by Allyson Bird
Why write? she must ask. Wouldn’t it make it worse?
But writing actually helped Frieda deal with the depression. Sometimes she was a frenzy of activity, putting her horror into words so that her character could feel worse than she did. She furiously thumped her computer keyboard as if punching in a secret code to escape, day after day.
Sometimes Frieda would walk the streets, close to the River Irwell in Salford, where she had lived since graduation. She walked to stave off the bouts of depression, thinking about her writing as she walked. She constantly talked to herself, acting out the dialogue like a madwoman. Some mad people lived their fiction. Were most writers merely rehearsing for the madness and loneliness of later life?
Frieda had never really got on with the opposite sex for more than one or two months, or one or two years in two cases. Habits irritated her and she preferred to sleep alone.
Before she left Salford, Frieda had been on a messageboard and saw a YouTube video, filmed in India. A beggar put down a baby on the street pavement, with a cobra (whose venom had been removed), and onlookers watched eagerly as the baby tried to catch the snake and strangle it. Bets would be on snake or infant and Frieda watched as the cobra, its neck held firmly in the chubby little fist, wound the length of its body around the baby’s neck. Frieda shuddered and hoped that China didn’t have any horrors like that on offer for her.
The city of Urumchi captivated her. It was located in The Tarim Basin and was one of the ancient cities that once was a hive for traders and the welcome refuge of the nomads on the Silk Road. Huge mounds of melon, tomatoes, and onions were placed in front of the stalls in the bazaar. Normally, Frieda avoided crowds but the hustle of the foreign city was light relief from the dull, wet, streets of Salford. She was excited by the fact that she could escape to another continent for three months, with its new sounds, spice smells, and cheerful activity.
Urumchi had modern changes like skyscrapers, but there was also that wonderful oriental feel to the city. Behind those skyscrapers she could see snow-capped mountains and she felt refreshingly invigorated as the wind whipped down from them in the late afternoons.
Frieda looked at the Indo-European mummies in the glass-topped cases in the Urumchi Museum. They had been preserved by the salt flats in which they had been found. The Loulan Mummy was from Qawrighul (Gumugou, in Chinese). She had a Caucasian face, reddish hair, and amongst her clothes a well-preserved material was found, a sort of Celtic plaid. DNA results of another mummy, Cherchen Man, revealed him to be related to Swedes, Finns, Tuscans, Corsicans, and Sardinians. Here, Frieda had an Indo-European woman, on the Silk Road thousands of years before she should have been there. Some scholars thought that western travellers arrived in China well before Marco Polo, and indeed they did not believe Polo’s writings, considering those to be eccentric accounts from a man who did not travel so far to the East.
The female mummy was four thousand years old. What had been her language? Could she write? What had her life been like, and what had killed her? All those questions ran through Frieda’s head. Was the woman a sacrifice or had she died of natural causes? Her skin was the colour of rubber bands and she had thick eye lashes and long hair. Her jaw had dropped in death, as the fastening that was meant to secure her mouth shut had rotted. Her cheeks were painted yellow and there were many tattoos on her face. Her ear lobes were pierced with strands of red wool threaded through them.
Frieda continued to take notes in her diary, now focusing on how the strange mummy was dressed. She wore a long, red dress and deerskin boots. Remarkably, she was very tall, six feet and in a good state of preservation. Careful preparation had made sure of that, but she was kept intact for what? An eternal life that was just out of reach?
The mummies had all their belongings buried with them for the journey. Even the little comb found in the female mummy’s hands, which some had thought was to comb her hair, could have been the comb she used to card wool for her clothes. Perhaps the mummies could weave their own destiny in the afterlife? Frieda speculated on that, and also that in Salford, as people grew older their houses got smaller too. They swapped them for granny-flats until those were exchanged for the smallest houses of all—and in those they were just given a satin pillow.
Frieda could have stayed hours in the museum but it was going to close soon and she wondered about walking in the strange city, whether it was safe to. She hadn’t come all the way from England to lock herself away; if she wanted to write she, needed to see the city.
Frieda looked over at a man. He looked to be Han Chinese. He sensed that she was watching him and looked up. Their eyes met—she looked away. He would not speak English anyway, so what was the point?
He smiled when she glanced back. “Good afternoon, Miss.”
Frieda smiled too. “Good afternoon.”
“You like our lady, Miss?”
“She fascinates me. I want to write about her and I will be writing about the city too, past and present.”
“And the people, will you be writing about the people too?”
Frieda nodded, unsure of how much to say about her intentions.
“My name is Galyma. I look after the Loulan beauty, but not officially.”
Frieda thought that, obviously curators, conservationists, and archaeologists looked after mummies—okay perhaps a caretaker—if that was who the man was. Maybe he could tell her more information about the mummies than was in the official records.
“Would you be interested in being my guide around the city?” she asked.
“What would you like to see?”
“Places which tourists don’t usually see.”
“Are you writing a book?”
“Well, yes, does that matter?”
“What kind of book would it be?”
“Fiction.”
Galyma’s eyes lit up. “Stories?”
“Yes, stories. Do you have any stories about The Loulan Beauty?”
The tall man nodded. “If you meet me I will tell you stories that will interest you.”
It occurred to Frieda that she would never find out what she wanted to know if she stayed in her hotel room all the time. They fixed the place for a rendezvous for the next day—Tuesday at 2 p.m.
All her adult life Frieda had been this adventurous, which occasionally helped her escape her depression. When she was at Salford University she had taken her mountain bike and her boyfriend, shoved both on a plane to Salzburg, then on a train to Vienna, and cycled along the Danube to Budapest. It poured with rain some days and they met one fellow cyclist, a German, who had decided to cycle to the Black Sea. He wore only a T-shirt, no waterproofs, and stayed in hotels each night whilst they camped. She asked him why, even though it was summer, why he didn’t have any waterproofs? He shrugged. “I didn’t think it would rain.”
Frieda looked down on the Loulan Mummy. The Chinese had let Frieda come and stay to research her book, but she knew that one or two officials were anxious about the influence of westerners of the present day, let alone those of the past.
Before she left the museum she talked to a curator who was keen to tell her his ideas on the origin of the mummies. “Kazaks, Kyrgyzs, Uighurs who live in central Asia, are all mixed Caucasian and East Asian. DNA tests have concluded that the DNA from thousands of years ago compared with modern DNA of these people is similar. The government has now moved thousands of Chinese from other places, into the area.”
“And why do that?” she asked.
The curator smiled and shrugged.
It became obvious to Frieda that the Chinese government wanted to dilute the local population and she supposed that those who moved into the province would benefit from a relaxation of certain laws about how many children they could have.
“Has the tall caretaker been here long?” she asked.
“He’s quite harmless but sometimes, how does one say, not quite right in the head. He came from Tian Chi. Left because of some trouble between himself and his family.�
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Frieda wasn’t so sure that the caretaker was harmless; for a start she didn’t like the way she caught him looking at her, and she wasn’t sure now whether to meet with him or not.
“Actually Tian Chi, The Heavenly Lake would be a good place for you to visit. It’s touristy but stay overnight in a yurt higher up away from the lake. It would be an interesting experience for you. You can get there by bus from Urumchi, at Renmin Park, ten minutes walk from the Hongshan Hotel. Get a ticket the day before you want to go.”
“Thank you. I might just do that.”
Frieda made up her mind to get a ticket for the next day and spend a few days up in Tian Chi. The curator had told her it would take around three hours to get there by bus. The next morning she travelled through lush meadow and pine forest until finally the bus took the ascending route along the river to the lake, which was surrounded by snow–tipped peaks. It was only when she was well on her way that she remembered she had forgotten to keep her appointment with Galyma.
Frieda did as the curator had suggested. She politely declined an offer of accommodation in the lower yurts and made her way up the hiking track to the pastures higher above the lake, where she came across a colourful yurt with a wooden door. A tall woman of indeterminate age sat outside, embroidering a waistcoat with red thread. Frieda caught the woman’s interest and used gestures universal to those who need food and somewhere to sleep. The woman cheerfully agreed and bade Frieda sit beside her. The woman managed to convey to her guest that she was called Aianat then disappeared into the yurt and some minutes later she came back with a bowl of something that looked like milk. Frieda knew they drank sheep’s milk—quite a lot of it. She gratefully accepted the offer.
Aianat showed her inside the yurt, which was quite spacious. The floor was covered with rich, coloured carpets. The walls were covered with woven strips and Frieda noticed with surprise that some of them were Celtic plaid. Frieda felt quite elated. Aianat smiled at her, sat outside the yurt, indicated that Frieda should sit next to her again and then continued her craft.
Frieda gazed contentedly over the lake beneath below them and to the snow-covered mountains beyond.
Aianat had reddish-brown hair and the Caucasian features that Frieda had hoped to find after studying a book about regional differences within China. Most of the Urumchi peoples were Han Chinese, who were an affable people in themselves but the Kazakhs, the semi-nomadic people, of which Aianat was one and whose features reminded her of the Urumchi mummies, intrigued Frieda more.
In the afternoon they were joined by a young man who led his horse up the grass slope towards the yurt. Frieda supposed it was Aianat’s son by the way she greeted him. He was not interesting only because of his height, light brown hair and blue eyes, but because he had the same welcoming smile as his mother. Aianat introduced him as Erken.
After shy introductions they sat on the rug inside the yurt and ate mutton and noodles out of a large bowl.
Frieda pointed to the stew. “It’s very good.”
Aianat smiled and picked up the ladle to give them more from the cooking pot. Frieda was glad of the food and after they finished the meal she wondered what to do next. It was still daylight and the two Kazakhs chatted quietly about, well, whatever they talked about each evening.
“My mother asks if you would like to see the horses?”
“You speak English?” Frieda was continuously surprised by how many Chinese did.
“I learn from the tourists.”
“Why didn’t you say earlier?”
“I was too hungry.” To that Frieda could only smile.
“Yes, I’d like to see the horses. I can ride too.”
“Then, in the morning we ride together.”
After talking with Erken about horses and cultural differences until well into the evening, Aianat respectfully hung a bright red blanket across a section of the yurt to give Frieda some privacy. As she settled down under a soft, lamb’s wool blanket she could almost believe that she was feeling happy. Still it was a strange experience sharing the yurt with the good looking Kazakh and his mother that night.
The next morning Erken took Frieda to see the horses and with a cheerful smile pointed out her faults as a rider. Before long she mastered her horse and rode alongside him through the lower pastures. They talked little and delighted in the day. Without warning Erken innocently leant across to her and lifted a strand of her hair. A golden glint caught the sunlight.
“Your hair is beautiful Frieda. The women around here like to braid their hair.”
Frieda smiled at him and thanked him for the compliment. He suddenly frowned and she noticed his mood change quickly, in the way that he roughly pulled the horse about.
“My mother will be wondering where we are, we should go back.”
They rode back in silence. Frieda tried to renew the conversation, but Erken replied simply a brief yes or no. But, he politely answered more adventurous questions when she asked about how the nomads managed to get all they needed to support their way of life.
As they neared the yurt Frieda could see Aianat talking to a familiar figure and as she drew closer she realised, to her surprise, that it was Galyma, the caretaker at the museum. Aianat didn’t look at all happy to see him.
“Galyma, I didn’t expect to see you here,” said Frieda.
“Hello Miss Frieda, this place is my home, this is my mother and Erken is my brother.”
Before she could apologise to him for not keeping their appointment Erken spoke.
“Half-brother Galyma. Different fathers.” Erken tethered the horses to a pole at the back of the yurt, entered and banged the wooden door behind him.
Aianat tried to smile at Frieda and bade her follow him. Even inside there was no mistaking the argument that ensued between the mother and Galyma. It might have been a different language but bad blood was bad blood in any tongue. Frieda sat in a corner and wondered whether or not she should leave.
When Aianat and Galyma had calmed down a little they all ate some cheese and flat cake. During his meal Galyma kept mentioning Urumchi to his mother and later kept following her around the yurt, placing his hand on hers whilst she busied herself with the clearing up. She withdrew her hand each time and snapped at him. Erken glowered as Galyma tried to win back his mother’s affection. Tired of Galyma, she pushed him away from her and finally he stopped. She took up her embroidery and sat as far away from him as possible. There was no pretence to Frieda that everything was okay; quite clearly it wasn’t.
Erken indicated that perhaps he and Frieda should go outside. The mountains and the sapphire lake below were immensely beautiful, but Frieda thought perhaps she should take the bus back to the city the next day. They talked long into the night whilst Galyma peered out at them, through a thin crack in the door of the yurt.
The morning mist clung to the ground the next day. Erken had disappeared; Galyma was nowhere to be seen either. Their mother began to cry and Frieda tried to comfort her. After a while the mother’s sobs abated and she moved things from place to place inside the yurt. She fumbled through some old jars in a box, found what she was looking for and carefully poured some powder into a bowl of milk, drank from it, and urged Frieda to do the same. Frieda drank also, partly to calm Aianat. She wasn’t entirely sure though about what really happened next.
Aianat tended the fire. Frieda thought she saw mysterious shapes in the blue smoke that circled around the yurt before finding escape through the rough vent hole in the roof. The mother reached for a pot that stood on the ground near her chair. She sat down on the rug, clutched the pot closely to herself and then rocked backwards and forwards, chanting some strange words.
The pot was about the size of the others in the little kitchen area, some contained some chunks of meat, and it was a similar size to one near Frieda that contained wheat. She asked to see inside the pot that Aianat held but Aianat shook her head and cried. Frieda was upset to see her so distressed, for she had grown fond of the
woman and one of her sons.
Frieda’s eyes began to grow heavy; she felt dizzy and struggled to make sense of what was happening—suddenly she found herself seated outside the yurt. It was daylight and the grass was fresh and damp. In the distance Frieda could see someone on horseback riding towards her at great speed. A short distance from her a woman pulled the horse up abruptly by its gilt harness and swung out of the saddle. Her soft boots scraped the wet grass. She was a tall woman and wore a deep red dress that touched the ground. Frieda noted that she had reddish-brown hair, blue eyes, and wore a tall, woollen headdress, her bare arms covered in strange tattoos of animals and insects. As she turned, Frieda saw that on the woman’s left shoulder was the design of an animal whose horns tapered into flowers. She seemed to be in her early thirties, of European appearance and held her head high with an air of importance.
The strange woman smiled. “I am the shamaness, the storyteller of the Loulan.”
Frieda was there—with the Loulan woman who had been dead for four thousand years. The shamaness spoke again to Frieda, but this time no sound came from her mouth. As darkness descended around them Frieda could hear two men shouting. She saw the two brothers and then one fell with the other standing over him. Frieda bent over the man on the ground and looked into the eyes of Erken. He then, to her surprise, disappeared. She looked to the shamaness and then at the clay pot at her own feet. Hesitant at first, Frieda lifted the pot lid. She saw the blond hair, covered with dark matted blood and recoiled. Attempting to get to her feet she knocked the pot over and the head spilled out, a dark red sludge following it. It was the head of Erken.
Frieda screamed and placed her hands over her face. The shamaness knelt down beside her, put the head back inside the pot, picked it up and took Frieda gently by the hand to lead her back inside the yurt. As the mother took the pot from the shamaness, Frieda saw the great sadness in Aianat’s eyes and a strange look passed between the two.
