Читать книгу The Dungeon - Lynne Banks Reid - Страница 6

The journey took many months. And if it wasn’t ten thousand miles, often during the long months of travel it seemed like it. By the time they at last crossed the western borders of Chi-na, the Scotsman had to admit that his strength and endurance had been tested to their limits.

As they travelled on through the endless scattered farmlands of the north, McLennan saw little wealth and splendour, but much poverty and hard struggle for survival. The peasants of this vast land tilled it in the sweat of their faces, even more than his own serfs, though he was surprised to see that in certain ways their farming methods were better. Their fields were carved somehow into small, flat, irregular steps that followed the curve of the hills, to make the most of the land.

The peasants mainly kept their distance, except for a few that approached them to sell food, or to trade (these received short shrift from the cameleers, who had bigger game afoot in the cities). But McLennan saw enough of them to be amazed. He himself came from a mongrel race, descended from Picts, Britons, Vikings, Norman French and, far back, there was Roman blood. Some Scots were dark, some blond, some red-headed like him. They were of many shapes and sizes and casts of feature. All these, he thought at first, might have sprung from one egg—the travellers all had straight black hair, sallow skin, and eyes seemingly cut in half by their eyelids.

During the long journey, the travellers had eaten poorly, mainly meat and milk from the herds of the nomads they traded with in passing. But McLennan bore the simple diet stoically, feeding in his imagination on Afonso’s descriptions of the food in Chi-na, which he insisted was exotic, varied and delicious. And here – in primitive inns along the caravan’s route, where in the evenings they slumped exhausted with growling stomachs – here it was!

McLennan had never tasted such stuff. Little white grains was the bulk of it, with a few chopped vegetables half raw, some salt fish, some pig-meat, and occasional sauces that burned his tongue… He longed for a plate of porridge with honey and cream, some thick barley broth with chunks of fat mutton, good roast venison or beef in rich brown gravy, with bannock – real Scottish bread – to sop it up with.

Afonso mocked him. ‘You say you stay here? If Mongol no kill you first, you die of empty belly! You eat Mi-Ki food, my friend – is good!’ And he brought his bowl to his mouth and shovelled the stuff into it with two sticks, as the locals did. McLennan used his dhu – the short knife he carried in the top of his hose – to whittle a spoon, for which he was heartily laughed at.

How could he enjoy a place when he had no good meals to look forward to, and when his stomach was always either craving food or rejecting it? McLennan fell into a vile temper. He decided he hated this place. All these months of hard travelling to find a poor land full of peasants who ate disgusting things in a most idiotic manner! He kept his eyes on the ground and trudged on with the caravan, sullen, hungry and disappointed. Afonso tried to cheer him up, and when he failed, moved away and walked among the other men.

At last they reached their destination. As the caravan drew to a halt, amid the noise and bustle of a busy marketplace, McLennan had no choice but to look about him. And his senses reeled. He saw so many new things at once that he couldn’t take them in. Crowds, colours, scents, strange structures seemed to whirl around him.

They were outside the gates of a city. There were walls – high, strong walls – and an open gate. But he didn’t look through it at first. He looked at things nearest. There were tents both drab and brilliant, and stalls, and cartloads of exotic goods set out; there were merchants of several races, shouting, waving their arms, showing their wares – trading. There were many caravans of camels, donkeys, horses, mules and the strange creatures he had seen on the high plains called yaks. There were the clamouring noises and smells of all these. But most of all, there were colours.

McLennan’s own world was full of drab greys, blacks, browns, duns… the purple of heather in flower and the blue of summer skies reflected in lakes were almost the brightest colours his eyes were used to. Now he thought of rainbows, jewels, paintings, flowers, the brilliant tiled alcoves of the Mohammedans… Still he could think of nothing to compare with what he could see here on every side. The Mi-Ki merchants were holding these colours as if they had control of the waves of some multi-hued ocean, swirling them, displaying them – shimmering banners and bales and curtains of some wondrous fabric.

He moved forward, irresistibly drawn, and tried to touch one of the miraculous sheets. It looked like spun gold. He felt his bad mood suddenly lift like a rising pulse of music, and his desire to venture and to explore returned to him in a surge. His hands reached out… The merchant let him touch, just touch with the tips of his fingers. Then he snatched it away – like gossamer it floated on the air, tantalisingly out of reach, a glittering gold membrane that flashed in the sun.

Filled with excitement and eagerness, McLennan sought out Afonso, who was already deep in bargaining with a pigtailed merchant whose cart was laden with colourful bales of the shimmering cloth.

‘Here’s where I leave ye, my friend!’ he said exuberantly. Thanks for your company.’

‘Where you go, Scotlander? Stay close. Caravan not wait. Soon, we turn and go back. We sell our goods, then buy what we want – tea, porcelain, teak, perfume, spice, bamboo!’ All these he said in the Portuguese tongue. The new words rolled themselves round McLennan’s head like an incantation, but one vital word Afonso knew in English.

‘Look! Silk!’ The very word was like a sigh of ecstasy. He spread a thin tissue of forest green with a golden band over his arm. ‘No hands!’ he said, scowling with mock fierceness at the Scot’s rough fingers.

McLennan had hardly touched the fabled silk and already he felt its magic. It was what he had travelled for – it stood for the allure of this new country. He was not going home yet!

‘Dunna wait for me,’ said McLennan. ‘I’ll no’ be returning yet awhile.’

Afonso stared at him in bewilderment.

McLennan unloaded from his camel the woollen sack that contained his few possessions. The Portuguese saw his mind was made up.

‘You will die,’ he said with a shrug. But he embraced him. ‘Go well. Good luck, my foolish friend. Sometimes in Lisboa I think of you. We no meet again.’

McLennan shouldered his bag and set off, through the great gates into the city. It was a city as different from London as a glittering comet crossing the sky is from the muddy River Thames crawling below.

It was built on a grid pattern. Roads led away in dead straight lines, with much traffic: men on horseback, horse-drawn chariots, people-carriers on two wheels pulled by men at a brisk pace. And hundreds of men on foot. The buildings were low, but well constructed, with beautiful green-tiled roofs that curved upward at the corners (like the shoes of the Turks!) and were richly decorated with painted carvings. Steps led up to raised platforms in front of the houses and of the eating places, where McLennan could see that much of the furniture – tables, chairs, lamps, vases, pictures – was of an extraordinary delicacy, made with a skill in craftsmanship that he had never seen before.

He glimpsed gardens, half-hidden among the buildings. Not plain earthy plots for growing vegetables and fruit, but beautiful areas created for leisure. There was a curious refinement about everything, even the people.

Here were city folk, so wondrous-strange they might have dropped from the skies indeed. They wore long colourful robes and round-toed, thick-soled footwear. Their long black hair was piled on their heads, and some wore elaborate headdresses. Their wide sleeves, in which they tucked their hands, looked as if they were covered with flowers; they walked with small, elegant steps, seeming to glide along like wheeled toys. All were men.

Out of nothing more than curiosity, he looked for the women. The ones he had seen in the fields did not have small feet, but he thought, ‘In the city, they’re more refined – perhaps here they grow the small-boned ones.’ However, no women were to be seen. McLennan was disappointed. He wanted to see how anyone could walk on feet the size of pears. But perhaps it was only a tale.

Away from the marketplace, he soon discovered that he did, indeed, strike fear and disgust, and perhaps even anger, into the hearts of these strange people, just as Afonso had said.

The children fled at the sight of him. Talk died at his approach, and men drew back from him, their faces blank but their eyes growing narrower still. He walked on, counting on his size and foreignness to protect him, doing nothing to arouse them against him.

He walked a long way, staring around him at the beautiful buildings and other fascinatingly unfamiliar sights. Suddenly he saw a group of men. They appeared to be marching; they wore something like a uniform – a sort of leather armour, headdresses that combined a head-wrapping and a pointed metal helmet, and swords worn stuck in their belts. These must surely be guards, or soldiers.

He decided to follow them. Not too close! They began to glance uneasily over their shoulders and walk faster and faster. He quickened his own pace. Before long they broke ranks and ran pell-mell. McLennan burst out laughing at the sight, and ran after them, shouting, ‘Wait for me! I’ll join ye!’ They ran far ahead and eventually scattered, and he lost them amid the low buildings.

One of them had drawn and then dropped his weapon. It was a sword, curved, with a square-ended blade and a heavy bronze handle, thickly embossed to give a good grip. McLennan picked it up and hefted it in his hand. He liked the feel of it, and it had a keen edge. He threw it in the air several times and caught it deftly, aware that he was being watched. He ignored this and walked on, swishing the curved sword, making patterns in the air.

Suddenly – in the space of a moment – he found himself surrounded. The soldiers (if that’s what they were) had regrouped and were on all sides of him, threatening him. Their swords, like the one he held, were drawn, and pointing at him.

One man stepped forward, empty-handed. He stood in front of the big Scot and began to harangue him in the strange tongue. McLennan liked his courage. Besides, he quickly saw that he was outmanoeuvred and would have to yield, so he decided to do it with good grace.

He turned the sword till he held it by the blade, bent his left arm, and offered the handle to the man across his sleeve with a courteous bow and a smile.

‘Take what’s yours, my manny,’ he said. ‘I’ll no’ want to be fighting the lot of ye.’

The swordless man was taken aback. But when McLennan continued to offer him his sword, he reached out from as far away as he could and snatched it. As he drew it quickly across McLennan’s arm, the sharp blade sliced through his sleeve and cut his skin.

There was a gasp from the men standing menacing McLennan. Clearly they thought the sight of his own blood would send him into a rage. But McLennan merely laughed and parted the cloth to expose the wound.

‘First blood to you!’ he said. ‘Come, let’s be friends!’ And he smeared some blood on his right hand, to show his wound was nothing, and offered it to the other man.

They stiffened, crouched, held their swords at the ready. But the man he faced relaxed a little, and a faint smile crossed his face. It was probably mere nervousness, but McLennan, himself smiling as broadly as he could through his red whiskers, boomed, ‘So, smiling is something we share! Let’s see what else we have in common.’

He dropped his bundle and held up both hands to show he was unarmed. Then he gestured to his mouth as a sign he wanted to eat and drink. He folded his arms across his tattered plaid and waited.

After exchanging talk in undertones, they formed up again and marched away from him. He followed, marching in step with them.