by Diane Wilson
When I had first suspected my condition, I kept it a secret. The time was late summer and Bayan’s filly, which I had named Baltozi, meaning “steady joy,” was maturing into peak form. While she possessed her mother’s beauty, the exquisite creature remained small and fine of bone; thus I had had to be extra careful in toughening her legs. What would have taken a year or a year and a half with any other horse had taken twice that long with Baltozi. The pounding race posed a risk to her bones, a double risk to my pregnancy, but…well, I was having dreams again—dreams of Bayan, this time—and I knew we had to try. I promised myself I would tell Adja after the festival, but the sickness took hold and I could not keep the news from him.
Such arguing that followed! In the years since meeting and marrying at the Khan’s palace, we had lived as if cut from the same cloth, never disagreeing. Now we traveled, third in a line of four carts from our ail, without speaking. So I hugged the warm body of my constant companion Bator—fatter now and inclined to long naps—-to my queasy stomach and thought about our last journey to Karakorum.
It had been with my father. As then, I was approaching the festival with a mixture of hope and dread. This time my hope was pinned on winning the long race, yet I somewhat dreaded the idea of seeing my father and Shuraa again. Oh, I wanted to see them, to let them know that I was all right and very, very happy, but I worried that they would still be angry with me for riding off with the soldiers and not looking back. My fretting gnawed at my weakened stomach for three entire days before our ox came to a bellowing stop one noon outside Karakorum’s walls.
Only after Adja and I had set up our ger, and—still with few words—brushed Baltozi and tended the animals and made a pieced-together meal of the wonderful festival foods, did I hesitantly ask my husband to help me find my father. To my surprise, Adja threw himself into the quest, hoping, I began to think, to steer my resolve away from the race. Dropping the last chunk of aaruul into Bator’s waiting mouth, he immediately took my arm and we set out through the crowds, asking this person and then that one for the whereabouts of my ail. But there are many fish in the river and they don’t come when you call. The best we could do that first evening was to tell any of the Kerait people that we met that I, Oyuna, would be riding a white mare in the long race and to please pass the news to my father.
Between my bouts of nausea, when I lay curled within our ger, Adja and I spent the next two days holding hands and letting ourselves be overwhelmed by the festival’s riotously colorful sights and merry, though raucous, noises. The night before the long race, as I laid out the new del I had been saving for the event, my husband tried one more time to keep me from stepping into the saddle.
“Oyuna,” he implored, pulling me to him, “please, you are the fire in my heart. How could I go on living without you? And feel,” he said, placing his hand upon my still-flat stomach, though it brushed my breasts, which already swelled expectantly. “Our child blossoms inside you. Do not risk both your lives for a meaningless race.”
“It’s not meaningless,” I argued for the hundredth time in the past moon.
“But the Khan himself—”
“I know, dear one,” I said more gently, laying my palm upon the leathery check of my beloved Adja. “Kublai Khan himself said on our parting that the race I ran—that we both ran—to my grandmother’s burial cave carried more luck to him than I could ever hope to find by winning the festival’s long race. I understand that now. But the race tomorrow is no longer about winning luck. It’s about closing the circle.”
Adja wrapped his arms around me and chuckled softly. “Dreams again?”
I elbowed his ribs. “Don’t you laugh at my dreams. We saved the Khan’s white mares thanks to such dreams.”
“I know, I know,” he said, stroking my hair. “Tell me about the circle.”
I pushed myself upright, staring intently into the cooking fire. “The last time I was in Karakorum is when I met Bayan. I was looking for a swift horse, for I had already set my mind on someday winning the long race. And I chose Bayan—or she chose me.” I shook my head, for I had never been clear on who had done the deciding. “Of course, when I realized the weakness in her leg and the great many frosts that had passed over her back, I knew she would never carry me in the long race. But you see”—I looked into Adja’s eyes—“Bayan was planning even then for me to win that race. We just had some other things to do first. And now I am back in Karakorum, full circle, and I have Bayan’s filly with me. And Baltozi is every bit the likeness of Bayan in her youth.”
Adja looked skeptical. I hurried on. “In my dreams I have been seeing Bayan as she was when she was young—”
“How do you know it is Bayan?” Adja interrupted.
I placed my fingers upon his lips. “I just know,” I answered. “I see Bayan-—slender and white and strong—galloping across the steppes, leading all the other horses in a wild dash. And then I see her in a festival race—I am pretty sure it is Karakorum—and there is a boy upon her back and they are speeding beneath the banners at the finish line: they have won!” Transported to my dreams, I smiled. Then I caught the doubt in Adja’s eyes. “I don’t know when all these things happened,” I said defensively. “But I know I am seeing Bayan and I know that I did find my racing champion at Karakorum. Bayan had to carry me on a long, slow journey when I thought I was plagued by bad luck. And then, before she died, she gave me her foal, that I could win the race we had set our hearts upon.”
“And that’s why we’re here,” Adja said.
“And that’s why we’re here,” I repeated. “To finish what was started. To close the circle.” Hugging my knees, I stared into the fire. An ember glowed hot, briefly taking the form of a galloping horse, neck stretched into the wind, before turning to white ash and falling away. I smiled once again. Confidence hardened within my bones and when I lay beside Adja that night I slept soundly.
Before dawn I was awake, the glowing green eyes of Bator blinking at me in the darkness. He knew the day, for he set aside his usual hungry wail to skitter madly around the ger once, ears pinned. A delirious yowl carried him past the door flap. The excitement stirred my sickness and I had to concentrate very hard on not vomiting while I slipped into the new silk del the deep dark red of a spring peony. A yawning Adja arose while I braided my hair into two short ropes. Without so much as a bowl of tea, then, we bolted from our ger to saddle Baltozi.
The young snow white mare saw us coming and raised her neck to nicker a greeting, tremulous with emotion. She knew, too. Nervousness overcame me and last night’s confidence dropped away like so much ash. Coaxing the bit into Baltozi’s mouth, I felt dizzy, tingly, and frightened in rapid turn. I began fumbling with the saddle fastenings. Adja placed his large hand over mine and I looked up into his smiling face, though I sensed he struggled to hide his concern.
“You’ll do fine,” he said in a husky voice. “Both of you.”
“All three of us.” I laughed, placing my hand upon my belly.
Adja’s smile fled. “Please be careful,” he murmured.
“I will,” I promised. Adja moved to Baltozi’s head, fussing with the headstall and smoothing strands of her long white mane. From the corner of my eye I saw him pull something out of his pocket and continue about his grooming.
Carefully I tucked away the end of the second girth strap and dropped the stirrup back into place. “What are you doing?” I asked. Adja didn’t reply, only stepping aside and ducking his head sheepishly. Looking back, I saw that a lustrous silk tassel of sky blue dangled below Baltozi’s throat. At its clasp, cast in gold, twirled the small figure of a horse, legs extended in a ground-covering gallop.
“I know, I know,” Adja said. “You make your own luck. But I bought us a little extra anyway.” Grinning, he leaned over and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “Ready?” he asked.
I fought back a strong wave of nausea and forced myself to match hi
s grin. “Ready!” I answered. He cupped his hands at my knee and I stepped into them, easily swinging my leg over Baltozi’s back. The familiar feel of the saddle—I had spent a thousand days in its wooden seat—immediately soothed my nerves. With Adja at the stirrup, we moved toward the starting line outside Karakorum’s north wall.
In the coppery glow of dawn I saw scores of other horses and riders moving in the same direction, the animals neighing excitedly to one another, the riders, for the most part, sitting grim-faced and quiet upon the bouncy backs. A cool breeze skipped across the steppes, ruffling the horses’ manes and fingering through their thick tails. Whimsically, it rose into a crisp blast, smacking the horses across their noses in a taunt. As if linked, the animals sucked the wind’s challenge into their blood as one; its energy twitched through every hide. The powerful herd instinct grabbed hold and iron bits sawed uselessly to contain it. Shoulder to shoulder the horses began galloping, surging in a great wave toward the starting rope. Riders glanced uncertainly at one another, but something stronger than leather and iron and puny human arms had taken control. We gave in to the inevitable and bent over our mounts’ necks as the mass gathered speed. I briefly noticed the starting man, mouth agape, drop the rope and scramble out of the way just as the first horses charged across the line.
I gave Baltozi her head, whooping loudly, and let the thrill wash over me as well. All the years of training and waiting and worrying and wondering were swept beneath Baltozi’s pounding hooves. We were here! I whooped again. Then, shaking clear my head, I settled low into the saddle and set my sights on the knot of horses ahead.
We sprinted in a ragged group toward the first marker defining the long, looping course: a fluttering white banner anchored in a stack of rocks. But before circling it we had to get past a particularly tricky creek bed, with steep slopes of slippery shale. I watched as one horse and rider after another disappeared into the ravine, counted fewer climbing out of it. The deep creek bed scared me, but I had learned to trust Baltozi’s instincts, as I had those of her mother, and when we thundered up to its lip, I hunkered down in the saddle, closed my eyes, and threw her the reins. I heard a loud grunt and a yelp as a horse and rider at our side painfully parted company upon the rocks. Pebbles kicked up by the fallen horse pelted my knee. But in a few heartbeats Baltozi was scrambling up the opposite bank and we were otherwise unharmed.
That first obstacle snatched its share of the racers. Although some horses continued galloping riderless, the pack was easily cut by a few dozen. After rounding the banner, the course straightened toward a distant shallow pond, its rippled surface reflecting the golden light. A bold, sure-footed horse could save strides by carefully skirting the slimy shoreline and that’s where I and some twenty other riders nosed our mounts. The jostling for position grew ugly as riders kicked and elbowed one another. A few horses were pushed into the water and ankle-deep muck and thus slowed. Another caught a hoof in the sucking ooze and took a skidding, nose-first fall, dumping his rider with a loud splat. I stayed just behind the main group, nimbly trying to steer a mud-spattered Baltozi through and around the pockmarked shore.
The middle of the course took us across a fairly flat area of the steppes, although one could never count out the possibility of stepping into a marmot hole and instantly snapping a leg. So certain was I that we were destined to run this race, though, that I didn’t even squint at the ground ahead. I concentrated on pumping my hands against Baltozi’s neck, urging her to greater speed; we began overtaking horses.
A lone, scrubby tree, sprouting almost at the feet of the remote mountains, served as our next marker. Baltozi and I galloped in the fifth position now, the majority of the pack strung out far behind. The racer immediately ahead of us was a rangy chestnut with a stride that ate up the ground. I watched his rump rising and falling for several leaps while I planned my strategy. Being so big, the horse, I guessed, couldn’t make the turn around the tree very tight, so when he and his rider galloped in a wide arc, I nudged Baltozi to the inside and whipped around the tree so closely that I had to duck my head to avoid being pulled off by the branches. I heard the chestnut’s rider shout angrily as we squirted past him, but Baltozi dug her heels into the sod and sped off.
A long gallop now until the next obstacle, yet another deep streambed, so I settled Baltozi in behind the three leaders. She felt to be galloping easily beneath me. Of course, her neck was darkened with sweat, and dirty lather bubbled around the saddle front, but I knew this meant she was in good condition. As the stream’s cleft began to grow more distinct, I tightened my fingers on the right rein to steer Baltozi away from the others. You see, yesterday I had walked the course with my mare, studying where each hoof would fall. I knew where lay every treacherous stretch of sharp rocks, every mucky, grass-hidden bog. And I also knew that, off to the right, the streambed’s steep banks narrowed just enough that a horse might clear them in a single leap. It was a gamble, to be sure, but I was hoping that jumping the cleft, even away from the straightest path, would be faster than slowing down to scramble into and back out of the streambed.
Blocking out vivid images of splintered bones, I headed Baltozi for the spot I had marked with three pale stones, urging her at every stride to hold steady and to make the effort. As if she read my mind, Baltozi pricked her ears at the stones and, at just the right moment, gathered herself, folded her front legs, and sprang into the air. For a heartbeat we were flying, my happiness in my mare soaring above us. The instant her front hooves hit, solid and ground-grabbing, I looked aside. The others were yet in the ravine’s bottom. I tightened my fingers on the left rein and shouted to Baltozi. She pinned her ears and pounded faster.
As we pulled into line with the last marker, a small hillock with another white banner waving atop it, Baltozi and I were in the lead. I let a smile crease my face. Risking a peek over my shoulder, I saw that, while two horses threatened a few strides back, the third was tiring and rapidly falling behind. I lifted myself over the saddle’s arching front to ease Baltozi’s climb. She lunged upward, bunched her muscles, and lunged again. As lightly as a gazelle she bounded and, in the next instant, it seemed, we were atop the hillock and hurtling down the other side. Our appearance prompted a faint, far-off cheer. I looked up and, squinting into the morning sun, saw Karakorum again.
We had only one more stretch to gallop but this, more than any other part, was the real test of the long race. While the sun had been rising, the racers had been tiring. Only the grittiest horse, the one who could dig down and shove the air beneath heavy hooves, find another swallow of courage to keep driving, would win now. The race was no longer about speed; it was about heart. Bending over the white neck, I called past the labored breathing, “You can do it. It’s your race.”
And I swear to you that at that moment a mare’s shrill whinny answered my call. It was sent from Bayan, for I would remember her voice forever. The tears that jumped from my eyes—I would later say they came from the wind whipping my cheeks, but the knot in my throat told otherwise. Half-blind then at the end, I crouched atop a speeding horse, clutching mane and flopping reins and hoping we would thread the crowd and cross the finish line without knocking someone flat.
We rushed toward the throng—or was it they toward us?—but all at once people surrounded us and I was trying to pull Baltozi to a stop, other hands reaching up to join mine on the reins. Suddenly limp, I more or less fell out of the saddle and threw my arms around Baltozi’s sticky neck. Adja was at my side then, taking the reins from my hands and supporting my trembling body with his strong arms while smothering me with kisses. The men in the crowd hooted and the women clapped louder. Then a chuckle rippled through them as I tore away from my husband to throw my arms again around Baltozi’s neck. Like her mother before her, she bent her sweat-beaded head to affectionately nuzzle my shoulder with her lips.
“Oyuna?” A man’s voice made its way through the crowd’s noise. “Oyuna, is it you?”<
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My father! I turned and stumbled into his outstretched arms, all of my questions and worries scattering in the wind.
Looking up, I saw such pride in his eyes that the lump climbed again to my throat, bringing with it fresh tears.
“This is my daughter!” he called happily to the crowd. “She has won!”
***
“That’s the ending I wanted to hear.” Smiling, the girl looked proudly upon the beautiful white foal that was just scrambling to her feet, testing wobbly legs. “Will my filly be swift?”
“She is the great-granddaughter of Baltozi, the great-great-granddaughter of Bayan. She should run, but I think there is more about her than speed.”
“What do you mean?”
Ever so slightly, the old woman’s head shook.
The girl spoke bluntly. “Grandmother, are you a shamaness?”
Dove gray eyes, flecked with gold, turned upon her. A gentle smile lit the papery face. “I look, and I listen, granddaughter. Does not everyone?” Then, cupping the girl’s smooth chin in her calloused hands, the old woman turned the round face up toward her. One brown eye timidly stared back; the other strayed weakly aside.
“I know others tease you because you are different. And no one understands your pain more than I. But you cannot let their words fasten the notion of bad luck upon you.”
Tears brimmed over the brown eyes. The chin trembled.
“Do you understand why your mother asked me here?”
The young head nodded. “I have to make my own luck,” came the whispered words.
“Yes, dear one.” The gnarled hands released the chin, pressed the head against a comforting shoulder. Tenderly, the old woman stroked the black hair of her granddaughter. “I will repeat to you what my grandmother Echenkorlo told me. ‘Listen with your heart instead of your ears. And always, always, follow your own path.’”
Suddenly the girl giggled. Ducking her head, she turned to find the inquisitive filly tickling her ear with long chin whiskers. Lightly she kissed the tiny muzzle, then laid her cheek against the moss-soft skin. The filly nudged her playfully.
