Nedime could not believe what incredible luck they have had. Rastullah must have set their flight under a good-willed star. Almost without greater interference they reached the foot-hills of the Manekh-Chinebi after one and a half days since they had first seen the mountains in the distance. She did not know the land here herself, for this was the place where the old prophet lived, and as child she had been forbidden to come here. Only the free men of the Saltstriders were allowed to seek out the, by mystery surrounded source which steam could grant visions into the future. The entire morning long they had fought their way over the rock cliffs of red sandstone to the west. All gorges between the cliffs were covered in a layer of salt, that proved to be quite dangerous as most of them were thin.
Nedime felt, how beneath the crust, the water was flowing into the Uchinebi and prevented that the vales were flooded with the steadily coming salt water.
Although the march had been also arduous to Nedime, she was aware of how unusual lucky they had been throughout their flight over the lake. They had only lost two horses and no one of the group had tread into the treacherous salt-holes. There she had estimated that at least the Rohir would not have made it to the other side of the lake, as he often took distance to the group and ran the risk to get off the save path.
Even though that all companions suffered and were so exhausted of the unusual arduousness that they would need days to return to their former strength, so impacted the march not only physically on Fenthal. He was constantly looking out for invisible enemies and mumbled some heathen wards into his beard.
Nedime had, during her childhood, seen how slaves had fallen into insanity on the lake. Especially men and women from the north were easily bewitched by the eerie spell of the salt-lake. Maybe Rastullah was punishing them for their wrong beliefs and let them see all sorts of illusions. Surely, the Uchinebi also let the tribesmen be afraid, but she had never heard of a warrior from the land of the First Sun who had gotten insane through fear. Who once was among the righteous children of the Allfather seemed to be protected of such dangers.
Worried did Nedime look after the Rohir. While the good mood of Omar and Mawdliyah ever more increased since the last hours, because they had left the worst dangers behind them, Fenthal had spoken not a single word this morning. They moved now between obviously millennia old paths that were drawn over the rocky ground. That it was used already since the oldest days by the Saltstriders was indicated by the small stone pyramids that could be found along the way. The tallest among them were maybe four steps high. It was an old tradition that travelers, whenever they would find such an obelisk, would pick up a rock and put it on the already existing pile. Through that were two purposes fulfilled. For one was the path held clean of rocks so that it was easier to walk on it and the stone piles could serve as orientation so that they would not get lost on a false path in the rugged landscape.
Again did Nedime look after Fenthal. The Rohir walked good ten steps behind Omar. Ever again did he stop and looked behind him. She had to take care of him! Nedime knew these signs all too well. As the path was no longer dangerous, she let Omar and Mawdliyah pass and waited for Fenthal.
»Are you well?«
The Rohir mumbled something indefinable and walked past her.
»Good that you are covering our backs. You can never know for sure.«
Fenthal still did not recognize her.
»Here in the mountains are probably sources of fresh water. There we should rest one or two days. Maybe one could hunt a few wild goats. Are you a good hunter?«
»I never quite cared for the hunt. In earlier times I was quite the fisher at the Entwash. But you are not getting far with that art here. What do you want actually from me? Can you not see that I rather be left alone?«
»Forgive me. I thought you would feel left behind.«
»Leave the thinking to the camels, they got a bigger head.« Fenthal walked now quicker and obviously made an effort to get away from her.
Nedime let him go. The Rohir had reached a critical stage. The Saltstrideress felt that a wrong word could bring him to attack his companions. She had to do something. There was a remedy that could help such men. Her false father had taken for that purpose always a very pretty slave with him on his strides unto the Uchinebi. If he realized that one of his men was befallen with salt-lake-mania it had been the task of the slave to bring him on other thoughts.
Fenthal was certainly a far greater danger than some mangy, tired slave. As Mawdliyah's bodyguard, he knew better than any of them to handle a weapon. Should he fall into frenzy, it could mean the end for all of them.
Nedime gulped. She could not ask Mawdliyah to seduce her bodyguard. At all, it would be wrong to make the danger known to her and Omar, who did not notice it at all.
So it lay by her to act and there were only two possibilities. Either did she take at night a knife and killed Fenthal, or ...
But in the end, she had no choice. They would probably need the Rohir and his combat prowess still. So he had to live!
Omar was clinging through pure exhaustion on the saddle of his horse. Even the steed was so tired that it could hardly hold its head up. Its fur was encrusted by salt and it looked rather like a nag than a fiery Shadif. At the morning, Omar had still believed that they would have made it. Finally they had reached the mountains and left the deadly salt-desert behind them. Yes, they even had found a way unto hard ground and had no longer be afraid by every step they took. The stone pyramids were a certain sign that already thousand wanderers before them had come this safe path-way. And now that! They stood in front of a slightly curved, long rock gorge. At its widest point, it was good two-hundred steps broad. To the right and light protruded cliffs up that were imbued by dark and red colors. Other than in the salt-desert where the ground had often been yellowish or even grayish dyed, did the salt in the gorge radiate in such a bright white that the eyes hurt when one looked at it.
The outlook on that new exertion had paralyzed Omar. He did not feel able to make another step forward. A throbbing pain sat in the left side of his chest. The good care in Hayabêth had let him almost forget that the lion had broken three of his ribs. But with the exhaustion of the last days, the pain had returned and often he had been afraid that he would not be able to hold unto the others. But also Mawdliyah and Fenthal seemed not to fare any better. Only Nedime appeared to be able to shrug off all the strains.
»That must be the Wadi Ghehena, the path of ghosts. I heard the Saltstriders once talk about it.« The slave made the impression as if she had sunken into memories of long past days while she explained. Something intangible made Omar afraid. Yes, he had the feeling as if Nedime was keeping something from them. She tried to keep a secret behind trivialities.
»Here you find the purest salt than anywhere else on the Uchinebi«, the handmaiden continued.
»And why is this accursed place called path of ghosts?« A slight quiver went through Fenthal's voice. The eyes of the Rohir were bloodshot and his face appeared through the fine salt dust that had taken its place on him, like a white dead-mask. But no one of them looked better, truthfully. Through the salt that the wind was carrying, their eyes had gotten sore. Their lips were dried in the hot air and sprung open and the sand in their clothes had chafed their skin.
»Why is the place called so?«, Fenthal repeated his question.
»More than two-hundred years ago, defeated Hairadan ibn Nefir, who later would become our caliph a host of the Gondorians from the north in the near of the city of Hayabêth. The surviving soldiers of Gondor fled unto the salt-lake. Only a handful of the officers who were led by a treacherous Saltstrider could escape. But as they reached this spot here, Rastullah's vengeance reached them, for the Allfather did not want that one of the warriors who had tried to wage war on his children would survive. He send a great rain and the masses of water drowned everyone who had escaped the Uchinebi. Their doom came upon them here in the path of ghosts and they say that Rastullah left a warning for all time. After the great rain had never fallen a drop of water here again and in the mid-day's hour, it is so hot that it is impossible to pass the Wadi, alive.«
Omar looked at Nedime perplexed. She had told the story without showing any sort of emotion. And yet did he have the feeling that this was not the secret of which he was ever more afraid. What kind of woman was this slave? From where did she take this power and this coldness that made her often so detached?
»Why did you bring us here?« Mawdliyah sobbed quietly. »Would have been there no other way? I am at the end of my power. I will die here. I cannot go on ...«
»If we stay here we will all die. We have water left for half a day. At the end of the vale lies a fruitful oasis and a well. They await everyone who can best the test of Rastullah.«
»But the mid-day just passed! You said yourself that we will die if we go now into the gorge.«
»Then let us rest and drink the rest of our water. In one or two hours we will make our way. Give the horses much to drink. We will need them.«
Nedime looked about for a gap in the rock that offered at least a bit shadow and sat down.
»Why do we not ride by night? If it is cool, the path of ghosts cannot be anymore dangerous.«
A cynical smile played about Nedime's lips. »Why do you think, the Wadi carries this name? At night do the ghosts of the dead haunt every righteous man and woman and confuse the spirit until you begin to doubt every belief and wisdom of Rastullah. Before night breaks, we will have to have left the gorge again.«
Omar walked to Mawdliyah and laid softly an arm around her shoulder. It was the first time that he dared to close in on the Sharisad on such a kind manner.
»Let her be. Nedime has proven to be a good guide. We will also best the last bit of the road.«
»But ...« Mawdliyah hesitated. »I am afraid that I cannot stand up anymore when I sit down now. I ... I am so exhausted like never before in my life. You know, even death appears to me like something beautiful. A long sleep ... And at the same time I am afraid to sleep for could it be, that I do not wake up anymore?«
»Then let us not sleep, but talk. Tell me of the lands at the sea, where the people build great stone palaces for the dancers, for wherever you go, I will follow.«
Mawdliyah looked at him and smiled and this smile seemed to have the power of a spell. All fear and doubts faded that had just pained him, yes, and he felt strong and refreshed again. If it had to be, he would carry the Sharisad on his arms to the vale of which Nedime had spoken. And even if it would mean his life as price, it would be worth this sacrifice if he could hope that Mawdliyah would smile at him like that just one more time.
The naked rock to both sides of the gorge radiated heat waves that conjured up dizziness and headache. Mawdliyah held the eyes closed to not be blinded additionally by the bright white of the salt ground.
By every step she doubted that she would raise her foot again. Whenever she opened her eyes, it was to her as if the rock walls would perform an eerie dance before her.
She supported herself heavily on Omar. Without him she would not have been able to go on. Ever again did he remind her of the lands at the sea and told her of the heathens that she would enchant with her dance. But would she ever reach it?
Sometimes she believed to see the ocean. Something in her whispered that this would be only an illusion but she denied herself to give up on the dream. She let herself fall and she saw a sea of faces that called her name and waved at her.
Midst of the applauding audience appeared Fenthal. But he did not seem to be in a good mood. He called something to her, but she had to read the words from his lips, for they went under in the thundering clapping.
»You must not give up. In two hours we will have made it! We are almost there.«
Then Fenthal was pushed away by Sulibêth. »You will never be a real Sharisad, child. Did I not ever tell you that? How could you bring such shame on your father?«
Suddenly she seemed to plummet down to the earth. She was caught in a tunnel at which end was the sad face of her father. He let a white rose fall on her and although he was mumbling, his voice was loud like a sandstorm in her ears.
»I would have forgiven you, my child. With you perishes all light from life. Could I just lie there in your stead!«
Then Mawdliyah had the feeling to levitate. She flew high over a green country and clouds surrounded her. Suddenly the clouds changed and a white plain lay before her. The light was so bright that it hurt in her eyes. Midst the plain stood a pillar on which end sat a golden fox. His eyes seemed in a strange way alive and blinked at her.
»We must begone from here, ere darkness falls.« From somewhere there was an argument to be heard. But the words were distorted so as if they were spoken far too slow and Mawdliyah could not understand their sense.
Then sounded the voice of a woman. » ... good, but let us do it together.«
Mawdliyah began to shudder. She felt sick and hands tore on her. They wanted to draw her down!
The dancer cried out. Again did Sulibêth's face rush towards her. »You will never become a good Sharisad. You always think of yourself, but a dancer must be able to give.«
The face of her teacher blurred, like a breeze undid the mirror image in a well. Mawdliyah's sickness was gone and also the light in her eyes did no longer pain her. The sky radiated in warm tones of red, as if the sun had sunken.
»Careful! Take care of him, he must not ...«
Loud buzzing of the ocean devoured the woman's voice. Then Mawdliyah felt that someone had stepped to her side and a familiar voice whispered into her ear.
»Tell me of the lands at the sea, where the people build great stone palaces for the dancers, for wherever you go, I will follow.«
The old story-teller cleared his throat and leaned back against the wall.
»He followed her into death«, whispered somewhere a quiet voice.
To the children that had surrounded the story-teller to the beginning had stepped now also a number of adults. In the distance sounded the loud action on the bazaar. Only here in the alley of the carpet weavers it was strangely quiet, as if the spell of the tale would have taken the houses and their inhabitants into another world.
But Mahmud knew that this spell could not stand against the power of the daily work. Already did he see men and women in the background that appeared restless, as if they had duties to come after that suffered no delay.
»Jussuf, push this bony thing already from your carpets. I want to see your wares! My master wants to buy from you.«
With a sigh did the old story-teller get up. He was too proud to wait until they would ask him to leave. Slowly did the adults vanish into the entrance of houses or to the backyards.
Mahmud gathered the few belongings that he had spread before the carpet. Quite in the near sounded a droning singing with which a woman was praising the carpets, made by the hands of children.
The story-teller took his staff and repeated quietly the words: »Fine carpets, weaved by the hands of children!« All too well did he know what happened to these hands that weaved the knots since thousands of years. The finest and most expensive of rugs were made by them, for the hands of adults were too rough to make the silken carpets that decorated the palaces of the rich and the caliph.
The children paid for these costly treasures with crippled fingers and when their hands had become too big for the fine work, they were expelled and put into a life of a beggar or even worse.
Mahmud formed a fist around his wander stick. He would have loved to strike at the carpet seller. But the time that he could afford something like that was over. He looked at the children that had remained seated to the last.
»When will you continue to tell story of Omar and Mawdliyah? It has not ended yet, or ...«
The little Omar, the boy that brought him the melon looked at him with big eyes and the old man had to smile. »No, of course, the story does not end there. I have promised you that Omar will meet a friend yet who is at least as eerie and mysterious like a bottle-spirit. Do I look like I do not hold unto my promises?«
The boy shook his head. »No, you do not look like that!«
»I will come back when the hour of the evening prayer has passed and it has become quieter. Then you will know what fate Omar and Mawdliyah befell.«
The old man turned around and walked into the alley along to the prayer-house, that the rich camel merchant Nasir Ibn Sachan had let built. Shortly before he turned into the broad street where the gold smiths had their shops, he turned around again and waved after the children. A sudden breeze brought the lanes over the bazaars up and a wide ray of light fell unto the story-teller who suddenly did not look anymore so weak and fragile, but so, as if he was himself an enchanted figure from an unknown fairy-tale.
The ferryman regarded fearfully the guest that had just come aboard to his small boat. It was a tall, slim warrior who bore a helmet with black horse hair and that was embossed with gold. At the nasal protection of his helmet, hung a fine weaving of rings that was also set to the cheek flaps and went down a good deal unto his chest. Like a veil did the chains conceal the face of the man so that only his dark eyes could be seen. Also chest and arms of the warrior were protected by chainmail in which small plates of gold had been worked and hence formed a vivid pattern of interlacing lines. Around his hips he wore a belt decorated with pearls, from which hung a slim Tuzak-knife. The slightly curved sword from the far away Khand was an unusual weapon for a righteous man of the desert. But the ferryman did not dare to ask the warrior about his origin. One thing was clear to him: He could not be following Rastullah's ways or else he would have never carried a weapon that was forged in the dark lands of Khand.
The wind that was steadily stroking over the river played with the folds of the wide trousers of the warrior. It was made of the finest green leather and adorned with golden flowers. Riding boots of bright leather complemented the costly equipment of the man.
»When do we leave, ferryman?«
The voice of the man sounded rough and so loud as if he was used to bellow orders over the thundering of hundreds of horse hooves.
»I wait for more guests, I cannot afford to set over for just ... err, my master has forbidden me to go over the river for just a single man.«
»I will pay you a gold piece if you go now and if you tell me something about the man who I seek.«
The ferryman gulped. A gold piece was a fortune!
Something could not be right there. Usually, people like him were not so giving.
»Whom are you looking for, sire?«
»An old man. He wears a silver embroidered blue kaftan and has a long white beard. Sometimes he calls himself Mahmud. He is a story-teller. Has he taken this ferry? I know that he was on his way to Abârrim. He could have only crossed the Mhanadi here.«
The ferryman gulped. He knew the old man. In fact, the story-teller had spent a night at his house and instead of paying with a copper to be set over, he had told his children a fairy-tale.
The ferryman was certain that nothing good could come for Mahmud if the warrior would find him.
»When should this old man passed here? Forgive me, sire, but I have so many guests that I cannot remember each and everyone of them.«
»He must have been ten or eleven days ago here at the river.«
The ferryman shook his head. »No, in this time I have seen no one who would fit your description.«
The horse of the warrior was getting restless. Just now saw the ferryman the shield that hung from the costly saddle of the Shadif. It was a medium rider's shield of leather. The shield boss glimmered in the sun. In its middle was set an eye-big ruby. A single of these stone would be enough to buy an entire goat-herd.
Even more unsettling than the unusual color that the shield gave price was the sign on it of golden dye. It was the symbol of the caliph of Mherwed!
The ferryman had once heard the story that the caliph gifted those men who had shown exceptional bravery in combat with these shields, to reward them for their heroism.
»Are you certain that you did not see the old man? I will also ask for him in the next village and you will be sorry if I come to know that you lied.«
»Err, let me think again about it.« The ferryman knew that no one would object if this warrior would just kill him or set his house aflame. No one would raise the hand against a hero from the war. More likely was it that the people would talk about what ill deed he had drawn the ire of the warrior and the just anger of him.
»So, when I think again about it, then I seem to remember. You must forgive. It has been a while and I have brought many guests over the river that day. I just forgot the old one. He did in fact set over the river and I believe he had taken the road in the direction of Wen-es-Mocha.«
»Strange how you can suddenly remember.«
The warrior turned around and began to look through his saddle-bags.
If he was looking for his knife? The ferryman had heard that exalted warriors did not sully their blades with the blood of those unworthy. But instead of drawing a knife, did the man throw a gold piece before his feet.
»Here is your reward, ferryman. Now set me over.«
The voice of the warrior sounded suddenly as if he despised it to exchange any further word with him.
The ferryman bend down and scooped up the gold piece. He had a woman and children that needed him. Not for the gold he had done such betrayal. He turned the precious coin between his fingers, then he threw it into the river.
»May Rastullah protect you, Mahmud, and forgive me my weakness«, he mumbled quietly.
Shivering did Mahmud awake. He had dreamed something unsettling, but could not remember what. Perplexed he looked around and it took him a while until he saw the backyard of the prayer house again.
He had rolled into his blanket in a corner and had fallen asleep at the late afternoon. Not it was dark. Only quietly did the conversations on the streets enter the yard. The time of business was over. The folk would meet at inns and on the plazas to talk with one another or to look at the dancers and artists that performed at several spots. It was the best time of day for a story-teller. Now would not only the children, but also the adults hearken to him and instead of food scraps, they would reward him with small copper pieces, if the tale would appeal to them.
Tired he stroked some sand out of his beard and ordered the folds of his garments. The darkness would conceal how frayed his kaftan was and he knew that he had an aura in the shine of the oil-lamps that let him become the archetype of a story-teller. Mahmud smiled. It was a still, turned inside smile. He thought about how he would have laughed years ago, if someone would have prophesied that he would make his living like that. And yet it was good so, for even if this life was hard and full of deprivation so had it given something to him that he had not known before: contentment.
The old one grasped his staff and made his way. In the house of prayers had the wise men begun to speak loudly of the words of Rastullah. With a quick look into the hall, Mahmud saw that not many had come to listen to them.
The story-teller left the yard through a splendorous blue painted gate and stepped unto the street of the gold-smithies. Although he had slept a few hours, he still felt weak and exhausted. Every time when he told the story of Omar and Mawdliyah, it was so, as if an inner fire would entirely spend him and rob his anyway weak being the remaining power. And yet was it his favorite fairy-tale, and he was looking forward to see the children and the little Omar again that had hearkened to him already during mid-day's hour.
As he stood again before the pile of carpets from which he had been asked rudely to get up from a few hours ago, he was surprised to see how many people had come.
The merchant to whom belonged the carpets had prepared a small pitcher with rarefied wine for him. In a flat bowl lay pieces of melon and fruit.
A fat man, who wore a slightly gone astray turban came up to him and embraced him like they were old friends.
»I am glad that you returned, story-teller. The entire afternoon no one had spoken of something else but your tale. It is a new fairy-tale, is it not? No one here knows the story of Omar and Mawdliyah.«
Mahmud freed himself from the embrace of the merchant, nodded shortly and lowered himself on the pile of carpets. With a wide gesture he stroked over his beard and regarded the audience. Among them he found many new faces, but there was hardly anything to be seen of the children. The adults had pushed them into the background, to get themselves on the best spots.
»Is my voice so quiet like the secret whisper of lovers?«
The mumbling around him went silent. Many of them looked surprised and regarded him perplexed.
Somewhere someone muttered: »How does he dare?«
»I wish that you let the children come forward again. For them I have begun this tale. They have cared for me this mid-day and I am in their debt, for I have promised them to continue my fairy-tale. And not those who shoo away an old man when he stands in the way of one's business.«
An almost tangible unrest lay in the air. He was aware of his weakness but exactly in that lay his strength. To strike an old man was already considered shameful, but to lay hand on an story-teller was a shame that would follow the kin of the evil-doer for generations.
»How far has it come with you already?«, sounded the shrill voice of an old woman. »The foreigner is a guest in our street and if it is his wish that the children sit in his near, so respect that, or it will be known already in the morrow that in the street of the weavers, that hospitality is treated with feet.«
One moment longer nothing happened. Then came motion into the merchants and their women, the dyers and old widows that had gathered around him.
A bit insecure because the eyes of all rested on them, came the children up to the front and sat down before the pile of carpets.
Mahmud smiled satisfied. The most may hold him for strange and weak of age, but such small triumphs were the spice for him in his life. Among the children was also the little Omar. Mahmud winked at him and patted the carpet at his side.
»Come to me, Omar! You are my guest of honor, after all and everyone should see that.«
Shyly did the boy get up and would have obviously sunken rather into the ground, instead of standing in the middle of everyone's attention. But then he took heart, climbed unto the pile and took his place at Mahmud's side.
With a wide gesture did the story-teller spread his arms and asked for silence. The mumbling ceased. The people forgot all the thousand little and greater worries that defined their lives.
»It occurred to that time, as the young prince Mustafa was made sultan of Hayabêth, that Mawdliyah the daughter of the merchant lord Abu Feisal, fled the palace of her father to not marry an old man, to whom she was promised since years.
Doing so, she rescued the former slave Omar, who had forfeited his life as he said openly to Feisal how much he loved his daughter.
As in these days, many hunters had gathered at Abu Feisal's house, the Sharisad decided to cross the feared salt-lake before the gates of Hayabêth, for her handmaiden Nedime had once belonged to the kin of the Saltstriders and was familiar with the treacherous being of the lake.
But although Rastullah had held his hand warding over the fleeing companions who seemingly escaped every pursuers, would the salt-lake be part of their doom.
Only a last mile parted them from the shady vale that promised rescue as Mawdliyah fell her companions believed that the life would have left her. With the last power and themselves nigh death carried Omar and Fenthal, the heathen who was appointed as bodyguard by Mawdliyah's father, the dying Sharisad to the place where past and future became one and Rastullah let everyone meet his fate.
It was the vale of the seven broken pillars that they had entered and as they laid Mawdliyah next to the well and dripped its water unto her face, there death held no more sway over her.
Now say some that it was the water of the well and others the tears of Omar that had fallen on the face of the Sharisad as he cursed his fate and was at odds with Rastullah.
The righteous one knows however that alone the power of the Allfather had held Mawdliyah back from the threshold of death. But because Omar had blasphemed his name, drew Rastullah a knife and severed the threads of fate of the former slave and the dancer that until then had been closely intertwined.
And so became the vale of the seven broken pillars, the place where Mawdliyah discovered her love for Omar, although it was decided already that their ways should part, for ...«
