The Walking Drum (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  Pouring some into my empty cup, I drank, and over the edge of the cup I closed one eye at her. She put her chin up and flounced away.

  “I shall stay the night,” I told Akim.

  “All right,” he said mildly, and I was wise enough to be afraid.

  Akim was no coward, and he had a half-dozen men to help him, but he was accustomed to fear. In the old days he would have met my challenge at once, but he had been spoiled by the fear of those around him, and the idea of facing again a man who was unafraid took some getting used to.

  For me the bold way was the only way. Had I come to the valley in fear, I would be dead by now.

  As for Sharasa, I had no time for dalliance even should such be possible. Yet she was such a woman as could topple kingdoms and lay dukedoms in the dust. Given her presence and manner, with the proper clothing…

  Akim got suddenly to his feet and strode from the room. I remained, finishing my goat’s milk.

  Sharasa came quickly. “You must go! He intends to kill you! I know him!”

  “Even with your hair uncombed and in that rag of a dress,” I told her, “you are more beautiful than any princess, and I have seen a few.”

  She flushed, and unconsciously, a hand pushed at her hair. “I haven’t—I mean there’s nobody—” She fled from the room.

  A few days ago I had been in prison, expecting to be strangled, yet I had escaped. By now half of Spain was searching for me or aware of my disappearance.

  Too often had death brushed me closely. I had faced it in the Castle of Othman and again on the sheer face of the cliff. Now each moment of life was a moment stolen from eternity. I wished to live, and tonight Akim planned for me to die.

  Sharasa could be trouble, yet a woman worth having must be fought for, or stolen.

  Akim returned to the room putting a fresh bottle on the table. “More wine?”

  Cheerfully, I reached around the bottle to the flagon Sharasa had brought earlier. He liked it none at all, but said nothing.

  The others came in then, and Sharasa returned. Despite their animosity they were hungry for news, so I told them of Córdoba and Yusuf’s plans to rid the country of banditry.

  The various governments of Moorish Spain had been until this time unanimously tolerant, accepting Christians and Jews alike and allowing them to practice their religion. Visigoths who owned land were permitted to keep it, paying only a small tax.

  The Almohads, mostly Berbers from North Africa, a strong white people long resident there, were a strict, fanatical lot, and Moorish Spain was changing under their control. Yet there continued to flower there a brilliant society alive with creativity.

  Only in the Athens of Pericles, the Alexandria of a few centuries later, the Gupta period in India, or that great Tamil renaissance from 300 B.C. to A.D. 300 had there been such a period as now existed in Moorish Spain.

  The Arab mind, deprived of any but casual contact with the world of art and intellect until after the time of Mohammed, was an infinitely curious and acquisitive mind, and the Arabs fell upon knowledge, the science and skills of the Persians and the Central Asiatics, as rapaciously as they had fallen on their enemies with the sword.

  Under the caliphs of Islam, scholars were honored as never in the world’s history except, possibly, for some periods in China. This was true in Baghdad and Damascus, in Tashkent and Timbuctoo, in Shiraz, Samarkand, and Córdoba.

  Yet now, in this lonely valley in the hills of Spain, I came for the first time to really appreciate the power of the spoken word. So far the sword had been my weapon, and I had not learned that wit and wisdom are keys to open any door, win the heart of any woman.

  There is power in the word whether written or spoken, for words can create images for those who have not themselves seen.

  Carried away, for when was a Celt not eloquent?—I spoke of Cádiz, of Seville and Córdoba. I spoke of the crowded streets, the bazaars, the women, the clothing, the weapons. I spoke of sword dancers and jugglers, of the magic of color, lights, and beauty. The candles smoked and the hours drew on, but all sat spellbound.

  And I? I was the captive of my audience, yet not eager to escape, knowing that with every word I made myself more secure, and with every word doors opened wider.

  Of the Court of Oranges I told them, of parks hung with bronze lanterns, and I wove with my words a tapestry that all could see. I told them of the Great Mosque with its twenty-one archways decorated with terra cotta mosaics in red and yellow, of doors covered with burnished brass, of the fourteen hundred columns that support the roof of the mosque. I spoke of lattices of alabaster, of marble walls, and how during the month of Ramadan the entire mosque was illuminated by twenty thousand lights.

  Returning to the Court of Oranges, I spoke of the hot still days, the sound of falling water in the fountains, the shuffling feet of the worshipers, the scent of jasmine, rose, and orange blossoms. Of travelers from foreign lands, of pomegranate, apricot, of vines and palms…ah, what did I not tell them?

  A listener who hung on my every word, his eyes glowing with excitement, was Alan. This one, I thought, is worth saving. He has the soul of a poet, imagination, and intelligence, for such as these is the world made.

  “I am tired,” I said at last. “I have ridden long this day.” Turning to Sharasa, I said, “Will you show me where I am to sleep?”

  Akim scowled. “Alan will show you.” He paused. “No need for you to ride on. Stay a few days.”

  The big young man sneered. “You come with fine talk, but you come in rags.”

  I smiled at him. “Do not get into a sweat, my big-chested friend. When the time comes, you will get your whipping. Do not beg for it beforehand.”

  A moment I paused. “If you wish to know, I have but lately escaped from prison.” I named the castle. “I have enemies, and they seek me now. My enemies are your enemies also, for I have told you of Yusuf and his seeking of all who lurk in the mountains.”

  Turning to Akim, I suggested, “Put out a guard and choose a place in the hills to which you can escape. I warn you. They intend to sweep the hills, and they will find you. Hide what is of value and your flocks.”

  It was a concession from Akim that he suggested I stay on, and I learned then that many a victory is easier won with words than a sword—and the results are better.

  “I shall stay, Akim, and you shall tell me stories of your wars. I venture you will have stories worth the telling.”

  “That I have.” That he was pleased was obvious. “It will be good to talk to another soldier.”

  Alan came with a candle, and I followed him. In Moorish homes a room was rarely set aside for sleeping. One slept wherever one might be, yet Alan showed me to a room where there was privacy, and brought me water with which to bathe. When I followed him from the main room, I caught the expression in the eyes of the bastard of the Visigoth, if such he was, and that expression was not pleasant.

  That was one victory that must be won with a sword.

  Sharasa stood in the doorway as I passed, her head tilted back against the doorjamb, looking at me from under lowered lashes.

  And that was a victory that must be won with other weapons.

  18

  AFTER TWO DAYS nothing had been resolved except some of the wrinkles in my belly. Sharasa was just as elusive and just as attractive, but surprisingly, Akim and I had become friends.

  The stories he had to tell were of war and bloodshed, of risk and riot, of scaling walls and single combat. Akim, unwittingly, was teaching me much of war, and not knowing what might lie before me, I was eager to learn.

  He had fought for and against both Goth and Moor, surviving many a bitter battle in the breaches of city walls, in house-to-house combat, and of fighting in the streets.

  The bastard son of the Visigoth was called Aric, and I knew he intended to kill me. Aric had decided
Sharasa was for him, and until I arrived on the scene, it had seemed to him inevitable. He glowered about, casting threatening looks in my direction.

  Sharasa was often about, yet vain as I might be, I knew much of her interest was in what I had to say of clothes, cities, and the behavior of other women. This, Aric was too stupid to understand. Sharasa, I think, had long had her own dreams, none of which included Aric. My words fed those dreams.

  Alan, too, was never far from me when I talked of Córdoba.

  Turning to him one evening when we were briefly alone, I said, “Alan, you must go to Córdoba or Seville. You would be happier there.

  “Go to Seville,” I advised, “find John of Seville, and tell him Kerbouchard sent you.”

  Akim overheard and turned sharply around. He had heard no name for me but Mathurin, and at the time not too many Europeans had family names.

  “Kerbouchard? Your name is Kerbouchard?”

  “It is.”

  He slapped the table with the flat of his hand. “Why did I not see it? You resemble him, Kerbouchard the Corsair!”

  What a ring he gave the name! What a sound!

  “I am his son.”

  “I saw him once. It was in Almería, that city of pirates and rovers of the sea. He came with a dozen ships loaded to the gunwales with loot!

  “Ah, how we stared! Our mouths watered to see it! Gold, silks, spices, jewels…he unloaded them all. Had he asked for volunteers, the city would have emptied to serve him.

  “There was never another like him, not one! He had raided the isles of Greece, captured a rich prize off Tripoli, looted another within sight of Rhodes!

  “There was a soldier with him, a man I knew from another time, another war. His name was Taillefeur, he—”

  “What?” I caught Akim’s wrist. “Taillefeur was with my father?”

  “You know him? Then you know him for a rascal, though a first-class fighting man. Yes, Taillefeur was with him, and I wondered at it, for he was not a man to serve another unless he could betray him for a price, and there were many who offered prices for Kerbouchard.

  “Taillefeur fought beside me at the defense of Caltrava in 1158. We fought in the breach together against the Moslems, but I never trusted the man.”

  Taillefeur had been with the Baron de Tournemine, my father’s enemy. Was it he who brought news of my father’s death? Might he not have betrayed my father, if betrayal was his way?

  It was a thing to consider.

  On the morning of the third day Alan came to me. “Be warned,” he whispered, “Aric means to kill you.”

  It was time for me to ride on. I wished the big lout no harm, but my destiny lay outside this valley. Moreover, I feared the soldiers of Yusuf would find even this long-hidden valley.

  On this morning I arose early and rode down the valley toward a deep pool where I had often gone to bathe. The sky was dull with clouds with a suggestion of coming rain, yet the swim would refresh me, and tomorrow I must be on my way to wherever I was going.

  Which of us knows the direction of his life? Who knows what tomorrow may bring? Often, when pausing at a crossroad, I have wondered what might lie waiting on the road not taken?

  Drawing up in the shelter of some willows, I tied my horse where he could feed but would nevertheless be hidden from a chance passerby. Disrobing, I walked to a rock and plunged into the pool.

  For a few minutes I swam, then returned to the rock from which I had dived and began to dress. Yet scarcely had I begun when I heard an angry cry. It was Sharasa!

  Swiftly, I plunged through the curtain of brush and found myself standing in a cave mouth with Sharasa not ten feet from me and Aric facing us both, holding my scimitar taken from my saddle.

  “I will kill you now,” he said. “I shall kill you and her, too!”

  “He has done nothing. He did not know I was here.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  Well I knew the razor edge of that scimitar, and I was half naked and unarmed. That blade would sever an arm like butter.

  “Leave him alone. He has done nothing.”

  The shock of his sudden appearance was gone now. He had given me the moment I needed, and my mind grasped desperately for some escape. Nor was there a rock or a stick upon the cave floor. There was nothing. There was no weapon.

  He had moved to block any escape, and there was no way out. I must meet him, face-to-face. My life was at stake here, but Sharasa’s was also.

  Warily, I advanced a step toward him, my hands down. It surprised him, I believe, because he had expected me to shrink from death as he would have done. Only death had become a constant companion, and I was not prepared to die, not at the hands of such as he.

  He held the scimitar awkwardly and not like one accustomed to swordplay, yet he was an agile and powerful man. The fury in him might work to my advantage.

  There was little room for maneuver, yet I advanced another step, working a little to his left, studying his position.

  My father, a skilled fighting man, always told me to notice the position of a man’s feet, for if a man can be taken off-balance he can be beaten. There is a limit to how far a man can reach without shifting his feet.

  Behind me now I could hear Sharasa’s hoarse, frightened breathing, and I knew I was fighting for her life as well as my own.

  If I threw myself at his legs, I might throw him, yet the edge of that blade could sever a finger or a hand, and if he sprang back as I moved in, he could run me through. Suddenly, he leaped, slashing wickedly. Only just in time I sprang back, and the tip of the blade just missed me. I made to dive at him as the blade swept past, but he was quick and shifted ground.

  He lunged then, the blade at arm’s length. With the palm of my hand I slapped the flat side of the blade as it thrust at me, knocking the point out of line with my body. Instantly, I stepped in, hooking my right leg behind his leg and smashing him under the chin with the butt of my palm.

  He grunted with pain, and tripped by my right leg, he fell backward. Thrown hard to the sand, he landed on his back. Promptly, I kicked him under the chin and wrenched the scimitar from his loosened grip.

  He sprang up, staggered, and would have lunged at me, but I slapped him alongside the skull with the flat of the blade. He fell to the sand, and for an instant I was tempted to finish him off.

  “No, Mathurin! No!”

  I drew back, for I had no desire to kill him. “All right, he shall live, but we must go.”

  Returning to my horse, I finished dressing and strapped on my dagger and the scabbard of the scimitar. I took Sharasa up beside me, and we rode back to the farm.

  We rode swiftly, and my usual awareness was dulled by the events of the afternoon and the dangers in facing Akim. Dropping Sharasa to the ground, I swung down and started through the door. I shouted for Alan and stepped through the door into a room filled with soldiers.

  Akim was sprawled on the stone floor, bathed in blood. At least two of the attacking soldiers had been killed, and others nursed wounds. That much I glimpsed before a wicked blow struck me across the head, and I fell, striking the floor on my face.

  In a moment of slipping consciousness I heard someone say, “Leave him to burn. Take the girl, but gently. She will make a fit present for Zagal.”

  With all my will I struggled to move, but could not. A wave of darkness engulfed me, and through the darkness I heard the crackle of flames.

  19

  HEAT BLASTED MY face; smoke rolled over me. My eyes opened to find crackling flames within inches of my head. Rolling over, I struggled to rise, only to fall headlong. Still too weak to rise, I crawled through the smoke to the door.

  Twice I collapsed; twice I started again. My head was heavy as a cask; my mind would not work. Fighting toward the air like an animal, groaning with effort and only half conscious
, I somehow reached the outside.

  For days I lay around in a daze. The ruins finally stopped smoking, and I managed to bury the remains of Akim and those others who had been killed.

  Alan was gone, so was Sharasa.

  My horse had been taken, and even my poor jacket with the gems sewn into the seams had been taken or thrown away. My dagger had been inside my shirt and unseen. It was all that remained.

  Fortunately, they had not found the cave near the well where the goat’s milk and cheese were kept. There, also, was some wine.

  My clothing was filthy. Some had been charred by the flames, and I had no outer robe. My turban had kept me from being killed by the blow but had suffered in consequence.

  At the edge of the well I sat drinking cold goat’s milk and munching cheese, reflecting on the misfortunes that attended me. Surely, the old gods must have cursed me to have each move end in disaster.

  I was alone. The nearest city was miles away over rough country infested by brigands, many of whom would kill for the sheer pleasure.

  Aziza was lost to me, and now Sharasa.

  My face had been horribly blistered by the flames, but owing to the treatment I had given, methods learned during my study of medicine, it would heal, I believed, without leaving a scar. But meanwhile, the skin was tender, and my beard had grown greatly. It would be long before I dared shave or even trim my beard.

  No one in Córdoba would know me now. My elegance was gone. Shabby, half starved, ugly with beard and healing scars on my body, I looked more the beggar than a student or a gentleman. All I possessed, aside from what I wore, was an old blanket found in the stable.

  Mahmoud? Ah—Mahmoud! He deserved my attention, and I was determined to see he received it in full measure.

  Finding an old waterskin, I cleansed it as well as possible, then filled it with goat’s milk. Wrapping up a cheese, I started upon my way.

  It would be a long walk to Córdoba.

  * * *