They arrived with much hullabaloo. Just as they were taking their very last step, Arsylang seemed to lose his patience, which he had probably adopted only for my sake anyway. He charged at them and with his front paws climbed up on Brother and Sister, at which Torlaa let out a shrill scream while Arsylang howled and whimpered. With his body stretched and his ears flattened, he hung on to them and sniffed and licked them all over. Torlaa wouldn’t stop screaming. Father shouted to her: “Don’t worry. He isn’t going to hurt you!” But to no avail: she kept on screaming. I could also hear Brother Galkaan’s voice, but at least his was less a scream than an expression of pleasure and likely was meant to greet Arsylang. Yet even Galkaan seemed to find it unbearable to be licked by the dog’s tongue. He pulled away and raised his right arm, which had been around Sister’s waist, while his left arm clutched her ever more tightly. I was grateful to Arsylang for the turmoil he had caused because it shielded me from everybody’s attention which otherwise might well have been directed at me and which I could not have borne. By then Father had dismounted and walked up to me. He sniffed my forehead where the hair peered out, clasped my ice-cold cheeks with his lukewarm hands, and said: “Oh, my dear stupid little one, you’ve spent all day up here, haven’t you?” I wanted to say—wanted to lie—that we had only just arrived, but my tongue failed me. Perhaps the cold had crept into my tongue, but whatever the case may be, all of a sudden I was lifted off the ground, carried over to Brother and Sister, and held first in front of Sister and then in front of Brother so they could sniff me. And so they did, although with both it was just a brief sniffing and did not really compare with the sniffing that grownups gave you. But that was fine with me, as I was dying with embarrassment and made myself rigid and even closed my eyes when I saw their faces so close to me. I sniffed them back regardless: They gave off something foreign, something gloriously pleasant. It was the scent that came off the dargas and the elegant people from the country’s interior.
Then, fortunately, I was carried to Father’s horse and put in its saddle. Soon after, Father swung himself up as well. At last I felt relief and could now secretly watch the two. They had become pale and slim and very, very talkative: They talked almost as if they were competing, calling the rocks, slopes, hollows, saddles, and paths each by their name, and finding everything in its place. And when we rode past our small flock, which by then had left its wind-sheltered hideout and set out on its journey home, they also called out the names—which were mostly nicknames—of the yearlings together with those of their mothers. Arsylang, too, behaved strangely. He raced wildly in all directions, but always returned.
Sometimes he even came up to the horse, jumped up its side, and reached the knees of Brother or Sister with his front paws or even his mouth. And each time he did, we could hear Sister Torlaa’s anxious screams.
Once we had reached the yurt and dismounted, he behaved even more strangely. Brother Galkaan had hardly set foot on the ground when Arsylang dropped down and rolled about next to him. He followed Brother around, his tail wagging and his eyes burning. Then he would jump up again, place his front paws on Brother’s shoulders, sniff and lick him, and howl and whimper. Brother tried to fend off the paws that seemed to want to grip his neck like two hands. But he also was giggling, and for that I was grateful—not only for Arsylang’s sake, but also for my own. After all, my four-legged companion, my brother-instead-of-a-brother, was acting out my own feelings toward my real brother. I, too, would have so loved to grab Brother, drop to the ground with him, and roll about! But the bashfulness that all of a sudden had risen like a whirlwind and was now almost choking me had not yet left, and so I had to wait.
Toward Sister I felt some hurt. Although I was glad that she had come back to us safe and sound, back to her yurt, her flock, and her mountains, I felt some hurt which was neither excruciating nor bitter, but nevertheless sharp like a stab: Why could she not bear Arsylang’s outburst of joy, his joyful greeting which expressed my own joy as well as the joy of the flock and the mountains? Arsylang was not only the most capable of us all, but also the most dignifi d to give voice to all our amassed, pent up joy and to offer the pent up greeting. I felt hurt by Sister and in my mind called her an idiot even though at the same time I was sensing my love for her more strongly than ever. It was her fault that, for the time being at least, the whole affair ended when Father called out and threatened the dog, and then bent over and grabbed a stone. But he no longer needed to throw the stone because the dog had already fled, and so the stone flew without heart and only vaguely in the same direction. Arsylang did not seem to have taken the threat or the stone too seriously in any case, because when Torlaa stepped out of the yurt soon afterward, the dog slinked back with all his doggish loveliness on display. But she just ran back into the yurt with more screams of fear. Somebody had to chase the dog away and keep him at a distance, as if we had strangers visiting who needed to relieve themselves. But this was true only for the first day.
Grandma could not help but cry when she saw Brother and Sister, and she chided herself for it. It was the first time I saw her cry. “Oh, my rich Altai!” she said, “the yurt is full again!” Then she sniffed both their heads, paused, and stroked them several times with a trembling hand before letting them go.
Later the two of them sat on either side of Grandma and talked about school and everything they had seen and heard, again as if competing with each other.
The jealousy I had suffered in the past when Brother and Sister moved too close to Grandma seemed cured—I no longer felt it. On the contrary, I was grateful to all three of them for being kind to each other.
Mother lost her voice when she first saw Brother and Sister. She simply stared at them with glistening eyes. When she regained her voice, her words were not aimed at her children but at the sky, the mountains, and the rivers. Brother and Sister stood with their heads bowed while Mother sniffed them. They did not say a word. To me they seemed to avoid being close to Mother in the beginning. But after a little while, they would not leave her side.
I had counted on more sweets and possibly also a new cloth, even though the old one still lay brand-new in our chest of drawers, wrapped around the remaining sugar. Now I realized that I had indeed relied on this new cloth and had thought ahead about giving up the old one for the parents to dry their faces and hands. But for the time being my expectations remained unfulfilled. This was not because Brother and Sister had done less well at school; no, both had finished the quarter with very good results and had again been given an award, although now it was called a present. The top students were going to be given their presents by the Old White Man under the jolka in the evening. But Father had not wanted to wait till evening and then have to ride home during the night; it was because of us waiting in the ail that he had not stayed. The mere idea that they might not have made it home by sunset made me feel sick and took the luster off the Old White Man’s presents. Nevertheless, I cautiously asked if this meant that the presents were now lost. No, I was told, the teachers would receive and keep them and later pass them on to those for whom they were intended. That was good.
I knew of course who the Old White Man was. He came the night before the New Year and lifted the children to check if they had eaten well. He threw away those who had not eaten enough and rewarded those who had with even more delicious dishes. So far, nobody in our clan had been thrown away, but people said it had happened elsewhere. But I did not know what the jolka was. Father could not tell me and not even Grandma knew. Brother and Sister talked about a decorated room, but did not know what exactly it was all about. Much later I learned that jolka was derived from a Russian word and meant Christmas tree. At the time, our New Year celebrations had not yet been declared illegal, but preparations for that step were well under way, and new customs were gaining ground. Even in our corner of the country, people had begun to celebrate New Year’s Eve the way people did in Russia, and the Russian Father Frost had become the Mongolian Old White Man.
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I was not the Old White Man, but I did serve Brother and Sister the leftover sweets they had been awarded before. They were more astonished than pleased. Sister Torlaa wanted to know why I had not been allowed to eat them. “It was his own choice,” Mother explained, “he was very frugal.” Was she defending herself or making excuses for me? “You’ll become a Stalin,” said Sister Torlaa, only to be scolded. The chiding came from Father and included a rebuke for Mother, who had coined the phrase everybody now used when they found fault with me. On the other hand, Brother Galkaan had nothing but praise: “That’s amazing! I couldn’t have done it.” It was costly praise: I gave him the biggest piece, and he ate it with relish. Days later, though, I got the replacement when Father returned with the Old White Man’s presents after taking Brother and Sister back to school.
They had kept nothing for themselves and sent me everything that was in the two paper bags. There were candies and biscuits of a kind nobody had ever seen. The biscuits tasted slightly of roasted barley flour and were soft and very sweet. Grandma praised them, but I said I couldn’t eat them. So Grandma ate the soft, sweet biscuits and loudly blessed Brother and Sister, who had learned well and earned their presents.
Brother and Sister stayed with us for nine days. I spent my days with Brother and my nights with Sister. It was the first time I sensed in him a second father and in her a second mother. They pampered me. Once again I was the baby. But my time with them was far too short. It was like a dream I had to wake up from in order to become aware that I had been deeply happy. I had to wake up and watch Brother and Sister be torn from me again. Arsylang watched along with me, and I realized only then that I must have somehow neglected him over the days of their visit. I felt guilty. Dark sadness filled his eyes as he carefully watched Father saddle the horses and tie the bulging bags to the saddles. When Father lifted Brother and Sister up onto their horse and Mother sprinkled milk on their stirrups, Arsylang plunked himself on his behind, turned his mouth toward the sky, and let out a low, drawn-out howl.
“Oh, you stupid mutt!” Mother said and looked around anxiously. Father bent down, grabbed a stone, and in one motion hurled it. Having put himself into a trance with his own howling, Arsylang noticed the stone coming his way only at the very last moment, and had just enough time to be startled. As the stone hit him in the side with a dull thud, he cried out and dragged himself away. Staggering clumsily, he let out an unbroken sound like the sobbing of a deeply aggrieved child.
Grandma had just touched Torlaa’s left knee with her palm and was about to do the same with Galkaan’s; she had already sniffed them when they were still on the ground. Now she shook her head and said: “Oh Schynyk, why did you do that? To make the poor creature scream and howl instead of offering him some milk—that’s silly!” Then she touched Brother’s knee, rested her hand on it for a moment, and stepped back. Arsylang was still sobbing as he slinked away. He trotted over to the big rock where we slaughtered the cattle and horses, crouched down in front of it with his tail between his legs, and howled at the sky. His howling quickly became unbearable, and everybody, big or small, was petrifi d and did not know what to do. Finally Grandma shook off her paralysis and told me to fetch the milk pail from the yurt. Behind me, I heard her call after Arsylang. When I returned with the pail, everybody but Father was shouting in unison: “Arsylang, Arsylang, Arsylang, Arsylang, mäh!” Mäh meant: “Come here, have some!” which is how Tuvan dogs have always been, and still are, lured close. But Arsylang would not listen and kept on howling, and so I was told to take him the bowl with some milk. Arsylang squinted at me suspiciously as I got closer, even as he continued howling. I reached him, put the milk in front of him, and squatted down. Arsylang did not move and howled on.
“What’s the matter?” I heard Mother call out impatiently.
“He’s already got the milk!” I shouted back.
Father, who through all this had been fi geting with the seams of Brother’s and Sister’s tons, went over to his horse. Then they set off. Finally, Mother was able to sprinkle the milk that she had kept ready in her ladle all this time after the parting riders. I was still squatting and had turned only halfway to see what was going on behind me. One moment I followed those who were leaving and the next, those who were staying behind. Arsylang continued to howl, but his howling did not grow louder. Suddenly I noticed a small bright sphere of tear hanging off the lower rim of one of his small dark eyes. I had never before seen Arsylang or any other dog cry—I did not even know that my Arsylang, or any dog, could cry like me, like any human being, or like a mare or a yak. The sphere of tear dropped and disappeared in the frozen snow. I needed to comfort him, so I moved closer and stuck my freezing hands into his shaggy neck hair. Suddenly I felt how violently he was shivering, and it made me shiver, too. The need to sob and to shudder in protest at all that was happening in this world against my will overcame me. It was so overwhelming that all my good intentions could no longer hold back the tears that had already filled my eyes and were blurring my vision. And so I cried, and in crying, I knew that I, too, would have to go away one day. I wanted to stay among my mountains, to guard my flock and become a herder as Father was and as everybody had been who lived before him in our world. I wanted to stay with Arsylang: staying with him was the least I could do after all he had done for me. And I wanted to have a yurt of my own in which I could live with Grandma so I would never have to leave her. And finally, I had to keep an eye on my parents since I could see how much they depended on me doing my share of the work and simply being there: I was their youngest, their most beloved child, and in the end I would have to take care not only of Grandma but also of them.
The day was hard. The cold that had lingered from the previous night continued to sting. Pale and distant and small, the sun was too weak to break it. The world seemed empty as it glittered with hoarfrost, and I felt abandoned. As a companion, Arsylang seemed inadequate to me, a mere substitute, and I sensed that I was not enough for him either.
The big flock appeared earlier than I had expected at the upper end of the path which—bright and wide like a glacier’s arm and surrounded by a half circle of rocks that formed a ridge above the ail as sharp as a knife’s edge—seemed to plummet from the saddle toward the hürde. But this only depressed me further. Had everything, each and every thing, fallen into disarray on this cold, empty earth that glittered with hoarfrost?
I picked out Mother trailing along behind the herd as it streamed down the steep slope like a wide river. She seemed small and round and moved awkwardly like a child dressed in too many clothes. Even though it pained me, I could not take my eyes off her for a long time. And all the time I watched her, the lack of understanding I carried within me continued to grow and to spread.
Father did not come back until night had fallen. Arsylang announced his return well in advance; he barked without getting up and without haste or enthusiasm. Even though it must have been quite late when Father finally arrived, I was still awake. Was it only his absence that had kept me restless? Hardly, for I did not cheer up afterward either, not even when Father unpacked the gift he had brought: the sweets and the hand-and-face cloth from the Old White Man. For a while I held the rough, strange-smelling, shining white cloth with its pile of sweets in my hands the way one holds the blue or white ceremonial scarves. But then I put it aside without having tasted anything. I watched Father, who was bent over the platter and eating meat. And I listened to what he told us, but I was unable to keep my thoughts together. They soon left the yurt and went out into the steppe and into the mountain valleys, where rustling cold, glittering hoarfrost, and loneliness awaited me.
The next morning Grandma said: “Dusky’s time is up!” Dusky was the one remaining wether that had come to us with Grandma’s flock. Did this mean that now this animal, too, would be taken from the flock and from the earth?
But why? The shelf outside with the winter provisions was full of meat. The restlessness I had felt the previous day but that
seemed to have vanished during the night awoke in me again. I was on my guard and watched closely what was happening around me.
My fear was justifi d: Father was about to slaughter Dusky and was in a hurry because he also had to look after the flock. I was told to help him, which meant I had to hold the victim’s hind legs. Horrifi d, I watched Father fight with the big, strong animal until he finally threw it over and slammed his right leg across its belly. I reached for the kicking hind legs where they were thinnest and grabbed and pulled them toward me as I fell backward and shoved my legs against the wether’s rear end. I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t avoid watching Father’s right hand grope for the sheath at his belt. I saw the naked steel flash, saw its tip appear to graze Dusky’s belly just below the breastbone, leaving behind a slit beyond which, before its edges turned dark, white rumen fat became visible. And then I saw the hand drop the knife and thrust, with fingers straight and pressed together, into the slit as a hawk charges at a sparrow. I saw and felt how the animal twitched and started to spasm, and how immensely its strength grew as I fought to hold on. I knew that under no circumstances could I let go of the ankles I was holding away from the body, so I clenched my teeth and tightened my tendons. Dusky’s struggle lasted for some time, maybe one whole minute. When at long last the animal faded and I felt its strength grow weaker breath by breath and then die away altogether, I watched the lifeless legs slide from my hands. They stood motionless in the air above the belly, like stumps of dead branches.
Then I knew that I no longer had a Dusky, that there was no longer any Dusky, not in the flock and not on the earth. Only a pile of meat remained, and that would not be there much longer either.
Grandma told me to drive the flock toward the mountain saddle around noon, and then to come home for some of the meat that by then would be cooked. But I did not go home, although I was hungry and had only the handful of rock-hard pieces of curd cheese that I carried in my breast pocket next to the glow stone. I did not want that meat. With horror and revulsion I thought back to the slaughter. I remembered details of Dusky’s end that I had not properly registered at the time, such as how urine had poured out after the hand disappeared inside the slit and pressed deeper and deeper, apparently searching for whatever it was that had to be severed.
The Blue Sky Page 9
