Eyes of the deepest brown-almond in shape, and so deep a brown that they seemed almost black in colour, like chips of obsidian set within a sea of white stared unblinkingly out across the seemingly endless ocean of sand, grass and simple dirt. Although those eyes moved but little, if at all, between the pieces of light material that covered both forehead and lower face, they missed nothing. The carrion birds that followed the merchant-train in desperate hope that a man, or even one of the two-humped Baktrian camels would fall, the small puffs of dust that signalled a body of unknown followers that had been trailing them since leaving the city that the Persians had named Ekbatana.
It had been many months, though it seemed as a lifetime, since the cat-eyed envoy had left his family and his people. Only now though, as he looked out into the darkening landscape and foreign soil, did he begin to feel something akin to loss.
Those that he travelled with could not understand why he was there, why he kept himself aloof from them, or why each morning and evening he would perform what to them appeared as a fluid and practised dance. More than once he had listened to angry tones, seen fingers pointed in his direction, and if he was to glance their way recieved flashed grins of yellowed teeth. As the countryside grew cool enough that many of the Arab traders were wrapping themselves in several more layers, he could not help but remember what he had been told before leaving his homeland for the fabled West.
"Do not trust the people of Anxi," he had been advised by his mentor, teacher, and closest friend, "I know the tale and the failure of previous envoys." He had replied with a chuckle, "and I shall not be tricked so easily."
Upon leaving his own land, sent into the West to complete what Gan Ying had been unable to by the Emperor Han Andi himself, he had taken ship to a port that the westerners called Barbarikon and all the while scribbled most furiously each and every observation that was captured by his senses.
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Lines flowed elegantly as the inked brush was once more swept across the bamboo, a strange script from a strange land far to the east, one that the observing Arab could never hope to understand. Together they sat in the sand, both without a tent or shelter, and the younger desert-dweller silently observed the odd yellow man; his gaze followed every brush stroke with wide-eyed curiosity, his breath coming slowly and haltingly from his throat.
This was not surprising, he was no more than a shepherd's son from what the Romans had named Arabia Felix, his education non-existant but his desire to learn and to know was truly without limit.
Ever since leaving Barbarikon, where he had been idly loading goods from the sea onto the backs of camels, he had shadowed the short stranger. He had spied upon him at every opportunity, watching the flowing movements performed each day, doing his utmost to imitate them in private and understand the purpose of such and odd dance. Was it a ritual? Had he been praying to foreign deities by his imitation? He did not know, but he did know that he wanted to 'learn' more.
"Young man, please, come and share my fire. In the veil of the night is no place for a boy to be."
It took a moment for the Arab to realise he was being spoken to, the words of his own tongue spoken by one unused to them but nonetheless correct. The stranger had not moved his head, nor turned his neck, but continued to write quite calmly. Illuminated by the fire, one could make out the weather-worn face, with its high cheekbones and clean shaven features, or the outline of the black hair bunched up inside the confines of his headwrap. The eyes, however, were almost invisible-except for a glint of light which came from them as the stranger watched his observer approach.
Yes, he was young, some six-and-ten years old, as the barbarians would say. In dress they were much alike, he having adopted the style of his companions and the local people for a variety of reasons and purposes.
Not too tall was this Arab, broad in the shoulders and walking with a slightly hunched gait, his eyes revealed by the light of the fire to be a startingly blue! Certainly something that the travelling scholar had not expected from an inhabitant of the desert reaches to the far south. This singular characteristic inflamed his curiosity so much that, like an arrow loosed from a bow, the brush once more drew itself over the bamboo, to be recorded in detail for the Emperor and for scholarly research.
"You have my tongue," said the Arab in astonishment, having moved as quickly as he dared to the side of the cross-legged man, "how is this possible?" "My friend, I know many things, and your speech is but one of them."
It was clear to the younger man that this amused the cat-eyed man somehow, but there was neither a trace of a smile or a glimmer of humour in the eyes, and he was forced to put his certainty down to a gut feeling rather than evidence before his eyes. Somehow...somehow this man, if indeed he was a man, radiated a sense of joy and benevolence. It was enough to make the boys head swim.
"You have questions." This was no question, it was a statement.
"Many...but-"
Unsure of what to ask, or how, the Arab just gave a nod and then a shrug of his shoulders. This time a smile did appear on the face of the one to whom he spoke, small but visible.
"Let me help you." Insisted the traveller, his pen and bamboo now returned to a medium-sized case of finely carved wood, which he carried with him at all times, "I am called Gao Shui, a scholar and follower of the Dao, and it is I who have been chosen. Charged by my Emperor to undertake this journey into the unknown."