Vallon 02 - Imperial Fire

by Robert Lyndon

  Tonight, though, he lay sleepless in the dark, aware that Zuleyka was also awake. He cleared his throat, adjusted his position and thought of Syth. That only increased his confusion. He rolled on to his other side.

  ‘You seem restless,’ Zuleyka whispered.

  ‘Something’s bothering the horses. I’d better check.’

  He crawled out. A full moon and fields of stars lit the plateau almost as bright as day. The horses fretted against their tethers. The dog quested in an anxious fashion and rubbed its head against Wayland’s legs.

  ‘It’s not wolves,’ Toghan said from his bedroll by the fire. ‘It must be the moon.’

  Back in his tent, Wayland decided the Seljuk was right. Lunatic fancies flitted through his mind. An energy welled in him, demanding release. He became painfully aware of Zuleyka lying just a tiny way apart from him, yet linked by a current.

  ‘You feel it too,’ she said.

  He rolled over and pressed his lips to hers, his hand tugging at her breeches. She arched up and he pulled them down.

  ‘Not so fast.’

  Clamped to her mouth, Wayland felt as if he were being sucked into a soft tunnel. His hand caressed Zuleyka’s breasts. She clasped his neck tighter. His hand slid down her belly.

  The earth wobbled and Zuleyka moaned.

  The ground rocked beneath them. Wayland splayed his hands to steady himself. Horses whinnied and the Turkmen cried out in alarm. Zuleyka screamed.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘It’s an earthquake.’

  They clung to each other while the rocks beneath them seemed to dissolve. Wayland prised himself loose and staggered out to see a horse snap its tether and gallop away. The natural order had been reversed. The turning stars were fixed in their orbits, while the solid ground slopped like mud.

  It was daylight before the aftershocks stopped and evening before he returned to the camp with the runaway horse. Zuleyka met him under a sky coloured with soft pigeon tints.

  ‘You take the tent,’ he told her. ‘From now on, I’ll sleep under the stars.’

  Freya was now more than three months old, of an age when a wild eagle would have learned to hunt for itself. Wayland hadn’t neglected her education. Each afternoon before the party made camp he fed her on his fist, trying to strike the fine balance between satisfying her appetite and keeping her obedient. After being footed by her, he always let her eat her full ration and never picked her up without offering her a titbit or tiring. She greeted him each morning with affectionate cries. To the dog and anyone who trespassed into her territory, she remained aggressive.

  He cut her weight back by feeding her washed meat for five days. Hunger made her more vocal and freer with her feet. Although adult in stature, she hadn’t grown out of her fledgling bad manners. Only the winds of freedom would refine her nature.

  He began her training by making her jump from her perch to his fist for food. That went well enough and after three days he set her down on a rock and called her off, increasing the distance daily until she would fly two hundred yards without hesitation. Half a dozen flaps and she would set her wings. Watching her huge span fill his vision as she glided the last few feet was a rather unnerving experience. Once she misjudged her aim and landed with one foot on his shoulder and the other on his head, drawing so much blood that he couldn’t comb his hair for days.

  Next he made her to the lure, throwing her off his fist at a stuffed hareskin baited with meat dragged on a cord behind Toghan’s horse. Freya learned fast and in four days she would bob her head in search of the lure the instant Wayland struck her hood and chase it for half a mile.

  ‘Fly her at game,’ Toghan pleaded.

  Wayland palped Freya’s chest and wing muscles. ‘She isn’t fit enough. Feel. She’s as soft as dough.’

  The only way to build up her muscles was to let her fly free and far. He gave her her liberty next morning, feeding her half her rations before placing her untethered on her perch. They were on a plain with the nearest horizon twenty miles away, mountains a month’s ride off floating in the sky like islands. She launched off around noon, flapping heavily to a boulder and calling for food.

  ‘You’ll have to work for it,’ Wayland said. Her querulous cries faded behind him. She was still seated on her perch after he’d ridden a mile. It was mid-afternoon when she caught up, making a clumsy pass at him before settling on the ground. Wayland dismounted, held up his gloved fist and she ran towards him like a drunken hobgoblin before thrashing up to claim her reward.

  He repeated the exercise over the next three days and on the last flight she flogged after him for half a mile before alighting on his fist. Good progress, but she still hadn’t taken to the upper air and learned to command her element. Wayland wasn’t surprised. Until they were confident in their ability to kill, few trained hawks flew for the pleasure of it. Wayland had flown falcons that would wait on a thousand feet above his head if they expected quarry to be served. Cast the same birds loose without the prospect of prey and they would sit hunched on a branch for hours while high above them their wild kin played on thermals.

  He rode next morning into a gusting headwind, cloud racks scudding across shattered ridges. Not a good day to fly an apprentice eagle. His determination to stick to his regime wavered and it wasn’t until the wind abated that he removed Freya’s leash. She tested the breeze, hopping off her perch and floating before dropping back and clasping the familiar pole. The lull was brief. A blast of wind caught her and blew her away like a giant leaf. Wayland galloped after her, swinging his lure until she disappeared. He searched all afternoon before giving up.

  The wind had strengthened to a gale, driving grit into Wayland’s face and making his horse walk crabbed. He caught up with his companions and Toghan rode over, shouting to make himself heard. ‘I told you not to risk it.’

  At sunset the wind dropped and the sky ran with colours of such depth and clarity that a soothsayer would have interpreted the patterns as portents of war or disaster, the rise of an empire or its fall. Not a breath of air stirred when Wayland looked up and saw an eagle hanging above him at an immense height, the last of the sun striking bronze from its plumage and the first star twinkling above.

  ‘That can’t be her,’ Toghan said.

  Wayland watched the eagle and dismounted. ‘Hold my horse.’

  He walked out into the wilderness and swung a lure, whistling and calling. The eagle swung away until Wayland could barely keep it in sight. The sun sank. Shadows veiled the earth.

  Wayland was about to give up when the speck in the sky vanished. He squinted and picked up a mote dropping through the atmosphere. It swung up in a pothook, unfurling into eagle shape as it reached the top of its arc, contracting again as it closed its wings for another plunge. In this fashion it fell in three giant steps before descending into the shadow of night.

  ‘Lost her,’ Wayland said.

  Toghan whistled. ‘Listen.’

  The sound started as a flutter, reminding Wayland of the noise made by a leaf clinging to a wind-swept branch. It increased to the roar of a storm surging through a forest. He ran into the dark with upheld hand.

  ‘Freya!’

  Silence and then a drawn-out hiss. Wayland raised his gloved hand and waited with pounding heart.

  Thump.

  One instant Freya was lost and the next she was on Wayland’s glove, grown from infant to adult in a day. She glared into the gathering night, adjusted her stance and lowered her head to eat. She didn’t utter a sound, and when Wayland placed her on her perch, she gave a sort of chortle, rotated her neck to settle her crop and tucked her head under one wing. Wayland swelled with pride.

  ‘You pretend you love that bird more than you love me.’

  Turning, Wayland made out Zuleyka. She was slapping her hip and stamping the ground.

  ‘There’s no pretence. Freya means more to me than you do, yet when I thought she’d gone I felt relief. One less thing to worry about. I chose to b
ring the eagle with me. I didn’t choose you for company. I’ll be happy to see the back of you.’

  She flew at him, mouthing imprecations. Toghan wrested her away. There was a moment of silence and then her voice carried through the dark.

  ‘I love you, Wayland the English with the shining hair. What I love I own.’

  A slap rang out.

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ Wayland told Toghan.

  ‘That was her hitting me,’ the Seljuk said.

  It was time to enter Freya to quarry. Feeding her half-rations for a couple of days brought her into the condition the Turkmen called yarak – a frantic urge to kill, manifested by her raised crest, loose plumage and maniacal stare. When Wayland sucked through his lips to imitate a rabbit’s squeak, her feet convulsed so tight on his glove that he groaned.

  He had to manage the flight so that she had every chance of success, and that meant selecting the right quarry. At this stage of her development, the wild sheep and antelopes were beyond her, the marmots and pikas not challenge enough. That left hares, which abounded on the steppe. Thicker-coated than their distant English cousins, they were every bit as fast and wily.

  Wayland left the party and rode through a promising expanse of grassland, holding Freya hooded on his fist and keeping his dog to heel. He hadn’t gone far when he spotted a hare lolloping about half a bowshot away. As he approached, the hare flattened itself to the ground. He ordered the dog to lie down, unhooded Freya and homed in. He was no more than forty yards away when the hare bolted. Almost in the same instant Freya reacted.

  It was farcical, Freya’s actions outrunning thought. She gripped Wayland’s glove, imagining she’d already bound to her prey, at the same time flapping her wings. Wayland was left with a heavy, crazy bundle sagging from his fist, making his horse jibe while the hare made good its escape.

  The next flight wasn’t much better. This time Freya managed to disengage, only to fly into the ground, skidding to an undignified halt twenty yards in front of Wayland. He didn’t pick her up until she’d composed herself. He’d learned that birds of prey understood humiliation and took it out on those who had witnessed it. Turkmen falconers had told him that a thwarted eagle would sometimes attack men or even horses.

  It was evening next day when he spotted a hare’s ears pricked up on a gravel flat with no cover for miles. Wayland unhooded Freya. By now she knew the action heralded a hunt and her gaze darted in search of prey.

  The hare had vanished. Freya glared around. Wayland hoisted her above his head. ‘You’re looking the wrong way.’

  He didn’t know which moved first. The weight on his arm lifted and the hare bounded away. Freya was off, rowing through the air with movements that seemed lethargic compared to the hare’s efforts. Yet without apparent effort she caught up, extended her talons and braced back for the impact.

  When Wayland made in, she was clutching a hank of grass, looking around with a baffled expression.

  ‘That’s life,’ Wayland said, offering her food.

  Freya learned fast from her failures. Next day she wasn’t sticky-footed and weighed up her chances before deciding whether to attack. Even so she missed. This time, though, she returned to the fist and stared around in search of fresh quarry.

  Wayland’s arm was sagging under her weight when three hares erupted under his feet, each hare streaking off on a different path. Freya beat after one, gaining some height before sweeping down to bind to her quarry.

  Hunter and hunted were small in the distance when they converged. One speck leaped and the other disappeared. The hare had anticipated Freya’s attack and evaded it by flinging itself into the air.

  A flurry of wings showed that Freya hadn’t given up. Wayland stood in his stirrups and watched the eagle close the gap.

  The hare ran in a circle and was less than a furlong from Wayland when Freya smashed into it, predator and prey rolling over in a cloud of dust. Wayland galloped up to lend assistance, but by the time he reached the spot the hare was dead. Freya mantled at him and he waited until she’d calmed down and broken into her prey before making in to her. He extended his glove, holding fresh meat at Freya’s feet. She pulled at it and as soon as he made to withdraw it she released her grip on the hare and stepped onto his fist.

  He rewarded her well and let two days pass before flying her again. They’d reached stonier terrain broken by gulleys and Wayland’s search for hares drew a blank. Since Freya’s vision was sharper than his, he unhooded her and transferred her to the T-perch. They hadn’t gone more than a mile when she began to bob her head at something away to the left. She was undecided, half spreading her wings and then scissoring them shut.

  ‘What is it?’ Wayland said. He guessed it wasn’t a hare and was about to take hold of Freya’s jesses when she took off, powering thirty feet into the air before setting course.

  Quarter of a mile away a russet shape broke cover and streaked off. A fox. Freya closed on it. Wayland rode after the chase with mingled excitement and apprehension. Tibetan foxes were big animals, twice Freya’s weight. This one made for a sheer ridge riven with fissures. It bounded up a steep rock face and was nearly at the top when Freya took it side on. Eagle and fox tumbled down and Wayland knew Freya hadn’t secured a killing grip. When he reached them, they were caught in a deadlock, Freya holding her quarry by shoulder and rump, leaning back on her tail to avoid the fox’s jaws. Wayland despatched it with a knife and looked at the panting and dishevelled eagle.

  ‘You won’t tackle one of them again in a hurry.’

  Two days later she caught her second fox. This time Wayland was close enough to see her slow down during her final approach and then, as the fox turned at bay, shoot forward, seizing its mask with one foot and grabbing its back with the other. When Wayland made in, he found she’d killed the fox by breaking its neck.

  ‘You’re almost ready to take your place in the wild.’

  XXIX

  They reached grazing grounds streaming with flocks of sheep and herds of domesticated yaks, the black-hair tents of the nomads dotted on the pastures like pinned spiders. Running the gauntlet of fierce mastiffs, the travellers sought food and shelter at one drokpa encampment. Its occupants were unfriendly until Yonden told them he was a monk at the Palace of Perfect Emancipation, and then the nomads plied their guests with food and drink. Wayland had already sampled tsampa – barley meal ground as fine as sawdust, the staple diet of Tibet. This was the first time he’d eaten it in tea with rancid yak butter. It wasn’t too unpalatable if you thought of it as soup and avoided looking at the hairs floating among the winking beads of grease.

  A cheerful woman, two men and three children occupied a pair of smoke-blackened tents pitched on stone slabs. The woman wore a full-length sheepskin gown with the fleece turned inwards, but during the day she let the garment hang from her waist, revealing her naked torso. The men were two of the woman’s three husbands and their relationships seemed not at all strained. The third husband, brother of the other two, was away trading in Nepal. Every spring one of the men would load up a sheep caravan with salt and journey across the Himalayas, returning in the autumn with rice and barley. Usually the second husband was away in the summer pastures. Wayland gave up trying to work out how the ménage worked when all four spouses were together in winter.

  He rested three days at the encampment. Mornings and evenings the children milked the sheep into a wild yak’s horn, tying the animals together in two rows facing each other and so closely packed that the head of each animal appeared to be growing backwards out of its opposite number. Before leaving, Wayland exchanged a lame horse for a yak. After two months on the Chang Thang, some of their mounts were so thin that they looked like skeletons sewn into skin.

  ‘Who’s going to handle the yak,’ Toghan asked.

  Wayland cocked a finger at Zuleyka.

  Summer was ending. While the sun at noon was still hot enough to burn skin, water in the shade only a few feet away remained frozen. Even wi
th sheepskins piled on top of him, Wayland couldn’t sleep soundly in the open. One night, chilled to the bone by a moaning northerly, he took cover in the tent occupied by Zuleyka. The dog was already inside, curled nose to tail beside her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded.

  ‘What does it look like? It’s freezing out there.’

  She tried to push him back through the entrance. ‘I don’t want you here.’

  ‘It’s my tent. If you don’t want to share it, you sleep outside.’

  Zuleyka muttered to herself.

  ‘What’s that?’ Wayland said.

  ‘I said I have a knife and I’ll stab you if you lay a hand on me.’

  Wayland’s laugh was slightly crazed. ‘A man would have to be desperate to molest you. You look like a witch and you smell like a polecat.’ He wasn’t exaggerating by much. Zuleyka’s lips were black and scabby, her nose sore and flaking, her curls a matted grey rat’s nest.

  He settled down and was almost asleep when he registered her tiny rhythmic convulsions. He half-raised himself. Zuleyka was crying. ‘What’s wrong now?’

  ‘It’s true,’ she wailed. ‘This awful journey has destroyed my charms. Who would marry a hag so aged and coarsened by sun and cold? I should have killed myself when the Vikings captured me.’ She drew her knife. ‘I can still do it. What’s the point of living?’

  Wayland grabbed for the weapon, batting his hands against hers before finding her wrists. ‘Stop that! I spoke in spite. If you must know, you’re still beautiful. Too beautiful for your own good or mine.’

  Zuleyka settled back and gave a throaty chuckle ‘I know, Master English. I like to tease.’