The Blood of Flowers Read Online Free PDF Page A

struggled to maintain a hold on life, just as we did. Our water jugs became more precious than the musk bladders. Along the way, we spotted broken water vessels and sometimes even the bones of those who had misjudged the length of their trip.
    Abdul-Rahman pushed us onward in the early-morning hours, singing to the camels so they would pace themselves to the cadence of his voice. The sun glinted off the land, and the bright white light hurt my eyes. The ground was frozen; the few plants we saw were outlined with frost. By the end of the day, my feet were so cold I could no longer feel them. My mother went to sleep in our tent as soon as it was dark. She couldn't bear to look at the stars, she said.
    After ten days of travel, we saw the Zagros Mountains, which signaled our approach to Isfahan. Abdul-Rahman told us that from somewhere high in the mountains flowed the very source of Isfahan's being, the Zayendeh Rood, or Eternal River. At first, it was just a pale blue shimmer, with a cooling breath that reached us from many farsakhs away. As we got closer, the river seemed impossibly long to me, since the most water I had ever seen before had been in mountain streams.
    After arriving at its banks, we dismounted from our camels, for they were not permitted in the city, and gathered to admire the water. "May God be praised for His abundance!" cried my mother as the river surged past us, a branch flowing by too quickly to catch.
    "Praise is due," replied Abdul-Rahman, "for this river gives life to Isfahan's sweet melons, cools her streets, and fills her wells. Without it, Isfahan would cease to be."
    We left our camels in the care of one of Abdul-Rahman's friends and continued our journey on foot on the Thirty-three Arches Bridge. About halfway across, we entered one of its archways to enjoy the view. I grabbed my mother's hand and said, "Look! Look!" The river rushed by as if excited, and in the distance we could see another bridge, and another gleaming beyond that one. One was covered in blue tiles, another had teahouses, and still another had arches that seemed like infinite doorways into the city, inviting travelers to unlock its secrets. Ahead of us, Isfahan stretched out in all directions, and the sight of its thousands of houses, gardens, mosques, bazaars, schools, caravanserais, kebabis, and teahouses filled us with awe. At the end of the bridge lay a long tree-lined avenue that traversed the whole city, ending in the square that Shah Abbas had built, which was so renowned that every child knew it as the Image of the World. My eye was caught by the square's Friday mosque, whose vast blue dome glowed peacefully in the morning light. Looking around, I saw another azure dome, and yet another, and then dozens more brightening the saffron-colored terrain, and it seemed to me that Isfahan beckoned like a field of turquoise set in gold.
    "How many people live here?" my mother asked, raising her voice so it could be heard above the din of passersby.
    "Hundreds of thousands," replied Abdul-Rahman. "More than in London or Paris; only Constantinople is bigger."
    My mother and I said "Voy!" at the same time; we could not imagine so many souls in one place.
    After crossing the bridge, we entered a covered bazaar and passed through a spice market. Burlap bags overflowed with mint, dill, coriander, dried lemon, turmeric, saffron, and many spices I didn't recognize. I distinguished the flowery yet bitter odor of fenugreek, which set my mouth watering for a lamb stew, for we had not tasted meat in many months.
    Before long, we reached a caravanserai run by Abdul-Rahman's brother. It had a courtyard where donkeys, mules, and horses could rest, surrounded by a rectangular arcade of private rooms. We thanked Abdul-Rahman and his wife for escorting us, wished them well, and paid for our lodgings.
    Our room was small, with thick windowless walls and a strong lock. There was clean straw on the floor, but nothing else for bedding.
    "I'm hungry," I