The Persian Rug - Evelyn J. Steward (small books to read .TXT) 📗

The Persian Rug

The house had lain empty for years. The Estate Agents had almost given up hope of ever letting or selling Ratherton Hall. Part of a larger estate originally, the land and Medieval Baronial mansion had already been parcelled out and sold off to a rock musician. The Georgian Manor had been built at the edge of the estate for a younger son of the family who was talked of as 'being peculiar'.
Nothing for three years, then two separate enquiries. Both had been booked today. Lampton at eleven am and Zeiss at two pm. Zeiss had turned early, refused to cancel. Said his executive meeting finished early. What was he to do. Peter soldiered on, jangling the keys. The lock had rusted a little. He knew two sets of eyes were on him. He turned to his clients.
"The lock tends to rust up a bit. You could always have new locks fitted. This side of the house faces North, heaven knows why?" He gave an apologetic shrug.
"I'm not worried Mr Ashfield." It was Zeiss, the American who replied first.
Adam Lampton beamed at his wife Ella before giving Zeiss a dark look and addressing Peter Ashfield. "We couldn't care less about the locks. As you say, new ones are easy to fit."
The asking price was known to both parties, each had secretly offered five thousand less. That was before either Zeiss or Lampton had viewed the place. Peter wondered if either were going to fall in love with the old Hall and offer the other five thousand!
There was an air of must inside the hallway as Peter, one by one, opened the door to various rooms that led off. Zeiss was interested in the Study, wouldn't you know. A den of his own, maybe? I wonder how much money he has, Peter pondered to himself? He doesn't flaunt it, at any rate.
Peter opened the wooden shutters to let a little sunshine in the big lounge. It was a pleasant room, but Peter moved them on to his favourite, the Library.
Peter pitched his throw at Zeiss who stroked the leather-bound volumes that bedecked the room from floor to ceiling. Although he had again opened the room to light, the sun was absent. This room was on the North side of the house. It was further protected by a huge horse chestnut that stood no further from the window than the length of the local wicket.
The room was furnished with two comfortable leather armchairs, a hide-topped desk and footstool. A ladder run along the shelves. Zeiss tested it for easy movement. The glide was smooth, if a little noisy. The Library boasted an Adam fireplace with logs neatly laid to show it off. The parquet floor was littered with small oriental rugs of intricate designs and in the middle, a Persian, really old.
Peter stood in the centre of the rug. He knew his shoes should be off, but It might seem weird to his clients. He trusted whoever bought the Hall would forgive this little indiscretion.
He heard his voice extolling the virtues of such a room. A haven of peace for the owner, he said, or his wife. As he spoke, he heard his voice drift away, as if he were floating on a magic carpet. Mists whirled around, then dissipated. The sun shone hotly on his winter-weight suit. It seemed he stood in a far off city.
There were sounds of bustle and fervour. Figures flitted in and out of his vision dressed in long billowing clothes. He could smell animal dung and urine, sweet sickly smells of fruit gone rotten. People were shouting at the tops of their voices. Dust flew around and up his nostrils. A rider on a fast steed loped by so close, he ducked instinctively.
Peter opened his eyes wider and saw market stalls piled high with exotic foods. He recognised bunches of dates on the closest and could almost savour their sickly honeyed taste. There were other vegetables and fruits whose shape and bright colours meant nothing to him. It was as if he were in a dream and yet all his senses were awakened to what went on around him.
The main thoroughfare was packed with men and beasts bargaining, squabbling, laughing. Women clothed from head to foot, argued shrilly with insistent stall keepers. Then a young boy trotted by with a gaggle of odorous camels who bleated alarmingly as they placed each pad upon the silted earth that rose in dust clouds several feet high.
As the last camel neared him, it turned and spat accurately in his direction. Peter didn't have time to duck and the green gobbit landed on the side of his face. He scrabbled for a hankie to wipe away the muck, closing his eyes as he did to avoid the last puff of silt rising to cut off his breathing.
All he wiped was sweat as he felt himself collapse. Strong arms caught him and he felt leather give to his form.
"Are you O.K. Mr Ashfield?" enquired Zeiss.
"I'll try to find some water," said Mrs Lampton.
"What happened there?" her husband.
Peter was still a quite stunned and more than a little nauseous. Mrs Lampton found the kitchen and after a couple of minutes, coaxed water out of the old-fashioned tap. Luckily the water had not been turned off.
She urged Peter to drink and laid a pre-dampened hankie across his forehead. Zeiss found something light and papery and was fanning furiously. Peter recovered his composure at last and raised his hands to cease their ministrations.
"Thank you, thank you," he murmured, still a little woozy but capable of going on. "I am sorry. I don't know what happened!" he started to explain. "I was standing on the carpet and it felt.....it felt like I was......"
"Oh never mind that," exclaimed Lampton. "As long as you are alright." Peter slowly nodded. "We have decided, it isn't for us. We have seen another place earlier, more comfortable. We won't go on any further."
Peter sighed. One to go.
"Well," remarked Zeiss, "I like it, despite your explanation about the Persian rug."
"Explanation," queried Peter, not understanding.
"Yes. Don't you remember? Just before you fell down. You were telling us the history of the rug, how it was supposed to be five hundred years old when they brought it to furnish the new house, this place. How the men used to sit in the market place and knot the wools right there in the open. How they wove a pattern of what went on around them."
"I said that? I didn't.......I wasn'.......,"began Peter.
"You were talking to us all the time, Sir," Zeiss insisted. "Anyway, I've seen enough. Let's go back to your office and finalise things, O.K.?"
Peter did not understand. Other times he had shown the Hall nothing like that had ever happened to him, or anyone else. He still felt a bit strange but he had sold the Hall.
"Oh, by the way, Get rid of the rug. I don't like the pattern. It's not like any other Persian rug I've seen before. Some museum might take it, yes?"
"Yes," agreed Peter, as the fresh air hit his aching head. "I'll see to it tomorrow."

© Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. October, 1995.

Publication Date: 01-12-2011

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