The White Ship

by Chingiz Aitmatov

  And now Seidakhmat kept putting off the mowing too. Even grandpa had scolded him the other day. "Last winter," he said, "it wasn't you but the beasts I was sorry for. That's why I gave you of my own hay. If you're counting on the old man's hay again, you'd better tell me right now—I'll mow it for you." That really shamed him, and today Seidakhmat had been swinging away with his scythe since early morning.

  Hearing quick footsteps behind him, Seidakhmat turned and wiped his face with his sleeve.

  "What is it? Does anybody want me?"

  "No. But I have a schoolbag. Here. Grandpa bought it. I'll go to school."

  "Is that why you came running here?" Seidakhmat laughed. "Your grandpa's a bit that way, you know"—he twirled his finger at his temple—"and you're the same. Come on, now, let me see it." He clicked the lock, turned the schoolbag this way and that, and gave it back to the boy, mockingly shaking his head. "But wait a minute," he cried.

  "What school will you go to? Where is it, that school of yours?''

  "What do you mean, what school? The Fermen school."

  "You mean you'll walk to Dzhelesai?" Seidakhmat asked with wonder. "Why, that's a good five miles across the mountain."

  "Grandpa said he'll take me there, on horseback."

  "Every day, both ways? The old man's daffy. It's time for him to go to school himself. He'll sit there with you at the desk until the classes are over, and then—back home!" Seidakhmat rolled with laughter. The idea of old Momun sitting with his grandson at the school desk was too funny for words.

  The boy stood by, bewildered.

  "Oh, I'm only joking," explained Seidakhmat.

  He gave him a light fillip on the nose and pulled the visor of grandpa's cap over the boy's eyes. Momun never wore the uniform cap of the Forestry Department. He was too shy: "What am I, some sort of bigwig? I'll never exchange my Kirghiz hat for any other." In summertime, Momun wore an old white felt hat, of the kind that used to be called akkalpak in former times, its brim edged with faded black satin, and in the winter an equally ancient sheepskin hat. He let his grandson wear the green uniform cap of a forester.

  The boy was offended at Seidakhmat for making fun of his news. He sullenly pushed the visor of his cap back over his forehead, and when Seidakhmat tried to give him another fillip on the nose, he jerked his head back and snapped at him:

  "Leave me alone!"

  "Oh, what a sorehead!" Seidakhmat smiled. "Don't mind me. The schoolbag is first-class." And he patted the boy on the shoulder. "And now, scram. I must still mow and mow . . ."

  He spat on his hands and picked up the scythe.

  The boy ran home along the same path, and again past his stones. This was no time to play with stones. A schoolbag was a serious thing.

  The boy was fond of talking to himself. This time, however, he spoke not to himself but to the schoolbag: "Don't believe him, my grandpa isn't like that at all. It's only that he isn't sly, and that's why people make fun of him. Because he's not the least bit sly. He'll take us to school. But you don't even know where the school is. It's not so far, I'll show you. We'll look at it through the binoculars from Outlook Mountain. I'll show you my white ship, too. But first let's go into the barn—that's where I hide my binoculars. I really should be watching the calf, but I always run off to look at the white ship. Our calf's big now, you can't hold him when he pulls. But he's gotten into the habit of suckling the cow. And the cow is his mother, she doesn't grudge him the milk. You understand? Mothers never grudge their children anything. That's what Guldzhamal says, she has her own little girl. . . . They'll milk the cow soon, and we'll take the calf out to pasture. Then we'll climb up Outlook Mountain and see the white ship. I talk like this with the binoculars too, sometimes. Now we'll be three—you, me, and the binoculars."

  The boy spoke to his schoolbag as he was returning home. He enjoyed talking to it. He intended to continue the conversation, to tell it more about himself—things it didn't know yet. But he was interrupted. There was a clatter of hooves from the side. A rider on a gray horse emerged from behind the trees. It was Orozkul, who was also going home. The gray stallion, Alabash, whom no one else was allowed to ride, was saddled with the special holiday saddle, with copper stirrups and a leather strap across his chest, with tinkling silver rings.

  Orozkul's hat had slipped to the back of his head, exposing a red, low forehead. The heat had made him sleepy, and lie dozed on his horse. His velvet coat, poorly tailored but made to resemble those worn by the district leaders, was unbuttoned from top to bottom. His white shirt had come out from under his belt. He was full of food and quite drunk. Just a short while ago he had been sitting with friends, drinking koumyss [note: fermented mare’s milk] and gorging himself on meat.

  When shepherds and horseherds from the surrounding areas came to the mountain pastures for the summer, they often invited Orozkul to visit them. He had old friends among I hem, but they invited him for their own reasons too. Orozkul was a useful man. Especially to those who were building 'louses for themselves, but had to spend summers up in the mountains. They could not leave the herds alone and go to look for building materials. Besides, the materials weren't easy to come by, especially timber. But if you pleased Orozkul, he'd let you have a couple of trees from the forest preserve. Otherwise you might be wandering in the mountains with your herd to the end of your days, and the house would never he finished.

  Dozing in the saddle, heavy and self-important, Orozkul rode with the toes of his fine cowhide boots resting carelessly in the stirrups. He nearly tumbled off the horse when the boy suddenly came running toward him, swinging his schoolbag.

  "Uncle Orozkul, look what I have! Look at my school-bag! I'll go to school!"

  "Oh, the devil take you," Orozkul swore, startled, and pulled at the reins. He glanced at the boy with sleepy, reddened, drunken eyes. "What's the matter, where'd you come from?"

  "I'm going home. I have a schoolbag. I went to show it to Seidakhmat," the boy said in a small voice.

  "All right, go on and play," Orozkul growled and, swaying uncertainly in the saddle, he went on. What did he care about that stupid schoolbag, about that brat abandoned by his parents, when he himself was so wronged by life, when God didn't see fit to grant him a son of his own, his own flesh and blood, while others were blessed with all the children they could want.

  Orozkul sniffled and gave a sob. Pity and anger choked him. Pity for himself, regret that his life would pass without leaving a trace, and mounting anger at his barren wife. It was all because of her, damn her, going about empty bellied all these years.

  "I'll show you!" Orozkul threatened her mentally, clenching his beefy fists, and moaned under his breath to keep himself from weeping out loud. He knew he would go home and beat her again. Every time he drank, this bull-like man went wild with grief and anger.

  The boy walked after him along the path and was astonished to see his uncle vanish suddenly. Orozkul had turned off toward the river, dismounted, threw down the reins, and went on foot straight through the tall grass. He walked, swaying and stooped, pressing his hands over his face, his head pulled into his shoulders. At the bank, he squatted down, dipped his hands into the water and splashed it on his face.

  "I guess he's got a headache from the heat," the boy decided when he saw what Orozkul was doing. He did not know that Orozkul was crying and could not stop. That he was crying because it was not his son who came running to meet him, and because he had not found within himself the tiling that was needed to say at least a human word or two to this boy with his schoolbag.

  2

  From the summit of Outlook Mountain you could see in all directions. Lying on his stomach, the boy adjusted the binoculars. These powerful field glasses had once been awarded to his grandfather for his long years of service at the forest post. The old man had no patience with them: "My own eyes are just as good." But they became the boy's favorite companion.

  This time he had come to the mountain with the binoculars and the schoolba
g.

  At first, all objects jumped distortedly in the round lenses, then suddenly they became firm and sharp. This was the most interesting moment of all. Holding his breath so as not to disturb the focus, he admired the landscape opening before him as though he had created it himself. Then he would shift to another spot, and again everything became displaced, and the boy again turned the adjustment screw to capture the lost focus.

  He could see everything from here. All the way out were the highest, snowcapped summits, above Ivhich there was nothing but the sky. They loomed beyond the other mountains, rising above their peaks and the whole earth. Then ca me the mountain ranges just beneath the snowy caps— forested, with dark pinewoods above and leafy trees below. Beneath these were the Kungey Mountains, facing the sun, on which nothing grew but grass. And on the opposite side, where the lake was, there were still lower ones, with barren, rocky slopes descending to the valley that bordered on the lake. On that side he could also see fields, meadows, orchards, villages. . . . The green fields were already touched with streaks of yellow: harvest time was near. Like mice, little cars and trucks were scuttling up and down the roads, followed by winding trails of dust. And at the very edge of the land, as far as the eye could see, beyond the sandy line of shore, was the dense blue curve of the lake. It was Issyk-Kul. There, the water met the sky, with nothing beyond them. The lake lay shining, deserted, and motionless, save for the faint stirring of white foam along the bank.

  The boy looked that way for a long time.

  "The white ship has not come yet," he said to the schoolbag. "Let's take another look at our school."

  The neighboring valley, on the other side of Outlook Mountain, was clearly visible from here. Through the binoculars, the boy could even see the thread in the hands of an old woman who sat spinning near the window, outside her house.

  The Dzhelesai valley was treeless, except for a few remaining solitary old pines. Once there were woods there. Now there were rows of slate-roofed barns, and large dark piles of straw and manure. The pedigreed calves from the dairy farm were kept there. And a short distance from the barns there was a small double row of houses—the cattle breeders' village. The little street climbed down a sloping mound. At the very end of it stood a small building. It was the four-year primary school. The older children were sent to the boarding school at the Soviet farm; the younger ones attended this school.

  The boy had visited the village with his grandfather to see the medic when he had a sore throat. Now he looked intently through his binoculars at the little school covered with a reddish tile roof, with a single, crooked chimney and a handmade plywood sign: MEKTEP. He did not know how to read, but he guessed that this was the word. Everything, even the slightest, unbelievably small details, could be seen through the field glass. Some words scraped out on the plaster wall, the broken, pasted glass in the window frame, the warped, rough boards of the porch. He imagined himself going there with his schoolbag and stepping into the door on which a large padlock was now hanging. What would he find behind that door?

  When he finished examining the school, the boy turned his binoculars to the lake. But everything was still the same. The white ship had not yet appeared. The boy turned his back to the lake and looked down, putting his binoculars aside. Below, right at the foot of the mountain, the seething, silvery river rushed over rocks and rapids along the bottom of the valley. The winding road followed the riverbank and disappeared together with the river behind a turn in the gorge. The opposite bank was steep and wooded—the beginning of the forest sanctuary that climbed high into the mountains, to the very snowcaps. The pines climbed farther than the rest. They raised their dark little brushes along the crests of the mountain ranges, amidst the rocks and snow.

  The boy looked mockingly at the houses, barns, and sheds in the yard of the forest station. They seemed small and fragile from above. Beyond the station he could distinguish his familiar rocks, the camel, the wolf, the saddle, the tank. He had first seen them from here, through his binoculars, and it was then that he had named them.

  With a mischievous grin, the boy stood up and threw a stone in the direction of the yard. The stone fell some distance below, on the mountain. The boy sat down and began to study the settlement through his binoculars. First through the larger lenses. The houses ran farther and farther away and turned into toy boxes. The boulders turned into pebbles. And the pond that grandfather had built for him in the river shallows seemed altogether funny—just big enough for a sparrow bath. The boy laughed and shook his head. He quickly turned the binoculars and adjusted the focus. His beloved boulders, enlarged to gigantic size, seemed to press their foreheads right into the lenses. The camel, the wolf, the saddle, and the tank were overwhelming—full of ridges, cracks, and spots of rusty lichen on their sides. And, most important of all, they really had a striking resemblance to what the boy had named them.

  Beyond the boulders, on the shallow bank, was grandpa's pond. Through the binoculars, the spot was clearly visible. The water ran up briefly from the rapid stream upon the wide pebbled shoals, spread out, and rolled back, seething, into the rushing current. In the shallows, the water reached up to the knees, but the undertow was so strong that it could carry off a boy like him. To keep from being carried off, he would hold on to the willow growing by the riverside, some of its branches on the ground, others splashing in the water. But he could only dip in for a moment, and what kind of bathing was that? Like a horse tied to a stake. And then, all the scolding, all the anger at home. Grandma would nag his grandfather: "He'll be carried off into the river, then let him blame himself—I will not stir a finger. Who needs him, anyway? His own mother and father left him. And I have troubles enough without him, I've got no strength left."

  What could one say to her? She was an old woman, and what she said was right. But then, Momun felt sorry for the boy, too. The river was almost at the door and no matter how much the old woman scolded and threatened, the boy still ran into the water. And so Momun decided to dam up the shallows with rocks, so the boy would have a pond to play in without danger.

  Who knows how many rocks old Momun dragged to the shallows, choosing large ones that the current could not dislodge. He carried them pressed against his stomach, and, standing in the water, built them up cunningly, so that the water could flow in freely between them and flow out just as freely. Funny-looking, thin, with his sparse little beard, in wet trousers clinging to his body, he labored all day long over the dam. And in the evening he lay stretched out on his back, coughing, unable to bend or straighten out. And grandma lashed out at him:

  "A young fool, well, he's young. But what can a body say about an old fool? What the devil did you have to knock yourself out for? You keep him, you feed him—what else do you want? Catering to every damn foolishness. Mark my word, no good will come of it. . .”

  Anyway, the pond turned out very well. Now the boy could swim without fear. And always with open eyes. Because fish swim in the water with open eyes. He had a strange longing—to turn into a fish. And to swim far away.

  As he was looking at the pond through his binoculars, the boy imagined himself there. He saw himself throwing off his shirt and pants and stepping in, shrinking a little because the water in mountain streams is always cold—it takes your breath away, then you get used to it. Now, holding on to a willow branch, he plunged into the current face down. The water closed with a splash over his head and flowed, fiery cold, under his belly, over his back and legs. Under the water all outside sounds vanish—you hear only the rushing of the stream. Keeping his eyes wide open, he stared hard to see everything that could be seen. His eyes prickled and hurt, but he smiled proudly to himself and even stuck his tongue out. That was for grandma. Let her know. He wouldn't drown. And he wasn't afraid of anything. He let go of the branch and the water swept him off until his feet were up against the stones of the dam. And then his breath gave out. He jumped out of the water, climbed into the bank and ran back to the willow. And down again and agai
n, many times more. He was ready to swim in grandpa's pond a hundred times a day. Until he finally turned into a fish. And he had to, he had to become a fish.

  The boy sighed. After examining the riverbank, he turned the binoculars to his yard. The hens, the turkeys with their chicks, the ax leaning against a stump, the steaming samovar, and all the other objects in the yard became so incredibly huge, they came so close that the boy involuntarily stretched out his hand to touch them. Then, to his horror, he saw the red calf, enlarged to elephant size, placidly chewing at the wash hung on the line. The calf closed his eyes with pleasure, saliva trickled down his lips—he was so happy chewing a whole mouthful of grandma's dress.

  "Oh, you stupid!" The boy jumped up with his binoculars and waved his hand. "Get away, do you hear, get away! Baltek! Baltek!" The dog lay calmly by the house. "Get him! Get him!" the boy cried desperately to the dog. But Baltek didn't even prick up his ears. He lay stretched out in the shadow without a care in the world.