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During the day's rest, when our charioteer was busy with the horses, or sweetly snoring, stretched out somewhere in the shade, Petal tried to carve out time to be with me and to talk without interruption. Examining my wounds with an admiring smile, with which another girl would look at colourful ribbons or a box of trinkets, she said:
‘Your body has an astonishing gift for recovery! Had I not known when exactly you were wounded, I would have said, perhaps, that at least three weeks must have passed. Are you aware that some lizards and octopuses can regrow lost organs?’
‘Even children know of this,’ I grumbled condescendingly.
‘How intriguing! What if we were to cut off your arm or leg...’
‘Not intriguing in the slightest.’
‘I apologise, I apologise! I had no intention of doing any such thing,’ Wind Petal raised her open palms. But as I continued to scowl, she quickly offered, ‘Would you like something to drink? Something to eat? Do you want...’
‘I want a different one. I'm done with this,’ and I handed her the scroll I’d read that morning.
‘But there aren’t any more. That was the last.’
‘You haven't seen much, have you?’ I teased.
‘I leave them wherever I like — and with whomever I like. After all, what’s the point of writing if no one will read it, right? Sometimes they end up in libraries, sometimes they travel further than I do — that is why I order cases made of especially sturdy leather. You know, once in Shabbaz, they tried to sell me my own scroll, praising it as the most useful treatise on medicine. That was hilarious!’ and she smiled, tilting her head to her shoulder, ‘I was going to leave these at the fortress, but if you want, you can take one or two with you.’
‘To take with me?’ I asked, bewildered.
‘We'll reach the castle in a couple of days. I don't think you should stay there for long. If anyone recognises you,’ Wind Petal sighed, ‘you... no, all of you will undoubtedly cause trouble. Yes?’
For some reason, this simple thought — that we would part at the fortress, that we would part one way or another, — had never crossed my mind. I looked at her in complete confusion, finally grasping the idea of fear — something I had heard so much about from others. My heart skipped a beat and a sense of inevitable loss flooded it with a hopeless longing.
‘There's no need to be so upset,’ Petal said, puzzled, ‘And if you like... If you like, I can just tell you about something! Yes?’
I nodded silently, trying not to betray my confusion or sadness.
The charioteer returned and began harnessing the horses. He had let them graze during a short stop in a forest clearing.
As the cart rumbled onto the pebble-covered road, still radiating the harsh July heat, Wind Petal looked into my eyes and asked:
‘So, what would you like to hear about, Asterius? Distant islands? Winged fish? Celestial fire? Earthworms? Believe me — earthworms are terribly underrated. They are absolutely fascinating creatures!’
Earthworms! That was so very her. I would not be surprised if she had filled an entire scroll with tales of worm-life. Smiling in spite of myself, I said:
‘You can still call me what you did before — Olzohubuun. I am glad you found me before all my blood had drained into the earth. Truly, Madonna — I am glad it was you who found me. And I’d like to hear a fairy tale.’
‘A fairy tale?’ she echoed.
‘You called me by a child’s name, my fair lady Petal — so tell me a fairy tale. No one ever has. Not since infancy. I’ve never heard even one.’
‘I don't know that many fairy tales,’ she furrowed her thin eyebrows, thought for a moment, ‘But I suppose I can remember one. Alright. Listen, olzohubuun. I'll tell you a fairy tale about a handsome Prince.’
Long, long ago, in the beautiful days of old, there lived a Prince, reckless, fearless and ruthless. He was a great warrior, and no one could defeat him — not an honest knight, not a vile robber, not an entire army.
But the Prince was famed not so much for his valour as for his extraordinary beauty. His face was whiter than precious marble; his figure, slender as a sapling, not yet fully grown. His beauty shone like a furious sun, drawing every eye, capturing every heart. Many maidens — fair, noble and worthy — yearned for his love. But the Prince loved only battle. Only the clash of weapons delighted him. Only the thrill of victory tempted him. And so, he lived — year after year — through war and duels. But his time came, and Death appeared behind him.
In the heat of battle, time suddenly stopped. The Prince froze, for he saw a maiden riding behind him on a black long-horn bull. Her hair was darker than the night, her face paler than the moon, her eyes brighter than the stars. She held neither sword nor a bow, but a silver sickle and this maiden was his Death.
She approached him, looked at his face — and saw how beautiful he was, how radiant his unearthly beauty shone, and she averted her gaze, lowered her silver sickle and spared the Prince — for his beauty.
Time resumed its course. The battle raged once more. Death retreated, disappeared from sight, but the Prince still could not move, unable to forget the maiden with hair darker than the night and a face paler than the moon. Victory no longer brought him joy. The clang of weapons no longer enticed him, for his heart no longer belonged to him, his heart had been stolen, and he languished from cruel longing.
Returning to his kingdom, the Prince summoned all his astrologers and asked them who the maiden with the silver sickle was and how to find her. The astrologers pondered for a long time, consulted with the moon and stars, consulted with each other, but could not answer him. Then he summoned the great scholar and astronomer Abu Rayhan and asked him. ‘Do not seek this maiden, for she is your Death,’ said Abu Rayhan, ‘and, since Death itself turned away from you, dared not to meet your eyes or quench the flame of life with its cold gaze, you will be a great warrior, invincible and undefeated.’
‘I am already a great warrior, undefeated,’ replied the Prince.
He sent the great Abu Rayhan away with gifts, banished all the astrologers in disgrace and grew sorrowful and heartsick, wishing only one thing — to see that delightful maiden Death and pondering how to find her.
But he did not grieve for long. The Prince raised an army, mounted his horse — white as a swan, a beautiful horse — and rode north. Better than any astrologer, the Prince knew where to look for the maiden Death — in the flames of battle, in the blood of war.
Death spared him, retreated from him. But the Prince, enchanted and unable to forget her, kept seeking her.
He fought day after day, year after year, undefeated — leading his army, conquering lands, cities and strongholds, shedding rivers of blood, bringing countless miseries. His beautiful horse, white as a swan, fell under him. And so did another one, golden as a thrush, beautiful as the sun. But not even the shadow of death touched the Prince. He was invincible and undefeated, the beautiful Prince, fearless, reckless and ruthless and his very name inspired terror in people. But all was in vain, he could not meet his Death.
Then one day he crushed a small nation, a little steppe people, who had brought others neither harm nor good. None remained of that steppe people — no man, no woman, no child. All perished, but even there the Prince did not find his Death. He was just about to leave when he saw a girl of about seven or eight walking towards him across the scorched steppe. A golden falcon perched on her arm. The Prince was ready to send his ghulams to kill that girl and bring that falcon, when the bird itself fluttered onto his hand and spoke in a human voice.
‘The spirit of the shaman speaks to you, foolish Prince,’ said the falcon, ‘I am dying. I do not have much strength, so listen carefully — I will not repeat myself. You have exterminated my people, a little steppe people, who had done others neither harm nor good. They disappeared, but I do not want the memory of them to disappear. My people lived in black carts, in white yurts lived my people. They bred cattle and hunted, knew no writing, sealed bargains by spoken word — and having given their word, never broke it. From the distant days of yore, our tongue was spoken but not written and we possess neither scrolls that would preserve our legends and ancestry, nor prayer books. Shamans carried that knowledge, passing it from elder to younger — how to appease the gods, how to quell the storm and how to heal the sick. The child before you, this girl, the blacksmith's daughter, is the last among us who knows the names of our gods and heroes, the whims of spirits and the habits of beasts, remembers our legends and the names of our ancestors. Spare her life and in return, I will teach you how to find the one you vainly seek day after day, year after year.’
‘Be it as you say, speaker to the gods,’ replied the Prince, ‘teach me and I will spare this girl's life.’
‘Swear it,’ demanded the falcon.
The Prince swore on his life and his honour, on his fortune and wealth, on his valour and beauty. But the falcon only laughed.
‘Very well,’ said the Prince, ‘I am weary of oaths. Let us do this. I will send this child to a distant city, the capital of knowledge, to the great scholar and astrologer, Abu Rayhan. He will teach her not only to read the stars, but he will instruct her in reading and writing in eight living tongues and twelve dead ones, he will teach her this and that. Then she will be able to record everything she knows about the gods and heroes, about the whims of spirits and the habits of beasts, your legends and the names of your ancestors and thus the memory of your people will not vanish, but multiply, spreading across the world like petals in the wind. I swear this to you on my Death.’
The falcon nodded in agreement. At once the girl was placed on a great horse — magnificent velvet-black, with a saddle adorned with gold and silver. Twelve viziers, twenty warriors and forty slaves accompanied her on the journey to the distant city, to the great scholar and astrologer, Abu Rayhan, fulfilling the Prince's oath.
Only then did the falcon unfurl his wings and his golden feathers shone in the sun and his yellow eyes gleamed with savage joy.
‘Foolish Prince,’ he said, ‘The one you vainly sought day after day, year after year, — igniting the flames of battle, shedding rivers of blood — has always been following you. Was it hard to guess, foolish Prince, fearless killer, merciless and reckless one? You loved her deeply, were her faithful friend and a diligent servant – could Death abandon one such as you? Look over your left shoulder, she stands behind you even now.’
Overjoyed, the Prince, the foolish, beautiful Prince, looked back and thus he met his Death.
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