There are places whose names linger in the mind long after you first encounter them in the pages of history. For me, Kharkhorum was one of those places. The thought of it — a city raised from the steppe, built by captives and craftspeople — stayed with me for years.
Walking across the wide plain of Kharkhorum was extraordinary. Fragments of pottery showed through the steppe sage; the crisp air carried its astringent scent. A flake of glaze caught the light, and was gone.
The museum of Kharkhorum was small, yet remarkably rich. Among the traces of craftspeople — the ruined furnaces, the slag of metalwork, the tiny beads — lay the work of patient hands, reduced to fragments. Seeing Kharkhorum, breathing its air, tracing its forgotten contours, seemed to quiet my thoughts in a way I cannot quite explain.
