The Journeyer

“Ah, Tazhikistan is yonder?” said my father, turning to gaze to the north. “Then we are not too far now, Mafio, from the route we took homeward.”

“True,” said my uncle, sounding tired and relieved. “We have only to go through Tazhikistan, then a short way east to the city of Kashgar, and we are again in Kubilai’s Kithai.”

On their packhorses, the hunter-trappers also carried many horns which they had taken from a kind of wild sheep called the artak, and I, having so far seen only the lesser horn-racks of such animals as the qazèl and cows and domestic sheep, was mightily impressed by those horns. At their root end they were as big around as my thigh, and from there they spiraled tightly to points. On the animal’s head, the points would be easily a man’s length apart; but if the spirals could have been unwound and stretched out straight, each of the horns must have measured a man’s length. They were such magnificent things that I supposed the hunters took them and sold them for ornaments to be admired. No, they said, laughing; those great horns were to be cut and fashioned into all ma

(Many months later, and higher in the mountains, when I saw some of those artak sheep alive and at liberty in the wild, I thought them so splendidly beautiful that I deplored the killing of them for merely utile purposes. My father and uncle, to whom utility meant commerce and commerce meant everything, laughed as the hunters had done, and chided my sentimentality, and from that time on referred sarcastically to the artak as “Marco’s sheep.”)

As we went on up the Wakhan, the mountains on either side remained as awesomely high as ever, but now, each time the snowfall let up enough for us to raise our eyes to the mountains’ immensity, they stood perceptibly closer to us. And the banks of ice on either side of the Ab-e-Panj River built up thicker and bluer, and constricted the racing water to an ever narrower stream between them, as if vividly to illustrate how the winter was closing its grip on the land.

The mountains kept shouldering in on us day by day, and finally others reared up in front of us as well, until we had those Titans standing close all around us except at our backs. We had come to the head end of that high valley, and the snowfall ceased briefly and the clouds cleared, for us to see the white mountain peaks and the cold blue sky magnificently reflected in a tremendous frozen lake, the Chaqmaqtin. From under the ice at its western end spilled the Ab-e-Panj we had been following, so we took the lake to be the river’s source, hence also the ultimate headwater of the fabled Oxus. My father and uncle marked it so, according to their practice, on the Kitab’s otherwise imprecise map of that region. I was not any help in locating our position, as the horizon was much too high and jagged for me to make use of the kamal. But, when the night sky was clear, I could at least tell, from the height of the North Star, that we were now a far way north of where we had begun our overland march at Suvediye on the Levant shore.

At the northeastern end of Lake Chaqmaqtin stood a community that called itself a town, Buzai Gumbad, but it really comprised only a single extensive karwansarai of many buildings, and roundabout it a tent city and the corrals of karwan trains encamped for the winter. It was evident that, come better weather, almost the entire population of Buzai Gumbad would get up and vacate the Wakhàn Corridor by way of its various passes. The landlord of the karwansarai was a jolly and expansive man named Iqbal, which means Good Fortune, and the name was apt for one who prospered richly by owning the only karwan stopping place on that stretch of the Silk Road. He was a native Wakhani, he said, born right there in the i

Spreading his arms wide, Iqbal welcomed us most cordially to “the high Pai-Mir, the Way to the Peaks, the Roof of the World,” and then confided that his extravagant words were no exaggeration. Here, he said, we were exactly one farsakh straight up—that is, two and a half miles—above the level of the earth’s seas and such sea-level cities as Venice and Acre and Basra. Landlord Iqbal did not explain how he could know so exactly the local altitude. But, assuming he spoke true—and because the mountain peaks around us visibly stood as high again—I would not dispute his claim that we had come to the Roof of the World.

THE ROOF OF THE WORLD

1

WE engaged a room for ourselves, including Nostril as one of us, in the main building of the i

The main building was of two stories—the first karwansarai I had seen built so—the bottom half being a commodious stable for Iqbal’s own cattle and sheep, which constituted both his life savings and his i

He preferred, and so did we guests, to use the fuel to keep our beds warm at night. All of Iqbal’s beds were of the style called in the East the kang, a hollow platform of piled-up stones covered with boards supporting a heap of camel-hair blankets. Before retiring, one lifted the planks, spread some dry dung inside the kang and placed on that a few burning coals. The newcome traveler usually did it inexpertly at first, and either froze all night or set the planks afire under him. But with practice one learned to lay the fire so that it smoldered all night at an even warmth, and did not make quite enough smoke to suffocate everybody in the room. Each guest chamber also had a lamp, handmade by Iqbal himself, and the like of which I never saw elsewhere. To make one, he would take a camel’s bladder, blow it up to a sphere, then paint it with lacquer to make it hold that shape and to give it a bright design of many colors. With a hole cut out of it so it could be positioned over a candle or an oil lamp, that big globe gave a varicolored and most radiant glow.

The i