The Years of Rice and Salt Read Online Free PDF

rooftiles. At the far end of the temple it looked as though an altar had been hastily erected. On it a single candlewick burned in a pot of oil. Their last prayer, flickering even after they had died.
    Bold had nothing to offer by way of sacrifice, and the great white temple stood silent above him. “Gone, gone, gone beyond, gone altogether beyond! O what an awakening! All hail!” His words echoed hollowly.
    He stumbled back outside into the afternoon glare, and saw to the south the blink of the sea. He would go there. There was nothing here to keep him; the people and their gods too had died.
             
    A long bay
cut in between hills. A harbor at the head of the bay was empty, except for a few small rowboats slapping against the waves, or upturned on the shingle beach stretching away from the docks. He did not risk the boats, he knew nothing about them. He had seen Issyk Kul and Lake Qinghai, and the Aral, Caspian, and Black seas, but he had never been in a boat in his life, except for ferries crossing rivers. He did not want to start now.

    No traveler seen on this long road,
    No boats from afar return for the night.
    Nothing moves in this dead harbor.

    On the beach he scooped a handful of water to drink—spat it out—it was salty, like the Black Sea, or the springs in the Tarim basin. It was strange to see so much wastewater. He had heard there was an ocean surrounding the world. Perhaps he was at the edge of the world, the western edge, or the southern. Possibly the Arabs lived south of this sea. He didn't know; and for the first time in all his wandering, he had the feeling that he had no idea where he was.
    He was asleep on the warm sand of a beach, dreaming of the steppes, trying to keep Temur out of the dream by force of will alone, when he was rousted by strong hands, rolling him over and tying his legs together and his arms behind his back. He was hauled to his feet.
    A man said “What have we here?” or something to that effect. He spoke something like Turkic, Bold didn't know many of the words, but it was some kind of Turkic, and he could usually catch the drift of what they were saying. They looked like soldiers or perhaps brigands, big hard-handed ruffians, wearing gold earrings and dirty cotton clothes. He wept while grinning foolishly at the sight of them; he felt his face stretch and his eyes burn. They regarded him warily.
    “A madman,” one ventured.
    Bold shook his head at this. “I—I haven't seen anyone,” he said in Ulu Turkic. His tongue was big in his mouth, for despite all his babbling to himself and the gods, he had forgotten how to talk to people. “I thought everyone was dead.”
    He gestured to the north and west.
    They did not seem to understand him.
    “Kill him,” one said, as dismissive as Temur.
    “The Christians all died,” another said.
    “Kill him, let's go. Boats are full.”
    “Bring him,” the other said. “The slavers will pay for him. He won't bring down the boat, thin as he is.”
    Something like that. They hauled him behind them down the beach. He had to hurry so the rope wouldn't pull him around backward, and the effort made him dizzy. He didn't have much strength. The men smelled of garlic and that made him ravenous, though it was a foul smell. But if they meant to sell him to slavers, they would have to feed him. His mouth was watering so heavily that he slobbered like a dog, and he was weeping as well, nose running, and with his hands tied behind his back he couldn't wipe his face.
    “He's foaming at the mouth like a horse.”
    “He's sick.”
    “He's not sick. Bring him. Come on,” this to Bold, “don't be scared. Where we take you even the slaves live a better life than you barbarian dogs.”
    Then he was shoved over the side of a beached boat, and with great jerks it was pulled off into the water, where it rocked violently. Immediately he fell sideways into the wooden wall of the thing.
    “Up here, slave. On that pile of rope. Sit!”
    He