I Rode a Horse of Milk White Jade

by Diane Wilson

  Turning, Kublai Khan tugged open one of the goatskin bags, snapping the wax seal. He dipped a hand inside and pulled forth a small leather pouch from which he drew out a silk-wrapped bundle. He carefully unwound the silk to reveal…a wedge of cheese. I’m sure my jaw must have dropped to my chest. I had risked my life, and the lives of my horse and cat, to deliver a bag of cheese? Then he was breaking open the other bag. Surely this one contained the gold and jewels. But after much untying and unwrapping his plump fingers plucked out a cluster of small dark balls—the oily fruit of the olive tree. He weighed each food upon an upturned palm, eyeing them as proudly as if they were riches. With evident pleasure he popped an olive into his mouth, bit into the cheese, and busily chewed.

  “Now,” he said after swallowing, “you have not enough years to be plagued with the gout. What has happened to your foot?”

  The words rushed forth in a whisper. “The horse chose me.”

  The Khan stopped chewing. “What did you say?”

  In a stronger voice I said, “I am told the horse chose me.” Even at that moment I thought those were strange words to be speaking to a Khan and yet I babbled on.

  “Chose you for what?”

  “To sit upon its back and be one with it. To fly across the land and taste the wind upon my tongue. To feel my blood pounding with its hooves. And to listen to its words within my heart.”

  The Khan was staring into emptiness. And smiling. “To gallop down a hillside,” he was saying, “to catch the saiga by surprise and—leap for leap—chase after him like the wind.” He set down the cheese and braced his palms upon his wide thighs.

  “You bring to me pleasant memories of my childhood upon the steppes. Of the great pleasure I took in riding.” He sighed. “But many, many years have passed since I could throw a leg over the back of a horse.”

  With a grunting lunge, the Khan rose to his feet. He turned toward the large table, under which the leopard was stretched, eyes slitted in false sleep, and took a limping step. His weight swayed from side to side like a boat upon the water as he moved toward the intricately engraved bronze jars and urns that stood upon the table. The great Kublai Khan could no more walk a straight line than me!

  The Khan poured himself a large swallow of a liquid that looked like ayrag and took a drink, then set down the gold goblet, and, leaning heavily against the table, spoke to me again.

  “What I don’t understand is your stubborn attachment to this one mare. What makes her worth your neck?”

  “She’s my friend. She’d risk the same for me.”

  Kublai Khan snorted. He shook his head. But a smile began playing about his lips.

  “Did you know that I own ten thousand white mares?” he asked.

  “So I have been told,” I said, keeping up my guard.

  “Would you like to see them?” The Khan spoke impulsively, as if the idea had just struck him.

  My guard fell away. “Very much,” I responded. My heart soared. This was where I was going to find my swift horse.

  As though reading my thoughts, the Khan held up his hand. “Wait,” he said. “You may yet be proven a thief and a liar, but at present you are one of my own people who has faithfully delivered these riches to me. For that I am grateful. What is it you most desire?”

  “A swift horse.” The words tumbled out of my mouth as if they had been waiting there a lifetime.

  “A bold request,” the Khan replied, although he smiled. “And why do you need a swift horse? Have the sheep in your herds sprouted wings?” He chuckled at his own joke.

  But I was all seriousness. The time had come. “I need a swift horse so that I may win the long race at the festival—the one in Karakorum. I have to win the race so I can bring good luck to my family. It is very important.”

  “Yes, good luck is always important,” the Khan said, equally serious. “That is why I have so many white mares, for they bring me good luck. And their milk”—he touched his lips with his fingers—“it is as sweet as the nectar from a flower. But come, I will show them to you now. And then we will see what we can do about your swift horse.”

  The biggest grin of my life settled upon my lips, spreading so wide that I thought I would never stop smiling. As we turned to leave, a small beautifully dressed woman bustled into the room. The leopard only flicked its tail at her entrance.

  “Where are you going?” she demanded as she crossed the room, blocking our path. “Hai-yun is on his way to meet with you.” She folded her arms and glared at the Khan with authority.

  “Not now, Chabi. We are going to check on the mares.”

  “The white mares again! Always you are more concerned with your beasts than with your soul!”

  The Khan raised his hand in annoyance. “I do not wish to discuss my soul and the gods with Hai-yun today. Tell him I will see him tomorrow.”

  “You will see him today,” the woman said firmly. “He is here to present blessings for the journey to Shangtu. And are we not leaving for there tomorrow?”

  “I had hoped we could sneak away before he arrived.” The Khan giggled like a little boy and leaned forward to kiss the woman called Chabi lightly upon the cheek.

  The corner of her mouth lifted. “How long will you be gone?”

  “Not long, dear. We just want to see the mares and then we will return.”

  “I will see that Hai-yun waits.”

  “Yes, dear one, see that he does.” The Khan turned to go and I with him, but Chabi stopped us.

  “Who is this girl?” she demanded.

  The Khan looked at me with surprise. “Why, I do not even know her name. She has ridden a long journey to bring me dried olives and my favorite cheese made by the Merkid tribe near the shores of Lake Baikal.” It was the Khan’s turn to demand now. “What do you call yourself?”

  “Oyuna,” I said. “Of the Kerait.”

  “Are you skilled with needle and thread?” Chabi asked, her arms folded in a masterful pose.

  I nodded, for my early days had been filled with little else.

  “Good,” she said, nodding her head sharply. “When you return, you shall help with the sewing. Half the palace seamstresses are sick in their beds. How we will be ready to travel to Shangtu tomorrow only the stars know!” Turning upon her heel, Chabi strode noiselessly out of the great hall.

  The Khan looked at me with a boyish grin and cocked his head. “A bit of advice: I have found life to be easier when one does as Chabi desires. Now come.”

  26

  To Test the World’s Wisdom

  As Kublai Khan and I returned from the ten thousand white mares—who drifted, grazing, across emerald green meadows like the pale down of the milk plant—he asked if I would like to look upon my mare.

  “Yes!” I responded, nodding so enthusiastically that I must have set the curtains in our traveling box to jiggling. The Khan had told truth when he said he could no longer throw a leg over the back of a horse, and so we moved toward the Imperial Stud inside a large gold and blue and red box set upon a cart and pulled by four black horses. Peeking through the curtains, I saw that everywhere people stopped their work to stare in awe at their ruler. I must admit my chest swelled with pride to be riding at his elbow.

  When we reached the Imperial Stud, and even before I had climbed out of the high box, a young boy led Bayan by a knotted halter to us. Her coat had been brushed clean, the knots combed out of her mane and tail, and her hooves shone with an oily gleam. Even to my eyes she had never looked better. Whooping with joy, I threw my arms around her and murmured greetings in her fuzzy ear. She nickered and nuzzled my shoulder playfully.

  “So this is the white mare who carried you on your long journey,” the Khan said, slowly limping a circle around Bayan. “She has seen more than a few winters, has she not?”

  I nodded.

  “And her off hind leg—it appears
as if she favors it.”

  I nodded again, but no amount of criticism was going to dampen my delight in Bayan. To my mind that day she was more beautiful than any of the Khan’s ten thousand mares—a delicate carving of jade come to mane-tossing life.

  Kublai Khan continued limping around Bayan, studying her through the eyes of a horseman. “Still,” he was saying, “she possesses a fine head, a large eye. The back is strong.” He turned to me. “I will have this mare. And, as I am fair, what will you take for her?”

  The words almost flew past my ears before I caught their meaning. What would I take for her? So stunned was I that my numbed mouth opened and closed several times before blurting a blunt response.

  “Nothing,” I said. Then, remembering to whom I spoke, “With all honor given to my Khan, I could not part with her.”

  “Come, come, child. You are young; this mare is old. You have no need for her. Yet one who has carried such pleasure to me must remain with me.”

  “I could not,” I repeated, stepping close to Bayan’s head and clutching the red halter possessively.

  “I am Khan!” The words roared. I jumped aside. “I will not be denied!”

  Immediate silence fell over the stable. I was painfully aware of a hundred horse heads—ears pricked—swinging toward us, of stableboys halted in mid-step, of a great holding of breath.

  A bravery again crept up my calves, stiffened my spine, and set my jaw. Holding my head high, I stepped close to Bayan’s neck and, stroking it, looked directly into the Khan’s reddened face.

  “You own the power to take my mare from me,” I said evenly. “But I will never sell her. Not to anyone.”

  “Then you will trade her,” the Khan said, no longer shouting. The stable activity picked up as our voices lowered. Twirling an oxtail fly swatter, Kublai Khan spoke craftily, in the urgent words of a horse trader. “You tell me you want a swift horse, Oyuna.” Drawing his arm through the air, the Khan said simply, “Choose one.”

  I felt as if the air had been knocked from my lungs. This conversation was taking place as in a dream, and it was exactly what I had been dreaming of. But one thing was wrong. In my dream I rode home with Bayan and a swift horse. Now the Khan was asking me to choose between them. I could not choose to give up my beloved white mare. I just could not.

  “Bayan—” I began in a quiet voice.

  “What?” the Khan interrupted, tipping his head toward me. “Speak louder.”

  “Bayan is…” I was struggling for words, for how could I explain our close connection? “My mother used to say that a good friend is like a walk in the moonlight. Bayan has been that kind of a friend for me. She understands me better than anyone ever has. And I her. For this reason she cannot be for sale or for trade.”

  I waited for the Khan’s tantrum. His dark eyes burned. But his next words were not angry.

  “You gave a name to your horse?” he asked curiously. Blushing, I nodded.

  “I have ten thousand white mares,” the Khan said incredulously, “and not one of them carries a name.”

  “Bayan is…special,” I murmured. My bravery had evaporated, leaving me awkwardly shy.

  “What is it that makes this one old mare of yours so special? What has she done to earn the name of beauty and goodness?”

  Already I had noticed that Kublai Khan possessed an eager mind, one seemingly open to new ideas, however strange. And so I told him the story of my journey, leaving out nothing—how I had found Bayan at the festival, how she had spoken to me. The great conqueror raised only one eyebrow then and asked if I could make my mare speak to him. He did not even appear angry when I said I didn’t think so. I told him about Echenkorlo and how she had talked of the ten thousand white mares. I told him about the dangers we—Bayan, Bator, and I—had survived in lugging his heavy bags across mountain, through gobi, and to this oddest of lands where he had built his palace.

  The Khan was a patient listener and he asked serious questions. He seemed especially interested in Echenkorlo and, holding up a hand at one point in my story, called a servant to his side and sent him running with orders to have a particular adviser meet him at the palace. By this time we were seated upon a brilliant blue shirdik unrolled in the shade of a large tree. Other servants carried silver trays of fruits and cheeses and porcelain vessels of mare’s milk and set them around us. The young stableboy stayed within our sight, letting Bayan nibble upon sweet grasses.

  When the servant had jogged away, Kublai Khan asked me to go on. I finished my story quickly, ending with the importance of riding home with a swift horse so that I might win the festival race and carry luck to my family. The great ruler thought for a moment, then summoned another servant. As if he had not heard my last words, my most important ones, the Khan asked me to describe Bator, while the servant, it appeared, drew the cat’s likeness upon a paper. Then the servant was ordered to prepare announcements, each requesting the safe return of the small tiger-striped animal, and to hang them at the city’s outer walls. I looked at this world’s most powerful man with warm gratitude and new respect.

  When Kublai Khan and I returned to the palace’s great hall, the air crackled with tongues from a hundred lands. I learned later that these were men of very great learning, called to Khanbaliq to share their wisdom with the Khan. Some of the men studied the stars, others the gods, and still others focused their minds upon illness and healing. Kublai Khan asked the men of medicine to examine my crippled leg and to say to him then how the horse had chosen me. Next he made me repeat to all of these wise men the story of my journey. Mostly they fastened their interest on Echenkorlo. In fact one of the shamans, a small dark-skinned man from a land you call Tibet, said he had known of Echenkorlo and that her powers had been much respected. He said she was a great seer into the future.

  “Can you see?” this dark-skinned man asked me, stepping close and peering into my eyes.

  I shook my head, but he and the others were not satisfied. They asked what Echenkorlo had taught me. I could name only a few herbs and their healing powers. Still their interest did not fade. The Khan handed them the leather pouch Echenkorlo had given me. Over loud exclamations they fingered the animal figures cut into its surface and carefully examined each of the items within. Digging inside, one wise man pulled forth the golden winged horse ornament. Holding it high, he looked at me accusingly.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “I found it,” I answered in truth.

  “Can you read the seared shoulder bones of the sheep?” another suddenly asked.

  I winced. “Well…” I began.

  A firm “no” would have been better. For within moments the burned shoulder blades of a sheep, still holding the warmth of the fire, were set in my hands, and I was commanded to predict the weather for tomorrow’s journey to Shangtu.

  I protested, but the shamans insisted and Kublai Khan, with a single solemn nod, made it known it was his wish as well. Sitting on the floor, I cradled the bones in my lap, turning them over and round until I found the journey lines. How I hoped I would find an answer that would satisfy all of these powerful men. I bent over them, studied with my eyes, and traced with my fingers. The lines ran deep and fairly straight; tomorrow’s journey would be swift. I thought.

  Raising my head, I said in as steady a voice as I could muster, “These bones say that the journey to Shangtu should be swift. I cannot foretell the weather, for I have not been trained in the ways of the shaman.”

  “You can hear animals talk,” one black-robed man said.

  “Only one animal,” I protested. “And not always. And still I cannot make her speak to me.”

  A loud announcement from a servant interrupted our debate. Looking up, I realized that the entire afternoon had slipped past, for already the walls flickered with shadows from lanterns burning across the long walls.

  The Khan lifted his hand and a shab
bily dressed man with a flat face, one of the earth-workers, I guessed, entered the hall. He was carrying a large woven sack that twitched with a life of its own. At the Khan’s order, the man set down the sack and bent to loosen its neck. To his surprise, and the murmured surprise of the others, a small dark-colored animal leaped from the sack and sped in sheer fright across the floor. It veered behind the large table. Immediately a noisy snarling and hissing erupted. The leopard, stiff-legged, marched around the table. Its prey, hair on end and growling ferociously, backed steadily, though crouched for a fight.

  I had instantly recognized the brave animal and called out, “Bator!” Without breaking the leopard’s glare, my little cat continued backing, step by careful step, until he could turn and trot confidently to my lap. He crawled onto my crossed legs, tail switching angrily, and his green eyes glared at the roomful of people.

  As chatter resumed, I heard the Khan chuckle and looked up to see him smiling appreciatively at Bator’s bravery. Catching his eye, I smiled my thank-you.

  That night I slept in the softest bed that I had ever lain upon. And with Bator curled beside me and Bayan safely cared for in the Khan’s stable, I fell swiftly to sleep. So soft were the cushions beneath my body that I imagined I drifted on clouds. Yet not a dozen breaths after I closed my eyes, these clouds wrapped round my body and lifted me up—swoosh!—into the dark sky. Through the night we flew, silent as an owl’s wings, across hill and gobi and mountain. All the way to the cave of Echenkorlo’s grave! In the moldy blackness I was tossed from the clouds into the dirt, my chin landing sharply so that I stared at the drawings of a long-rooted flower and a stiffened horse and a gold paiza scratched into the mud by a dying hand.

  27

  My Life in the Palace