The Vine

The Vine

  Copyright 2016 G. Wulfing

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  Table of contents:

  The Vine

  About G. Wulfing

  THE VINE

  The vine had grown so long against the side of the palace that it had virtually become part of the palace wall. Its tendrils and branches had dug into any little opening or crack they could find, years ago outgrowing the big trellis that had originally supported it and was now lost, completely overgrown and probably broken under the weight of its denizen’s foliage. At its base, the vine’s stem had become a thick, twisting gnarl, so thick that it was like a tree’s trunk, lodged in the ground, about as high as two stacked footstools, where the vine had bent over under its own weight before growing upwards again.

  The top of this woody bend was half disguised by leaves; a fact for which Afif was always grateful, as it meant that any scuffing that might be left by his boots as he stood on the top of it would be hidden by the leaves. The trunklike beginning of the vine was always the best place from which to start his climb.

  Afif was almost sure that he never climbed the vine the same way twice: there were so many branches, so many potential handholds and footholds, that even if he climbed the vine a thousand times he would probably never need to use the same set more than once.

  He was very familiar with the parts of the vine that lay below a certain windowsill, however.

  ~*~*~*~

  It was a stunning night.

  The air had cooled from the heat of the day, but was still warm enough to be comfortable. The stars were blazing so brightly that it seemed as though on most other nights they were half asleep. They seemed to focus on earth, beaming down on the desert sands as if to imbue the grains with their silver.

  Afif could not sleep. Even inside the tent he could sense the stars.

  He pulled on his soft leather boots and slipped out of the stable-boys’ tent. The stars greeted him with a silent shout: Why were you waiting in there? Come out and see us!

  Afif gazed up at them, almost breathless at their magnificence. No one knew why the stars existed; perhaps it was to guide travellers; perhaps it was because they were the sands of the desert that was the sky, or the jewels flung into the sky by God Himself because they were too perfect for mortals to possess, or the souls of people who lived noble lives, as the legends said. Or perhaps something so beautiful as the night sky did not need a reason to justify its existence.

  Afif wandered a few steps away from his tent, not thinking about where to go, just wishing to be closer to those stars. Around him, the other tents of the greeting party were as silent as the night sky. Even snorers must be quiet on such a night, if the stars wanted the night for themselves.

  To his right, in the centre of the encampment, the great white tent of the sultan and his family lay, its silken banners barely shifting in the tiny, cool breeze. Afif avoided it: there would be guards awake inside who were habitually suspicious of people wandering around at night.

  Afif glided through the shadows thrown by the other tents. The sultan’s tent was surrounded by the tents of cooks, grooms, guards, footmen and all the other servants required by a party of royals when they travelled South to meet a fellow sovereign. The shadows were black and defined, almost as sharp as the shadows cast by the moon when she was full. Tonight the stars had the sky to themselves, and they were trumpeting their glory.

  Around the circle of tents were arrayed the animals: camels and horses, who would sound the alarm first if bandits appeared. Afif was automatically making his way to the place where he knew his horse was tied.

  Suddenly he sensed someone moving toward him. In the shadow of one of the cooking tents, Afif froze, hoping he was invisible. It was not a crime to be walking around the camp at night, and he could always say that he needed to use the latrines, but it would be better not to be discovered at all.

  The figure had also frozen. It appeared to be approaching from the opposite direction, and through the intervening shadows and ropes of the tents Afif could see that it seemed to be dressed in white. Perhaps it was someone who genuinely needed to use the latrines. They lay, however, if Afif recalled correctly, on the opposite side of the camp.

  After a moment, the figure approached cautiously. It was not tall nor broad; perhaps a little taller than Afif. The stable-boy remained still, unsure if the figure had seen him or not.

  Step by step, the figure in white came closer. Afif realised by its bearing that it was looking straight at him. There was no point in hiding, then, but still he remained where he was.

  The figure paused, a few paces from Afif, regarding him, still partially obscured by shadow. The stable-boy suddenly realised that the white robes and turban were not plain linen but white silk. He was staring at one of the princes. And he was not showing proper respect.

  Afif stepped out of the shadow of the cooking tent, rapidly dropped to one knee and bowed his head. He should perhaps offer a greeting, but he did not dare speak, partly out of fear of the prince and partly out of reverence for the stars who still seemed to command silence on this night.

  “Who goes there?” inquired the prince, quietly but clearly.

  “A stable-boy, Your Highness,” Afif replied, head still bowed. His name was not important to a royal.

  “Oh.” The prince paused slightly. “Why are you out here at night?”

  He sounded young, perhaps near Afif’s own age, but Afif still could not identify which of the princes he was. There were five of them, though only the youngest two were accompanying their father on this trip.

  “I was trying to find the latrines, Your Highness, and I got confused.”

  “I see.” There was a pause. “So was I,” the prince added.

  “Erm, I think the latrines are on the other side of the encampment, Your Highness,” Afif offered.

  “Yes, I think you are right.” The prince’s tones were cultured and he spoke well and gracefully, as all royals did; not that a stable-boy heard the voices of the royal family very often.

  Neither the prince nor the stable-boy moved. Afif could not move until he was given permission, and the prince seemed reluctant to move.

  “It is a beautiful night, though, is it not,” the prince offered conversationally.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Afif agreed, wondering what the prince was thinking.

  Still the prince hesitated.

  “Stable-boy, tell me where my horse Aruna is tied.”

  Aruna. This must be Prince Zayn, then, who rode more often and seemed to love horses more than any of the sultan’s sons. He could frequently be seen at the stables, grooming his own horse and insisting that he tack and untack Aruna himself. Afif had seen this prince many times, but typically briefly and rarely at close quarters, as he was not the stable-boy in charge of Aruna. “Your Highness, he is tied with the other royal horses, in that direction.” Afif pointed to his left, through the tent whose shadow partially obscured the prince.

  “Thank you. You may go.”

  Afif bowed his head low again, then stood, backed away a few steps, and moved away into the shadow of the cooking tent. For the sake of appearances, in case the prince caught sight of him, he headed toward the latrines, though he didn’t really need them.

  He suspected that the prince didn’t either, and he wondered why the prince had been outside alone in the night, but it is not for stable-boys to know every movement of
their employers.

  After visiting the latrines, Afif was still wakeful. The stars were still shouting their brightness down at the silent earth, and Afif knew that he would not be able to sleep. He thought again of visiting his beloved horse Shadows, whose black and white coat would be magnificent in the starlight.

  He made his way to the horse-lines on the outskirts of the encampment.

  There was Shadows, standing with the other horses, like a creature of shadow and starlight himself. He was awake, and nickered softly as he caught Afif’s scent.

  Afif hushed him, stroking the horse’s black and white patched head. He murmured quietly to the animal, running his hands over Shadows’ mane and neck.

  Then Shadows’ ears twitched backwards, as did the ears of a couple of the horses nearby, and in the same moment Afif heard soft hoof-falls in the sand. Afif caught his breath and froze in the shadows of the horses, hiding under his piebald’s neck. A horse was approaching slowly, on the outside of the horse-lines.

  Afif peered around Shadows’ shoulder. It was the prince in white silk, leading his bay Aruna, who was saddled and bridled.

  Afif did not breathe. The prince glanced at the line of horses – perhaps his eye was caught by Shadows, whose vivid piebald coat was even more striking in this starlight – and looked away; then he glanced again. “Who goes there?” he called quietly.

  Afif hesitated. He might be suspected of mischief if he were caught, and the prince might be bluffing: he might not have seen the stable-boy clearly, but have only thought there might be someone there.

  “I can see you,” the prince added calmly. “Show yourself.”

  Afif came out from under Shadows’ neck and passed between him and the neighbouring horse, stepping beyond kicking distance of the horses’ rumps before he knelt and bowed his head to the prince. “I am the stable-boy from earlier this night, Your Highness,” he admitted.

  “Why are you hiding amongst the horses?” the prince inquired.

  “Your Highness, it was not my intention to hide.” Inspiration struck Afif. “One of the horses was looking a little unsettled this evening, Your Highness, and I wished to check on him.”

  “I see.” For a moment, the prince regarded the stable-boy kneeling in the sand, then he glanced at his own horse. “Aruna and I are going for a ride,” he announced, still in quiet, clear tones. “Have you finished tending to the unsettled horse?”

  “Er, yes, Your Highness.”

  “Then you will accompany us.”

  If Afif had wanted to go back to sleep, he would have been disappointed to hear that. Instead, he was elated. A starlit ride, on his own beloved Shadows, alongside that lovely fine bay of the prince’s?

  “Yes, Your Highness,” he agreed obediently. “I shall saddle my horse.”

  The prince gave a nod.

  ~*~*~*~

  The vine was so old that it probably damaged the wall beneath it, perhaps to the point whereat if the vine were removed the wall would be weakened. Eventually, when the vine died, something would have to be done, of course; but who knew how long a plant that had survived so many years and grown so much stronger and more vigorous than the others of its kind might live? Besides, it was considered bad luck to kill a creature – plant or animal – that had this much strength and desire to live.

  Tonight the night was warm, but gentle, and lit by a mild half-moon. The vine leaves were cool against Afif’s hands and body as he slowly, carefully climbed. Leaves brushed against his face as he pressed close to the vine. He had never fallen from the vine, but that did not mean that he never would. Each handhold and foothold must be selected with care.

  The guards never saw him. This particular garden was not overlooked by guards, as it was enclosed on all four sides: by the palace’s white wall, which Afif was now climbing, at the top of the garden; on either side, by stone walls that separated this private garden from other parts of the palace grounds; and, at the bottom of the gently sloping garden, by another stone wall which separated the palace and its grounds from the stableyards. In the palace wall there was a beautiful door set in a keyhole arch, painted in elaborate patterns of blue and gold and green, with ornate iron hinges, that led into the garden, but though the stable-boy had never tried it he knew that at night it was always locked.

  At the bottom of the garden, near the wall that backed the stableyards, grew a chinar tree whose topmost leaves could be seen above the wall by anyone standing in the stableyards. It was not difficult to scramble from the tiled roof of the long stable building to the top of the stone wall, and thence to lean out and down to seize with one hand a branch that reached toward the wall, and then to swing from the wall to grip the branch with both hands, then to climb a few branches down the chinar tree, and to jump from it to the lawn of the private garden.

  Afif was nervous every time he climbed over the roof of the stable building, but the first time it had been terrifying. The stable building was not tall; only tall enough for the stables themselves and the stable-boys’ low-ceilinged loft above; but Afif was terrified that he would make a sound and be caught. The palace was quiet at night, unless some celebration or party was occurring, and one stumble or clattering, dislodged tile could alert other stable-boys, or palace guards. And Afif would have no excuse as to why he was climbing over the stable roof at night, heading toward the private garden of the sultan’s youngest son.

  ~*~*~*~

  Riding over the dunes in the blazing starlight was as exhilarating as Afif had imagined. The horses’ ears were pricked, their eyes wide and eager, delighted to be cantering relaxedly in the cool of a night that was almost as bright as day. The world was illuminated with the cold, silver-white light of stars instead of the hot, red-gold light of the sun.

  It was so bright that Afif could see colours. The smart bay of Aruna’s coat seemed deeper and richer in the starlight, and he could even make out that some of the jewels in the hilt of the prince’s dagger gleamed ruby-red when the starlight caught them as the breeze blew the prince’s robe back from his waist.

  They rode in silence, aside from the muffled sound of the horses’ hooves in the sand and the occasional jingle of harness or snort of the horses’ breath.

  As they reached the crest of a dune, the prince reined in his mount, and Afif drew rein beside him. Shadows shook his head happily, with a small snort of satisfaction, and Afif smiled inwardly, happy that his horse was pleased. Beyond them were more dunes, rolling forever in the night, a hundred huge black curving shadows with curving silver tops.

  The prince was looking upward, and Afif followed his gaze.

  The stars seemed brighter and closer than ever. Afif could almost hear them singing. They swallowed his gaze. Look at us! Look at us! We are so alive tonight!

  A million, million of them. As many as the grains of sand that made up a dune. As many as the breaths a mortal might draw in a lifetime. As many as the hairs on a satin-coated horse.

  For a long time, Afif and the prince stared at the stars in silence. Occasionally, one of the horses shifted his stance, but the riders’ eyes remained fixed on the sky above. Time seemed to have stood still for a while.

  At last, the prince spoke.

  “I think they are too beautiful to be human souls,” he remarked calmly, with a touch of wistfulness. “Surely even a good soul does not shine so purely.”

  Afif looked at him, not knowing what to say.

  If Afif had said such a thing, and someone had looked at him as Afif now looked at the prince, Afif might have felt the need to apologise for saying a thing that was so unusual. The other stable-boys would almost certainly have made fun of him for saying something so poetic, and this was one reason why Afif usually kept his thoughts to himself.

  But princes do not need to apologise to stable-boys for speaking their minds.

  “What do you think?” the prince asked Afif. “Have you ever met a soul that shone so beautifully as one of those stars?”

/>   Afif thought for a moment, regarding his horse’s piebald mane and the dunes beyond.

  “Not in a person, Your Highness,” he said, after a pause. “… But perhaps in a horse.”

  The stable-boy was surprised when he glanced up and saw that the prince was beaming at him. Afif saw his dark eyes and white teeth.

  There was a pause.

  “Why is that, do you think?” the prince asked then. “Why are horses more beautiful, more noble, than we are?”

  Afif thought some more.

  “Because they are honest, Your Highness,” he ventured, still keeping his voice quiet as the night demanded. “They do not try to be anything other than what they are. But they try to be the best they can be. And they never scorn any other living thing for being what it is.”

  Again the stable-boy risked glancing at the prince, and again he saw the prince beaming at him.

  “A good answer,” the prince said softly.

  Again, the two riders stared at the stars for a long time.

  ~*~*~*~

  Afif reached the window: the tiny ledge was at the level of his head. He clung there. The window was flanked by wooden shutters with iron hinges, painted with the same colours and design as the door in the wall. The vine spread itself further, on either side of the large window and on up the wall, but Afif doubted that it was strong enough further up to bear his weight, even if he had needed or wanted to climb higher. Above him, reaching up toward the night sky, loomed the white palace, with its high smooth walls, and massive towers decorated with gold and topped with onion domes that glittered and shone in the sunlight. Reaching up, he rapped his knuckles quietly three times against the lattice.

  There was a stirring from inside the chamber, and the sultan’s youngest son, the prince Zayn, appeared at his window. Swiftly he unlatched the lattice and folded it back into itself, then stood back.

  Afif climbed a few footholds higher up the vine until he was able to place one booted foot on the wide stone windowsill. Shifting his hands one by one to grip the underside of the window’s head, he moved his other foot to join the one on the sill, then crouched for a brief moment, framed by the window, looking into the chamber of the prince. He stepped off the windowsill and into the soft-carpeted room.