SILK AND SECRETS (21 page)

“In Britain, where I grew up, the land is moist and rich and teems with life. Everywhere there are trees and plants and animals. Perhaps that is why the ancient British people believed in many gods—surrounded by such overwhelming evidence of God’s works, they saw a godling in every brook and every tree rather than the master hand behind it all,” Ross said, warming to his theory. “It took the fierce anvil of the desert to forge a clear understanding of the One God.”

“Ahh, what a new and intriguing thought you have given me,” the dervish said, briefly closing his eyes with delight. “In the simplicity of the desert, one can truly be alone with God, as my nomad ancestors discovered. And the understanding born of that simplicity has been carried across the world.”

“So it has, and that is what your faith and mine have in common. All the people of the book still carry the pure vision of the desert god in their hearts,” Ross said. “Like most Englishmen, I feel a greater kinship with the sons of the Prophet than with Hindus, who have many gods, or Buddhists, whose God seems abstract and remote.”

“That is good,” Abd said, nodding thoughtfully. “Do you think the Hindus and Buddhists worship false gods?”

Ross shook his head. “I would not say that, for I do not know enough of their beliefs to judge them wisely, and I have known Hindus and Buddhists who were truly devout men. Perhaps in their different ways they also worship the One God. But the God of the Prophet I can understand immediately, with no need of interpretation, for he is also the god of my fathers.”

It seemed that he had passed the test, for after nodding several times, Abd began an enthusiastic dissertation on the nature of fire and water, and whether God could have made them, since they were destructive and God was good. The dervish was still expounding when Murad checked to see if dinner was ready. Since it was, the young Persian gave Ross an inquiring glance.

Knowing exactly what was being asked, Ross said to the dervish, “We are about to partake of our evening meal. Will you honor us by sharing our humble fare?”

“The honor would be mine,” Abd said happily.

The dervish looked so pleased that it occurred to Ross that the main purpose of this visit might not be theology but a simple desire to cadge a free dinner. Ross didn’t mind; Abd was a pleasant old fellow and he obviously could use a solid meal.

Murad looked regretful at dividing the lamb one more way, but he made no protest as he piled the food onto the communal platter; Islam had a tradition of sharing that Ross thought the Christian world would do well to emulate.

With dinner imminent, Juliet came instantly awake and settled cross-legged by the platter. Ross introduced her as Jalal, adding that she spoke little Persian.

After murmuring a blessing, Abd remarked, “It is very rare to see a Targui in Turkestan.”

“I am surprised that you have seen any,” Ross replied.

“Aye, there have been one or two through Merv. The caravan routes are the lifeblood of Islam, and they carry the sons of the Prophet from one end of the earth to the other.”

The dervish went on to expound on how caravans and pilgrimages promoted unity throughout the Muslim world, a topic which progressed into a general discussion of transportation. After Ross had described a railroad, the old man said, perplexed, “It sounds most unnatural. Of what value is such speed?”

“It shortens journeys and transports good more quickly so men might live better lives.”

Abd shook his head firmly. “The pace of a camel or donkey gives a man time to see, to reflect, to understand—
those
are the things that create a better life. To a simple man like me, it seems that you ferengis are overconcerned with
doing
and
having.
In Islam, we are more interested in
being.”

Ross’s opinion of the dervish rose still further. “As I gave you an intriguing new thought, now you have done the same for me. I thank you, good Uncle.”

Altogether, it was quite an enjoyable meal. They were just finishing when a group of Turkomans galloped into the campground in a flurry of dust, shouting, and thundering hooves. In their tall black sheepskin hats, the riders looked like a light cavalry troop. Terrified goats and chickens scattering before them, they cut from one campfire to another while members of the caravan drew back and watched warily. Even though their dress indicated that they were of the local Tekke tribe, not raiders from a hostile Turkoman band, Ross felt a prickle of disquiet.

His disquiet deepened when he realized that the Turkomans seemed to be searching for something, or someone. Then the leader of the riders drew close enough to identify, and Ross swore under his breath. Aloud he said, “The man approaching is Dil Assa, the leader of the Turkomans I met near Serevan.”

Remembering that Ross had almost been killed, Saleh and Juliet looked up sharply, while Murad, who might have been enslaved on that occasion, did his best to look unobtrusive. Only Abd was unalarmed. His back to the newcomers, he placidly mopped up the last of the lamb juices with a piece of bread.

A moment after Ross spoke, Dil Assa spotted his quarry and recognition became mutual. With a shout of triumph, the Turkoman spurred his horse toward their fire, reining his mount back just in time to avoid trampling the unconcerned dervish. “It is the British spy!”

Dil Assa roared, his gaze fixed on Ross. “Truly God is merciful, for he has given you into my hands again. This time I shall not fail to kill you, ferengi.”

Juliet lunged for her rifle, which was only a yard from her hand, but Ross threw his hand up to stop her. “No! A gun battle here would endanger too many innocent people.” Rising to his feet, he said, “I also remember you, Dil Assa. Why do you have this passion for killing Englishmen?”

“I need no reason. Prepare to die, dog!”

Dil Assa was raising his matchlock rifle when Abd stood and turned to face the Turkomans. Before Ross’s fascinated gaze, the old holy man seemed to take on an extra six inches of height and an air of compelling authority. His voice cutting across the nervous camp like a lash, the dervish said, “If you wish to kill the ferengi, you will have to kill your khalifa first.”

Ross sucked in his breath. Good Lord, their ragged visitor must be the Khalifa of Merv, the spiritual leader of the Turkomans and the only man with any influence on their wild behavior.

In the hush that fell over the camp after the old man spoke, Dil Assa’s gasp was clearly audible. “Abd Urrahman!” He scrambled off his horse and bowed deeply, all of his men doing the same. “Majesty, I did not recognize you.”

“No, for you were too intent on wickedness,” the old man said sternly. “You shame me, Dil Assa. I have broken bread with the ferengi and find him to be an honorable man. If you slay him, my curse will be upon you and your tents.”

Dil Assa blanched. “You have never protested when we take slaves among the Persians, majesty,” he said feebly. “Indeed, you graciously accept a tenth of all our spoils.”

“That is entirely a different matter,” the khalifa said with dignity, “for a Turkoman raider does not take the lives of his captives, but treats them as tenderly as a father, for dead they are worthless. Besides, Persians are Shütes, and to fight them is a greater blessing than making a pilgrimage.”

Murad, who as a Persian was a Shüte, flinched back and drew closer to Saleh, who was a Sunni like the Turkomans. Ross found it ironic that Abd Urrahman was more tolerant of a Christian than of a fellow Muslim, but was too grateful for the khalifa’s intervention to point out any inconsistencies of logic.

Abd Urrahman continued, “I want your word that you will never again try to harm this ferengi, his servants, or his friends.” The old man’s piercing gaze swept the other Turkomans. “I want the same promise from all of you here, and all the kinsmen in your tents.”

Dil Assa swallowed hard. “You have my word, majesty, and I shall convey your wishes to the rest of the tribe.”

“Very good.” The khalifa’s face softened. “It is well that you fear God, Dil Assa, for I know that you fear no man.”

Taking the words as a compliment, Dil Assa brightened a little, though his expression was still ferocious when he turned to Ross again. The Turkoman glared like a tomcat; Ross was reminded of his early days at Eton, where boys felt compelled to prove themselves to each other.

Then a dangerous smile lit Dil Assa’s dark eyes. His gaze swept around the gathered watchers, for as was usual in the East, everything happened with an audience. “As a gesture of friendship to the ferengi, I will invite him to share in one of the glories of Turkoman life.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Tomorrow I shall hold a special
bozkashi
match in his honor. Not only that, the ferengi shall play with us.”

After he said
bozkashi,
the crowd began murmuring with excitement, repeating the word over and over. Ross had heard the term and recognized it as a game played on horseback, but knew nothing more. Distrustfully he asked, “What is
bozkashi?”

Dil Assa gave a wolfish smile. “It is the great game our ancestors have played since time immemorial. The name means ”goat catch,“ for men on horseback contend for the headless body of a goat. The carcass must be carried around a distant post, then brought back and hurled into the circle of justice. Whoever throws the goat into the circle is proclaimed the winner. Of course, it is not to be expected that a ferengi might actually win, but still I will allow you to play with us.”

It didn’t take a genius to guess how much violence the brief description concealed. Unenthralled, Ross said, “You honor me, but I have no horse, nor any understanding of the game.”

“No matter,” Dil Assa said airily.
“Bozkashi
is so simple, even a ferengi can learn. I will lend you one of my own horses.”

Ross glanced around at the expectant faces of the other caravan members. He had garnered a fair amount of goodwill among them, but refusing to play Dil Assa’s barbaric game might dissipate much of that. There was no graceful way out; even the khalifa looked approving. “Then I shall be pleased to join you.”

“Splendid!” Dil Assa swung onto his horse. “Come to our tents tomorrow when the sun has risen halfway to its zenith. And bring your friends so they can admire your riding prowess.” With flamboyant showmanship he reared his horse, then wheeled and galloped away, followed by his men.

After mentally conceding that Dil Assa had won this round, Ross turned and bowed to the khalifa. “Many thanks for your intervention, majesty. I see God’s hand in the chance that brought you to our fire.”

Abd Urrahman’s black eyes twinkled. “It was not entirely chance, though assuredly you were under God’s hand. This morning a camel driver came to my house to tell me of the wickedness of you and your Tuareg servant. He wanted me to order that you both be stoned, but I thought it best to judge you for myself. I also guessed that Dil Assa might seek you out when he heard that a ferengi was in Merv, for his brother was killed by the British in Afghanistan. He is a good lad, Dil Assa, but impulsive.” The old man inclined his head graciously. “I enjoyed our discussion, Khilburn. Your theology is novel, but the product of a reverent heart. Enjoy the
bozkashi
match tomorrow.”

Even after the khalifa left, Ross’s fire was the center of attention among the members of the caravan, who came over to enthusiastically describe
bozkashi
matches they had seen. The prospect of a game the next day put everyone in high spirits.

It was well after dark, and most people had drifted away to their beds when Juliet stood and murmured, “Join me for a walk.”

A few minutes later, he also got to his feet and ambled away from the campground. As in Sarakhs, the caravansary was on the edge of town, and by the time he overtook Juliet, they were well into the desert. As they wound their way between moon-glazed sand dunes, he asked, “What have I gotten myself into?”

“Think of
bozkashi
as a cross between fox hunting and the battle of Waterloo,” she said dryly.

He laughed. “That bad?”

“Worse. Since Dil Assa promised not to murder you, this is his best hope for putting you in the way of a fatal accident.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t grieve if that happened,” Ross agreed, “but I imagine that his main desire is to humiliate me as a salve for his wounded pride. Have you seen many
bozkashi
matches?”

“Only one. Everyone assumed I was a man, but I thought it wise not to press my luck by going to others. Turkoman women are not allowed to attend matches, so it might have been dangerous if I had been discovered.” She stopped and plucked a pale flower that had blossomed after a brief shower the night before. “The men adore
bozkashi.
Even as we speak, the word is spreading across the desert. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, will come to watch tomorrow. It is a winter sport, and this will surely be the last match until autumn, for it is almost too hot to play.”

“What are the rules?”

“There are none. There can be any number of players, from a dozen to hundreds, and it’s every man for himself. My guess is that
bozkashi
began as war training for the conquering Mongol hordes. There is nothing the least bit subtle about the game—it’s all brute strength and horsemanship.” She gave him a doubtful glance. “You’re an excellent rider, but you have seen what the Turkomans are like.”

“All of them appear to have been born on horseback, and I doubt that they are burdened by any gentlemanly nonsense about fair play.” Ross shrugged. “I don’t feel the need to outdo them at their own game. If I can stay on my horse until the end, I’ll consider that I’ve done my bit for British honor.”

“Will you remember that tomorrow in the heat of the game?”

He smiled and picked another white blossom, then tucked it into a fold of Juliet’s tagelmoust over her ear. “I’ll remember. I’ve never been mad for playing games.”

Primly ignoring what he had done with the flower, she said, “I thought you were some sort of athletic hero at Eton.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “At Eton one doesn’t have much choice whether to play or not, but my heart wasn’t in it.”