The Carpet Makers (2 page)

“No, Father,” mumbled Abron, “of course not.”

Ostvan watched him. “Now go to work on your carpet design.”

“Yes, Father.”

Late in the evening, Garliad’s birth pangs began. The women accompanied her into the prepared birth room; Ostvan and Abron stayed in the kitchen.

Ostvan got two cups and a bottle of wine, and they drank silently. Sometimes they heard Garliad crying out or moaning in the birth room; then again there was nothing for a while. It was going to be a long night.

When his father fetched a second bottle of wine, Abron asked, “And if it’s a boy?”

“You know as well as I do,” Ostvan responded dully.

“Then what will you do?”

“The law has always said that a carpet maker may have only one son, because a carpet can support only one family.” Ostvan pointed to an old, rust-flecked sword hanging on the wall. “With that, my grandfather killed my two brothers on the day of their birth.”

Abron was silent. “You said that this is God’s law,” he finally erupted. “That must be a cruel God, don’t you think?”

“Abron!” Ostvan thundered.

“I want to have nothing to do with your God!” screamed Abron, and flung himself out of the kitchen.

“Abron! Stay here!”

But Abron tore up the stairs to the bedchambers and did not return.

So Ostvan waited alone, but he did not drink any more. The hours passed, and his thoughts became more gloomy. Finally the first cries of a child were mixed among the cries of the mother, and Ostvan heard the women lamenting and sobbing. He stood up heavily as though every movement were painful; he took the sword from the wall and laid it on the table. Then he stood there and waited with somber patience until the Wise Woman came from the birth room with the newborn in her arms.

“It’s a boy,” she said calmly. “Will you kill him, sir?”

Ostvan looked at the rosy, wrinkled face of the child. “No,” he said. “He will live. I want him to be named Ostvan after me. I will teach him the craft of a hair-carpet maker, and should I not live long enough, someone else will complete his training. Take him back to his mother, and tell her what I’ve said.”

“Yes, sir,” said the Wise Woman, and bore the child out.

Ostvan, however, took the sword from the table, went with it up to the bedchambers, and killed his son Abron.

II

The Hair-Carpet Trader

YAHANNOCHIA WAS GEARING UP
for the annual arrival of the hair-carpet trader. It was like an awakening for the city that would lie motionless under the searing sun for the rest of the year. It began with garlands that appeared here and there under the low roofs, and with meager sprays of flowers that tried to cover up the stained walls of the houses. Day after day, there were more colorful pennants fluttering in the wind that swept, as it always did, over the ridges of the rooftops. And the smells from the cooking pots in the dark kitchens settled heavily into the narrow streets. Everyone knew it was important to be ready for the Great Festival. The women brushed their hair, and that of their mature daughters, for hours. The men finally patched their shoes. To the constant chatter of excited voices everywhere came the dissonant blaring of trumpets rehearsing their fanfares. The children, who usually played quietly and somberly in the alleyways, ran about yelling and wearing their best clothes. It was a colorful whirl, a feast for the senses, a feverish anticipation of the Great Day.

And then the day arrived. The riders who had been sent out returned and dashed through the streets trumpeting the news: “The trader is coming!”

“Who is it?” a thousand voices shouted.

“The carts bear the colors of the trader Moarkan,” the scouts reported, then spurred their mounts and galloped on. And the thousand voices passed the name of the trader along through every house and hut, and everybody had something to say. “Moarkan!” They remembered when Moarkan had last been in Yahannochia and what goods he had had to offer from distant cities. “Moarkan!” They speculated where he might be coming from and from which cities he was bringing news and maybe even letters. “Moarkan is coming!…”

But it still took two whole days before the trader’s enormous caravan entered the city.

First came the foot soldiers, marching ahead of the train of wagons. From a distance, they had seemed like a single, gigantic caterpillar with glittering spines on its back, creeping along the trade route toward Yahannochia. As they got closer, it was possible to distinguish the men in leather armor carrying their spears pointed skyward, so that the polished spear points caught the gleam of the sunlight. Tired, they trudged along, their faces crusted with dust and sweat, their eyes dull and clouded with exhaustion. All of them wore the colored insignia of the trader on their backs, like a brand.

Behind them rode the trader’s mounted soldiers. Barely keeping their snorting mounts in check, they rode up the trail, armed with swords, maces, heavy whips, and knives. Some proudly bore old, scratched ray-guns on their belts, and all of them looked down with disdain on the city folk lining the road. There was trouble for anyone who came too close to the procession! Whips responded immediately, and with the loud crack of leather, the riders opened a wide ford for the carts that followed them through the stream of curious onlookers.

These wagons were pulled by large, shaggy baraq buffalo with matted pelts; they stank as only baraq buffalo can stink. The carts came creaking, rattling, and jolting along, their uneven, iron-rimmed wheels grinding dry furrows into the road. Everyone knew that these wagons were laden with costly items from distant places—that they were packed full of bags of exotic spices, bolts of fine material, barrels of expensive delicacies, loads of luxurious woods, and strongboxes filled to the brim with priceless gems. The buffalo plodded along good-naturedly, but the carters, sitting on their coach-boxes with grim expressions, drove them forward to keep them from stopping when confronted with the unusual excitement all around.

Magnificently decorated and pulled by sixteen baraqs, the great cart, in which the trader and his family lived, came next. Every neck craned in the hope of catching a glimpse of Moarkan, but the merchant didn’t show himself. The windows were curtained, and only two gruff carters were sitting on the coach-box.

Then finally, the hair-carpet wagon arrived. A murmur passed through the crowd at the roadside. There were no fewer than eighty-two buffalo pulling the steel colossus. The armored cart appeared to have no windows or openings, except for a single door to which the trader alone had a key. The eight broad wheels of the multiton monster dug into the road with loud crunching noises, and the driver had to constantly sting the backs of the buffalo with his whip to keep them moving ahead. The cart was accompanied by mounted soldiers, who scanned about suspiciously, as though they feared attack and plunder by superior forces at any moment. Everyone knew that the hair carpets the trader had already bought on his route were transported in this cart, along with the money—vast amounts of money—for the carpets he would still buy.

Other carts followed: the wagons in which the more important of the trader’s servants lived, provision wagons for the soldiers, and wagons for the transport of tents and all sorts of equipment needed by such a mighty caravan. And behind the procession ran the children of the city, hollering, whistling, and shouting with enthusiasm for the exciting spectacle.

The caravan rolled into the large market square to the sound of fanfare. Flags and standards fluttered on tall masts, and the city craftsmen were giving the final touches to the stands they had erected in one corner of the big market to display their wares in the hope of doing good business with the trader’s buyers. When the wagons of the caravan train came to a stop, the trader’s servants immediately began setting up their own stands and sales tents. The square echoed with a babble of voices, with shouts and laughter, and with the clatter of tools and poles. At the fringes of the square, the residents of Yahannochia pressed in timidly, because the merchant’s mounted soldiers were urging their proud steeds through the busy tumult, reaching threateningly for the whips at their belts whenever one of the city folk became too bold.

The city elders appeared, clothed in their most magnificent robes, escorted by city soldiers. The people from the trader’s company made room for them and opened up a path through which they strode toward Moarkan’s cart. They waited there patiently, until one small window was opened from the inside and the merchant peered out. He exchanged a few words with the dignitaries and then signaled to one of his servants.

This man, the trader’s crier, scurried as nimbly as a lizard up to the roof of the trader’s wagon, where he stood with his legs apart and his arms extended wide. He shouted, “Yahannochia! The market is open!”

*   *   *

“We’ve been hearing strange rumors here about the Emperor for some time,” one of the city elders said to Moarkan, while the tumult of the market’s opening swirled around them. “Do you know anything more?”

Moarkan’s crafty little eyes narrowed. “What rumors do you mean, sir?”

“The rumor is going around that the Emperor has abdicated.”

“The Emperor? Is it possible for the Emperor to abdicate? Can the sun shine without him? Would the stars in the night sky not be extinguished without him?” The merchant shook his fat head. “And why do the Imperial Shipsmen buy the hair carpets from me just as they’ve always done for as long as anyone can remember? I’ve heard these rumors, too, but I know nothing about such things.”

*   *   *

In the meantime, on a large, decorated platform, the final preparations were being completed for the ritual, which was the real reason for the arrival of the trader: the presentation of the hair carpets.

“Citizens of Yahannochia, come and behold!” the master of ceremonies called out; he was a white-bearded giant of a man, robed in brown, black, red, and gold, the colors of the Guild of the Hair-Carpet Makers. The people paused, looked toward the stage, and slowly approached.

There were thirteen carpet makers who had finished their hair carpets this year and were now ready to present them to their sons. The carpets were attached to large frames and draped with gray cloth. Twelve of the carpet makers were present in person—old, bowed men who were able to stand only with difficulty and who glanced around with half-blind eyes. Only one of the carpet makers had already died and was represented by a younger member of the guild. On the other side of the platform stood thirteen young men, the sons of the old carpet makers.

“Citizens of Yahannochia, cast your eyes on the carpets that will beautify the Palace of the Emperor!” As happened every year, a reverent whispering went through the crowd when the carpet makers then unveiled their hair carpets—their life’s work.

But this year there was already a skeptical undertone in the harmony of appreciative voices. “What’s the meaning of the rumor that the Emperor has abdicated?” some voices asked.

The photographer who traveled with the merchant’s train walked onto the platform and offered his services. As was the tradition, each hair carpet was photographed separately, and, with trembling fingers, each of the carpet makers accepted the image the photographer had created with his shabby, ancient apparatus.

Then the master of ceremonies spread wide his arms in a sweeping gesture that demanded silence; he closed his eyes and waited until quiet had settled over the large square, where everyone now paused and followed the events on the stage, spellbound. All conversation stopped, the craftsmen at their stands put aside their tools and other implements, everyone stood where he was, and stillness descended—so complete that every rustle of clothing and the wind lamenting in the beams of the large houses could be heard.

“We give thanks to the Emperor with all we have and with all we are,” he solemnly intoned the traditional prayer. “We offer our life’s work in gratitude to the One through whom we live and without whom we would be nothing. Just as every world in the Empire contributes its best to the beauty of the Emperor’s Palace, we praise our good fortune that we may gratify the Emperor’s eye with our art. He who created the brightest stars in the heavens and the darkness between them grants us the favor of placing his foot on the work of our hands. May he be praised now and forevermore.”

“May he be praised,” the people mumbled across the great square and bowed their heads.

The master of ceremonies gave a signal and a gong sounded. “The hour has come,” he called out as he turned to the young men, “when the eternal covenant of the makers of hair carpets is renewed. Every generation takes on a debt to the previous one, and pays off its debt to its own children. Are you willing to keep this covenant?”

“We are willing,” the sons responded in chorus.

“So you shall receive the work of your fathers and become indebted to them,” the master of ceremonies concluded the ritual formula and gave the signal for the second striking of the gong.

The old carpet makers took out their knives and carefully severed the bands holding their carpets in the knotting frame. Cutting the carpet from the frame was a symbolic act closing out their life’s work. One after the other, the sons approached their fathers, who carefully rolled up their carpets and—many with tears in their eyes—laid them in the arms of their sons.

Applause surged up when the last carpet had been presented, music began to play, and, as though a dam had been breached, the loud bustle of the market began again and turned into a festival.

*   *   *

Dirilja, the trader’s beautiful daughter, had watched the presentation ritual from her window, and when she heard the music ring out, she had tears in her eyes, too—but they were tears of pain. Crying, she lowered her head against the windowpane and dug her fingers into her long, reddish-blond hair.

Moarkan stood before the mirror and busied himself with giving just the right cast to the folds of his radiantly glittering robe; he snorted angrily, “It’s been more than three years, Dirilja! He has surely found someone else, and all the tears in the world won’t change that.”