The Root of Earth

She stands at twilight, a shadow within shadows, dusk edging its way like a hooded assassin over the medieval city of Kashgar. The thousand tiles of a thousand roofs create a mosaic of gently smouldering umber embroidered with knots of gossiping birds, and she gathers herself, peering down into the skeins of narrow, tangled streets that wrap around the town. The ancient buildings are patterned as a carpet would be, the weft of the cobbles and the warp of the crumbling hair plaster walls, an archaic network of streets carrying the lifeblood of this ancient place, it is filled with the intent of industry, and like a giant hive, it hums. 

As she stands watching this beautiful scene, an angular and somewhat elderly man with skin the colour of old mahogany trots purposefully around the corner as if he has been summoned and stops in front of her with an elegantly carved rickshaw. It seems that the conveyance is for her, so she climbs in, and as soon as she is in the seat, the man takes off at a rapid pace; his strength seems surprising, and without any discussion, he carries her deep into the city.

Captivated and entranced by the wonders of the busy streets, she watches as people work on through the evening, their heads bowed over different tasks as the firelight dances across the cobbles. Shoemakers mould richly tooled leather into tiny dancing pumps for concubines and heavy, stout farmer’s boots for the fathers who have forsaken them. Muscled men, stripped to the waist, sweat profusely as they shovel coal into the hungry furnaces which bake the red tiles for the heaping roofs, whilst their mothers and wives sit nearby, painting more refined tablets, decorations for palaces and the houses of wealthy silk merchants. Flower sellers and food vendors wander the streets, feeding the hunger of the hour; the savoury smells of samsa, manti and dimlama trail behind them, mingling with the aroma of charcoal and mint and all underscored with the sharp tang of cooling earth.

Further on, huddled in the shadows of history, families of gipsies shelter under crumbling stone walls and arches, their fires painting fearsome shapes on the laughing faces of the children and fleeting youth on the craggy eyes of old men, whilst heavily shrouded women with veiled faces hunker with cooking pots, conjuring spices and vegetables for the evening repast.

Beyond the old walls, the streets are empty, and she realises that she is at a standstill, that the old man has gone. Climbing out and looking at the rickshaw, she realises that from now on, she will have to pull it herself, and she stands in the shafts to see what it is all about. Unsure what to do, she lifts them up, finding the cart to be surprisingly heavy and awkward, but with a good balance if she can find the sweet spot. She is shocked at how the old man made it look so easy, and the delicately carved wood that had seemed so elegant and refined in his nimble hands now appears lumpish and awkward in her stewardship. She begins to pull the offending cart behind her, knowing immediately that she will have to put a great deal of effort in if she is going to get anywhere with it, resigning herself to the heavy fatigue already seeping into her shoulders and arms. Finally, she seems to get the hang of it, and although nowhere near as efficient as her elderly and silent demonstrator, she manages to continue her tour of the city without too much trouble.

At what seems a very late hour, although the streets are still busy, she hears the heavy clang of a bell, mournfully repeating its insistent call to prayer and as she follows the sound, the myriad dancing lights around her fade and the cobbled streets tangle further as the visions fade and fall to leave her to make her way back to The Hallway of Beginnings.