Free Cafe Scheherazade by Arnold Zable Page B

his face there is a childlike smile, a look of wonder. He is looking downwards, at his hands, which are spread before him on the table. He is gripped by the rotation of northern skies, and the turning of seasons long past.
    In spring the rivers broke loose. Rafts of ice, uprooted trees, dismembered branches, careered downstream. The conifers oozed resinous ambers and blood reds. The scent of the sap was intoxicating. Like a darkroom print coming into focus, the earth emerged in full colour. Quilts of leaves shook free from melting snows. Crimson berries that had lain beneath the snow all winter appeared underfoot, radiant against a translucent white.
    Days earlier the workers had separated into two bands at the banks of a stream. Laizer had moved on with an advance party to build the huts, and prepare the way. They waded through swamps and marshes. Water soaked their bark-plaited shoes. A week later, in heavy rains, they ran out of rations. They retraced their way to the stream and, as they drew near, they saw it had broken its banks. The stream was now a kilometre in width.
    The work party lashed some logs together. They launched their primitive craft upon the river and guided it with wooden poles. Just as they were about to touch the other side, the raft crashed into an uprooted tree borne downstream by the accelerating currents.
    The raft capsized. When Laizer rose to the water's surface he glimpsed a log floating by. He grabbed it, sank his axe into the log and used it as a hook to lever himself out of the swirling currents. His companions, who had swum ashore, ran along the embankment shouting instructions. When he came within reach they grabbed the log and dragged Laizer back onto solid earth.
    Yes, it was a time of taunting beauty, those twenty months upon the Vizir. Each season had its allure, and its dangers. The summers were all the more glorious for being brief. The sun barely sank below the horizon before it rose again into a sky that had retained its glow. It was then that the flowers appeared, their fleeting lives compensated for by the intensity of their colour and fragrance. But, again, the beauty mocked them; summer was the season of plagues and hard labour. Mobs of mosquitoes swarmed about them as Laizer and his companions made up for lost time.
    Seventeen hours a day they slaved on the towers, assembling each floor with infinite care, storey by storey, from its ten-metre base, to a sixth-level summit, two metres square; and in their rare spare moments, to appease their hunger, they trapped rabbits and arctic foxes; and reeled in fish and water fowl.
    They also feasted on the glukhar , a large bird that they prized for its ample flesh, and the ease with which it could be trapped, because it was believed to be deaf. They cleaned the bird and discarded the entrails at the periphery of the camp. Just after sunrise a member of the brigade stepped out of his hut into the path of a bear. It had been lured into the camp by the scent of the bird's remains. The worker ran back to the hut to rouse his companions.
    â€˜Grab pots and pans. Grab whatever you can,’ advised the more experienced forest workers. They ran out screaming, pounding their makeshift drums. They stamped their feet on the ground. They waved their arms like windmills caught in a gale. The bear raised its head and lumbered away. This is what struck Laizer, the bear's composure. It did not run. It merely turned and strolled away.
    Just as unobtrusively, summer gave way to autumn. Mushrooms littered the earth. The undergrowth was a mess of lichens and rotting leaves. Laizer inhaled the cool aroma of damp foliage and decay. But there was little time to savour it. Ice-edged winds were a reminder, the forward scouts of impending gloom. The first frosts spread their veils over the forest floor. Laizer and his companions worked against time.
    Their most important autumn task was to fell trees, the keys to their survival. They provided fuel, timber for