I Rode a Horse of Milk White Jade

by Diane Wilson

  Piercing my own noisemaking, the words silently etched themselves upon my brain: “Help us.”

  Looking into Bayan’s eyes, I knew I had my true answer. Lurching wildly upon my twisted foot I ran back to the stable horse, climbed into the saddle once more, and galloped through the dusk to the palace. I knew that at this time of day Kublai Khan would be meeting with his advisers to plan the following month’s ceremonies. No guard could stop me as I rushed through the palace and into the great hall.

  “I know the cure for your mares,” I called. Faces from all lands turned toward me in a mix of astonishment and scorn. Only Kublai Khan, with one hand raised to quiet the room, listened.

  “What is the cure, Oyuna?” he asked as solemnly as if I were one of his respected advisers.

  “W-well,” I stammered, “I don’t actually know what it is called, but I know where to find it.”

  The room’s men jumped upon my hesitation. “How dare you claim a cure you cannot name?” one said. And, “What is your training that you can say this to the Khan?” But another muttered, “I told you she knows more than she is telling.” Finally the Khan raised his hand again and immediately silence lay over the room.

  “What makes you say this, child?” His voice was sad, but I saw in his eyes the spark of hope. I dared not fail him.

  Taking a deep breath, I told Kublai Khan and his wise men about the drawings I had seen in Echenkorlo’s cave. And I described to them the dreams that had tormented me almost every night since. I explained that the drawing in the cave of the stiff horse and the grinning horses of my dreams were, in this world, the Khan’s white mares, stretched in sickness, their lips taut with agony. I added that, in my dreams, the horses’ hooves turned into roots and that I had buried with Echenkorlo bag after bag of one kind of root which, I guessed, she must have been carrying to the palace. Echenkorlo was a seer, I reminded the shamans. She must have foreseen this sickness, for she left this message in the mud.

  As soon as I finished, the room erupted in loud talk.

  Above all the noise I heard the Khan ask, “Where is this cave?”

  “Pay no mind to her—” one adviser began, but a mere glare from Kublai Khan pressed him into silence.

  “How far is this cave?” he asked again.

  “I’m not sure exactly…” I said, which brought snorts and rolling eyes from the advisers. I spoke louder. “I do know the cave lies in the Hentei Mountains; it is near an obo and it is a day’s ride south of one of your arrow stations, one managed by a woman—a rather large woman-—named Genma.”

  “I know the station,” volunteered a young soldier standing guard in the background. The Khan waved him forward. “I used to be an arrow rider along the northern routes,” he continued. “I believe I could find the cave with the help of this girl.”

  The Khan looked at me, hard. He had to believe me, for Bayan’s sake. And so I stared, not even blinking, straight into his eyes. He spoke quickly. “Then find it,” he commanded the soldier. “Take the girl here—Oyuna is her name—and ten men of your choosing—you as their leader—and fifty of my fastest horses—”

  “Great Khan,” interrupted one of the advisers. The ruler turned. “With all due honor to your decision, should we not consult the gods? To burn the shoulder blades will not take long.”

  My stomach knotted, for I knew what the bones would tell. “I have already—” I began to say, but it was my turn to be silenced by Kublai Khan. “Pack your things, both of you, while we decide this journey’s fate.”

  The young soldier ran one way, I another.

  Bator was sitting upon my bed when I reached my room, tail switching excitedly as if he already knew what was taking place. I whispered to him as I threw my few things into Echenkorlo’s leather pouch.

  “We’re riding back to the cave, Bator. Tonight! We’re going to try to save Bayan and all the others.” I gave the cat a swift caress along his arching back. “If you can do anything, Bator, anything at all, please don’t let her die.”

  When I returned to the great hall, several soldiers, all with large leather bags strung over their shoulders, began gathering. The shamans huddled over a brazier containing white bones.

  The Khan looked up from his ornamented chair. “Unpack your things,” he said sadly. “It would bring bad luck to ride forth upon this journey.”

  I shook my head vigorously, all the time feeling a prickle of fear upon the back of my neck. My voice, when I spoke, sounded loud to my ears. “I, too, read the blades, just this afternoon, and I know what they say. But I have also looked into the faces of the horses, and I have listened to them with my heart.” A murmur traveled around the room. So I spoke louder. “I refuse the bad luck that is delivered.” A gasp! “Instead I will make my own luck. And I will ride to the mountain cave and I will bring back the cure of the roots.”

  The Khan was shaking his head. “Well spoken, Oyuna. But I have had enough dying. There is no need for more.”

  “But there will be more,” I pleaded. “All your horses will die if we don’t ride to save them.”

  Kublai Khan stared across the multitude of wisdom-filled heads before him. I thought I saw a tear glisten in his eye, but this could have been my imagination, for I stood far from him. “The mares are my one remaining happiness,” he said at last, looking at me. “Save them if you can.”

  A court official handed the young soldier a gold paiza. He gave me a glance and a nod, and we rushed into the night.

  ***

  A hint of the coming dawn tinged the stable’s mote-filled air. The spindly-legged white filly sucked noisily at her mother’s swollen teats, stopping occasionally to stare, milk dribbling down her chin, at the two strange creatures whispering in the corner.

  “And did you find the cave again?” the young girl asked eagerly.

  “Yes,” replied her grandmother. “We rode all day and all night, changing our horses at the arrow stations, and bandaging our sores with strips of cloth, then bandaging our bandages. In five days we passed over the ground it had taken Bayan, Bator, and me nearly a moon to cover. As if our travel was directed by eyes in the heavens, our journey ran straight and true. On the sixth day we climbed into the mountains and right into the meadow with the obo. So exhausted were we—dizzy even—yet so happy! Together we bowed nine times and circled the obo, all the while thanking the mountain spirit for leading us there. In a few more panting breaths we were at the cave.

  “All of the Khan’s soldiers stood away from the cave’s mouth, muttering nervously among themselves, for they knew a dead body lay inside. All of the soldiers, that is, except the young guard named Adja, the one who had led us there. He marched confidently at my side as I entered the cave’s shadows to point to Echenkorlo’s drawings, now almost obscured by animal tracks. Already I liked this young man.” The woman smiled shyly and squeezed the girl’s arm.

  “We called to the other soldiers then and, working side by side on our knees, tore away the rocks and branches I had piled at the small back of the cave. And at last before me again was my own grandmother. The men hid their faces from the sight of the dead, but to me she looked peaceful—the smile upon her waxen face content. I pointed to the large bags containing the brown roots and each soldier dragged one outside.

  “Left alone with my grandmother, I whispered to her. ‘I listened with my heart,’ I said. ‘And I pulled my own luck from the air.’ I felt my gold ornament, the one I had slipped into my pocket the evening we flew from Khanbaliq, shift weight. And for the first time, it felt unnecessary. The soldiers were returning to help me rebuild the burial wall, but I knew my task was not yet finished. Mirroring Echenkorlo’s contented smile, I lifted the gold ornament and tucked it into my grandmother’s pocket. ‘I no longer need this,’ I said, patting her worn del. ‘May its luck be yours.’

  “With nimble hands we piled the stones back upon the grave, climbed into
our saddles, and raced down the mountain.”

  When the woman paused, as if her story was finished, the young girl looked up. Breathless questions tumbled one over the other. “Did the roots work? Did you return in time to save the horses? Did you save Bayan?”

  The old woman bit her lip, grateful that the still-dusky stable hid her glistening eyes. In a voice suddenly grown tired, she labored on.

  29

  Bayan’s Gift

  Almost without sleep we again rushed across gobi, hill, and valley like a great gust of wind. When, at an arrow station, Adja peered closely into what must have been my very pale face, he ordered me to stay behind and rest. But fiercely I clutched the saddle with both hands and refused to step down. So he knotted a rope around my waist, also tying my feet into the stirrups. We thundered on along the ancient caravan route, my head nodding beneath one burning sun after another. I knew not the day. I knew not even if I slept or if I lived this exhausting dream. As the horses’ hooves clattered upon the arching stone bridge that Bayan, Bator, and I had timidly crossed almost a year ago, the Khan’s sentries immediately directed us to him, waiting with his herd of white mares.

  The sight before my glazed eyes was worse than any that had haunted my sleep. Stiff-legged white bodies, like the oversized toys of children, lay toppled all across the green hills. Teams of men and oxen dragged the carcasses through the grass to a long black ditch that was being filled as fast as it was being dug. It looked as if the skin of the earth itself gaped with an open wound and that the men worked to stuff it with pieces of white bandage. Looking around, I saw that less than half of the herd remained standing. I feared we had returned too late. My eyes searched the grasses for Bayan while the shamans crowded around us.

  One by one, we dropped the sacks, thudding, to the ground. The shamans fell upon them, picking through their contents like crows. Cackling and cawing to each other in strange tongues, they turned the roots over and over in their hands. I could tell that the men recognized the root, for several of them immediately referred to it as gan-cao, or licorice. Kublai Khan stood among the robed men, leaning upon a servant and looking more tired than I had ever remembered seeing him. He spoke with his advisers, asking of the root’s healing abilities. After the briefest of discussions, the Khan shouted an order to administer the cure quickly to those of his mares that yet lived.

  Echenkorlo’s brown roots were hastily pounded into a powder; then small amounts were mixed into wide wooden bowls holding moistened grain. Most of the mares nibbled at the mixture, but those that were too stiff to move had their lips pulled wide and handfuls of the medicinal blend pushed down their throats. A call had gone out and already people from the city were arriving to dump their own small pieces of licorice root into waiting baskets. A group of women knowledgeable about the area’s plants offered to scour the hills and valley for more gan-cao plants.

  With treatment of the mares well under way, I stumbled through the crowd to the Khan’s side. He flinched when he saw me, then abruptly looked away. For what seemed like a great while, he loudly directed the lifesaving efforts of the shamans. I was horribly afraid of the answer to my question. But I had to know. Tugging at the Khan’s silken sleeve, interrupting him, I asked.

  “Bayan?” I said. “Is she…”

  The Khan turned his sad dark eyes upon me. “Oyuna, my dear,” he began, and I knew. He placed his hand lightly upon my shoulder as it began to tremble. “We tried so hard,” I heard him say. “And your mare tried, too, I think, for she clung to life long past the time we thought she would die.”

  I could hold back my pain no longer. Tears poured down my face and I crumpled to the ground in overwhelming misery. The long, backbreaking journey to the cave, the nightmarish return with the healing roots—none of this had been worth my effort, for Bayan was dead. All those days I was gone had been wasted. Days I should have spent at Bayan’s side, I told myself.

  “Oyuna, Oyuna.” The great Kublai Khan was bending over my shoulder, speaking only to me. “I share your sorrow. To lose a life mate is almost to lose life itself.” His voice choked upon his words. Then, clearing his throat with a string of coughs, the Khan brushed at his eyes and straightened. In a more regal tone he announced, “I have had your mare buried upon my lands. It is what I wished. And I hoped you would agree.” He paused, waiting for me to acknowledge his generous action. I stopped sobbing long enough to look up into his face. “Would you like to visit the grave?” he asked.

  I nodded and somehow managed to climb to my feet. Stumbling at the swaying side of Kublai Khan, I was steered by his hand upon my shoulder across one of the grassy meadows to a spot where the riverbank was lined with drooping, long-leaved trees. By the very shape of their sagging limbs, these trees seemed to be weeping for my lost mare, my lost friend. Pushing our way through the pale green fronds, we arrived at a large mound of freshly turned black earth. I stared at it through swollen eyes brimming anew with tears.

  “I don’t know why things happen the way they do,” the Khan was saying, “but I do believe that they happen for a reason. People will say that this mare we buried here never spoke to you, that your long journey to our court was pure chance, a whim of your own making.” The Khan limped toward the tree’s gray trunk and leaned his weight against it. “But you heard her words, Oyuna, and you must always believe that. And I, who have also learned to listen with my heart, believe that you were sent to our court for a reason: to help my white mares. For this I thank you and Bayan and that little tiger-striped cat of yours—he has a name, too, does he not? Anyway, he has been a complete nuisance in your absence and we have had to lock him in your room.” The thought of Bator’s antics made the Khan chuckle. Then he looked into my face with a tenderness that touched me. “There has been much sorrow in my life of late,” he said, “and now there is sorrow in yours.” He sighed. “Sometimes I miss Chabi so much that I wish my own life to end so that I may be united with her in the afterworld. But just when I am thinking about death, Oyuna, something happens that reminds me that life is not all sadness. And this time this gift comes from your mare.”

  The Khan looked over his shoulder and nodded once.

  Turning back to me, he said, “I have told you that Bayan seemed to linger in half-death long after her time in this world had passed. It seemed to us that she was waiting for something. I thought it was for you. And that may be partially true, but she was waiting for another reason. To give you this.”

  A rustling behind us, punctuated by a shrill whinny, made me look over my shoulder. Pushing through the fronds now was one of the stableboys. And prancing between his restraining arms was a long-legged filly the color of spring snow. I looked at the Khan in amazement.

  He nodded, smiling. “It is Bayan’s filly. We had to help her, and it took a long time, but we managed to pull the small creature from her just as the spirit left her body.” He tipped his head and studied the lively orphan, who reared straight up between the boy’s outspread arms. “I rather guess by the bold eye and the long legs that the father resides in my Imperial Stud. Rightfully, then, I may lay claim to her. But I give her to you, Oyuna. To thank you. It was a lucky day when you rode into Khanbaliq.”

  A bittersweet salve was thus kneaded into my raw sorrow as I moved toward the bony foal. Taking her into my arms, I felt her heart rapidly pounding against my chest. “A lucky day,” the Khan had said. Perhaps. But with the help of Bayan I had learned to make my own luck.

  ***

  Pink light of morning dusted the two white bodies. The larger one, the mare, stood with her head drooped lovingly over the smaller one, her filly, which slept in a heap at her feet. In the corner, the wrinkle-faced woman made a move to rise.

  “Wait, Grandmother,” the girl cried, placing a hand upon the heavily robed arm. “You are not finished.”

  Cocking her head, the old woman settled back. “What more do you wish to know, child?”

 
The girl’s hands fluttered impatiently in the air. “Everything! Like…like…what happened to the Khan’s white mares?” she stammered. “Did they live? And…and what did you do? Did you stay in the palace? Did you go home? What about Bayan’s filly?”

  The old face creased in a patient smile. “Most of Kublai Khan’s white mares that were still living continued to do so. The powdered roots seemed to chase away the sickness. As for me, well”—she exhaled a long breath—“I was not born to live in the city. My heart was crying for the steppes.”

  “Did Adja go with you?”

  Grinning, the woman nodded. “Yes, as my husband. And Bayan’s filly went and—thanks to the Khan’s great generosity—ten of his sacred white mares, ones of my own choosing. The shamans could not believe their eyes when I rode from the gates of Khanbaliq herding ten royal mares and the loveliest of white fillies.”

  A look of sorrow touched the girl’s face. “But…you never got to ride the long race, did you? Oh, that’s sad.”

  With a knobby forefinger the old woman teasingly thumped her granddaughter’s head. “You think it was not a long race to gallop from Khanbaliq all the way to the Hentei Mountains, then back?” She shook her head and chuckled. “Yes, I did get to race at Karakorum, although it was four years later and I was pregnant with your mother.”

  30

  The Festival Race

  Adja and I did not have far to travel to Karakorum, since we were living with his people, the Naiman, just west of the famous city. But every bouncing step of that journey yet lies indented in my memory for, with your mother growing in my belly, I was saddled with the early sickness. Curled upon the folded felt in the cart bed, I tried not to groan when each jolt splashed a new wave of nausea across me. Adja held the reins to the ox, but it was I who had to shout to urge the animal along, for my husband, having stamped his boot uselessly against this trip, sat stiff-jawed and silent.