Not fire?” said Rojeh at once.
“Oh, fire, most certainly,” Ragoczy Franciscus murmured. “But not a wild one.”
“You mean there are others in this part of the forest, perhaps on the same trail,” said Rojeh.
“I cannot say,” Ragoczy Fanciscus whispered. “But be vigilant.”
“I am, my master.” Rojeh put his hand on the hilt of his shimtare.
I know, Ragoczy Franciscus signed, and moved ahead, his dark-seeing eyes unhampered by the lengthening shadows.
Dusk had given way to night by the time they found the shepherd’s hut at the edge of the trail, a market sign painted in badly faded blue on the side of the building, indicating it was intended for those driving sheep to be sold. It had a good-sized fold behind the hut, and a water trough that was full to overflowing by a long flume from a spring up the hill. By the smell of it, it had been used fairly recently.
“It looks sound enough for a night,” said Rojeh as he rode up to the hut.
Not certain, Ragoczy Franciscus gestured; he sat very still, listening intently. Something, he signaled. Close.
“Men or creatures?” Rojeh asked, paying close attention to the gathering night.
Both, came the gestured response.
“All
the more reason for us to be careful,” said Rojeh, raising his voice so it would carry to anything or anyone lurking nearby.
A loud rustling from the undergrowth suggested a night hunter—perhaps a fox or wild cat or a badger—had hurried away; the crackling of twigs marked its progress into the deeper forest.
More danger, Ragoczy Franciscus indicated.
“You mean the woods are too quiet?” Rojeh listened.
“We are being followed,” Ragoczy Franciscus whispered.
“For how long?”
Forcing himself to speak as loudly as he could, Ragoczy Franciscus said, “Since we left the slavers’ cabin.”
“Are you sure?” Rojeh looked about in alarm.
Yes. Very. He pointed off toward the hut. Trap.
Although Rojeh did not share Ragoczy Franciscus’ apprehension, he pulled his horse back a few steps. “Then let us go on. Night or no night, it is better to stay out of a trap than to have to get out of one.”
Ragoczy Franciscus gave the sign of agreement and managed to say, “It is dangerous here.”
“Then we’ll press on,” said Rojeh, and held his horse back so Ragoczy Franciscus could take the lead.
Ragoczy Franciscus got his horse and mule moving again. For the next two leagues the night continued to be unnaturally quiet; once an owl had flown over them, hooting softly, and once they heard the yipping cry of a fox, but other than that the night might as well have been deserted, a constant reminder that the two travelers were not alone on the trail. Finally Ragoczy Franciscus signaled a halt, saying, “The road divides ahead.”
“Are both branches well-used?” Rojeh asked.
“They appear so.” His voice was no louder than a purr, and he had to repeat himself twice before Rojeh heard everything he said.
“South could lead to Pityus and the Caucasus Mountains. Continuing west should bring us to the Sea of Azov,” said Rojeh.
Yes. Which way? The movements were exaggerated to allow Rojeh to see them plainly.
“The mountains near Pityus are said to be full of robbers and brigands,” Rojeh said slowly, following his own thoughts. “But if the weather improves, we might be able to take a ship—” He stopped as Ragoczy Franciscus held up his hand and pointed to his chest of native earth. “Oh. Yes, that is a problem if we travel by water.” He nodded to the right-hand branch. “Then I suppose we should go on to the Don and overland from there,” he said as they moved on.
About midnight, Ragoczy Franciscus drew rein and gestured in the direction of a wood-stockaded compound; in the pale wash of moonlight, Rojeh could hardly distinguish it from the trees surrounding it; only the dome of the central church was identifiable as a structure apart from the trees. “Is it occupied?”
“By monks,” Ragoczy Franciscus said quietly. “There is incense on the air, and someone is chanting one of Saint Ambrose’s.”
“Do you think it is safe to go there?” Rojeh glanced back over his shoulder as if expecting to see hordes of outlaws descending on them with drawn weapons at the ready. “If they are chanting, I reckon they must be cenobites.”
A chain with a pull on the end of it hung down next to the small gateway into the stockade; Ragoczy Franciscus tugged on it and was rewarded with an unmusical clunk from a pot-metal bell. There was no immediate response, so he rang a second time and heard the chanting falter, and a short while later, a wizened face appeared in a crude slide-back window, and the monk stared out.
Rojeh decided to speak up; choosing Byzantine Greek as the most likely language for mutual understanding, he reverenced the monk and began, “I am Rojeh of Gades, and I and my companion, Ragoczy Franciscus, merchant, are traveling west. We have need of a place to stop for the night, to rest our horses and mules, and to see they are given water, and feed, if that is possible.”
“I am Brother Dorus,” he answered. “And this is the Monastery of the Ascendant Christ.”
“Undoubtedly a protected place, and one where travelers may rest without fear,” said Rojeh.
Brother Dorus hesitated. “I must warn you that we have Lice Fever here. May God spare us from His Wrath.”
“Amen,” said Rojeh.
When Ragoczy Franciscus remained quiet, Brother Dorus stared at him. “He does not say ‘amen’?”
By now, Rojeh had an answer. “We have had a most difficult journey, and because of the many losses we have had, he will not speak until he is safely at the home of his fathers.”
“A pious act,” said Brother Dorus, “if he has remained faithful to it.”
“It is as if his throat had been cut,” said Rojeh with a quick glance at Ragoczy Franciscus, his face revealing nothing, as Ragoczy Franciscus reverenced the monk.
“Do you have weapons?” Brother Dorus asked.
“Only those any prudent travelers would carry,” said Rojeh.
“You must surrender them as you enter, or we may not receive you,” said Brother Dorus.
“We will not serve you ill,” Rojeh said.
“We will give you a place to sleep and provide food and drink for your creatures, in the Name of Christ,” said Brother Dorus, at last opening the gate. “You may give your weapons to Brother Acacius as you enter.” He nodded toward another monk, whose face was obscured by the massive cloud of his beard. “You will be given them back when you leave.”
Rojeh began to unbuckle his shimtare’s scabbard from the saddle, and to reach for the dagger in the back of his belt. “You are kind to receive strangers.”
“Thus do we serve God,” said Brother Acacius. “In the hope that we may extend our hospitality to angels, unaware.”
Text of a letter from the Apostle Gideon of Kuldja-and-Almalyk to the Apostle. Jude at Cambaluc, carried by a clan of Turks and delivered two months after the Apostle Jude’s death from Wet Lungs.
To the pious and worthy Apostle Jude at Cambaluc, the Apostle Gideon of Kuldja-and-Almalyk sends his greetings and blessings, with the assurances that our work goes on here in spite of the many difficulties that continue to confront us, for which perseverance God be thanked, for it brings us nearer to our Crowns in Heaven. In this time as we remember the trials of Christ, so may we accept our burdens in His Name, for the glory that is to come.
It is fortunate that the Turks bearing this message are bound to the East, for they are the first clan to travel that direction in over a year, and there has been so little trade in this region that bound either east or west, merchants have not been seen for a very long time. I have not been able to spare any couriers of late, either, and so I have almost no news beyond what has transpired here to offer you, as I hope you will send me word of your apostlary and congregation when you can rely upon the good offices of travelers bound to the West.
The winter is still holding on here, although not with the ferocity it had shown last year at this time, when Yellow Snow still fell, and the cold continued for most of the summer. This year there is yellow in the snow, but not as last year, and the cold may break a little sooner, all of which is most welcome to us, and for which we offer many prayers of thanksgiving to God, and His Son. The people of Almalyk have also been preyed upon by many robbers and other desperate men who are not redeemed through Christ, and many good Christians have lost their remaining goods and their lives to these desperate companies of unsettled people.
I have ordered our apostlary here expanded to provide shelter and protection to our increasing numbers, for it was not adequate to the needs of the many who have joined our faith, accepting Christ as their Savior, and Confessing, in the hope of Heaven. We have had fewer trains of traders with lumber and skins, as well as a shortage of brick makers. This has meant that our expansion has been slow, and what we had wanted to have ready by this Season of Resurrection will not be completed until late in the summer and that is assuming our region suffers no more calamities, and that fevers do not reduce the number of our workers still more.
For myself, I am always tired, although I am ashamed to say it, for God has not
taxed me with the afflictions He has imposed upon others. My thoughts are sometimes muddled as I try to maintain all that must be kept up for the Christians here. I pray and pray for God to help me keep my mind clear, and I ask for the patience to find my way in this perilous time to the haven Christ has made for us. I ask for your prayers and your strength to sustain me, and those who have come to me for the succor of faith, that they will be preserved from my sins, and if I err, it shall not endanger them.
Food continues to be in short supply, and many of the poorer people have starved this last winter, some of them unto death, others only into illness and lethargy, which may in time prove fatal. For this we have provided burial for any who seek it, conversion not being required. There are some who oppose this and say it is lax in us to do this, but I am minded to recall that God is the Judge, not Man, and because of that, I believe it is incumbent upon us, as a sign of Grace, to do all that we may to ease the suffering of those around us, in Christ’s Name, and for the triumph of our faith.
If you know of any traders in wood who might be seeking buyers for their logs, tell them that we here in Almalyk have need of logs and boards for our apostlary. In Kuldja, I have appointed Esaias to act as Apostle there until my return; he has proved himself capable and worthy of such a post, and the people of Kuldja hold him in high regard. As soon as the compound here is complete, I will return to Kuldja and take up my position there again. When I am about to leave Almalyk, I will inform you of my plans again, so that if there is any task that may be done to our common benefit while traveling, it will be done.
May God raise you up, may He sustain you in this time of tribulation, may He give your wife many healthy sons, and may He welcome you in Paradise when your life here is done. In this the 537th year of Man’s Salvation, in the Fortnight of the Old Mountain Winds. Amen.
Jude
Apostle of Kuldja-and-Almalyk
5
As the junction port of the Sea of Azov and the Don River, Sarkel was far from prepossessing, being a partially walled settlement with a hodgepodge of wharves and warehouses on the southeastern bank where the Don emptied into the sea, and a cluster of brick-sided, wood-topped buildings collected behind them, with three market-squares, just now every one of them empty but for a few local hunters and farmers displaying their offerings to wary townspeople. Under a gray sky, the promise of spring seemed to have vanished, leaving behind a dejected air over the whole region.
Saint-Germain 18: Dark of the Sun: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 45
