I shook my head. “Tell me,” I said.
“The Sultan sends a Janissary, a senior officer of the army, as his representative to certain lands under his rule. This official travels with the purpose of taking a levy in boys who have not yet reached manhood. In this way, a supply of pure, healthy, and biddable slaves is maintained for the sultanate. Some go straight to the palace; some are sent to work for wealthy families until a position is found for them, generally as soldiers. Some endure surgery. A eunuch, unable to father children and limited in his capacity for physical desire, is regarded as a suitable person to guard the Sultan’s women or educate their sons.” He saw me wince and added, “My mother tried to hide us, me and my younger brother, but we were found. It is their policy not to deprive a widow of all her sons. I was allowed to remain at home. But Taidjut was taken.”
I struggled for the right thing to say, imagining what it must have been like for young Stoyan. What a burden for a boy to carry, not just grief and family responsibility but probably misplaced guilt as well. “How terrible for you and your mother,” I managed. “How long ago did this happen?”
“Taidjut was ten years old. He will be a man of eighteen now. I was too young to go after him then, only a boy myself. I have waited a long time to start a search for him. The farm is more prosperous now, and my mother does not need me all the time. Once I was sure she had sufficient help, I came here. When I was not in service to Salem bin Afazi or to others before him, I sought news of my brother. But there are places in Istanbul where an unbeliever, an infidel, cannot go, houses to which he cannot be admitted, secrets to which he can never be party. There are records, but they are beyond my reach. I do not think I will find Taidjut now. And if I find him, perhaps he will not want to know me.”
“But you’re his brother! Surely—”
“They have had eight years to educate him, Paula, eight years to impress on him that he is no longer a Bulgar farm boy running about with his dog and chopping wood for his mother. In all likelihood, he is serving somewhere in the Sultan’s army, grateful to those who offered him this fine new opportunity.”
The sorrow and resignation in his voice made me want to weep. “That’s a sad story,” I said. “When we lost Tati, my eldest sister, at least we knew she would be happy, even if we could never see her again. Do you plan to return home eventually, Stoyan? To go back to being a farmer?”
“I do not know. To do so is to give up hope of finding Taidjut. I made a promise to my mother that I would not return without some news at least. This journey has changed me, Paula. I cannot see the future with the clear eyes of my childhood.”
“What does your mother grow on the farm?”
I saw him smile then.
“Many fruits: peaches, plums, apricots, and cherries. I would like you to taste our cherries. The winter chill makes the fruit as sweet as honey. Later in the season, there are pears and apples. And we breed dogs.”
“Really? What kind of dogs?”
“The Bugarski Goran, the shepherd dog of my homeland. A hound of massive build and formidable strength, of great heart and exemplary loyalty. Such an animal is an honored member of any household, treated as if he were one of the family. Ours is a land of many wolves. With dogs like this, the flock is safe. My hope for the future is to breed a purer dog, true to the ancient bloodlines. If I go back.”
Though it was dark, I could see how his eyes came alive with enthusiasm and the way he used his hands to illustrate with surprising grace. There were hidden depths beneath that impassive exterior. A sweet kernel shielded by a tough shell; dancing fire concealed in stone.
“I am boring you, kyria,” he said suddenly.
“No, you’re not. What you have to say is interesting.”
“You, too, have an interesting story,” he said, surprising me. “Where did this sister go—Tati, is it? Where is so far away that you speak of her as if she were dead?”
I swallowed. “I don’t think I can tell you,” I said.
There was an awkward silence. Stoyan stared into space. Beyond the complicated outlines of the roofs of Istanbul, the towers and domes and minarets, the moon now set a pale gleam over the city. It showed his strong features as a pattern of light and shade.
“You apologize,” he said softly. “And yet you do not trust me.”
“It’s not that. It’s a story we don’t tell, that’s all.”
“There is no need to excuse yourself, kyria. I spoke too freely. I presumed too much.”
I got up to lean on the railing, looking down at the small light made by the night guard’s brazier. It had been placed in the center of the courtyard, well away from the chambers where precious cargoes were stored. “Some secrets are too dangerous to share,” I said.
“I expect nothing from you, kyria,” said Stoyan. “But I will tell you that before tonight I had not spoken of Taidjut save to my family and to those I thought might have knowledge of the boys taken that year. I have held this hidden, close to my heart. As for the farm and my hopes of the future, since I left there, I have never spoken of those things. Until now.”
So he had trusted me and I had not returned that trust. I was afraid that if I spoke of the magical journeys of my childhood, folk would dismiss it as girlish fancy. Yet here in Istanbul, the Other Kingdom loomed close. The nightmare with its darkness and terror seemed part and parcel of the odd things that had been happening—the black-robed woman with her embroidery, the mysterious words, even the pattern I had seen on that manuscript today and half remembered. What I needed most of all was someone to talk to, someone who would neither laugh nor be upset if I spoke of such things.
I sat quietly, wondering if I could try it, wondering how Stoyan would respond. I remembered the way he had spoken about Cybele. As I held a debate with myself, he brought a second blanket to cover my knees. He went down to brew more tea and carried it up to me. The moon hung above us, pure and delicate in its meadow of stars. Stoyan’s silence and his kindness helped me make up my mind. I would risk Tati’s story. It would be a test.
“You asked about Tati, my eldest sister,” I said. “She went through a portal to another place, a place that is not part of the human world. She fell in love with a man who had been taken there as a child and now cannot come back. She wanted to go, and we helped her, my other sisters and I. That’s only a very small part of a long, long story, and we don’t talk about it, not even with Father, because it still upsets him so much. Some people would hear it and think I was making it up. They’d assume I was a crazy girl with a wild imagination.”
Stoyan nodded gravely. “I had guessed something of the kind,” he said. “A difficult choice for you. They say the land of the Sultan swarms with giants, peris, and djinns. I would think this a place of many such portals, if one knew how to find them.”
So, just like that, he accepted it. No questions, no reservations. It was remarkable. I realized, in a surge of delighted relief, that in this distant part of the world, I had found a friend.
We stayed there until the first hint of dawn lightened the sky and the early call to prayer rang out across the Galata mahalle. Gradually the han came awake, folk opening shutters, others carrying water, the tea vendor setting up shop to serve a stream of early customers. It was time to get ready for another day.
I didn’t go back to Irene’s library that morning or for several days after. We were busy buying and selling. I had plenty of opportunity to assist my father, and word soon went around the trading quarter that I was almost as tough to deal with as he was. It was good to feel genuinely useful. But the mystery I had stumbled into at the library was never far from my thoughts. A restless urge to find answers disturbed my sleep.
There was something I needed to do before I returned to Irene’s. I broached the subject one evening over supper. Stoyan had set out our meal on the little table: a platter of flat bread, a bowl of onion and cucumber chopped together, dark olives, and a paste of peas ground up with garlic. Father and I took the two chairs while Stoyan leaned against the wall nearby. He said he was more comfortable that way; the furniture had been made for folk of far smaller build.