Julian Stockwin - THE SILK TREE

The yaks were seemingly unconcerned, plodding forward, one behind the other.

Before they made the next pass the snow began again, whipping about spitefully in the hard wind. They were all now shuddering with cold. Still the big beasts walked on, their only concession to the bluster being to lower their heads.

At one point they forded a river in a perilous stumble. On the other side, they picked up another narrow track that led to open upland again, not agreeable meadows but a rocky wilderness.

Yulduz pointed to the end where a solid white mass half a mile across filled the valley from side to side. ‘Ice river.’

They traversed the stone-strewn slope, the rounded hoofs of the yaks clicking and knocking as they went. The snow returned, swirling ever thicker it made it impossible to look up and they had to trust to the yaks to follow on after the bell of the one in front.

Nicander was becoming more and more breathless. The gasping strain gave him a pounding head.

The chill began a remorseless clamping in. A trial of endurance.

Still the yak train wound on, past a craggy outcrop that suddenly loomed out of the snow squalls and up to another level.

Nicander could just see Ying Mei, a dark hump ahead in the swirling snow. She was no doubt suffering as much as him. Was it worth it? Was this really the way to Constantinople and home? In the misery of the unrelenting cold he sank back into his enduring, head hung.

The yaks came to a stop. Looking up Nicander saw that they were halted in the lee of a bluff which cut off the wind like a knife.

Frozen and torpid he fell off his yak into a few inches of snow, vaguely sensing someone leading away his mount.

‘This snow, I not like!’ Yulduz grunted, squinting up at the heavy grey sky. ‘We have to make Terek very soon or we in trouble!’

Nevertheless it was decreed that the night be spent there. Miraculously there was a fire: one of the drivers had been tasked to carry a pottery bowl under his cloak with precious embers of charcoal which were blown into life. Dried yak dung was added to make a small blaze.

They huddled over the life-giving warmth, the flames lurid and golden against the bleak grey of the stony landscape in the falling night. Yak-butter tea was doled out and for a brief time spirits rose.

There was no question of erecting a tent on the loose scree. The crew wrapped their felt pyramids close about them, pulling the ‘hood’ over their heads then hunching down, clutching their knees to their chests.

Marius made sure he and the others had their own felt protections on and made use of the tent against the bitter winds that flapped and blustered through the long night. It was opened up and laid over them, held down from the inside. The shelter was suffocating and odorous, but the alternative was worse.

There was a blizzard in the morning but Yulduz was insistent they start. ‘I worry the Terek!’ he muttered.

The snow eased but there was a new hazard. The yaks could not see the track under the fresh snowfall and slipped and staggered as they missed their foothold.

‘Not far now, Terek Davan!’ Yulduz said.

Unexpectedly the snow ceased abruptly and the sun glared unbearably bright in a deep-blue sky.

As the little train continued on around the side of the mountain they squinted against the dazzling white. Before them was the broad snow-covered saddle between the buttresses of two cloud-torn ranges – the long-sought Terek Davan Pass.

But only two miles below it the snow began again, squally flurries and then solid, driving flakes that blinded and choked and lay a chill deadness thickly on ground and beast.

It was impossible to go on – blundering over a precipice was a real possibility.

The train stopped and the yaks quickly came together in a huddle. Forcing their way inside, the humans took refuge from the icy wind in the steamy mass as snow steadily built on the hairy backs. Nicander caught a glimpse of Ying Mei’s pinched but expressionless face; holding on, enduring.

The snow continued remorselessly.

It was so unfair – only another couple of miles and…

Nicander tried to ask Yulduz their chances but in reply only got an ill-tempered gabbling and the man turned away.

With the pass so close would he wait for the weather to clear and make a desperate attempt to transit, or return to the village and wait for spring?

The fearful cold made it difficult to think. The yaks could probably wade through a couple of feet of snow but who could tell if conditions the other side of the pass were better or worse? They couldn’t stay where they were indefinitely. The longer they delayed returning, the deeper the snow behind them, and he remembered more than one patch that…

Had they left it too late either way?

Nicander felt a swelling dread.

Time passed and he slipped into a reverie of images and impressions.

He was abruptly brought back to the present by hurried movement out of the huddle – the snow had stopped!

Yulduz stared at the grey sky. Then he bent and picked up some snow and let it fall to the ground, watching it closely. His gaze returned to the line of the summit.

‘We go!’ he snapped.

There was a fevered scurry of activity. This time there would be no riding; each would walk beside his yak.

They set out for the distant top of the pass, stomping the soft snow with every pace and knowing the stakes if they failed.

The sun came and went. Everyone periodically glanced warily at the sky, dreading what they would see.

Yulduz was ahead, testing the way and calling out shrill commands to the lead yak.

The crest drew nearer and, praise be, they were atop it – a slope led gently away on the other side into the same grand panorama of great mountains and far valleys. Yulduz took a wide, sweeping zigzag down, going as fast as he could get the yaks to follow.

Nicander, like the others, was numbed and exhausted and it wasn’t until they stopped at a sheltered crag that he realised they were safe.

Yulduz, now in fine spirits, handed out a ration of chhurpi , a bar of dry yak cheese that took hours to chew.

‘Not so bad, now. I don’t think they come after you here, M’ Lady!’ he added with a cackle.

Nicander found himself smiling. They were through the mountain barrier and were on the road to the west!

Yulduz gave the order to remount, their way now was a continual downward winding track along the wide flank of a mountain to where green peeped through the snow on the uplands.

In two days they left the snowline and reached the lower foothills whose terrain made for fast going. Later, wide river plains led through increasingly fertile regions with nomad tents and flocks dotted on the slopes.

They stopped at tiny settlements for fresh provisions and news and to exchange their trinkets for furs and handworked trifles and then passed on to a majestic river valley.

‘To Osh,’ Yulduz said proudly. ‘He goes to my town!’

They followed him up a steep track littered with sharp stones. It wound around then through a cleft – and they caught their breath. Below was an immense plain ending in a blue-grey haze at the horizon. They could see every detail, the glittering meander of a river, the dots of trees, the smudge of forests and the far-distant sprawl of a city.

The travellers beamed at each other. The landscape was alive and green, even roads could be picked out. They had left Chang An for a desert of sand, then from Kashgar endured a desert of snow and rock. Now they had won through to what could only be – the Western Lands.

Directly before them was Osh.

Ying Mei did not speak but her eyes darted everywhere: this was the crowning moment of her journey.