The Winter Horses

by Philip Kerr

  Kalinka shook out the match and lit another to finish reading her letter.

  “The same thing must not be allowed to happen to these Przewalski’s; one of the things that makes living in this world so wonderful is the fantastic variety of all the races and species that are in it, and it would be a crime to let the same thing happen to the Przewalski’s as has happened to so many other species of animal. But I am convinced that if anyone can save them, it’s you. Don’t let me down, Kalinka; more importantly, don’t let the Przewalski’s horses down. You must get them to a place of safety.

  “You have already suffered great hardship, and in the days ahead, there may come even more despair; so I also wanted to tell you about a great Russian grand master of chess—as perhaps you yourself will be one day—called Savielly Tartakower. In 1911, his parents were murdered, just like yours, and in very similar circumstances; but by 1935, he was one of the main organizers of the Chess Olympiad in Warsaw. Tartakower was almost as well known for his great wisdom as for playing chess, and I had to write down a few of the clever things he said that may help you in the coming days and years. They are about chess, but in a way, they are also about life. Here they are, in no particular order:

  “ ‘It’s always better to sacrifice your opponent’s men.’

  “ ‘The mistakes are all there on the board, just waiting to be made.’

  “ ‘The move is there, but you must see it.’

  “ ‘Chess is a fairy tale of 1,001 blunders.’

  “And my own favorite: ‘Moral victories do not count.’

  “I am not a wise man like Tartakower. But one important thing I have learned is that nothing good ever comes of hate. It would be all too easy and understandable for you to hate the Germans for what they did to your family. But please try always to remember that it was a German—the baron Falz-Fein—who created the sanctuary at Askaniya-Nova, and there was a time when I thought that this particular German was the most wonderful man in the world. I promise you that there will certainly be other good Germans like him. I hope that one day you get a chance to meet a German such as he was.

  “Good luck to you all. I know you will need it. But with God’s grace, I know you can come through this ordeal.

  “Your affectionate friend,

  Maxim Borisovich Melnik

  “PS. Stroke Taras for me.”

  Kalinka blew out the third match and stroked Taras as Max had told her; then she laid her head against the tree and closed her eyes for just a moment and wished that she could have hugged the old man and thanked him again for his kindness.

  “When you think about it,” she told Taras, “it’s not such a bad world that has men in it like Maxim Borisovich Melnik.”

  TEMÜJIN WAS GONE FOR less than an hour, but to those who slept under the heavy boughs of the big conifer tree, it seemed much longer. Laying a false trail in the snow to deceive the Germans had been the work of only ten or fifteen minutes, and most of the remaining time he had spent looking for a warmer place for Kalinka, Börte and Taras to hide—a woodsman’s hut or perhaps an old barn—as the stallion was certain they could go no farther without sleep. The dog, he was sure, was like him and could have run forever, for that is characteristic of the borzoi breed, but the girl was exhausted, and Börte—who was the focus of Temüjin’s extra concern—almost as tired.

  After a while, he sensed that there was a much better hiding place close by. He could not explain how he knew this, but it was as if his ancestors had called out to him from hundreds—perhaps thousands—of years ago; and suddenly his nose seemed to tell him which way to go.

  Kalinka awoke with a start to find the sleeve of her coat in the stallion’s mouth and that she was being tugged urgently to her feet. Taras and Börte were already standing, ready to leave the cover of the tree canopy.

  “What is it?” she asked sleepily. “Why did you wake me? Are the Germans coming back?”

  Temüjin stamped his foot.

  “I can’t hear anything,” she said. “Couldn’t we stay under here, where it’s dry and out of the wind? I never thought I’d say it, but really, it’s quite comfortable sleeping on needles.”

  Temüjin stamped his foot again, only this time with real impatience.

  “It’s just that I’m tired. So very tired. I think I could sleep for a hundred years.”

  Kalinka leaned across Börte’s back for a moment and closed her eyes, and this time, Temüjin dropped his head and bit her on the thigh.

  “Ow,” she said, rubbing her leg. “That really hurt. What’s the big idea? I thought we were supposed to be friends, Temüjin.”

  The stallion swung his head around and walked away; then he turned to see if Kalinka was following.

  “All right, all right,” she said. “You want us to leave this place. I understand that. Although it beats me why.”

  As Temüjin led the way out from under the tree, a branch sprang back and dumped a large deposit of snow on Kalinka’s head; hearing the girl yelp with surprise and discomfort, he looked back and laughed, certain that she was properly awake now. He needed her full attention to reach the sanctuary that, in his bones, he knew to be close at hand.

  Kalinka wiped the snow from her hair and off her face without further complaint and mounted Börte. To her surprise, the stallion began to lead them back the way they had come earlier.

  “I get it,” she murmured. “We’re doubling back on our own trail. Good idea. That should confuse the Germans. It will be harder for them to track us now. You’re so clever, Temüjin. I’d never have thought of doing something like that.”

  Temüjin broke into a trot and Börte followed. Soon they were running past the same trees where the horses had chewed off the bark and up the hill toward the circle of standing stones. Here the stallion paused and then walked off at a tangent toward an inner group of central stones, and it was only now that Kalinka perceived a pattern in the arrangement of the circle: all of the stones were positioned in an elliptical spiral with a clearly identifiable middle point where the stones appeared to become shorter. As they reached this middle point, she realized that it was not that the stones were shorter at all—that was only an illusion—but that the ground was much lower here, and the stones led the way down a cleverly disguised pathway into a deep depression in the hill. From the back of the mare, Kalinka saw how you might have walked straight past this central spiral of stones and never realized that it seemed to lead to a place that must have been of great importance to the ancient people who had built it.

  At the bottom of the spiral path, Temüjin stopped and looked around.

  “Yes, it’s certainly interesting,” said Kalinka. “All right, we can’t be seen down here, but we’re still outside, in the freezing cold, and I don’t understand how we’re better off here than we were under that tree.”

  Temüjin was already digging in the snow with his hoof, which prompted Taras to start digging. Finally Kalinka jumped off Börte’s back, and ignoring the cold in her hands, she began digging, too.

  “If this is buried treasure we’re digging for,” she said, “I’m not sure how that’s going to help us. Although I suppose we could always try to bribe the Germans to let us go.”

  A couple of times, she had to stop and warm her numb hands underneath her arms.

  At last, Temüjin’s hoof struck something hard, and the next second, the remaining snow collapsed to reveal two large standing stones with a stone beam across the top.

  “It’s an entrance to something,” said Kalinka. “But how did you know it was here, Temüjin?”

  The stallion snorted and then sniffed at the length and breadth of a wooden door as if something lay behind it. The design carved on the door was the same as the one on the stones; and now that Kalinka took a closer look, she could just about make out what it was.

  “Why, it’s a horse,” she said. “Of course. Why didn’t I realize that before? It’s an ancient horse like you, Temüjin.”

  Temüjin tossed his head up a
nd down, anxious now that the girl should open the door.

  “You can smell something in there, is that it?”

  Temüjin nodded, and marked time for a moment like a horse in a dressage competition. Taras barked.

  “You too, huh?”

  Kalinka pushed hard, but the door did not move. She smacked it with frustration; the door didn’t sound as if it was very thick, but moving it was beyond her.

  “It’s no good,” she said finally. “I can’t shift it. Not that I really expected I could. This door looks like it’s been here for thousands of years. I mean, well done for finding it, but I really don’t see that we’ve achieved anything.”

  Temüjin sighed with frustration and turned away from the door with what Kalinka thought looked like disgust. The next second, he lashed out at the door with his powerful hind legs.

  Thinking she was witnessing an outburst of equine temper, Kalinka walked quickly up the slope and out of the way. Taras yelped and followed with his tail between his long legs. Both of them still remembered the savage kick Temüjin had delivered to the wolf; the poor animal must have flown six or seven meters through the air.

  “Hey, take it easy, Temüjin. There’s no need to get angry about this.”

  But Temüjin wasn’t angry. He was only doing what clearly needed to be done—he was kicking in the door. Börte turned and helped him with her own back hooves, and within a matter of a few minutes, the two Przewalski’s horses had reduced the ancient door to matchwood.

  Temüjin breathed a sigh of relief as the girl stepped inside, struck a match and put the tiny flame to a small stone censer that was mounted on the wall behind the demolished door; finally it seemed she was good for something after all: fire and light.

  A strong smell of burning animal fat filled the air, and the entrance lit up to reveal a wide, curving passage that was a continuation of the spiral design they had seen on the ground outside.

  Kalinka lifted the censer off a hook on the wall and led the way down into the shadows. Her teeth were chattering, but not just with cold—she was afraid. There was something about the place that reminded her of the crypt in Nikopol, where she had spent a very disagreeable week.

  “I wouldn’t do this if I wasn’t frozen to the marrow,” she admitted. “I don’t think I could ever be an archaeologist and go inside some dead pharaoh’s pyramid.”

  After several minutes, the passage opened up to reveal a much larger space. Kalinka found another censer and lit it, and then another, and before long, she saw that they were in an ancient burial chamber. The high, vaulted ceiling was covered with paintings—cave paintings of horses and a young woman wearing long robes, who appeared to wield power over them and some kneeling tribesmen. On the floor was a sword. Kalinka picked it up and looked at the old weapon in the flickering lamplight and scraped the edge with her thumb: the blade was still very sharp.

  “It’s made of bronze,” she said. “I don’t know how old that makes this place exactly, but from the look of those people painted on the ceiling, I’ll bet we’re the first people in here in at least two or three thousand years.”

  Temüjin and Börte were sniffing at the skeletons of many dead animals that lay in a huge circle on the stone floor. The skeletons were dressed in ancient harnesses and armor, and it took Kalinka a moment or two to see that these were all skeletons of ancient horses, and that most of the skeletons showed signs of having met violent deaths.

  “I’m beginning to understand how you found this place,” she said to Temüjin. “You could smell them, couldn’t you? And no wonder—there must be at least fifty dead horses in here. Perhaps more.” She glanced at the sword. “And I’ll bet this is the sword that they were killed with.”

  Out of respect for Temüjin and Börte, she put the sword down—just in case it made them feel nervous.

  “But why? Why would anyone kill all these horses and bury them?”

  The answer to her question was soon revealed, for in the center of this circle of horse skeletons, holding a bronze spear and wearing a helmet and breastplate, was the mummified corpse of a girl not much older than Kalinka herself. Kalinka guessed she was probably the same girl depicted on the ceiling painting.

  “A warrior princess. That’s what she must have been. Or perhaps a priestess. That would certainly explain why those tribesmen are kneeling in front of her in the pictures on the ceiling. I guess they must have slaughtered all of these poor horses when she died: so that they could serve her in the next life. The same way they used to bury a pharaoh with all his possessions.”

  Feeling sorry for her, Kalinka laid a kind hand on the mummified girl’s breastplate.

  “I think she must have been very beautiful,” she whispered. “I wonder what happened to her. It makes you think, doesn’t it, Taras? That you’re not the only girl with problems in this world. I mean, look at her. Did she just die of some illness, perhaps? Or was she killed, like her horses? In battle by her enemies? I don’t suppose we shall ever know for sure what happened to her, but I should like to have known her.”

  Kalinka bowed her head in respect for the little warrior priestess for a moment.

  “Dear lady, you are not forgotten,” she said quietly.

  Temüjin and Börte were still sniffing at the skeletons, as if they wanted to make quite sure that they were dead.

  “I’m sorry,” Kalinka said to them. “This must be very upsetting for you both. To see so many of your kind in a mass grave like this. I’d like to apologize to you on behalf of humankind, in general. I may be just a child with little experience of the world, but it seems that people are capable of great cruelty, not just to animals but also to each other. You hear all sorts of terrible stories these days. I even heard tell of people in the south who were so hungry, they ate their own children. Max is right; I don’t think it does any good to hate. But you can’t help feeling more than a little disappointed now and again that man is such a destructive species. I don’t suppose the priestess would have allowed them to do such a terrible thing as kill all these horses if she’d been alive. I know I would certainly have forbidden it.”

  Taras barked and sat down. The ancient burial chamber made him feel uneasy—he sensed that there were ancient forces at work in the ancient tomb, and he thought there could be little chance of sleeping comfortably in such a place. But for the moment, there seemed to be no other place that they could go.

  “I hope she won’t mind us disturbing her grave like this,” said Kalinka. “Then again, what can she do?”

  Taras barked and let the bark turn into a sort of whine—he sensed that there was a lot more the dead warrior priestess could have done about their presence there than evidently Kalinka suspected, and already he half expected to see or feel a ghost. Max might not have believed in ghosts and spirits, but like most dogs, Taras was much less skeptical about such things. Besides, there was a lot more to being a spirit than appearing in the form of an apparition or going bump in the night. Spirits could affect what people did, and sometimes they could even take them over. How else could you explain someone like Captain Grenzmann, who was possessed with the idea of his own countrymen’s superiority over all other peoples?

  Kalinka had wandered off with one of the lamps to explore.

  “There’s everything here that you could want if you were a warrior priestess,” she said. “Armor, weapons, even a chariot—all perfectly preserved. Who knows? Perhaps she could have helped us fight the Germans. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she could have defeated them, too. I mean, just look at the blades on the wheels of this chariot. And her bow and arrows on the side of the platform. I’ll bet she was pretty formidable in her day. I’m sure some of those jars must contain food and drink, although I’m not going to risk it—not after all this time. Even though I’m very hungry.”

  She opened one of the jars anyway and put her fingers inside it experimentally.

  “Actually, it’s not food in this jar,” she said. “It seems to be what looks like a sor
t of paint. Silver paint. I could have used some of this back at Askaniya-Nova. For the walls of our cave. I might have painted some silver horses. What do you think about that, Taras?”

  Taras yawned. All of a sudden, he felt as if he could sleep after all; was there something in that strange-smelling animal fat burning in the censer that was making him feel as if he could not stay awake a minute longer? Or was it just the sense that they were safe after all—at least for a while?

  Börte lay down with a sigh and closed her eyes. Temüjin went to inspect the chariot, but only as a way of staving off tiredness. He, too, wanted to lie down and sleep.

  “Well, I don’t know about all of you,” said Kalinka, “but I am going to get some sleep. Let’s hope that the Germans don’t find this place. I don’t suppose there’s any way out of here other than the way we came in.”

  Kalinka lay down next to Börte and laid an arm across the horse’s neck as if the animal were a teddy bear; she told herself that a living, breathing horse was much more comforting to sleep with than some smelly old stuffed toy.

  Temüjin lay down beside the old chariot; he flicked his furry tail a couple of times and closed his dark eyes. He could not explain why he trusted the girl and believed at the core of his being that she could help save his species, any more than he could account for how he had known that the ancient stone circle should have concealed a place of holy sanctuary for them; but he did and he had, and that was all the reason that was needed for a creature such as him. He liked the girl even more for what she had said about her own kind.

  The last to sleep was Taras. The wolfhound yawned and lay down beside the girl; strangely, all of his previous worries about the place were now gone. His companions were out of the cold bora wind, and that was all that seemed important.