There is something compelling - to me - about old maps and the worlds they speak of. It must feel the same for
whose ‘journeys to the faraway’ for Cosmographia always include a cartography section. Recently, Mikey generously offered to dig out antique maps if folk got in touch and let him know where they lived. Now, that is the very best kind of map ‘store’.But I am a writer of flash fiction so I couldn’t resist the prompt.
Imagine a map shop, hard to find, dusty, overlooked, and packed full of historic cartography. Imagine too, a mysterious proprietor with a knowing look and boundless enthusiasm for times past, a man who welcomes you in, who gently steers you to the map table at the back of the shop, and guides your eye to the parchment world he has laid out for you. “I’ll be back in an hour or two”, he murmurs, leaving you alone with the map, your imagination, and the magic at the heart of this emporium.
Let’s imagine this place together. Maybe we should give it a name.
‘Rothwell’s’ perhaps?
Come a little closer, if you dare.
Do you believe in magic, I had whispered. My voice probably cracked a little, conscious of breaking the silence of a sleepless, silent winter night. You answered by turning your body away, bundling yourself deeper into the quilt, lost in your dreams. Do you believe in magic?
For me, the jury is out but tomorrow might shift everything I know to be true.
*****
It’s not easy to find, even when you’re looking for it. The first turning is the hardest to spot, that narrow opening between the ironmonger and the wall of the pub garden. It isn’t really a garden, of course. The billowing clouds of nicotine smoke signal its purpose and signpost the cut-through. A broad-shouldered warrior from ages past would have to turn sideways to squeeze through, armour scraping on bricks turned out in their millions when industrious revolution swept the land. But for a slim-built writer of average height and middle age, the opening accommodates narrow shoulders and a small rucksack packed with tools of the trade.
Wet cobbles guide the wary explorer past shop fronts that feel Dickensian, none of them open at this hour. What time does a haberdasher ply their trade? Does a cobbler start later on a Tuesday? Do elegant ladies only visit milliners in the moments before afternoon tea? It is a street of curiosities. But it is the backdrop to my explorations and no more. It feels familiar now. My strides lengthen. Emboldened, I am fully committed now. Up there, turn left at the confectioners, no children with their noses pressed against the window. Perhaps they open after school finishes for the day. No time to dwell on these mysteries, leave that to the nation of shopkeepers. There is only one shop that matters. Left turn, stout boots gripping the damp alley floor, propelling this inquisitive adventurer toward the double-fronted window. Gilded letters flicker into focus, a lure for the curious.
‘Rothwell’s - purveyor of maps, atlases and antiquities’.
A deep breath. Remembering to push sharply at the door warped by time, stumbling forward as it opens more easily than the last time, the sharp tinkle of the bell urging the nervous explorer into the musky embrace of history.
*****
“Welcome back, sir, we have something intriguing for you in the reading room.”
Underneath his greying whiskers, the map seller’s lips curl into an enigmatic smile. His eyes are the colour of lapis lazuli from Badakhshan traded for gold in the bazaars of Kabul. Lines wrinkle around them, friendly, welcoming.
There is no mention of the passing of time. It is as if he has been waiting for this moment. As if he knew I would arrive.
“How long will you be today? There is no rush, of course, but …”. He left the words hanging, the meaning obscured by the open-ended suggestion. “A couple of hours"?”, I ventured. The arch of his eyebrow spoke volumes. “Really, sir?”.
Remembering the previous visit, cutting it close, way too close for comfort. The memory of the countdown is suddenly vivid, the panic, the explosion of noise and light. Remembering how long it took to slow down panicked breaths, to regain my equilibrium.
“An hour, Mr Rothwell. I really only have an hour set aside for research today”.
The old man nodded slowly. “Be careful not to let the time run away with you. And be sure not to run away from the time”.
*****
Constantinople.
The name alone transports you. The map he had laid out for me is intricate, the network of corridors and passageways it represents is mesmerising. The names beguile and my author’s imagination makes my thoughts drift. I trace pathways with my finger, hypothetically leading myself deeper into the labyrinth, the economic heart of Byzantine prosperity.
My eyes are half closed as I conjure up images, fragrant notes of incense overpowering my senses, overwhelming my sense of reality. I feel myself drifting …
*****
For a moment I am frozen, barely registering what I am seeing. Their uniforms are vivid, long-handled axes in their left hands and brutal wooden clubs pushing pedlars and customers aside. I am too slow.
“Taşınmak”.
The command is barked at me but I stare blankly, understanding nothing. The fearsome bearded giant has no time for my recalcitrance, deliberate or otherwise. The blow is a shock that sends me reeling, straight into the display of copper cooking pots. Leaping to my feet, embarrassment washes through me as all eyes turn to the clumsy interloper. The guards have moved off down the passageway, turning briskly to the left, important matters to attend to. An old man sits cross-legged, shouting incomprehensibly. He isn’t moving from the pile of cushions he is settled into, but he is wielding that ivory back scratcher with some authority. The less I say, the more animated he becomes.
I smell the familiarity of incense and mint tea but there is no hint of hospitality. Instinct takes over and flight seems the only option, particularly when two burly men emerge from the back of the stall. I can outrun them, surely. Voices are raised now, stallholders united. Transactions are set aside as all eyes turn towards the stranger. Faltering footsteps, a jog turning quickly into a sprint. I half-turn to glance over my shoulder, scanning the crowded corridor for angry pursuers. Unseen, a slippered foot emerges from a stall to my left sending me sprawling, my arms instinctively thrown out to break my fall. Clawing at the air, tumbling, crashing to the ground. A cacophony of shattering terracotta pots accompanies the grunt emitted by my winded body. Cumin, sumac, red pepper flakes. And the first sneeze barely heard above the abuse being shouted at me. I scramble to my feet, slipping on the tiled floor, crunching through shattered terracotta, spreading maroon dust on patterned tiles. My hands are covered in spices, spilled, and now without value. Tears roll down my cheeks as I attempt to clear my vision and escape the shouts, whistles, and indecipherable words. As I rub my eyes, red pepper adds searing heat and agonising pain to the free-flowing tears. I roar, momentarily catching any would-be pursuers off-guard. Blindly I set off down the first passageway that opened up to me, flailing wildly. Baskets tumble from my left, cooking pots from the right. This is bad. Really bad.
Efendi, benimle gel. Hızlıca. Beni takip et
The urchin gestured at me, beckoning from a gap in the wall. My feet have minds of their own. I squeeze into the cut, following the grubby tunic of the boy. He clambers onto a box and hops onto the one piled upon it, a pre-planned escape route, I guess. He is nimble, flying across tiles and drapes, fearless, oblivious to the risks. As I follow clumsily, my heavy boots dislodge tiles and elicit shouts from below. Looking down slows my progress and makes my heart race. Why am I still running? There’s little choice. I am lost, reliant on this pint-size stranger. His sandal-clad feet blur and he is up through the narrow opening and into the sunlight. I clamber, hands and feet awkwardly maintaining contact with the rungs of the ladder. Dazzled for a moment, blinking furiously to regain my sight, the sounds of the bazaar are muffled. Do I follow him? Breathing heavily, gasping for air in the oppressive heat, I want to stop and get my bearings. The shout from my left makes the decision for me. The angry-looking guard in the ochre turban who is pulling himself onto the roof will be the one cutting it fine with that scimitar if I don’t move sharpish.
Where’s that kid? Ah, there, don’t lose sight of him as he drops over the wall. They must be battlements of some sort, fortifications, perhaps. As I break into a run I try to remember the map, summoning up faint memories of the intricate layout of the Royal palaces. I drop down onto the stone walkway just as the street urchin pops his head over the wall, beckoning me, his cheeky grin belying the risks we are taking. I see him now, lying flat on a terracotta-tiled roof, looking down through an obvious opening. He wants me to see something. Perhaps it is a route out of here, a reference point.
The roof tiles shift as I wriggle forward. He urges me forward excitedly. “Topkapı haremi, Topkapı haremi”. The fragrance of jasmine draws my gaze down into a courtyard bedecked in ornate furnishings, draped in gold, royal blue, deep greens, and every shade of yellow. Suddenly, the giggled words of the audacious scrap of a lad next to me become clear. I see the brightness of ‘Royal’ blue. Topkapi Palace. Right, I understand. But as widening female eyes turn upwards and my gaze is drawn to the naked bodies of veiled beauties in the harem below, the boy’s giggle feels out of place. I shift position, a little too quickly, to fashion my escape. There is barely time to register the alarming creak before I am tumbling. I can hardly claim good fortune now that I find myself in the bosom of the Royal harem but at least I fell into cushions. Talking of bosoms, the enchanting young lady reclining opposite me leaves hers tantalisingly uncovered for a moment or two before slowly drawing some flimsy material across them to protect her modesty. She smiled distractedly - and distractingly - at the flustered man who had fallen, quite literally, into her lap. That was when the screams started, the loudest of which appeared to be coming from an elaborately frocked eunuch magician whose performance I had interrupted with my unannounced guest appearance.
The rhythmic drumming of heavy boots announced the impending arrival of the Topkapı baltadjis, fearsome guards who would be richly rewarded for the head of this invading infidel whose eyes had lingered on the forbidden treasures of Sultan’s haremi.
As the huge wooden door crashed open, I escaped the luxurious clutches of the cushion pile that had imprisoned me. I stumbled momentarily into the path of the panicking magician. He flapped at me, and I flapped back, accidentally knocking his hand, which sent a small cloth pouch spiralling through the air. As the foremost guard thrust his axe towards me, its spear tip intending to impale me, the magician’s pouch exploded in a cacophony of sound and a dizzying kaleidoscope of sparks and flames. I waited for the piercing agony of the first punishing thrust …
*****
The hand gripped my shoulder, shaking me insistently.
I blinked several times as Mr Rothwell’s concerned expression came into focus.
“How did you get on with your research today, Sir? Enough material for a chapter or two? Same time next week, perhaps”.
Goodness, I’m completely out of breath...
Masterful Barrie, the pace, the scents, the vivid descriptions... I was entirely transported, could feel the roof tiles slipping and the soft cushioned landing too.
And next week, will you return to Rothwells?
"His eyes are the colour of lapis lazuli from Badakhshan traded for gold in the bazaars of Kabul."
A man who's seen more than he relays was the first thought that came into mind.
Exceptional writing B.