The White Ship

by Chingiz Aitmatov

  Meantime, Orozkul was returning from the ford, leading the unharnessed horse by the bridle. The horse limped on one of his front legs. The women watched silently as Orozkul approached the yard. They were still unaware of what was going on in his mind and heart, what he was bringing them that day, what trouble, what terror.

  In wet, sloshing boots and wet trousers, he came up to them with heavy steps and threw them a dark look from under his brow. His wife, Bekey, cried anxiously:

  "What is the matter with you, Orozkul? What happened? You're all wet. Was the log carried off?"

  "No." Orozkul waved her off. "Here"—he gave the reins to Guldzhamal—"take the horse to the stable." Then he turned toward his house. "Come inside," he said to his wife. The old woman wanted to go with them, but Orozkul did not allow her on the threshold.

  "Go your way, old woman. There's nothing for you here. Get back to your house and stay away."

  "What are you saying?" Grandma took offense. "What's all this about? And what about our old man? What happened?"

  "Ask him," said Orozkul.

  In the house, Bekey pulled off her husband's wet clothes, gave him a warm robe, brought in the samovar, and began to pour him some tea.

  "No." Orozkul rejected it with a wave of the hand. "Give me a drink."

  His wife took out a bottle of vodka and poured it into a glass.

  "Fill it up," said Orozkul. He drank it in a single breath, wrapped himself in his robe, and, lying down on the rug, said to his wife: "You are no wife to me, and I am not your husband. Get out, and never set foot in my house again. Go, before it's too late."

  Bekey sighed, sat down on the bed, and, swallowing her tears, as always, said quietly:

  "Again?"

  "Again what?" bellowed Orozkul. "Get out!"

  Bekey jumped out of the house and, as always, wrung her hands and screamed for the whole yard to hear:

  "Why was I ever born into this world, why must I suffer this misery?"

  And, in the meantime, old Momun was galloping on Alabash toward his grandson. Alabash was a fast horse. Still, Momun was more than two hours late. He met the boy on the road. The teacher herself was leading him home. The same teacher, with the wind-roughened hands, in the same, shabby coat she had worn for the past five years. The weary woman looked glum. The boy, who had wept for a long time, walked next to her, swollen eyed, with his schoolbag in his hands, pathetic and humbled. The teacher gave old Momun a sharp scolding. He dismounted and stood before her with bowed head.

  "Don't bring the child to school if you won't come in time to pick him up. Don't count on me, I have four of my

  own.,,

  Momun apologized again. Again he promised it would not happen anymore.

  The teacher went back to Dzhelesai, and the grandfather turned homeward with his grandson.

  The boy was silent, sitting on the horse before his grandfather. And the old man did not know what to say to him. "You're very hungry?" he asked.

  "No, the teacher gave me some bread."

  "And why are you so quiet?"

  The boy said nothing.

  "You take offense too easily," Momun said with a guilty smile. He took off the boy's cap, kissed him on the head, and replaced the cap.

  The boy did not turn around.

  They rode, both of them depressed and silent. Momun restrained Alabash, keeping a strong hand on the reins. He did not want to let the boy be shaken up on the unsaddled horse. Besides, there seemed no reason to hurry anymore.

  The horse quickly understood what was expected of him and moved at a light trot, snorting now and then, his hooves tapping on the road. A fine horse, a horse to ride by oneself, singing quietly, just to oneself. There were many things a man could sing to himself. About dreams that never came to pass, about lost years, about the days when one was still in love . . . A man likes to sigh for the days when something was left behind, something forever unattainable. And yet, he never even knows rightly what this something was. But sometimes he wants to think about it, to feel his own self.

  A good horse, a good companion . . .

  And old Momun was thinking as he looked at his grandson's cropped head, his thin neck and wide ears, that all he had left of his whole unlucky life, of all his toil, all his sorrows, was this child, this still helpless little being. If he could only live long enough to put him on his feet. The boy would have a hard time if he was left alone. No bigger than a budding ear of corn, but already with a character of his own. He ought to be simpler, more easily affectionate. . . . Men like Orozkul would hate him and tear into him like wolves into a cornered deer.

  Suddenly Momun remembered the deer that flashed by like swift shadows, the deer that caused him to cry out in joy and wonder.

  "Do you know, my son," Momun said, "the deer have come to us."

  The boy glanced quickly over his shoulder.

  "Is it true?"

  "It's true. I saw them myself. Three head."

  "Where did they come from?"

  "From over the pass, I think. There is a forest preserve there, too. The fall is still as warm as summer—the pass is open. And so they came to visit us."

  "Will they stay with us?"

  "If they like it here, they will. If no one touches them, they'll stay. There's food enough for them—even for a thousand. In old times, when the Horned Mother Deer was here, there were countless numbers of them around here."

  Feeling that the boy was relaxing at the news, that he was beginning to forget his grief, the old man began to talk again about old times, about the Horned Mother Deer. And, carried away by his own tale, he thought: "How easy it is to feel happy and bring happiness to others! If we could always live like this." Yes, just as they were living at that moment. But life was not like that. Right next to joy, there was misfortune, watching out for you constantly, breaking into your life, following you always, eternal, inescapable. Even at that hour, when they were so happy, anxiety nagged at the old man's heart: What about Orozkul? What punishment was he preparing for the old man who had dared to disobey him? For Orozkul would not ignore it, or he would not be Orozkul.

  And so, in order not to think about the imminent disaster awaiting his daughter and himself, Momun spoke to his grandson about the deer, about their nobility and beauty and swiftness with such self-oblivious joy as though this could somehow avert the inevitable.

  And the boy was happy. He never suspected what awaited him at home. His eyes and ears were burning. Could it be true that the deer had come back? So everything his grandfather had told him was true. Grandpa was saying that the Horned Mother Deer forgave men's crimes against her and permitted her children to return to the Issyk-Kul Mountains. He was saying that three deer had come back to see how it was here, and if they liked it, all deer would return to their homeland.

  "Ata," the boy interrupted his grandfather. "Perhaps it is the Horned Mother Deer herself who came here? Perhaps she wants to see how it is here, and then call her children?"

  "It could be so," Momun said uncertainly. He hesitated, wondering: Had he not gone too far? Had the boy put too much faith in his words? But Momun did not try to dispel the boy's belief. It would have been too late now, anyway.

  "Who knows." He shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps. Perhaps it was the Horned Mother Deer herself. Who knows . . ."

  "We can find out," cried the boy. "Let's go to the place where you saw the deer. I want to see them too."

  But they don't stay in one place."

  "We'll follow in their tracks. We'll follow and follow for a long time. And as soon as we catch sight of them we'll turn back. And then they will believe that people won't harm them."

  "You funny child." The grandfather smiled. "Let's get home first, then we'll see."

  They were already approaching the post along the path that ran behind the houses. A house from the back is just like a man from the back. None of the three houses gave any sign of what was going on inside. The yard was also empty and quiet. Momun's heart shrank with forebod
ing. What could have happened? Had Orozkul beaten his unhappy daughter? Had he drunk himself into a stupor? Why was it so quiet? Why was nobody out in the yard at this hour? "If everything's all right," thought Momun, "that blasted log will have to be dragged out of the river. To the devil with Orozkul, it's best to humor him—do what he wants, and forget it. You can't prove to an ass that he is an ass."

  Momun rode over to the stable.

  "Get down. We're home," he said to his grandson, trying to conceal his anxiety. But when the boy ran toward the house with his schoolbag, Momun stopped him: "Wait, we'll go together."

  He put Alabash in the stable, took the boy by the hand, and walked toward the house.

  "Now listen," the grandfather said to his grandson, "if they scold me, don't be frightened, don't pay attention to their words. It doesn't concern you. Your business is to go to school."

  But nothing of the kind happened. When they came in, grandma merely gave Momun a long, disapproving look, compressed her lips, and resumed her sewing. Grandpa said nothing either. Frowning and tense, he stood a while in the middle of the room, then he took a large bowl of noodles from the stove, brought spoons and bread, and sat down with his grandson to a late supper.

  They ate silently. Grandma did not even look in their direction. Anger was frozen on her flabby brown face. The boy realized that something terrible had happened. But the old people remained silent.

  Such dense fear and disquiet settled over the boy that he could barely eat. There is nothing worse than silence at the dinner table, when people are absorbed in their own anger. "Maybe it's our fault," the boy said mentally to his schoolbag, which lay on the windowsill. The boy's heart rolled down to the floor, slipped across the room, climbed to the windowsill, nearer to the schoolbag, and whispered to it:

  "You don't know anything about it? Why is grandpa so sad? What did he do? And why was he late today? Why did he come on Alabash, and without a saddle? This never happened before. Could he have been delayed because he saw the deer in the woods? And suppose there are no deer at all?

  Suppose it isn't true? What then? Why did he tell me about it? The Horned Mother Deer will be very angry if he lied to us . . .

  After supper, Grandpa Momun said quietly to the boy: "Go out into the yard, I have some business to attend to. You'll help me. I'll be out in a moment."

  The boy obediently left. And as soon as he closed the door, grandma's voice rose behind him:

  "Where to?"

  "To get the log. It got stuck in the river," said Momun.

  "Ah, thought better of it, eh?" grandma screamed. "Came to your senses? Go look at your daughter. Guldzhamal took her into her house. Who needs her now, your barren fool? Go, let her tell you who she is now. Her husband turned her out like a mangy dog."

  "Well, he did, so he did," Momun said bitterly.

  "Look at him! And who are you? Your daughters are no good, so you think you'll raise your grandson to be an important official! That brat! If it was somebody to risk your neck for, at least. And it is Alabash, no less, that you must ride. Just look at you! It's time you knew your place, time you remembered the kind of man you're bucking. . . . He'll twist your neck like a chicken's. Just wait! Since when did you begin to fly in people's faces? Great hero! And don't you even think of bringing your daughter here, I wouldn't let her on the doorstep . . ."

  The boy walked across the yard with a bowed head. Grandma's screams continued in the house, then the door flew open, and Momun rushed out. The old man went to Seidakhmat's house, but Guldzhamal met him at the threshold.

  "It's better if you don't go in now. Later," she said to Momun. He stopped in confusion. "She's crying, he beat her up," whispered Guldzhamal. "He says they will not live to¬gether anymore. She's cursing you. She says it's all your fault."

  Momun was silent. What could he say? Now even his own daughter would not see him.

  "And Orozkul is drinking in there. He's like a wild beast," Guldzhamal spoke in a whisper.

  They stood in silence, thinking. Guldzhamal sighed sympathetically:

  "If only Seidakhmat would come soon. He said he would return today. You'd bring the log over together, and be rid of that, at least."

  "It's not the log so much. That's not the worst of it." Momun shook his head. He stood, thinking, then he noticed his grandson at his side. "Go and play awhile," he said to the boy.

  The boy walked away. He went into the barn, took the binoculars hidden there, and dusted them. "We're in bad trouble," he told them sadly. "I think it's my fault, and the schoolbag's. If there was another school nearby, I'd run off with the schoolbag to study there—but so that nobody would know. The only one I would be sorry for is grandpa, he'd search for me. And you, binoculars, with whom would you be looking at the white ship? You think I couldn't turn into a fish? You'll see. I'll swim to the white ship . . ."

  The boy hid behind the haystack and began to look around him through the binoculars. But he looked joylessly and briefly. At other times he could not get enough of it—the mountains, covered with autumn woods. White snow above, red flame below.

  The boy put the binoculars back in their usual place. As he came out of the barn, he saw his grandfather leading the harnessed horse across the yard. He was going to the ford. The boy wanted to run to him, but he was stopped by Orozkul's shout. Orozkul jumped out of the house in his undershirt, his coat over his shoulders. His face was purple, like a cow's swollen udder.

  "Hey, you!" he shouted threateningly to Momun. "Where are you taking the horse? Come on, now, put him back. We'll get the log without you. Don't you dare touch it. You're nobody here from now on. You're fired from the job. Get out of here—go anywhere you wish."

  The old man smiled bitterly and led the horse back to the stable. He suddenly became very old and very small. He walked, shuffling his feet, without looking at anyone.

  The boy gasped. His breath stopped with anger and grief for his grandfather, for his humiliation. To hide his tears, he ran away down the path by the river. The path blurred before him, disappeared, then reappeared under his feet. The boy ran, crying. Here were his favorite boulders, the "tank," the ((wolf," the "saddle," the "resting camel." He said nothing to them. They understood nothing, they just lay and lay there. He merely put his arms around the resting camel's hump and, pressing himself to the rusty granite, sobbed .aloud, bitterly and inconsolably. He cried for a long time, gradually quieting down.

  At last he raised his head, wiped his eyes, looked up, and turned numb.

  Right before him, on the opposite bank, three deer stood by the water. Real deer. Real, living deer. They had come down to drink. It seemed they had been drinking for some time and had enough now. Then one of them, the one with the largest, heavy horns, lowered his head to the water again and, sipping slowly, seemed to examine his horns in the inlet, as in a mirror. He was reddish brown, with a powerful chest. When he tossed his head up, drops fell into the water from his lighter-colored, hairy lip. Faintly stirring his ears, the great horned animal gave the boy a close, attentive look.

  But the one who looked longest at the boy was the white, high-flanked doe with a crown of slender, branching horns on her head. Her horns were slightly smaller than the male's, but very beautiful. She was exactly like the Horned Mother Deer. Her eyes were enormous, clear, and liquid. And she was as stately as a fine mare that foals every year. The Horned Mother Deer looked at him intently, calmly, as if trying to remember where she had seen this roundheaded, wide-eared boy before. Her eyes gleamed moistly, glowing from the distance. A whiff of steamy breath rose from her nostrils. Next to her, with his back to the boy, a hornless fawn was munch¬ing at some willow branches. He did not care about anything. He was well fed, strong, and merry. Abandoning the branches, he made a sudden leap, brushed the doe with his shoulder, and, after a few more playful leaps, began to fondle his mother. He rubbed his hornless head against the Horned Mother Deer's side. And she still looked and looked at the boy.

  Holding his breath, the b
oy came out from behind the rock and walked, as though dreaming. His arms stretched before him, he walked to the bank, to the very edge of the water. The deer were not the least bit frightened. They looked calmly at him from the opposite bank.

  Between them ran the swift, transparent, greenish river, boiling up as it rolled across the underwater rocks. And if it were not for the river, it seemed to the boy that he could walk up and touch the deer. They stood on the even, clean, pebbled shore. And behind them, where the strip of pebbles ended, rose the flaming wall of autumn woods. Still higher, was the bare, clay ledge, and over it the golden and orange birches and aspens. And over all of this, the deep dense forest and white snow on the craggy summits.

  The boy closed his eyes and opened them again. The picture before him did not change. The legendary deer still stood on the clean pebbled shore before the fiery-leaved thickets.

  But now they turned and walked in single file across the bank and into the woods. First the large male, then the hornless fawn, and last the Horned Mother Deer. She glanced back over her shoulder at the boy again. The deer entered the thicket and walked among the shrubs. The scarlet branches waved over them, and red leaves dropped upon their smooth, strong backs.

  They went up the path and rose to the clay ledge. Here they stopped again. And once more the boy thought that the deer looked at him. The male stretched his neck, threw back his horns, and sang out like a trumpet, "Ba-o, ba-o!" His voice rolled across the gap and the river in a long echo: "Aa-o, aa-o!"