THE SILK TREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The caravan left the pleasures of Dunhuang and headed out. To cross where two deserts collided.

To the right: the hideous extremes of the Black Gobi stony desert; left: the vast sea of dunes so parched and lifeless that its name meant ‘he who goes in never returns’, the Taklamakan.

The sounds of squeaking leather, the muffled tread of camel feet and the desultory dinging of bells that every animal now carried seemed overly loud in the awesome stillness.

Several of the merchants rode a tarpan, the stocky steppe pony with much endurance, but they had paid Su dearly for the privilege, some were on camels but most walked at the easy pace of the caravan.

Ying Mei was in a camel howdah, a light structure between the humps with hanging veils for privacy. Tai Yi kept pace with the animal on foot, while behind, Nicander and Marius walked alongside Meng Hsiang.

It was hot, but a heat so dry that perspiration evaporated immediately. More bearable than humid heat but hard going over the sun-blasted ground. Nicander was grateful for his ox-hide calf boots that insulated and cushioned.

He felt for his water gourd. It was barely half-full still short of midday, with the hottest part of the day to come. Those unable to control their thirst would be given no extra. The next fill would not be until the evening at the water skins.

Next to him the splotched brown bulk of Meng Hsiang moved on in long deliberate paces, the splayed toes sure and firm in the sand. The beast could go for a week or more without water, and the shaggy coat that looked so hot in fact kept the burning heat of the sun at bay.

On impulse he reached out to pat his muzzle. The camel swung his head about, looking at him in mild interest.

Something resolved out of the rumpled dunes ahead. Trees! With the miracle of green on them! Some quirk in the lie of the desert had brought water to the surface – a modest spring that gouted from under a rock ledge to meander lazily on gravel for a hundred yards or more before dissipating into the sand.

The camels were released and lined the watercourse. They drank swiftly, some with deft flicks throwing water over their backs and snorting with pleasure.

At the source drinking gourds were refilled and like the others, Nicander drank thirstily, revelling in the life-giving coolness. It had a faintly sulphurous tang but at that moment it was the best water he had tasted in his life.

Suddenly aware that he was being watched he looked up and saw Dao Pa standing apart from the others.

The man was leaning on his staff, wearing a peculiar wide hat with two flaps that hung down over his ears.

‘Master Dao!’ Nicander exclaimed, ‘I didn’t know you were with us!’

‘Quite so. Yet surely this is to be expected.’

‘Because you…?’

‘That I need to reach Khotan and this is the only course open to me, yes. But more to your understanding is to perceive that of all the substantiality and conditions of this world only a very small proportion are permitted a frail mortal to know. There is an unknowable infinity of others he will never be aware of, yet most surely exist independent of his rational observation.’

‘Without evidence of their existence.’

‘You are progressing well on your path to the Tao, Ni K’an Ta.’

‘Thank you, Master. If we-’

‘Mount up!’ Su’s voice broke through impatiently.

Nicander reluctantly found his place in the line and waited while the caravan got under way.

He vowed to seek out Dao Pa that night; they would talk more and the frightful wasteland would retreat, if only for an hour or two.

When the sun lost its ferocity and began its slow dip towards extinction, Su called a halt by a long weathered ridge.

‘As far as we go on this easy stretch. We’ll leave the harder for tomorrow.’

There was speculation at his words at the evening camp.

‘He means the heat. Have you noticed? As we went north from Chang An it’s got hotter and hotter. Stands to reason it’ll be worse the further we go.’

‘And colder – at night, I mean. I don’t think it’s that. More like the water’s going to give out.’

‘Or the Hsien Pei will be waiting and we’ll have to fight our way through.’

‘If they’re out, I don’t give much for our chances – we’ve an escort as will see off any bandits but the Mongols are a different matter. Why, four years back – or was it five, they took a caravan and we didn’t find the bodies until last year.’

The chat stopped when Su himself arrived, looking tired and distracted. ‘Things on the trail are going to get worse – a whole lot worse,’ he muttered to no one in particular.

With a sweep of his hand he cut short the anxious babble. ‘You’ll find out soon enough. Now let’s have some eats.’

The mutton stew was cheering against the chill of the night and with the appearance of the hung tsao chiu things were definitely on the rise. Made from dried and powdered buckthorn date, the hot drink was mixed with a liquor. Su swore by its effectiveness against both cold and heat and declared that it would be on issue every night while in the desert.

Nicander was puzzled. The fierce-eyed seer was nowhere to be seen.

He asked Su, ‘Could you tell me where I’d find Dao Pa at all?’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Some kind of monk, I think. Comes from the south somewhere, if you saw him you’d never forget the man.’

‘Look, I know who’s in this caravan and there’s no Dao Pa!’

‘Beard, biggish fellow – and blue eyes.’

‘A foreigner! I know all you buggers, and there’s no one like that. Now I’m bloody tired. Why don’t you leave me be, hey?’

Nicander shrugged. He’d search out Dao Pa later.

There seemed to be an unspoken acknowledgement that any entertainment in this appalling loneliness would have to come from among themselves. One of the cameleers came forward shyly, and sat cross-legged. He pulled out a flute and softly accompanied by another on a small drum performed a dreamy piece.

They played a second tune, spirited and gay.

Zarina got to her feet. ‘Let cares take flight!’ she laughed, and began dancing.

Shouts of encouragement came from all sides and she drew up one of the young serving girls and the two whirled and gyrated in a dance of Central Asia, ribbons swirling, dresses flaring, faces alight.

They sat to thunderous applause.

A woman who tended to the cooking was next. From one of the many tribes from the outer lands, her features were bluff, oriental and sun-darkened. She wore a padded tunic and her boots were as colourful as the long scarf that she coyly flicked as she stepped into the firelight.

Another drummer joined in. The rhythm set toes tapping as she strutted about in a high-fingered twirl, moving faster and faster until she collapsed in an exhausted heap.

Nicander was enchanted. It was so unreal: far out in the desert, untouchably remote and so dependent on each other and their animals, a bubble of humanity progressing through a hostile universe.

A gruff merchant stood up and came forward. He said some incomprehensible introductory words and then, unaccompanied, sang in a deep voice that rang with emotion.

There was a pause; people looked about expectantly. A voice called from the other side of the fire. It was Ying Mei asking if anyone possessed a pipa, or any kind of lute. Someone brought an old but clearly cherished yu ch’in, a circular instrument with four strings.

She accepted it gracefully and experimentally plucked delicate notes.

She nodded. ‘“Water Lilies in the Shade of Purple Bamboo”.’

The music flowed like water in a brook, tinkling and rushing, her clear, high voice complementing it. Around the fire there was rapturous attention and when the piece concluded with a last melting and affecting note held to nothing, there was stunned silence and then wild applause.

Korkut stirred in admiration. ‘I’d have thought that kind of playing you’d only ever hear at the imperial court.’

Her next piece was more robust. ‘Night of the Torch Festival.’

First one drummer then another picked up on the processional rhythm and the flute came in with an ingenious cross-melody.

After another two tunes she sat down, pleading fatigue.

The fire crackled and spat, its red glare illuminating the near desert with moving shadows and ghost-like shapes.

Marius leapt up. ‘Damn it, I’m in!’

‘Fighting song o’ the Pannonians!’ he roared in Latin. Marching up and down he belted out a legionary favourite, his audience bemused but appreciative.

When it was over he flopped heavily next to Nicander. ‘Be buggered, but that felt good!’ he muttered, taking a long pull at his hung tsao. ‘Memories…’

Then he turned and shoved Nicander to his feet. ‘Sing something, Greek!’

There was a patter of polite applause but Nicander’s mind went blank.

It had to be something from the motherland. Perhaps from the rich traditions of Pythagoras’s music of the spheres, one of the songs which he had learnt so painfully at school.

The difficulty was that there was no kithara to play and also the Grecian modes were so at variance with the oriental. In their classicism they could seem remote and unfeeling. He refused to compromise with Byzantine catch-songs of the street so there was nothing for it but to try to conjure something of value and moment.

He stepped forward. A vision of a scowling music dominie with a willow switch waiting for his first bad note threatened to unnerve him but he manfully launched into one of the Hymns of Apollo.

A Greek song was a series of long notes, full of feeling and intended to be accompanied by a plucked instrument which would drop notes rich with meaning into the spaces between.

There was a respectful quiet as he did his best, striving for pure and golden notes but aware that without the plangent twanging of the kithara the strange Greek intervals would sound baffling to his audience.

Then a soft tone sounded – and another. In the right places and while not in strict Phrygian mode, they were a very good approximation. He looked round. Ying Mei with her borrowed juan had come around to his side.

She stood beside him, watching intently.

They finished the song together to a wondering applause.

He bowed, touched at her gesture. ‘Thank you, My Lady.’

She smiled – but without a word returned to Tai Yi.