Haggopian and Other Stories

Tarra cloaked himself in his wits and sat up—this time more carefully, “I wondered if you were still there,” he called down. “I couldn’t see you in the shade of your tree, and the fire appears to be dead.”

“What?” Hadj Dyzm came from cover, stretched and yawned. He poked for a moment at dull embers, then snorted a denial. “No, not dead but sleeping like us. There—” and he propped a dry branch over hot ashes. By the time Tarra had climbed stiffly down, smoke was already curling.

“Fish for supper,” said Dyzm. “If I may depend on you to see to it, I’ll go tend my beasts.”

“Beasts?” Tarra was surprised. “Beasts of burden? Here?” He stared hard at the other in the dying light. “You said nothing of this before. Things take a turn for the better!”

“Listen,” said Dyzm. “While you slept I thought things over. I’ve a tale to tell and a proposition to make. I’ll do both when I get back. Now, will you see to the fish?”

“Certainly!” the Hrossak answered, kneeling to blow a tiny flame to life. “Beasts of burden, hey? And now maybe I’ll reconsider your offer—my protection, I mean, en route for Chlangi—for it’s a shorter way by far to the so-called Doomed City by yak, than it is to the steppes on foot! And truth to tell, my feet are sore weary of—” But Hadj Dyzm was no longer there. Humped up a little and wheezing, he made his way carefully upward, from one rock terrace to the next higher; and he needed his wind for breathing, not chattering to a suddenly gossipy Hrossak.

Tarra, however, chattered only for effect: chiefly to hide his hurried re-appraisal of this “stranded merchant”. Stranded, indeed! How so? With beasts of burden at his command? There were deep waters here for sure, and not alone in this crystal pool!

Using his broken blade the Hrossak quickly gutted the fishes, spitted them together on a green stick and set it over the stinging smoke, then checked on Dyzm’s progress up the side of the bowl. And…he could climb surprisingly well, this old man! Already he was at the rim, just disappearing over the top. Tarra let him get right out of sight, then sprang to his feet and raced up the terraces. At the top he followed Dyzm’s trail beneath the cliffs to where the water came down in a near-solid sheet from above, its shining tongue lunging sheer down the slippery face of the rock. No need for stealth here, where the thunder of the fall deadened all else to silence.

Then he spotted the oldster, but—

On the other side of the fall? Now how had he managed to get across? And so speedily! The old fellow was full of surprises, and doubtless there were more to come; Tarra must try to anticipate them.

He watched from the shelter of a leaning rock, his gaze half-obscured by rising spray from the lake. Dyzm’s animals were not yaks but two pairs of small camels, which he now tended in the pale evening light. Tethered to a tree in the lee of the cliff, three of them had saddles and small bags, the other was decked more properly as a pack animal. Dyzm put down a large bundle of green branches and coarse grasses collected along the way and the camels at once commenced to feed. While they did so, the old man checked their saddlebags. And furtive was old Hadj Dyzm as he went about his checking, with many a glance over his brown-robed shoulders, which seemed a little less humped now and, oddly, less venerable. But perhaps that was only an effect of the misty light…

Keeping low and melding with the lengthening shadows, Tarra retraced his steps to the bowl, down the terraces to the lake, and was just in time to keep the fishes from ruin as the fire’s flames blazed higher. So that a short while later, when Dyzm returned, supper was ready and the fire crackled a bright yellow welcome, its light reflecting in the water along with night’s first stars.

Seeing that all was well, Dyzm handed Tarra a blanket he’d brought back with him from his camel-tending; Tarra threw it gratefully across his shoulders, drawing it to him like a robe. Hunching down, they ate in silence; and then, with the last rays of the sun glancing off the western rim of the bowl, the old man shoved a little more wood on the fire and began to talk:

“Tarra Khash, I like you and believe that you’re a trustworthy man. Most steppemen are, individually. Oh, it’s true I know little enough about you, but we’ve eaten together and talked a little, and you’ve given me no cause to suspect that you’re anything but a right-minded, fair-dealing, strong-limbed and hardy Hrossak. Which are all the qualifications you need to be my partner. Hear me out:

“If you hadn’t come on the scene when you did—indeed, only half an hour later—then I’d have been long gone from here and even now on my way to Klühn via Chlangi, and to all the many hells with trail brigands and bandits! And fifty-fifty I would make it unscathed, for I’m a survivor, d’you see? Not that I’d normally complain, even if I didn’t make it: a man has a life to live and when it’s done it’s done. Being a Hrossak, you’d agree with that, I know.