I Rode a Horse of Milk White Jade

by Diane Wilson

  Bayan was slowing, gathering her body to slide down a pebbly embankment, when a needle-sharp pain stung my thigh. An arrow! I thought. Someone is firing upon us! My hand felt for blood, found fur. Glancing down I saw Bator clinging wild-eyed to my trouser leg, his back legs kicking the air. I yanked him by the scruff of his neck into my lap. One hand pressed upon him firmly as I bent again over Bayan’s neck and shouted for her very best. I prayed for her weak leg to hold strong.

  Only when we had put a great distance between ourselves and the Khan’s soldiers did I rein the old mare to an easier pace. The two-beat trot felt slightly unsteady and I noticed the white head bobbing with each stride—not good signs. Worried, I pulled Bayan to a walk. As she caught her breath, my eyes searched the mountainous horizon for the guiding notch. There it was—a little east and south: I was back on the track to a horse both strong and swift!

  But it seemed that day that the gods decided to test my desire.

  Late in the morning black clouds rolled in to dump bag after bag of hard rain upon our heads. Bayan had to pick her way carefully, for the steppe turned greasy with mud. Soon so much water floated upon the land that it seemed as if we walked on an endless lake. Lifting my head, I groaned. The notch in the mountains had disappeared.

  The storm swept past, but low clouds and a raw wind took its place. Cold, wet, and shivering, we hunched our shoulders and tried to follow a stream toward the mountains, though foaming brown waters spilled over its banks, blurring the true course. Bayan bravely splashed through the floodwaters, steadily plunging ahead.

  When at last a brilliant sun blinked between fleeing clouds, it shone upon towering mountains that seemed to have risen up suddenly right before our faces. Bayan halted and stamped a hoof impatiently: Which way?

  Sagging in the saddle, drenched to the bone, I tiredly looked around. The mountains rose so closely that I could not see to their tops. Water flowed everywhere; we were hopelessly lost. The soldiers had been right, I thought. Bad luck had been riding with them. By casting me out they had unknowingly freed themselves. But it seemed that bad luck would always ride with me, clamped to my side, forever and always.

  Or would it? Pushing numb fingers inside my soggy del, I found the gold ornament and lifted it into my palm. Closing my eyes and wishing very hard to be led to the arrow station, I prodded Bayan’s sides. She stepped uncertainly at first, then abruptly leaned forward, lunging headlong into a loud-splashing, ground-covering gallop.

  I opened my eyes—and screamed! Loping at my left heel, red tongue flopping, was a wolf! The journey was over. We were dead. Squeezing shut my eyes, I waited for the sharp-fanged leap.

  But it never came. Squinting through half-parted lids, I looked again. Now there were three wolves! And another was splashing across the steppe. Yet the yellow-eyed creatures didn’t turn upon us. And Bayan seemed to be running with them rather than from them.

  Suddenly I remembered the silvery wolf that had crossed our path on the way to Karakorum, bringing luck to our journey. Were these wolves bringing luck now? Were these hunters actually guiding us?

  The floodwaters shimmered a fiery orange as the sun began sinking. We galloped into a stand of tall trees, and Bayan’s hoofbeats became muffled by mud and fallen leaves. Oddly, I thought I heard music far ahead. I reined her to a walk to listen. For some reason, Bator chose that moment to scramble from my del and jump to the ground. When I looked down, both Bator and the wolves were gone.

  ***

  “Where did the wolves go?”

  “I don’t know. To smoke in the air, a shadow beneath a tree.”

  “What was the music?”

  Smiling, the old woman rested against the stable wall and sighed.

  “The morinkhour,” she said, “the horse harmony. I don’t believe you have this instrument in your country. But then you couldn’t, for it was born of our people’s love of the horse. It is told that long, long ago, a nobleman had a favorite horse that died. So heartbroken was he that he pulled hairs from his horse’s tail for the strings and for a bow. And from the very best wood he fashioned the morinkhour, carving a likeness of his horse’s head at the top of the instrument. When this nobleman drew the bow across the strings, he heard in their music the tremulous whinnies of his horse. He recognized the burbling of the many streams they had splashed through and the humming of the winds that had shared their travels. In this way he would always remember his finest friend.”

  The round-sided mare, restlessly circling the stall again, paused to swing her head up and down and nicker emphatically, bringing smiles to the two humans in the corner. The girl asked another question.

  “Where was the music coming from?”

  “From the arrow station. The wolves had led us there. It was headed by a woman as strange as she was large, a woman who, I believe, both loved me and hated me.”

  16

  The Fat Woman with the Fast Horses

  She was the fattest woman I had ever seen, the one who pushed her head through the door flap long into that afternoon.

  I met her raised eyebrows with a teeth-chattering greeting. “Sain bainu?” I said. How do you do?

  “My, my, my,” she stammered as her bulk filled the entrance. She clucked her tongue in the same way my mother had. “I did not hear your bells, young man. You and your horse tippy-toed up to my door quiet as a couple of foxes.” Her mountainous shoulders scraped the narrow door frame and for a moment I feared she might step forward, carrying the whole station upon her back. But, grunting like an ox, she managed to shift her weight around, lift her chin from soft necklaces of fat, and call, “Delger! An arrow rider! Bring round the bay.”

  Waves of silk stained a ripe berry color rustled with her turning. I noticed the fine embroidery and wondered how many days it had taken some poor hunched-over girl to stitch all that material. Pale coral earrings, carved in an openwork design and much too fine for everyday wear, brushed the woman’s sloping shoulders. Just as my eyes were traveling down to the brightly sewn coverings worn on feet that, surprisingly, were little bigger than mine, she turned back to me. I hid my interest in her elaborate attire and, untying the heavy gold medallion engraved with writing from my waist, leaned over to hand it to her. I watched the plump eyelids flutter upward in amazement.

  “A messenger of the Khan himself!” Her lips tasted the words with obvious pleasure. Then the small brown eyes shot back to me and I ducked my chin within its surrounding collar, hoping to protect my identity. She thought she had embarrassed me.

  “Forgive me, young man!” The woman was swaying from foot to foot like an overgrown girl and grinning. “Understand you are a surprise to us. The Khan’s arrow riders rarely ride out this far. Mostly we just see herdsmen riding for a shaman or soldiers sending for supplies or two tribes announcing a marriage.” At that moment a broad-chested boy led a red bay horse, bridled and saddled, around the corner. Bayan nickered and the bay answered. Without pause, the woman continued, “And a marriage announcement is just the message I’d like to receive, yes, Delger?” The boy rolled his eyes. Handing his mother the reins, he silently turned to check the saddle’s fastenings.

  Chuckling, the woman swatted her son’s back with a bearlike paw. Then she returned the medallion to me and began giving directions to the next arrow station. “Now,” she said, “notice that path over there beside the stream? Follow it through the thicket and up the mountain until you see—here!” She was slapping the reins against my thigh. “Hop off! The Khan’s things must not be delayed. And while this bay may look small, he’ll carry you swift as a river and just as smooth as if you floated on it. Now, when you get to the clearing…”

  My ears no longer followed her directions, for I suddenly understood that she wanted me to leave Bayan and ride on with her horse. Panic-stricken, with my pounding heart drowning out her words, I watched the woman waggle a fat finger in the direction of the thicket. No,
I thought. I can’t leave Bayan. No.

  “No!” the woman said abruptly, clapping her hands together. “Although that gold paiza of the Khan shines like the sun, it can’t light the darkness, now can it?” Turning, she began impatiently slapping the reins against her son’s arm. Still without speaking, he took them and shouldered the bay aside.

  “You rest here tonight, young man,” the woman ordered. Tipping her weight precariously forward, she squinted. Eyes hunkering behind folds of flesh examined Bayan’s legs. “By the looks of your mare, she could use a rest as well. A bit old for such hard riding, isn’t she?” The woman, breathing heavily, twisted her head up toward me. “Has the Khan fallen on such hard times that he employs the likes of her for his fastest?” Beads of sweat popped out upon her forehead as she straightened. Labored panting nearly choked her chuckles. “You tell the Khan when you get back to him to come see me—Genma. Tell him I have the finest, fastest horses in all his lands. Tell him,” she said, winking, “that I will back any of my horses in a race against any of his.” She clapped her hands again. The sharp noise jumped into the long shadows, disappearing into the depths of the forest. A cold wind lunged out to bite at my back.

  And suddenly I wanted nothing more than to step out of my saddle and sit beside a cheery fire with friendly people. And to listen to tales of fast horses.

  “Now, come,” she was saying, slapping my knee. “Step down. Your mare will be well tended by my son. Do you like marmot? I have two fat ones cooking in a pot on the fire right now. And as fast as my horses are, even better is my cooking. Hah!” she laughed, slapping my knee again for emphasis. “Step down, step down. What do they call you?”

  My mind galloped. “Aruun,” I mumbled in a deep voice. Stiffly I dismounted, fiery pains shooting through my legs as my numbed feet hit the frozen ground. My breath caught in my throat. I doubled over. Reaching to brace myself against Bayan, my hand fell against air, for she was already being led away. Wobbling, I paused to catch my breath. I could see Genma squinting again, but, as before, her suspicious look was barely a ripple in her chatter.

  “And I have the two most beautiful daughters! You must meet them! There is Otgon. She has seen eight summers and can milk my mares even faster than her sister—that is Davasuren. Now she has seen ten summers, but already she is preparing the meals with me, and the man who takes her for his wife will grow as fat as I am. Hah!” Genma clasped her round belly. “Ten summers is still young, I think, for marriage, but in another year or two, perhaps…?” She let her voice trail off.

  “Delger,” she called, “unsaddle them both and turn them out. And give the mare a handful of that good grain. But watch, no more than a handful. It’s too dear.” Then, slapping me on the back, sending me stumbling toward the door, she said, “Come on, Aruun. I’ll wager you have some stories for us. And some new stories to us will be as good grain to your mare. Let’s begin with your message. I will make a guess,” she said, closing her eyes briefly, “that you are carrying it within a sealed leather pouch tied around your waist underneath your del.” She opened her eyes. “Am I right?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you know what it says?”

  I shook my head.

  “Do you know what’s inside the two bags you carry?”

  I shook my head again. While Genma began a long list of speculation, I found myself held fast, almost cringing, just inside the first square room I had ever entered. You see, when I looked up and saw the giant trunks of trees stretching close over my head, I feared they would fall and crush me. But another powerful shove from Genma pushed me, stumbling again, right underneath them into the center of the room.

  Looking around, wide-eyed, I saw that the walls, too, were stacks of tree trunks stuck together with dried mud. Sheets of wool felt, stirring slightly in the drafts, hung on each wall.

  Two girls knelt beside the cooking fire, one stirring a broth bubbling within a footed bronze pot while the other pulled needle and thread through a del the color of dried grass. Heads bent together, smiles flashing wide in the firelight, they whispered gaily, bursting forth in the high, tinkling laughter of brass bells. Although I knew I was the source of their amusement, a part of me longed to throw off my heavy coverings and kneel, giggling, beside them. But I remained behind my mask.

  In the far left corner of the room knelt a boy scraping an ox hide with energetic yet haphazard strokes. There was something odd about him. Already he was fat, like his mother, and from his profile he looked to be about my age. But he didn’t even look up when I fell stumbling into the room.

  While Genma busied herself pulling bowls from a tall blue cabinet, I continued gazing, open-mouthed, at my surroundings. Beds ringed the room, their iron feet sinking into thick shirdiks woven in colorful patterns of birds and flowers. At the foot of each bed rested a stocky wooden chest, festooned with designs of cranes and sheep, horses and leaves. The one nearest the two girls yawned open, revealing piles of richly dyed clothing. Near Genma, atop another large painted chest, slumped several dolls. I shuddered once, remembering the dirty-faced doll in my own ger. At the door hung a large goatskin bag, foaming with the familiar ayrag, and propped against the left wall were three of the most handsome saddles I had ever seen. Above them hung four or five fancy bridles and several tasseled breast collars and cruppers. I longed to trace my fingers across the beautiful craftsmanship, but at that moment Genma swayed around, silky del rustling, and clapped her hands.

  “Aruun,” she said, “we are ready. Since my husband is—my, my, my,” she interrupted herself. “I have not introduced you to my daughters. Aruun, this is my first daughter, Davasuren, and this is her sister, Otgon.” Each of the girls shyly nodded in turn. Genma did not introduce the boy in the corner.

  She went on. “Aruun, since my husband is away—he is riding with the soldiers—you will have the seat of honor.” She pointed to a fringed cushion behind the cooking fire, the seat facing the door and the one traditionally awarded to a guest.

  Nodding, I took a step toward the cushion, but while my one leg was already tingling with newfound warmth, my crippled foot and ankle still throbbed painfully, so that I lurched forward like a still-wet ox calf. The sisters shared whispers again, but this time their laughter was cut short by the stern hushing of their mother. Just as I collapsed, red-faced, on the cushion, Delger came in and silently sat cross-legged on my right side. Steam rising from the cooking pot polished Genma’s face as she began ladling the marmot stew into gleaming, bluish white bowls.

  Now, I had never before seen porcelain. When a bowl was placed in my cupped hands, I yelped and juggled and bobbled the fire-hot piece into my lap. Quick as a dog, I set to licking my burnt flesh. Genma glanced sidelong at me, her fat lips curled in a little smile, as she continued filling bowls for Delger and her two daughters. I watched them slip their hands back inside their sleeves, then expertly grasp the hot bowl with the padded comfort of their dels. Finally Genma ladled a bowlful for herself, then dragged a bright orange stool with four sturdy legs to the fire and lowered her weight to it.

  When I noticed that all faces were turned toward me, expectant, I took a quick sip of the stew. Genma’s boast of good cooking flew straight as an arrow. My heart quickened with the thought that her boast of fast horses might fly just as true.

  Delger and the two girls lifted their bowls and began to suck noisily. That is, until a tsk-tsking noise from their mother, along with a raised eyebrow, made the older girl set her bowl aside, pick up yet another bowl—this one wooden—and ladle a half-portion into it. Wrinkling her nose, she rose and carried it to her brother in the corner. I watched her place his chubby hands around the rim. She spoke a word to him, then returned to the fire and her own bowl.

  The wind whistling through the cracks in the walls delivered a shrill whinny. I recognized it as Bayan’s, and a pang of worry for her safety and for Bator’s—if he was even alive—stabbed my stomach. Look
ing from face to face, each one buried in the steam of a cupped bowl, I wondered about my own safety.

  Although my place near the fire was hot, I kept my father’s hat pulled low on my head, trying to ignore the sweat dampening my hair to my cheeks. It was then that I saw in the nervous glances of the others that these people were equally uncertain of me.

  From beneath the creaking orange stool scurried a long-legged spider, headed across the shirdik. Genma stamped her trunk of a leg upon it. “Tell us about yourself, Aruun,” she commanded. “Of what clan are you?”

  I swallowed. “Kerait,” I answered under my breath.

  “Kerait?” she repeated. “Then you live west of here. You ride a long way from home. Are there many in your family?”

  I shook my head.

  “Do you have a wife?”

  I shook my head again, sipping the broth and plopping black lumps of marmot meat into my mouth. I tried to look shy, which wasn’t difficult. But Genma, like all people living far from their kind, had endless questions.

  “Tell us, Aruun. How did you come to serve Kublai Khan?” She casually swirled the broth within her bowl, watching the liquid with one eye, me with the other. I busied myself with chewing a fatty chunk of meat, then raised the bowl to my lips for a long, thoughtful sip.

  “We don’t see too many of the Khan’s arrow riders out this way,” Genma went on, “but I have seen a few in my years.” She squinted at me again, the way a cat ponders how close to sneak upon a mouse without sending it running. “Now, the ones I’ve seen dress differently from you,” she was saying. “So I’m wondering why you’re different.” She smiled.

  I lowered the empty bowl, wiped my mouth with my sleeve. I felt my face grow very hot. I was cornered.

  “I…I was riding east of…of…” My words unexpectedly widened into a long yawn.

  “Hah!” the woman laughed, slapping her knee. “The lid fits the pot, doesn’t it? Go for moon after moon waiting for news and just when it walks in the door, I worry it to a yawn with my questions. Please forgive me once again, Aruun. If you are finished”—a loud belch punctuated Genma’s heaving her weight to her feet—“I’ll take your bowl and you can take that bed in the corner.” A flick of wrist and thumb indicated a small bed next to where the odd boy sat. “There’s an extra blanket folded underneath if you get cold. I’ll wake you at first light so you may be on your way.”