Indeed, these Southerners are ready to compose verses about anything.

I envied them, though. It seemed these people simply did not know how to be serious, and I was struggling to remember where I had met de Bornel before. I remembered now — l had seen him during the siege of the Arb. A fierce fighter, no doubt about that.

Now he was laughing carelessly, singing chansons, dispersing pleasantries, and Wind Petal was laughing at his jokes. A heavy hand, a light heart — how could one not envy that? In a battle… — in a battle he could not rival me, but those airy, enchanting words that made her laughter ring like silver in the wind... No, I was not capable of such.

 When the knights left, assuring Madonna of their eternal devotion, I asked:

‘Why the hell do they think I’m your beloved?’

‘It's all thanks to good count Raymond,’ she said, ‘I asked him to take me with him because I heard that someone I am looking for will almost certainly be fighting at El Icab and he, with his oh-so-southern insight, decided that a maiden has no other reason to search for a knight,’ Wind Petal sighed, ‘Curious! Sometimes I think southern knights have nothing in their heads but this nonsense — love, the sufferings of love, the joys of love and all in this matter. They can talk about it for hours. But their arms are elbow-deep in blood, just like the grimmest northerners.’

I felt uneasy — as if she had casually managed to peek into my head and I hurried to ask:

‘But what is the real reason? You seem to know a lot about me and were indeed looking for me. Why?’

‘I wanted to take a look. Have a chat if the opportunity should arise. Look here,’ she unrolled the scroll I had seen before, ‘Can you read Latin? Or should I translate for you?’

‘I can.’

Latin alone was not enough. There were records in Arabic and Greek and also symbols — some I could not even recognise, let alone read. The records were arranged in an order incomprehensible to me, like a choir all singing different tunes at once. There were also wondrous drawings, and I started to read at random, just beneath one of them.

 *****

It told of harpies — half-women-half-birds, dwelling in the rocky mountains along the banks of the Iris River. It was said that though harpies bear human features, their cunning, habits, and ferocity are more reminiscent of wild monkeys. These habits and the appearance of harpies: large black eyes, grey feathers streaked with dark stripes, and pale, ghostly skin — said to be a result of nesting in caves. Harpies are predators. Their main diet is snakes, rodents and birds, though in lean times they wouldn’t turn down carrion. A large specimen can carry off a dog — or even a sheep — and humans are wise to beware their claws. Because of this and also because harpies spread an unbearable stench, the areas near their nests are sparsely populated. Yet in early spring, shepherds from neighbouring villages drive their flocks there. This might seem foolish — unless one knew that April marks the beginning of the harpies’ mating season. They descend from the mountains and, upon seeing a man, they do not seek to attack, as usual, but begin to grimace playfully and screech. Strangely, shepherds are quite eager to lie with them — even the ugliest and most spiteful ones.

Then came a note in Arabic:

the observer (it was said just so ‘the observer’) lamented that, being a woman and able to approach the harpies, she could not determine how their sexual organs are configured — like human’s, or like bird's. However, the observer deemed it improper to kill a harpy merely for this purpose. It was further noted that lustful men have been known to copulate with ducks — so the mere fact of intercourse between a harpy and a human sheds no light on the structure of the aforementioned organs. Questioning the shepherds is not possible, for their temperament is as wild as their winged companions and therefore, they will most likely attempt to attack the observer. Beating a shepherd half to death for the sake of a simple conversation is not something the observer deems acceptable. The observer expressed hope that these questions might one day be answered — by a male observer.

It was all so unmistakably in Petal’s spirit — line by line, I heard her voice: calm and cheerful, as though she were discussing the most ordinary things — that water is wet, and the sky is blue. And I was overcome with uncontrollable laughter.

‘What's wrong with you?’ I heard her voice, this time live and real, ‘There's nothing funny in that! Listen — your wounds will tear if you laugh like that! Did they strike your head too? Did I overlook it? Let me see…’

Unable to utter a word, I brushed her hands aside and still gasping, went on reading.

…twelve days later, the harpy lays two to three speckled eggs. Eggs, covered with large spots, are thrown out of the nest. The observer constructed a clever net trap under the rock, thanks to which she managed to get one such egg intact. Six weeks later, a chick hatched. A boy. His sexual organs were arranged just like a human's. Therefore, it can be assumed that females also have the same. The observer named the boy Aidar and had to stop observing.

‘Wait — you,’ I asked, choking with laughter, ‘you actually sat on the egg?’

‘Sat? No!’ Wind Petal replied indignantly, ‘I kept it in my bosom — much more convenient. Why?’

‘Nothing,’ I managed, before bursting into laughter again.

‘What's wrong with you?’ she took the scroll away and then suddenly slapped me sharply on the forehead.

Almost out of habit, I grabbed her wrist.

‘Alright. Stop,’ she said, not trying to free her hand, ‘Look, your chest wound has reopened. I didn't think you were the sort to die of laughter.’

I looked at the bandage — a bloody stain was slowly spreading across it.

‘Let it,’ I murmured, eyes closed, letting Petal do whatever she thought best. ‘I've never had so much fun in my life. Tell me, how long were you there, in the Rocky Mountains, on the banks of the Iris River?’

‘Six months.’

‘Why?’

‘Observation is the root of all knowledge.’

‘What became of that boy-chick?’

‘He lives in the house of my friend, a scholar from Isfahan. It's been a year and eight months. Last I heard, he's healthy.’

‘Are you going to write about me too?’

‘Naturally. Will you answer a few questions?’

‘Yes. If you let me read some more.’

‘No chance.’

I opened my eyes, looked at her and said:

‘I promise I won't laugh.’