by Diane Wilson
I was dying. I knew it. Having slept the night with a dead person, I was being dragged into the otherworld as well. I closed my eyes and waited.
Surely I dozed, for when I became uncomfortably aware of the sun hot upon my back, I was still bracing myself on the ground. Maybe I wasn’t dying, I thought, opening my eyes.
Having survived a sleep with death, could I be free of its curse? I had heard it told that in some parts of the land a powerful man might, upon his death, have his favorite servant buried with him—alive. Later, the dead man’s friends come to dig up the grave and, if the servant is still breathing, great honor is laid upon his shoulders and he is set free to travel where he pleases. I had spent the night in a grave of sorts, I thought, and yet, here I was, squinting into the sunshine again.
Suddenly Bator was wedging his furry body beneath my arms to drop a dead field mouse in my lap. He set to shoving his bloody-whiskered face against my cheek again and again until I had to smile and lift a hand to stroke his back.
“Thank you, Bator,” I murmured. Dangling the small rodent by its tail, I lied, “But I’m not very hungry. You take it.” I flung the mouse into the air. Bator happily caught it between his paws before it hit the ground. I smiled again. “How would I ever get along without you?” I whispered.
There was a rustling behind me. Carefully peeking over my stiff shoulder, I saw Bayan poking her head curiously through some bare branches. “And you, too, Bayan,” I said, laughing a little before a stitch in my ribs made me gasp.
Spying a branch dropped by the storm and lying crookedly not far from Bayan, I had an idea. Slithering across the ground like a half-witted snake, I managed to reach the branch, strip it of twigs, and prop it under one armpit. Then I draped my weight heavily across it and, lurching drunkenly, set off to investigate the tinkling sounds. Bator and Bayan, seemingly more curious about my sudden fifth limb than about the sounds, followed.
My breath was coming hard by the time I hobbled into a sunny clearing. Pointing to the heavens from its center was an obo, an impressive shrine to the mountain spirit created by travelers intertwining long tree branches into the form of a great cone. Numerous wet streamers of pale blue silk, knotted to these branches, fluttered limply. The silver beads of a broken necklace hung across one bough, twirling and blinking in the sunlight. And a rope of small brass bells bobbed in the spring breeze.
My father and I had passed just such an obo on our way to the festival at Karakorum. As then, I was awestruck. Respectfully keeping the obo on my right, I hobbled a slow circle around it. Then I removed my belt, draped it around my neck, and, after bowing a painful nine times to the woody shrine, knelt upon the damp ground, eyes shut tightly. I fervently prayed to the mountain’s spirit for protection. And for guidance.
In the darkness behind my closed lids, I sensed the earth quivering beneath my knees. A roaring, as of rushing water, filled my ears. A tremendous dizziness overcame me and I opened my eyes, flattening my palms against the earth to steady myself. But not before a thousand white horses, grinning crazily, filled my mind, leering and laughing in stiff silence. I vigorously shook my head clear of them.
I knew now why the shamans climbed so near the heavens for their visions. But I was no shaman, just a very tired, very hungry girl. I decided to return to the cave.
Pushing at the ground, dragging the crude crutch at my side, I began backing away from the obo. It was then that I noticed additional offerings to the mountain spirit on a nearby pile of flat-topped rocks. Trapped in a partially frozen puddle lay a few small coins and a broken piece of harness. A wet ring of hulls suggested an offering of grain, long since scattered by wind and birds. Upon another worn boulder an old wooden ladle held only a pale white skin of what must have once been ayrag. Beside it, glistening wet in the sunlight, sat a soaked block of tea leaves. So hungry was I that I let my fingers stretch out to touch its deep brown surface. My stomach growled, but I dared not steal food from the very bowl of the gods.
Remembering another offering I had seen at the obo with my father, I limped upon my stick to where Bayan grazed and plucked several hairs from her long white tail. Then, though the dizziness was buzzing louder in my head, I made my way back to the obo and knotted them around one twig. Stepping back, satisfied, I watched the silky hairs drift in the breeze. My white mare always brought me luck. I would share it with the mountain spirit.
Already I began to feel stronger, more confident. The dizziness passed. And I began to think about the old person who had died in that desolate cave, alone and helpless. I wanted then to give the stranger some sort of burial so that the departed spirit would also find rest.
When I reentered the cave after another plodding trek upon my crutch, I saw something I had not noticed last evening: the feathery gray remains of a fire, with an object hard and white seated in its ashes. Even before my next step I recognized the shoulder blades of a sheep, seared so that the fire’s maker could look into the future.
Smoky images swirled through my brain—images of Echenkorlo’s tent, of her strange companion, of the oddly shaped fur bags strung in the haze. All at once I tasted again the musky brew, smelled the pungent herbs, saw the white-hot sheep’s shoulders. In my mind, Udbal’s toothless face hovered close to the crisscrossing lines, studying the future—my future. I shook my head clear once again. So the person inside had been a shaman…or a shamaness. My heart quickened. Could it be? No, it was impossible. The mountains were too many. More likely that the Golden Nail star would fall in with the Seven Giants than that Echenkorlo and I would be traveling the same path.
Still, with the hairs upon my arms stirring uneasily, I limped outside to look into the oxcart. Bundles of felt spilled from its end, as if someone had begun to set up a ger, then thought otherwise. Perhaps a sudden storm had chased the driver within the cave’s shallow protection? But where was the ox? Something else was gnawing at the pit of my stomach. The felt for this ger was black, like Echenkorlo’s. With both hands I dragged the heavy felt from the cart, its midnight color soaked with the warmth of the morning sun. I stared at what lay beneath: the strange pelts and furry pouches that I had seen in Echenkorlo’s tent. So I had passed the night with my dead grandmother. Another shiver rippled my body. Suddenly I was very cold.
Out of respect for the dead, I swallowed my breath to tiptoe back inside the dark cave. Kneeling in the damp earth, I gazed down upon the cloudy eyes, the lipless yawning mouth. How had I not recognized that face—so powerful even in death? Even without Echenkorlo’s mesmerizing words I was briefly held captive. Studying the wrinkles stacked one upon the other, I began to notice that a faint glow—like a late summer sky yet brushed golden by an unseen sun—caressed Echenkorlo’s skin.
Frustration and sadness grew in my heart, spilling from my eyes in salty tears. Echenkorlo had started me on this journey, but the night she had leaned over my bed whispering words into my ear seemed ages ago. I could not remember half of what she had taught me. And now I would never know. I realized with a start then that I, Oyuna of the Kerait tribe, still less than thirteen springs, was now the oldest female member of my family. A heavy responsibility, born of generations of caring for the living and the dead, settled upon my shoulders. Although tears continued trickling down my cheeks, I set about doing what I had to do.
Gritting my teeth, I dug my hands into the unfeeling armpits and tugged, finally managing to drag the stiff body to the small back of the cave. There was no odor. The cold mountain air had frozen the flesh. At first I placed my grandmother upon her back, as was proper, but after fighting unsuccessfully with her rigid, outstretched arm, I rolled her onto one side, so that she slept with her head resting upon the unyielding limb. Then by gentle nudges, I wedged her body into the protective crevice of the cave’s back. Carrying the brown woven blanket that had been crumpled beside her into the fresh air, I shook it free of dirt. Something flew from its folds. My eyes followed the thumb-sized o
bject sliding upon the shale until it came to a stop, shimmering dully in the sunlight.
Bending over stiffly, I saw that it was the same black amulet that had magically appeared in Echenkorlo’s palm that night long ago. The small figure upon the galloping horse so closely resembled the gold ornament I carried in my pocket that I pulled it forth to compare. Studying them in the bright light, I was certain that both craftings must have come from the hands of the same artist. Only in the larger one, the ornament, did the horse sprout wings and you could see that the rider was a girl carrying flowers in her hands. I let my fingers close around the black amulet as I remembered Echenkorlo’s words. “Can you not reach out and take either good luck or bad luck into your hand?” One by one, I unfolded my fingers, but the black charm was still there. Echenkorlo’s tricks would forever remain her secret. Smiling a little, I slipped the ornament inside my pocket and carried the amulet and the blanket back inside the cave.
I fit the amulet inside the leathery palm Echenkorlo curled toward her body, then covered her from head to toe in the brown blanket. In rummaging through her cart I had found a food bowl, which I placed beside her head. Still I frowned. What would my grandmother have to eat in the next world? I had no milk to pour into her bowl, nor any mare with a foal. Returning to her cart yet again, I began yanking open the necks of the many leather bags. At the start I found only lots of roots, herbs, and powders, but when I lifted a particularly heavy goatskin bag to my lap, my hands plunged into an oily abundance of dried meat strips. I must admit that the first one I stuffed straight into my mouth, my tongue bursting wet at the taste. Then I carried a fistful of strips inside and tucked them inside Echenkorlo’s del. We both felt better. For now I had food in my mouth, and she would always have food at hand.
As I gazed at the wrinkled face, I wondered if my grandmother had died alone. Had Udbal held her hand until the end or had they parted paths long ago? I looked at the plain clothing, remembering how different—how elegant—my mother had looked on the day of her burial. But Echenkorlo owned no finely embroidered dels, no glittering jewelry. Although she had gathered a great number of oddities in her travels, wealth was not among them. Still, I wanted to send her into the next world with something more. Recalling the delicate white flowers I had noticed blooming in a rocky crevice, I hobbled from the cave and returned clutching a spring bouquet, which I nestled beneath her nostrils. Whatever the next world held, I thought, my grandmother would always carry with her the fragrance of this one.
Then I busied myself stacking around her the furry bags and leather pouches holding the remedies for untold ills, so that she might continue her healing ways in the otherworld. I confidently identified the contents of only four bags and scooped a few handfuls of each for my own use.
During one of the many trips I made between the cart and the cave, and in the muddy area where I had first found my grandmother, I noticed a handprint, though my careless footprints had nearly obscured it. Dropping the armful of pouches I was carrying, I knelt beside it. Gently I brushed away the grit that had been knocked across the impression by my coming and going.
So my grandmother had been able to foretell her own death, I thought, for I was not unfamiliar with the burial practice of pressing a dead person’s hand into the wet earth inside a grave. Then I noticed more impressions. Bending close to the ground, straining in the dim light of the cave, I made out a finger-drawn design of a long-rooted flower. Beside it was the stiff stick figure of a horse wearing a sickly grin. The roaring sound that had filled my ears near the obo again rushed through me, leaving me dizzy and weakened. What did it mean? I dug my nails into the wet earth and forced myself to study the third drawing: an oblong shape patterned very much like the Khan’s paiza I had left behind. For many long, calming breaths I huddled over these images, but my mind could pull no message from them.
Shaking my head as I rose, I finished piling the pouches around Echenkorlo. Then I left the cave, hunted for a stone I could lift, and began a morning of nonstop circling. With each coming I pressed a stone or a branch against the stiff body of my grandmother; with each going I limped, empty-handed, in search of another burial offering. These trips were not easy, for my leg throbbed with pain and I had to balance each weighty load on the hip away from my tender ribs. All the while Bator scampered about, at one point catching and devouring a small bird. I didn’t see Bayan, although when I paused to cock an ear, I was certain I heard her hooves slopping through the mud.
The sun was already sliding past its highest point and I was sweating lightly, even in the cold mountain air, when I wedged the last small stone into the makeshift wall. Exhausted, I stumbled outside to rest upon the empty oxcart. Hands dirty and scraped lifted strips of dried meat to my own panting mouth, tossed smaller bits toward the meowing pink mouth of Bator. Intermingled with the wind and the tinkling I could once again make out the babble of the mountain stream. The sound awakened in me the urge to move on. I wondered briefly if I could hitch Bayan to the oxcart, for the harness lay empty before it. But as the mare wandered into view, dyed nearly brown from a good roll in the mud, I decided we could make faster time if I continued to ride her.
I called to Bayan. This time when she sniffed the air she seemed satisfied and sauntered toward the oxcart. Bator arched his back in greeting and the mare ruffled his fur with her lips. Laughing to myself, and feeling strangely renewed, I hobbled to the cave to gather up my things.
The white shoulder blades of the sheep were still sitting starkly among the cold ashes of the long-dead fire. Idly curious, I paused to stoop over them a last time, boldly attempting to understand the webwork as Echenkorlo and Udbal had done. From that mysterious night long ago I could remember only which lines referred to journeys, so I turned over the blades and studied the thin cracks.
The angle of the lines at first seemed to suggest a dangerous journey, but then they faded in such a way as to make it impossible to determine their message. I rocked back upon my haunches, thinking. Had Echenkorlo been trying to foretell her own journey? Was she trapped upon the mountain and wondering if she would escape? Or was she probing the outcome of a future journey, one not yet begun?
I shrugged. Gingerly carrying the shoulder blades to the back of the cave, I set them against the slanting wall. The lines meant something to Echenkorlo, perhaps, but not to me.
Emerging into the sunlight, I found a width of bark and scraped the drying mud from Bayan’s back as best I could. Then I saddled and bridled her, heaved the Khan’s mysterious, heavy bags across, and climbed up. Tipping my head to listen, I reined Bayan toward the rippling stream and, I hoped, our path out of the mountains. Bator picked his way behind us.
23
A Gobi
No one had told me how far it was to Khanbaliq! Thoughts of bad luck and my grandmother’s death had to be pushed aside as I struggled just to survive each long day.
The land around us was changing. We had left the mountains at our backs, and the grassy steppes once again sprawled in great rolling waves in every direction, much like my homeland. Yet more and more often Bayan’s hooves clip-clopped across hard spots of bare earth, littered with blowing sand and jutting rocks.
We had fallen upon a caravan route, its faint and many-fingered path worn into the dirt by hundreds of years and thousands of feet. I rode openly as a girl now and, although this was quite uncommon, I felt fairly safe. My people always welcome strangers and it was widely boasted at that time that a young woman—if she had wanted—could walk across the lands of Kublai Khan carrying a pot of gold on her head and not be bothered. But that didn’t stop people from staring.
About every other day our trio rode up on a small mud-walled shelter, usually near water rising from a well or spring. These dwellings served as arrow stations, with ten or twelve scrawny replacement horses always hobbled nearby. Caravans traveling between markets also stopped to water their animals and exchange news with the station’s keeper
. I was grateful when a box of mud rose into view quiet and empty, for this meant I could water Bayan, fill my pouch, and ride on without explanation. When a caravan was resting—camels and oxen kneeling like so many hairy hillocks upon the steppe—my arrival would cause a great waving of arms and shouted invitations to sit. A girl, riding alone and carrying a cat, they figured, must also be carrying a story, and the drivers and their families always hungered for stories.
I spoke shyly, answering questions as they were asked. The men, and some of the women, snorted at my talk of riding straight into Kublai Khan’s royal courtyard. “You should stay within your ger with a husband,” the fathers scolded. “Or at least with your family,” the women chided. But in the dust-filled eyes of some of the women, especially the girls, I saw a small spark of envy.
Of course I did not tell everything-—especially not about Bayan sometimes talking to me or about the dreams that had been troubling me. Almost nightly since leaving the mountain, my sleep had been broken by the ghostly images of white horses, their faces contorted in silent laughter. I had begun to dread the daily sinking of the sun, for I did not understand what I had done to bring such torment upon myself.
With each day’s travel southward, the steppe withered. The grasses dwindled to a few gray-green weeds choking between cracked plates of baked earth. The air hung motionless and hot, and no matter how steadily we trod toward it, the horizon seemed to hover, shimmering, ever out of reach. So this was a gobi.
Although the ground stretched flatly ahead of us, inviting speed, I could not cross it any faster than if it had been mountains, for the injuries I had suffered were still healing. Any gait more than a walk remained unbearably painful. Yet, while I sensed my own body healing, I watched Bayan’s body grow stiffer and weaker with each day’s trek. When we would finally halt at midmorning to wait out the sun’s heat, the old mare would drop to her knees as soon as I unsaddled her. She would settle there all day, not even rising to graze, though her ears pricked steadily southward. Gradually heat and exhaustion would coax her muzzle downward, as she drowsed, into the shadows of her neck, and she would rest. Worry ate at me. Steppe horses are known for their sturdy nature, able to live through the harshest conditions on little food. But, looking around, I saw the gobi held hardly anything at all for Bayan. Her teeth had to strip bark from tiny-leaved bushes, and her sharp hooves had to unearth pale bulbs. With each day her hide stretched more tightly across jutting wither and hip.
