by Diane Wilson
Echenkorlo’s ger was gone.
11
The Mountains’ Cold Breath
After Echenkorlo’s visit, the moment I opened my eyes each morning, my heart quickened. Is this the day? I wondered. Leaping from bed, I raced into the coldness, searching the pink horizon. But I could see nothing coming. And the winds always whistled and danced around me, brushing first one cheek and then the other, lifting my braid from behind and, when I spun, shoving me with a gust almost to my knees.
In the dark after bedtime, I pulled the old leather pouch, scratched with pictures of strange animals and stamped in brilliant colors, from its hiding place beneath my bed. Night after night I fondled its few prizes: a large, curving fishhook with a line of sinew knotted to it; a short dagger, elegant in its jewel-encrusted handle, deadly in its pointed hardness; a small iron cooking pot, big enough for just one meal of mutton stew; a silver-mounted steel for sparking a fire; three long needles; and one small leather bag, stiff and discolored from much use. As my fingers traced the painted pattern, I wondered whom the pouch had belonged to and when I would begin my journey. Echenkorlo had also left me a large packet of herbs, which she had told me to mix with hot water and apply—every other day—in a bandage tied around the injured hind leg of the white mare. On alternate days I was to lead the mare into a deep, cold stream and let her stand while I counted to five hundred.
“But what about the earth spirits?” I had asked, alarmed. “To stand upon them as they travel through the waters is to bring down upon my head the worst of bad luck.”
Echenkorlo had only smiled. “First pray for the earth spirits’ help in healing your mare,” she said, “and the earth spirits will know that you know their power. By asking them to help you with their power, you will not be harmed by them.”
And so, though winter blew its bitter fury across the steppes, I regularly sneaked away from camp, leading the white mare. Bowing and praying to the earth spirits, which I could hear gurgling within the ice-covered stream, I begged through chattering teeth that they use their power not to harm me but to heal the leg of my white mare. Then I coaxed the mare onto the frozen surface, the weight of each hoof crashing through the ice and stirring the spirits into a bubbling frenzy. “One-two-three,” I began counting, shivering, shifting my weight uneasily from foot to foot and starting at each little noise. I fully expected the gods to pretend not to hear my prayers and to lay me out flat and lifeless in the frozen mud.
Day after wintry day I treated the mare’s leg. A hot herb-filled bandage on one day, the cold waters of a stream the next. But after one moon had come and gone, the mare trotted only slightly more steadily and I still dared not climb upon her back. Gradually I stopped the treatments—the day was too cold or I was too tired. And at night I fell into bed, weary but not sleepy, leaving the leather pouch and its contents to gather dust beneath me.
In the cold stiffness of that winter I stopped chasing dreams.
My father’s ger felt very crowded now that his new wife, Shuraa, and her two sons, eight and twelve years, lived with us. The future promised no better, for she was already full-bellied with my father’s child. Shuraa doted on her two boys, never scolding them for tasks poorly done or even left unfinished. She tried to include me in her coddling. Placing her hands on my waist, she would steer me onto a cushion the way one helps an old person with weak bones. Into my hands she would push the easiest of work—sewing or stirring. “So as not to risk further injury to your poor, poor foot,” she moaned while my father smiled. My face flushed hot at these times and not from sitting so close to the cooking fire. I know Shuraa fretted and I know she didn’t understand, but on more days than not, I fled our ger: I simply had to be with the horses.
By winter’s end I had fastened a name upon the white mare: Bayan—“rich with beauty and goodness.” Or rather, she had fastened the name upon herself. I had tried several other names: Galuut, for she could be as awkward as a goose, and Buran, for she was as white as a blizzard. But at the speaking of each name, the mare had turned her head away from me. At the same time the word bayan kept popping into my head. Finally I chuckled and said, “Bayan,” and the mare walked right up to me and shoved her soft muzzle against my neck. I threw my arms around her then and felt that all was right with the world. Since the festival at Karakorum I had rarely “heard” Bayan, yet we daily spoke to each other through touch and an exchanging of warm breaths. In moving by her side as she grazed, and listening, I had come to feel a kinship I had never before known. She was my friend.
When my hands ran along her thinning neck, traveled across the gentle slope of her back, I knew in my heart that she was old and that I would never ride her.
Perhaps this would be our last season together. All the more reason, I thought, to pass the days at her side watching the clouds tumble across the sky or laughing at the chattering susliks popping out of and back into the ground.
Happily, I saw that the fading winter had not been too hard upon Bayan. As the sun shone longer and longer upon the steppes, I watched her move with much less stiffness. Twice, in truth, I saw her gallop out from the herd with barely a hitch in her stride. But other days she rested long upon the ground, still as if carved from white jade, ears pricked eerily toward the horizon. That sight at first gave me chills—Something’s coming, I thought—but when my eyes followed, seeing nothing, I decided Bayan’s eyes were simply growing cloudy.
For with the melting of the snows, so had melted away my memory of Echenkorlo’s visit and her strange words. They were the nonsense of a dream long forgotten, the babble of a child.
Until a blustery morning in early spring when the winds blew strong and straight from the Hentei Mountains in the east.
It was also a blindingly sunny day. Bator and I were warming ourselves on a rock jutting below a hillock, our backs hunched against the wind. I was whistling on a blade of grass cupped between my hands when I saw them coming. Actually it was the horses that saw them first, for in unison they jerked their heads from the sweet grass poking through the snow patches and stared, ears pricked, nostrils flared, into the distance. At their silent alarm, Bator scampered into the tall grasses. I dropped the green blade and scrambled to the hillcrest behind me. Just as quickly I dropped back below the crest, peeking through a wind-whipped thistle bush to watch the strangers approach.
Soldiers! Nearly a hundred mounted soldiers, each carrying a round shield, so that they moved across the steppe as if the great solid walls of Karakorum marched. They were approaching fast, intent, I guessed, on taking our small ail by surprise. I had to warn the others! Jumping to my feet, I slid and hopped in a rush down the hillside.
But the dogs in camp had already spotted the strangers and now joined voices in their own yipping alert. As I limped closer to the cluster of gers, I saw the men of my ail gathering the women and young children and shoving them into the small safety of the felt shelters. My eyes and ears were so full of the noisy confusion, I barely noticed the strong grasp of my father’s hand upon my arm, steering me forcefully toward our ger. With a push I was shoved inside, nearly stumbling over the pile of a wailing Shuraa clutching her two sons onto what little lap her swollen belly allowed.
Against Shuraa’s weak cries of protest I turned and crawled back toward the door flap, pushing it out just enough to lay an eye against the slit and watch, panting heavily, what was happening.
The wind blew stronger and stronger, sending young leaves and bits of grass skittering through our camp. It blasted into the approaching line of soldiers, lifting the flaps of their black dels up and down like so many birds’ wings. The riders had appeared so suddenly, in fact, that it seemed almost as if they had dropped, in one great flock, from the sky. The men and older boys of our ail gathered in a small knot at the farthest ger, bracing themselves against the wind and waiting. In the next instant the soldiers were upon them, half of the flock settling around the men, spears pointin
g, holding them helpless. The other half wheeled off toward the horses, waving their arms and shouting wildly.
And then my heart swelled in my throat as I began to understand. The soldiers were after our horses! They must be the Khan’s soldiers, then, for I knew that he could take whatever horses he needed from his people. But in my twelve years I had never seen soldiers within our own camp.
Our herd, already nervous with the sudden arrival of the strange men and their horses, flung their tails into the air and took off. I do not like to admit this, but as I watched these soldiers run after our horses, I admired their skills in the saddle. Each rider and his mount worked as one, leaning into the herd and turning the panicked animals this way and that. Shouting and waving their arms, the riders circled the horses, gradually drawing the invisible noose tighter and smaller until the pack came to a stop, confused.
Then, dropping from the sky like a hawk, fell an urga, the herdsman’s long pole with a leather loop at its end, around the neck of one quivering horse. Exhausted and scared, the horse, a tall, white-nosed bay belonging to an uncle, was dragged from the herd and hobbled. A dozen soldiers moved alongside it to guard against escape. Time after time, I watched the urga shoot through the air, settling around the neck of another of our horses. And I saw that the soldiers chose only the best. The brief gallop had proven which of our herd were truly the strongest and fastest.
Next the noose fell around the head of my father’s old spotted stallion, but a close inspection after pulling him from the herd caused shaking heads and the urga’s release. After all, even my father and I knew the old stallion had not many winters left. But one of the young sorrel mares my father had brought back from Karakorum was taken—and she with a lovely filly not more than ten days old at her side!
One by one, horse by horse, the urga settled over heads until thirty of our finest-bred horses stood hobbled apart from the herd. As the first group grew smaller and the new group grew larger, frantic neighs filled the air.
And then a horse’s familiar scream shot through the clamor, so shrill that my own scream was drowned. For out of the herd had lunged Bayan, my white mare, with the urga tightening around her snowy neck. She tore along magnificently, plunging and bucking, while the rider tried in vain to bring her to a halt. Just as they entered the open steppe, another urga fell around her head. Restrained on both sides, Bayan reared and pawed the air. I had never seen her look so beautiful. Then she ducked her head and lashed out at one rider with both hind feet. Even at that great distance I saw the men point and laugh approvingly. “Spirit!” I heard one shout.
I couldn’t believe it—any of it. That my lovely white mare was no longer lame—that she, my friend, was being so mistreated—that she was being taken away from me. “No, no, no!” I screamed over and over far out of earshot of the soldiers. I watched in helpless horror as the two riders yanked Bayan toward the smaller herd, while she continued rearing and bucking tirelessly. It took two more men to fit hobbles around her front ankles, and when she knocked one onto his seat with a sharp kick, a back leg was tied snugly to the front pair. I watched through eyes brimming with tears as the soldiers tied more ropes around her, even haltering her to a horse already standing quietly. Bayan finally gave up resisting and stood quivering and nickering fitfully. I saw her looking around and I knew she was searching for me.
I was sobbing now, my shoulders heaving. The scene swam before my tear-filled eyes as in a terrible dream.
Sharp calls were exchanged between the soldiers guarding the men and the ones guarding the horses. Then the first group raised their spears. Swiftly, one after another, with just a threatening point into the chest of a helpless herdsman, new soldiers were added to the Khan’s army. I saw three chosen, two uncles and a cousin, who bowed their heads and walked slowly toward their gers.
The commander of the soldiers then dismounted and stomped stiffly from ger to ger, stooping and thrusting his head into each one. When he neared ours, I shrank away from the door flap and sat trembling, trying to stop my crying. And trying to think what I could do to save Bayan.
Shuraa was wailing wildly, clutching her two sons to her and rocking back and forth in a great jumble of flailing hands and legs. I watched numbly as the tarag bubbled out of its pot, spilling into the fire and sending up smelly clouds of steam. No one moved to stop it.
A dark head boldly pushed past the door flap, bringing with it a deep voice that bellowed, “Soldiers for the Khan’s army!” Wide shoulders followed and soon the large, heavy body of the soldiers’ leader swallowed up the remaining space in our ger. He carried in with him on his black uniform the pungent odor of sagebrush, of dung smoke and leather oil. When he lifted his head to look around, I cringed at the thick, fleshy face, with its single black eyebrow digging a track across a bony brow.
Ignoring Shuraa’s arms clasped around her two sons, the man closed his hairy hand around the small wrist of my older stepbrother. In one sharp motion the hand pulled the wrist upward, so that the boy’s body had to follow, though it dangled weakly, like a lamb freshly killed for dinner.
“Here is a soldier, I think,” the man snarled. “A puny one, but he will do.”
“No, no!” screamed Shuraa, jumping to her feet and spilling her younger son off her lap. She propped her short body beneath her dangling son’s limp shoulder. “He has a crippled leg—you will see. He can walk no more than a crawl.” Thus supporting him, Shuraa bent over and pushed at her son’s legs with one hand as if they were the wooden legs of a toy. Curious, the man released his grip. It was then that I saw Shuraa pinch her son, hard, behind the knee. He cried out and limped a painful step forward. “See?” she said, glancing nervously into the hard face of the commander and pulling her son close into her arms. “See? It is my heartbreak to bear, not yours. You do not want a limping soldier.”
The man merely glared at Shuraa. His hand reached out and grabbed the boy forward again. The fleshy face was thrust before the boy’s wide eyes. “You may limp in the dirt, soldier, but you won’t limp in the saddle. Pack your things. Now!” He jerked the boy’s wrist to emphasize his point, then, with a cursory glance around the ger, one that swept over my head, the large man turned and left. I heard him shout to his men to prepare to leave.
Shuraa was sobbing again in a helpless heap upon the rug, her two sons kneeling, foggy-eyed and unmoving, beside her.
I released in a rush the sobs I had reined in while the terrifying commander was in our ger. Head pressed upon my knees, I, too, swayed back and forth, crying out for the lovely white mare that was being taken from me.
I saw something glinting through my tears. Wiping a sleeve across my eyes, I blinked and bent forward. Lying at my feet on the rug was a small gold likeness of a winged horse with a girl on its back carrying flowers in her hands. Instantly I remembered the small black amulet in the palm of my grandmother, Echenkorlo. I reached for the gold figurine, brought it close to my face, and studied the curving form. A loop at the top, molded into the design, told it was an adornment for a belt or a horse’s harness.
And then the strangest thing! Holding that winged pendant in my palm, I felt a great calmness settle over me, like the calm that settles just before a storm, giving you a brief moment to prepare for the fury to follow. You scurry around gathering up this, pinning down that, never knowing whether you will even be alive in the morning. Clearly then, as I had at Karakorum, I heard the words in my head: Now, now, now! And I knew what to do.
Tightly clutching the gold ornament, I stood and, with the trembling fingers of one hand, quickly unfastened and slipped out of my del. One limping step and I was at the side of my older stepbrother, hastily unfastening his dark green del. He, too, was trembling, biting his lip and crying. He said nothing as I slipped the del from his limp arms and fastened it around my own body. I picked up his orange belt and knotted it around my waist, marking me a boy. Then I dropped the heavy ornament into an inner pock
et.
Shuraa suddenly came alive. “No! You can’t!” she cried. “You are just a girl. You’re weak, crippled.”
Wordlessly, but with great assurance, I stepped across her sprawling leg. Shuraa clawed at my hand and shouted, “They’re killers, Oyuna! My own father died in the Khan’s army. And my first husband. You don’t know the danger!”
But there were so many noises buzzing in my head that I could not heed Shuraa. Halting before the cabinet that still held the stuffed doll with one leg dyed red, I stared. The doll leered back, taunting. Bad luck it seemed to whisper through stained lips. Shuraa’s words echoed: “You are just a girl. You’re weak, crippled.” I took a deep breath, picked up the doll, and cautiously laid it facedown. I pulled a knife from the top drawer. Tipping my head to one side, I lifted the knife to my braid and, with a hard sawing motion, cut it off. Then I tucked the knife within my felt boot. From the wall I grabbed my father’s fur-trimmed felt hat and pulled it down over my head, nearly hiding my face.
I reached under the bed and pulled out Echenkorlo’s dust-covered leather pouch, slinging it across my shoulder. I dipped water into a spare pouch and strapped it around my shoulder as well, then stuffed a handful of dried mutton strips inside my del. Lifting my saddle in my arms, I stumbled under all the weight toward the door flap.
Bator was suddenly at my feet, rubbing his body around my legs, eager to follow. He usually trotted out a bit with me when I left on a ride.
“Not this time, Bator,” I said, wishing I had a free hand to give him a final pat. “Better you stay inside.” He meowed. I didn’t look back.
Already the other new soldiers, all relatives of mine, were saddling their horses. Everywhere women were wailing. Not daring to glance to where my father stood, I carried my saddle straight toward the white mare. As I passed beneath the glare of the heavy-browed commander, he noted my limp and grunted, satisfied.
