And in the winter Uncle Orozkul and Aunt Bekey go to the city, to the doctor. Some people say the doctor can help, he can give medicines to help a child get born. But grandma always says the best thing is to go to a holy place, way out across the mountains, where cotton grows in the fields. The land is flat there, so flat you'd think there couldn't be any mountains, but there is one—a holy one—Suleiman's Mountain. And if you slaughter a black sheep at its foot and pray to God, then climb the mountain and bow at every step and pray and beg God properly, he may take pity and give you a child. Aunt Bekey wants to go there, to Suleiman's Mountain, but Uncle Orozkul is against it. It's too far. It's too expensive, he says. You can get there only by plane. And then, it is a long way till you get to the plane, and it costs lots of money too . . .
When they go to the city, we remain at the post just by ourselves. We and our neighbors, Uncle Seidakhmat, his wife Guldzhamal, and their little daughter. That's all.
In the evening, when all the chores are done, grandpa tells me tales. The night behind our house is black, black and bitter cold. The wind is raging. Even the highest mountains are frightened on such nights. They huddle closer to our house, to the light in our windows. And somehow, this makes me both afraid and glad. If I were a giant, I'd put on a giant overcoat and come out of the house. I'd tell the mountains loudly: "Don't be frightened, mountains! I am here. The wind, the darkness, the blizzard don't matter. I am not afraid of anything, don't you be afraid either. Stay where you are, don't huddle close together." Then I would walk over the snowdrifts, step across the river, and go into the woods. The trees are also frightened in the woods at night. They're alone, with nobody to say a word to them. They stand there naked, freezing in the cold, with no place to hide. And I would walk in the woods, and pat every tree on the trunk, so it wouldn't be afraid. I think, the trees that don't turn green in spring are those that froze from fright. We chop them down afterward for firewood.
I think about all this while grandpa tells me his tales. He talks for a long time. There are all sorts of tales. Some are funny, especially the one about the boy as big as a thumb who was called Chypalak and who was swallowed by a greedy wolf to his own misfortune. No, he was first eaten by a camel. Chypalak fell asleep under a leaf, and the camel was walking by and swallowed him with the leaf. That's why people say that a camel never knows what it eats. Chypalakbegan to cry and call for help. And so his old parents had to kill the camel to save their Chypalak. And the story with the wolf is even more interesting. He also swallowed Chypalak, because he was stupid. And then he cried bitter tears. The wolf met Chypalak and laughed: "What kind of tiny midge is that under my feet? I'll give one lick, and you'll be gone." But Chypalak said to him: "Don't touch me, wolf, or I'll turn you into a dog." And the wolf laughed again, "Ha, ha, who ever saw a wolf turn into a dog? Now I will eat you just because you are so rude." And he swallowed Chypalak. He swallowed him and forgot all about it. But from that day on he couldn't live a wolf's life anymore. As soon as the wolf would creep up to the sheep, Chypalak would shout in his belly: "Hey, shepherds, wake up! It's I, the gray wolf, creeping up to steal a sheep!" The wolf didn't know what to do. He bit his sides, he rolled on the ground. But Chypalak wouldn't stop. "Hey, shepherds, come quick, give me a good thrashing!" The shepherds would run after the wolf with cudgels, the wolf would run away. And the shepherds followed, wondering: the wolf must have gone crazy—he runs away, and yells, "Catch up with me, brothers, thrash me, don't spare my hide!" The shepherds rolled with laughter, and the wolf would get away. But it didn't do him any good. Wherever he turned, Chypalak would get in his way. Everywhere people chased him and laughed at him. The wolf grew thin with hunger, nothing but skin and bones. He'd click his teeth and whine: "What is this trouble that has fallen on my poor head? Why do I keep calling misfortune on myself? Have I gone daffy with old age and lost my wits?" And Chypalak whispers in his ear: "Run to Tashmat, he has fat sheep! Run to Baimat, his dogs are deaf. Run to Ermat, his shepherds are asleep." And the wolf sits and whimpers: "I won't run anywhere, I'll go and hire myself out somewhere as a dog . . ."
Isn't that a funny story, papa? Grandpa has other stories, too, some sad, some frightening. But my favorite one is about the Horned Mother Deer. Grandpa says that everyone who lives near Issyk-Kul should know it. Not to know it is a sin. Do you know it, papa? Grandpa says it is true, that it really happened a long time ago. He says we are all children of the Horned Mother Deer. You and me and everybody else.
So that's how we live in wintertime. And the winter lasts and lasts. If it weren't for grandpa's tales, I'd get terribly bored.
But spring is fine. When it gets really warm, the shepherds come into the mountains again. And then we're not alone. Only across the river there is nobody else, we are the last. Across the river there is only the forest, and everything that lives in it. That's why we live at the post, to make sure that no one sets a foot inside the forest, that no one breaks a single branch. One day learned people came to visit us. Two women, both wearing pants, a little old man, and a young fellow. The young one was a student. They spent a whole month with us. Collecting leaves and branches. They said there were few forests left in the world like our San-Tash, almost none at all. And every tree should be guarded and watched over.
And I used to think that grandpa just felt sorry for every tree. He gets very upset when Uncle Orozkul lets his friends cut down pines for logs.
3
The white ship was receding. It was no longer possible to make out its smokestacks even through the binoculars. Soon it would disappear from sight. The boy now had to invent the end of his journey on his father's ship. But he could not find the right ending. He could easily imagine himself turning into a fish, swimming down the river to the lake, meeting the white ship and his father. And everything he'd tell his father. But what came after that? He could not work it out. Suppose the shore was already in sight. The ship moved toward the harbor. The sailors prepared to disembark. His father also had to go home. His wife and two children were waiting for him at the dock. But what was he to do? Go with his father? Would he take him along? And if he did, and his wife asked: "Who is this? Where's he from? What do we need him for?" No, it was best not to go . . .
And the white ship moved farther and farther, turning into a scarcely visible dot. The sun was already at the edge of the water. He could see through the binoculars the dazzling, fiery purple surface of the lake.
The ship was gone. It vanished. And the tale of the white ship was over. It was time to go home.
The boy picked up the schoolbag from the ground, pressed the binoculars under his arm, and quickly ran down the mountain, slithering down the slope like a little snake. And the nearer he came to his home, the uneasier his spirit. He would have to answer for the dress that had been chewed up by the calf. Now he could think of nothing but the coming punishment. To keep up his courage, he said to the schoolbag: "Don't be frightened. So they'll give us a scolding. I didn't do it on purpose. I simply didn't know the calf ran off. So they'll cuff me on the ears. I can stand it. And you, if they throw you down on the floor, don't worry. You won't break, you're a schoolbag. Now, if grandma gets her hands on the binoculars, that's a different story. We'll hide them in the barn first, then we'll go home . . ."
And this was what he did. Yet it was frightening to enter the house.
A warning silence came from within. And the yard was as quiet and empty as if all the people had gone away. It turned out that Aunt Bekey had gotten another beating from her husband. And Grandpa Momun had tried again to curb his crazed, drunk son-in-law. Again the old man had to beg and plead, to hang on Orozkul's huge paws, and witness all that shame—the sight of his bruised, disheveled, screaming daughter. And hear his daughter abused in the vilest language in the presence of her own father. Hear her called a barren bitch, a thrice-damned she-ass, and many other words. And listen to his daughter wailing over her fate in the wild voice of a madwoman: "Is it my fault that heaven deprived me of co
nception? How many women in the world keep bearing young like sheep, and I'm accursed by God. What for? Why must I suffer such a life? It will be better if you kill me, you beast! There—hit me, hit me! . . ."
Old Momun sat brokenly in the corner, still breathing hard. His eyes were closed, and his hands, folded on his knees, were trembling. He was very pale.
Momun glanced at his grandson without saying anything, and his eyes closed wearily again. Grandma was not home. She had gone to make peace between Aunt Bekey and her husband, to clean up the house, pick up the broken dishes. That's what she was like, grandma: when Orozkul was beating his wife, she didn't interfere and kept grandpa back. But after the fight she'd go and try to talk some sense into them, quiet them down. Well, that was something too.
More than anyone else, the boy pitied the old man. On such days he seemed close to death. Benumbed, Momun sat in the corner, never showing his face to anyone. He never told anybody, not a soul, what he was thinking. And he was thinking at these moments that he was old, that he had had a single son, and even he had died in the war. And no one knew him any longer, no one remembered him. If his son had lived, who knows, life might have turned out differently. Momun was also mourning for his dead wife, with whom he had spent a lifetime. But the worst thing of all was that his daughters had found no happiness. The younger, leaving his grandson with him, was now struggling out there with a big family in one room. The older was suffering here with Orozkul. And though he, her old father, was nearby and willing to endure any hardship for her sate, what good was that? The blessing of motherhood was kept and kept from her. It was many years now that she had been with Orozkul, and she was sick to death of living with him, but where was she to go? And what would happen later? Who knows, he might die any day, he was an old man. What would she do then, his unfortunate daughter?
The boy hastily drank some milk from a cup, ate a piece of pancake, and huddled quietly by the window. He did not light the lamp, afraid to disturb his grandfather. Let him sit and think.
The boy was also thinking his own thoughts. He could not understand why Aunt Bekey tried to appease her husband with vodka. He'd hit her with his fist, and she would run and bring him some more. That Aunt Bekey! How many times her husband beat her within an inch of her life, and she forgave him everything. And Grandfather Momun forgave him. Why should they forgive? Such people should not be forgiven. He was a rotten man, a bad man. Who needed him here? They'd be much better off without him.
The boy's embittered imagination conjured up a picture of just punishment for his uncle. All together, they jumped on Orozkul and dragged him, fat, huge, dirty, to the river. There they swung him and threw him into the wildest, most turbulent rapids. And he pleaded for Aunt Bekey's forgiveness, and Grandfather Momun's. For he, of course, could not become a fish.
These thoughts relieved the boy. He even wanted to laugh when he imagined Uncle Orozkul thrashing about in the river, his velvet hat floating next to him.
But, unfortunately, the grown-ups did not do the things the boy thought would be just. They did everything the other way around. Orozkul would come home tipsy, and they would welcome him as if nothing were wrong. Grandpa would take his horse, his wife would run to make the samovar. As though everybody had been doing nothing but waiting for his coming. And he'd begin to carry on. At first he would lament and cry. How was it, he'd complain, that every man, even the lowest good-for-nothing whose hand you need not shake, had children, as many as his heart desired? Five, even ten. In what way was he, Orozkul, worse than others? What was wrong with him? Didn't he have a good job? Thank God, he was chief overseer of the forest preserve. Was he some homeless tramp? But even Gypsies had their brats, swarms of them. Or was he a nobody, without respect from anyone? He had everything. He was a success in every way. He had a fine saddle horse, and a handsome whip in his hands, and he was welcomed and honored wherever he went. Then why were other men of his age already celebrating their children's weddings, while he . . . What was he without a son, without his own seed?
Aunt &key also wept, bustled about, tried to please her husband. She brought out the bottle she had tucked away and took a drink herself to drown her troubles. And so it went, till Orozkul would suddenly go wild and take out all his anger on her, on his own wife. And she forgave him everything. And grandfather forgave him. Nobody tied him up. He'd sober up by morning, and his wife, all black and blue, would have tea ready for him. Grandpa would already have his horse out, fed and saddled. Orozkul would drink his tea, mount his horse, and once again he was the chief, the master of all the San-Tash forests. And it never occurred to anyone that a man like that should have been thrown into the river a long time ago. . . .
It was dark. Night had fallen.
And so the day ended, the day when the boy was given his first schoolbag.
As he was going to bed, he could not think of a place for his schoolbag. Finally, he put it next to his head. The boy did not know, he would learn later, that half the class would have exactly the same schoolbags. But that would not upset him anyway. His own would remain a very special one. Nor did he know that new events awaited him in his small life, that a day would come when he'd be left alone in the whole world, with nothing but his schoolbag. And that the reason for it all would be his favorite tale about the Horned Mother Deer.
That evening he had a strong desire to hear it again. Old Momun was also fond of it and told it as though he had witnessed everything himself, sighing, weeping, falling silent now and then, and listening to his own thoughts.
But the boy did not venture to disturb his grandfather. He understood that old Momun's mind was not on tales that evening. "We'll ask him another time," the boy whispered to his schoolbag. "Tonight I shall tell you about the Horned Mother Deer, word for word, just like grandpa. And I shall speak so low that nobody will hear. And you will listen. I like to tell stories and see everything before me, as in the movies. Well, now. Grandpa says that all of this is true. It really happened. . .
4
It happened long ago. In ancient, ancient times, when there were more forests on earth than grass, and more water in our country than dry land, a Kirghiz tribe lived by the banks of a wide, cold river. The river's name was Enesai. It flows far from here, in Siberia. To go there on horseback, you must ride three years and three months. Today this river is called Yenisei, but then its name was Enesai. And that is why there is a song that goes like this:
Is there a river wider than you, Enesai,
Is there a land more beloved than you, Enesai,
Is there a sorrow deeper than you, Enesai,
Is there a freedom freer than you, Enesai?
There is no river wider than you, Enesai,
There is no land more beloved than you, Enesai,
There is no sorrow deeper than you, Enesai,
There is no freedom freer than you, Enesai.
Many peoples lived along the Enesai in those days. Their lives were hard because they were always at war with each other. Many enemies surrounded the Kirghiz tribe. It was attacked by one enemy, then by another. Often the Kirghiz themselves made raids on others, took away their cattle, burned their dwellings, killed the people. They killed everyone they could—such was the time. Man had no pity on man. Man destroyed man. It became so bad that there was no one left to sow grain, breed cattle, go out hunting. It became easier to live by looting: you went out, you killed, you plundered. But blood had to be paid for by more blood; revenge by more revenge. And so blood flowed in rivers. Men lost all reason. There was nobody to make peace among enemies. The greatest glory went to those who knew how to catch the enemy unaware, destroy the alien tribe to the last soul, and seize its cattle and its wealth.
A strange, sad bird appeared in the taiga. It sang and wept all night in a grieving, human voice. It cried, flying from branch to branch: "Great trouble is coming! Great trouble is coming!" And it came to pass. The dreadful day arrived.
That clay the Kirghiz tribe on Enesai was burying its old c
hief. The great hero Kulche had led the tribe in peace and war for many years. He had led his warriors in numerous campaigns and fought in many battles. He had survived the battles, but at last his dying hour had come. His tribesmen sorrowed greatly for two days, and on the third day they prepared to lay the hero's body in the earth. According to ancient custom, a chief's body had to be carried on its final journey along the bank of the Enesai, over its cliffs and crags, so that the soul might bid farewell to the mother river from the heights. For "ene" means "mother," and “sai" means "river." And now, for the last time, the soul would sing the old song:
Is there a river wider than you, Enesai,
Is there a land more beloved than you, Enesai,
Is there a sorrow deeper than you, Enesai,
Is there a freedom freer than you, Enesai?
There is no river wider than you, Enesai,
There is no land more beloved than you, Enesai,
There is no sorrow deeper than you, Enesai,
There is no freedom freer than you, Enesai.
On the burial mound, beside the open grave, the hero's body was lifted over the heads of his people and shown the four corners of the world. The people chanted: "Here is your river. Here is your sky. Here is your earth. Here are we, born of the same root as you. We have come to see you off. Sleep in peace." And, to keep his memory alive for future generations, a rock was set upon his grave.
During the days of the funeral, the yurts of the whole tribe were put up in a row along the riverbank, so that every family could bid the hero good-bye from its doorway as his body was carried past. Every family lowered the white flag of mourning to the ground, wailing and weeping. Then it joined the procession as it went on to the next yurt, where the people would once more bow the white flag of mourning and weep and wail, and so on to the end, until they came to the burial mound.
The White Ship Page 5
