‘Look around you,’ he says, spreading his arms wide. ‘You have no choice.’
He laughs at her, turning his face up to the sky. Then he shakes his head as though she is the pitiful one. He picks the bracelets up from the ground before offering a hand to help her to her feet. She spits on it. He pauses, then straightens himself to his full height. Without taking his eyes from hers, he licks her spit off his hand. Then he walks back towards the poppy field.
Hana doesn’t immediately follow him. She watches for a long time, thinking about what will happen next. He will take her away in the morning, and then their life together as man and wife will begin. It will be like living in a cage. Altan stands still among the poppy stalks, and she cannot see his expression as Morimoto passes him, continuing onwards to the camp. Altan does not move until she finally heads back to the field. His questioning expression greets her, but she does not answer him. He is too young, too innocent, to understand what is going on. He has not lived as much as she has in these last months. She keeps her head down as she slashes the poppy bulbs, one by one.
Tonight, there is no singing. Altan’s father and Morimoto go over plans, while Altan sulks in the corner. Hana’s mind wanders through the memories of the last few days. They drop like leaves into a swirling puddle, floating round and round in an endless spiral. She is the vortex, pulling them inwards, refusing to let them go. If she never saw her home again, she could be happy in this place, and this realisation frightens her. She would forsake her mother, her father, even her sister to never see Morimoto, or any other soldier like him, again.
When they all lie down to sleep, she is surprised when Morimoto is invited to join them in the family ger. He sleeps near Altan on the other side of the stove. His presence stifles her. He has invaded the serenity she felt among these people. She tries to recall the first moment she felt at peace, but her mind goes blank, as though the memories have left her. Panicking, she opens her eyes and is searching through the darkened ger when a single thought blooms in her mind: I know where Altan’s mother keeps the harvesting knives.
Hana can picture the one she wants. The short one with the bone handle has the sharpest blade – the one Altan uses. He lent it to her their first morning in the poppy field. It slides through the bulbs’ flesh without resistance, a clean cut, quick and precise. It is small in her hand, easy to manoeuvre. She could get close to Morimoto, hide the knife in her long sleeves, and kneel beside him without his suspecting her motive until it is too late. It would be as simple as cutting a mollusc from the reef. One clean slice, deep and controlled, and she would be free.
Hana imagines holding the blade against his throat. She watches the blade slide from left to right, imagining the pressure needed in order to cut through flesh. She repeats the image again and again until her hand is moving through the air in quick, assured strokes, practising.
Hana presses against the soft fur beneath her and rises to her knees. She pauses, waiting for the sleeping bodies to sense her movement. The two men are snoring, and in between their pauses, Hana can just make out Altan’s mother’s steady breaths. Altan is huddled against the wall, unmoving. Rising to her feet, she surveys the curved room. The sounds of sleeping bodies reassure her. Her own breaths are quiet and deep, steadying the pitter-pattering of her heart, as she tiptoes around Altan’s mother and carefully navigates through the sleeping bodies.
The knives are tucked away in a wooden box beside the trunk of food. She knows the hinges squeak when it is opened so she spits on them, hoping her saliva will lubricate the metal. The lid lifts with barely a sound. Inside, the small blade with the bone-white handle glows as though it knows it has been chosen for this deadly task. She lifts it out of the box, and a current seems to flow from the smooth bone into her hand, travelling up her arm and into her chest, fortifying her resolve with a new-found sense of power.
Closing the box, she grips the knife and mimics what she intends to do. It feels good in her hand, the slicing motion a natural movement. She must step around Altan’s father’s head to reach Morimoto. Carefully, she edges her toes around his fur pelt, keeping her movements slow so that the breeze of her passing will not blow the pelt’s hair against his cheek. Step by step, she inches past him, her eyes watchful for any movement within the ger. Breaths disguise her footsteps. Nearing Morimoto, she forces herself to remain calm. One step, two steps. Three more, and she is there, towering over him. She listens to his sleep rhythms; his familiarity infuriates her. She grips the knife even tighter. She sees her hand slide past his neck, both graceful and powerful at once, and her resolve is set.
She takes in a deep breath before kneeling next to him. She has lain beside him on too many occasions. She knows when he is dreaming, when she can leave his side and clean herself up or relieve herself. She watches him, his face lit only by the red embers dying in the stove. His eyelids flutter. Hate fills her with each flickering movement. It is time.
The knife assumes a life of its own and hovers above his exposed throat. Her hand tingles as though it has fallen asleep. One cut. That’s all it will take. Do it now. Her father’s voice surprises her. It’s an echo from her childhood. The first time she gutted a fish. It was wet and slimy and flopping side to side in her hand, trying to swim away. This will be like that. And like the dying ox. Terrible but necessary. So she can live, free of him.
Hana lightly presses the blade against Morimoto’s neck. Holding her breath, she calculates the amount of pressure needed to cut through his windpipe so he can’t scream. She exhales fully, tenses her stomach and arm, before her hand begins to slide from left to right – just as she saw in her mind. But without warning, her arms are lifted high into the air. Her body is jerked backwards. The sudden force disorientates her, and she falls to the ground. It takes a moment for her to realise she has landed on someone. They struggle for the knife. His hands are powerful and assured. She twists round to see his face. It is Altan.
He squeezes a pressure point in her wrist. She drops the blade. He snatches it up before she can recover, tucking it into his belt. They are both breathless. She wants to shout at him but cannot risk waking the others. Altan says nothing, but his expression is enough. He is incredulous, or perhaps he is disgusted.
She glares back at him, even though in her mind she wants to explain. But he would never understand. There are no common words that can travel between them.
Altan rises and quickly exits the ger. She does not follow him. There are other knives in the box. Hana could get a new one and finish the job, but the look on Altan’s face stops her. He would never forgive her. She turns back to Morimoto, the man who has reduced her to a would-be killer. If she goes through with her plan, she will be no better than him and the other men who tortured her. The thought is difficult to swallow. Is it worth it, to be better than them?
Staring at Morimoto, she grinds her teeth in frustration, anger and hate. She clenches her hands into balled fists, relishing the sting of her fingernails biting into her flesh. Pain; she has gained an intimate relationship with this sense. It tears her away from her haze of hatred. Altan’s face rises in her mind like an ill-fated moon. His expression stains her memory. The innocence in his eyes lost. What has she become?
Morimoto continues sleeping. She watches herself in her mind slitting his throat one last time, before she crawls back to her pelt and lies down. Her body slumps against the soft padding as though she has trekked a thousand miles. She could sleep an entire day and still not recover from the effort it takes to make herself lie back down knowing that in the morning Morimoto will take her away.
She will never see Altan again, and the last image she will have of him is the horror on his face when she looked into his eyes. She imagines what he must have seen, watching her prowl through the darkness, preparing to murder a man in his sleep. He must think her the lowest of creatures. He must despise her. She closes her eyes and hopes she won’t see him in the morning, that he will be so disgusted by her that he will wait until
she has gone before returning to the ger. She closes her eyes even tighter and tries to convince herself she doesn’t care.
Later in the night, Hana is awakened. She fears it is Morimoto. She thrashes against the hand on her arm, but a young voice hushes her. Altan holds his finger over his lips and urges her to follow him. He is dressed and a leather satchel hangs on one shoulder. She sits up. Without looking at her, he hands her the suede boots his mother has given her to wear. She puts them on, and then he leads her out of the ger.
Outside, Ganbaatar stands next to the door, and Hana is taken aback. He puts one finger to his lips, just as Altan did, and she pauses, trying to understand what they are up to. Altan is still holding her hand, pulling her away from the ger. Ganbaatar follows them, and as they head towards the smaller ger set behind the pen, Hana slowly realises she may not be safe with them.
She pulls away from Altan, but Ganbaatar is behind her, holding her by both shoulders and pushing her forward. She struggles against him, but he doesn’t hurt her. Instead, he whispers something softly into her ear. She doesn’t understand him but knows she cannot wait to find out what he intends. She strikes her head against his. The blow jars her vision. He releases her and she turns to run, but Altan grabs the silk sash tied around her waist. She tries to yank it from him, but he holds on, slowly shaking his head. His expression isn’t angry but worried. He keeps glancing back at the ger.
‘Hana,’ he says, trying to calm her, before he releases the sash.
She stops struggling, waiting for him to explain what he wants. He points to the smaller ger. Two ponies are tethered to the post, both animals fully saddled as though prepared for a journey. Lifting his satchel, he opens it so she can see inside. It is packed with food rations, water flasks and other travelling items. Slowly, his intentions dawn on her. He means to help her get away.
Rubbing the side of his face, Ganbaatar smiles at her and points to her head. She smiles back at him and rubs her head as well, acknowledging the pain. The three of them walk in silence to the ponies. Ganbaatar helps her onto the white one with black feet. Altan removes the blade from his belt and hands it to her. He says something to Ganbaatar, who nods and pats him on the shoulder, then unties the ponies from the post. Altan leaps behind Hana on the pony, surprising her. She looks at him over her shoulder, but he merely nudges the pony, and they depart together. The spare pony follows them dutifully, as though he also knows the way.
When they are beyond the poppy field, Altan urges the pony into a gallop. Soon it is flying at top speed, navigating through the dark as though it has travelled the route time and again. Altan kicks it in the sides when it slows from the change in terrain. His anxiety is contagious, and soon Hana is urging the pony onwards with sheer will. They travel up a rocky incline, and she suspects they must be climbing up the base of the mountain behind their encampment.
The stars glisten above them. She listens for approaching hooves, and the image of Morimoto in pursuit makes the suspense even harder to endure. A few times she thinks she does hear his black horse galloping behind them, but it is only in her imagination.
When the sun decides to awaken the land, her eyes can finally see the path the pony has found. A skinny goat trail winds through the rocky outcrops of the mountain pass. They are only a quarter of the way up the mountain, so she cannot see much beyond the immediate trees and boulders surrounding them. The need to know if they are being pursued strangles her stomach until it twists into a knot.
Altan’s arms encircle her as he holds on to the reins, giving her a small amount of comfort. She doesn’t know where he plans to take her or how long he will remain with her, but she is glad he has come. The expression of disgust on his face when he stopped her from killing Morimoto hangs in her mind. She wants to shrink into herself from shame and guilt. Her only consolation is the fact that Altan doesn’t know what she has experienced because of Morimoto. He also has no idea what the future held for her. Perhaps if she could have communicated these things to him, then he would have let her hand slide the knife across Morimoto’s throat, and they wouldn’t have to run away. All these thoughts pass through her mind over and over as the sun rises and the pony tires, until they finally come to a stop.
Altan helps her dismount before removing the saddle and placing it onto the reserve pony. He gives the exhausted pony a handful of water from one of his pouches before mounting Hana onto the fresh pony and climbing on behind her. They continue their speedy escape ever upwards through the craggy mountain pass, ignoring the aches of riding at such speed over that distance. Part of the anxiety pitted in her stomach is the small chance that they might get away, that Morimoto might have slept through the night and is only now waking to find that she has gone, and that with Altan’s help, she may truly be free. The thought is too wonderful to believe, so she tempers her emotions, pressing the hope down into herself, and focuses only on the rising sun, the pony’s sure-footed steps, and Altan’s arms encircling her as he guides the pony through the misty dawn.
The narrow path crests, and then the pony’s nose leads them down the other side of the mountain pass. It is easier going down than it was to climb, and the pony is nearly at a full gallop. It dodges obstacles along the path with deft agility, and it is all Hana can do to hang on. Altan seems to sense she is having difficulty and leans his chest against her back. They move as one down the mountain; rolling prairie spreads beneath them like a green ocean. She could live in this land, and the moment she thinks it, she hears a rock tumble behind them.
At first she thinks it must be the other pony trailing after them, but when she looks over her shoulder to be certain, she loses her breath. It’s as though a vice has clamped down upon her lungs. Morimoto’s black horse is speeding down the path behind them. The lashing of the riding crop snaps through the thick air. Altan hears it, too, and he kicks the pony into full speed. The sturdy little horse obeys and soon they are bounding across the prairie.
They are travelling too fast for her to look behind them, but the black horse’s progress can be gauged by the slap of the crop against its flesh. It is closing in. The pony is overburdened with two passengers. At a full sprint across the flat plain, it is still too slow to outrun Morimoto’s steed.
Altan steals a glance over his shoulder and shouts what must be a curse. He kicks the pony again and again, urging it to go faster, but it cannot give him what he wants. Without warning, Altan is knocked backwards, off the pony. Hana glances behind her and sees him in a heap on the ground. Morimoto has lassoed him like a prize pony. His horse halts beside Altan. The pony is still galloping at full speed, and Hana takes the reins. She urges it onwards, desperate to get away, but she can’t stop herself from looking back once more. Morimoto is on the ground, beating Altan with his fists. He will surely kill the boy.
Hana cannot leave him behind. She cries out with rage and sorrow and regret. The sound echoes across the steppe, and the pony rears up in a sudden halt. She guides it in a U-turn, heading back the way she came, back to Altan, and to captivity, or perhaps her death.
Morimoto is on top of Altan, his arms animated in powerful strikes against the form lying still beneath him. The pony is galloping back towards them, but Hana fears it will not arrive in time to stop the beating before it’s too late. The sounds of Morimoto’s fist against Altan’s face reach her, even beneath the pony’s thundering hooves. As she nears them, she remembers the knife tucked into the sash tied around her waist. She runs her hand over it to check it is still there before the pony skids to a halt, and she slips down on quivering legs.
Upon her arrival, Morimoto climbs off Altan and forces him onto his knees. His fists stained with Altan’s blood, Morimoto turns to face Hana, one hand resting on the hilt of the sword hanging from his belt. She touches the knife tucked into her sash. The slick bone handle reassures her as she prepares to sacrifice herself.
Altan’s face swells before Hana’s eyes, his right eye closing. He’s shouting at Morimoto with words that sound l
ike bullet strikes, but they miss their target. Morimoto’s attention is solely on Hana as she approaches the pair. His eyes shine at her, black and glittering, reflecting the noon sun. She remembers the day he first stole her away, standing on the black rocks that hid her sister from his view. She went to him voluntarily on that day, too. It seems it is her fate to surrender to him.
For a moment, she imagines herself turning back to the pony, leaping onto it, and flying away in a cloud of dust. It thrills her senses to imagine the possibility. Even as she enjoys the image, she knows it will never come to pass. Her life would be worthless if she let Altan die. He is still shouting, words that sound like curses, boyish threats against the power of a trained soldier. Morimoto’s hand sits lightly on the hilt of his sword. When she is a few steps away, Altan gets to his feet, prompting Morimoto to unsheathe his blade.
‘Stop,’ Hana says, her voice soft yet firm.
Altan holds one hand out to her, as though to warn her away. She shakes her head slowly.
‘Don’t hurt him,’ she says.
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
Morimoto’s expression is as dark as his eyes. In it, she sees he wants to murder Altan. One quick motion and Altan’s head would roll off his neck, never to see another Mongolian blue sky or to smile in that innocent way that makes the sun seem brighter.
‘Because I came back. I’m here.’
‘Maybe I’m going to kill you both.’
A grin spreads across his face, reminding her of the villain’s mask in a talchum folk dance. He is an evil god who has come back to punish her for sins from another life.
‘Kill me if you must, but he is just a boy. He is blameless.’
Morimoto seems to weigh his choices but never takes his eyes off her. Hana begins to fear for both their lives. She nears Altan and touches his battered face.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, knowing he cannot understand her.
White Chrysanthemum Page 24
