In the meantime, the white-bearded axakals made new and repaired old ceremonial saddles of polished wood with ivory inlay, the old women made new caparisons reaching down to the horses’ hooves.
The women dressed in their holiday best. Kuljan was agitated and abustle more than anybody else. Her father’s wedding had introduced a merry diversity into the dull life of the aul. Without a moment’s rest she worked hard to get the aul ready for the feast: she lugged heavy pails of water from the well, dusted the thick carpets, cleaned the white yurts inside and outside, and only after all the work was done did she manage, with Zeineb’s help, to make herself a new skirt and fit to her figure her mother’s sleeveless jacket of velvet, and don a new gold embroidered skull cap with feathers. She was on her feet from the earliest hours of the morning when the bride and groom arrived.
Presently the ceremonial train of the bride entered the aul. The buxom Shauken seemed to be stouter and ruddier than usual. Her flat face, round as a full moon and marked with smallpox here and there, was glowing with triumph and self-importance. The tall velvet saukele wedding headdress glittered with golden embroidery and the golden coins sewn onto it jangled. Similar gold coins sparkled on her sleeveless jacket of silk, and a light white veil — an invariable attribute of a married woman’s dress — fell like snow-white froth down her back. Twenty strong one-humped camels carried parts of her new white yurt, and another five camels were loaded with numerous trunks holding her belongings. In half an hour the white yurts of Djantemir’s family were increased by another one, the largest and most luxurious of them all, displaying the trousseau of the rich new wife.
The numerous guests and the entire aul admired enviously the sumptuous carpets, sheepskin coats lined with silk and velvet, the holiday dresses, china, saddles, chaparis, and colorful robes. The young jigits, as ancient custom demanded, surrounded the bride and sang a jocular wedding song with which an aul of the bridegroom met the bride.
The bride bowed low by custom as if taking seriously the song’s advice to live by the commandments of Allah, but her appearance showed, in fact, that she did not intend to be a submissive worker in the aul and would bring it under her heel.
The guests broke up into groups, conversing, drinking tea and kumiss; then they were treated to a generous and tasty meal. While the jigits were lining up for a baiga far out in the steppe, the guests in the aul were entertained with wrestling, competitions in strength and dexterity, the archers shot their arrows at a gold jamba fixed on top of a tall pole. When the first horseman showed up on the distant horizon at long last, everyone rushed to the finishing line where the winner was to rein in his horse opposite the place of honor where Djantemir and his new wife sat in a circle of axakals and the most respected guests.
This time, too, it was Djantemir’s horse which came first, although there had been a lot of wonderful racers from other auls taking part in the competition. Djantemir rejoiced openly, because when a horse of a bridegroom or bride won in a race it was considered a good sign for the newlyweds.
After the races other entertainments were staged.
By custom, the bride and her husband had to perform the first dance, but Djantemir was too corpulent and old for such frivolous activity. Following the generous meal and fat mutton with strong kumiss, he could not even get on his feet, so he accorded the honor of dancing to his younger brother Adilov.
The guests formed a big circle and clapped their hands in time with the music. Shauken made three rounds of the circle, and, fanning her sweating face, returned to the place at her husband’s side, after which Kuljan entered the circle. She was all atremble with joyful impatience to dance. The jigits became animated and met her with joyous outcries. Her holiday dress emphasized her rare beauty. She looked like a gorgeous tropical butterfly which had unexpectedly flown out of the gray cocoon of an everyday dress.
Among the guests there were three akyns, Abdrahman being the oldest and most famed of them. This was not the first time he was seeing Kuljan, but it was only now that he discerned how beautiful she really was. Here was a delicate and graceful southern beauty, especially when compared with the heavy and obese Shauken. He even leaned forward, sensing how instead of a song in honor of the newlyweds, there originated in his heart the lyrics of another song devoted to the youthfulness of this girl who had suddenly ceased to be a child.
Kuljan continued to dance. The strings of the dombras and kobyzes sang for her. It was for her that the spring larks trilled in the heavenly blue up high. It was for her that the eyes of the jigits flashed with rapture.
Nothing escaped Shauken’s attentive eye. The thick covetous lips on her flat copper-red face were tightly pressed together. Her small eyes seemed to have become smaller, and they flashed a bear-like rage lurking rapaciously under her eyelids. She leaned toward her husband and whispered something in his ear. Djantemir looked at his wife stupidly, without understanding what was up, then he gave a drunken smile, got to his feet heavily, and reeling, went toward Kuljan. Her arms were raised just then and she waved them over her head as if prepared to take wing, when suddenly she felt the heavy hand of her father on her shoulder.
“Go and tend to your household work! It is time you got used to helping your elders! I see all of you have got out of hand while I have been away for several days,” he said hoarsely.
Kuljan stopped, surprised and lost, dropped her arms helplessly, and deep in her eyes, shaded by dense eyebrows, glistening tears welled up. She hung her head low like a cut flower, went out of the circle, and disappeared behind the farthest yurts.
What for? her pain-stricken heart screamed. What have I done to be put to such shame and abuse? Even the servants dance together with the guests today. Didn’t I work before they arrived, or didn’t I do well enough?
Bitter, undeserved tears dropped on her mother’s sleeveless jacket, and there was no one she could share her first maidenly grief with.
The wedding party was getting ever noisier. Now the jigits were dancing an ancient militant dance with knives to the rumble of one big and three smaller drums, the jangling of tambourines and the whistling of the pipes of the hired musicians. After that it was the girls’ turn to dance.
When the musicians grew tired of playing, the young people gathered by the bride’s yurt, the akyns picked up their dombras and cast lots to determine who would be the first to sing. The first lot fell to the young akyn Azat. He went out of the guests’ yurt, salaamed Djantemir and his wife, and struck the strings.
Azat’s song did not last long, but it had captured everyone.
“Oi boi, what a wonderful song!” the jigits broke out of one accord when he fell silent. “He understands the horse like his own soul.”
“Yes, it is a wonderful song!” the axakals joined in, nodding meaningfully.
“Thank you for the song, Azat,” Djantemir said, and pressed the young akyns hand with both of his. “Sit by my side, drink some kumiss, and listen to the glorious Nurbai not as to your rival but as to a master of masters who rejoices in the successful performance of his friend and does not envy him.”
Nurbai was a man of middle age. He was a frequent guest of Djantemir and always stayed long at his yurt. More than once did Djantemir bestow expensive gifts upon him. That was why Nurbai considered it his duty to be present at the wedding and compose a song in honor of the newlyweds. But on meeting Azat and the famous Abdrahinan at the aul, he was unpleasantly surprised. Instead of the role of an honored famous guest and adornment of a toi, he was offered the role of a common participant in a competition of akyns that was usually staged during the holidays of a bai’s kin. So when the exclamations of approval and praise in honor of Azat died away at long last, he picked up his dombra unwillingly and started to sing his song.
Shauken’s face was wreathed in smiles on hearing Nurbai referring to her as a masterful woman leading her aul through the steppe by the call of her heart, the heart of a rich woman priding in her power. Her smile of self-
satisfaction spread more and more across her face until she could not check herself and started nudging Djantemir to make him realize what a wife fate had sent him. Struggling with the overpowering drowsiness caused by the abundant food and drink, he responded with a sweet and complacent smile.
When Nurbai finished his song, a merry chatter broke out. The guests rushed to congratulate the bride who had earned such compliments from a famous akyn. The relatives nudged Djantemir in fun and whispered in his ear that now he’d have to be on guard lest his rich wife take his aul and Djantemir himself in her hands. For all the noise and jokes, everybody forgot about Nurbai or else remarked to him by the way:
“That’s something yon noticed quite cleverly: it’s the end of our bai’s rule.”
“Now he’ll be under a high hand and will be paying her a zakat and yassak like to a sultan or czar.”
What could have been more abusive for an artist or poet? Everybody had forgotten about him! He bit his lips, clenched his fists, and was almost glad when Faizullah clapped his hands and exclaimed:
“Axakals! Jigits! Girls and young women! Enough of that noise! Let us better ask the famous Abdrahman to sing us his songs which bring joy to people and make the sun shine even on a cloudy day.”
“Yes! Yes! Sing for us, our wise Abdrahman,” the guests supported the suggestion. “We would be happy listening to you till dawn and even till the next midday!”
“Where is your daughter, Djantemir?” Abdrahman asked, tuning up his dombra.
“Indeed, where has Kuljan disappeared to?” Djantemir wondered, having forgotten by now that he himself had sent her away. “Hey, women, call Kuljan!”
Abdrahman had a good enough reason to ask Djantemir of his daughter’s whereabouts. He had seen how the bai came up to the girl when she was performing her wonderful dance, and how his heavy hand placed on her shoulder suddenly clouded her eyes. He had also noticed with what rage and envy Shauken was looking at Kuljan, and decided, through his song, to open Djantemir’s eyes in regard to his daughter.
The guests fell silent, and involuntarily their eyes glowed softly and joyously, while the girls sighed deeply and excitedly as if taking in the fragrance of invisible flowers. Even Djantemir grew sober. Heavy and huge like a bear, in an expensive oriental robe of silk, he got to his feet, went up to the akyn, and clasped him in an embrace.
“I thank you, Abdrahman Aga,” he said, his voice quivering. “Thank you… Yes, Kuljan is a fine girl, pretty and gentle like a baby camel. But I did not want her to be in the way of the guests, because guests, after all, have to be given the first place of honor and the best piece of food,” he explained lamely, and returned to his place at Shauken’s side.
The guests suddenly started to talk and rushed over to the old akyn.
“Thank you, Abdrahman Aga,” they said, interrupting one another. “None of the akyns will deny that your song is the best.”
“Yes, yes, the best!” echoed the jigits, axakals, girls and young women, surrounding him in a tight circle.
“And Kuljan is worthy of such a song: she is spring incarnate.”
“She is like a fairy bird that brings us happiness.”
“Like the flower from the gardens of paradise,” added the white-bearded close-mouthed mullah of Bukhara who had not spoken a single word since the beginning of the toi.
For Djantemir he was the highest authority.
The competition was over. On Djantemir’s sign, Zeineb and Nurina brought a crimson robe of heavy Bukharan silk out of the yurt and presented it to Abdrahman with a low bow as the prize he had won in the competition.
Hardly anyone noticed what a furious glance Shauken shot at the mullah, and with what savage anger her little eyes flashed at the akyn, the guests and Djantemir.
From that day on she conceived hatred toward Kuljan, and at every opportunity kept ramming into her husband’s head that the girl was dissolute, lazy, given only to dressing flashily and singing, without any desire and ability to work. At times Djantemir tried to argue, recalling Abdrahman’s succinctly worded song and the mullah’s opinion, but he fell silent the moment Shauken raised her voice, because an old man regards everything through the eyes of his youngest wife, happy that he is still loved or rather made to believe that he is loved.
So Djantemir silenced his tongue and ordered Kuljan to do all sorts of work around the aul. In winter when the old herder Shakir was taken ill, and then Jaisak took to his bed after he fought the wolves, Shauken went after the girl again, and to humiliate her stepdaughter before the whole aul, she made her take meals to the black yurt. The stepmother did not suspect, though, that only in Shakir’s yurt could the orphan recall her late mother out loud, find peace for her soul, and talk freely about her dear brother Rahim whom Djantemir had sent to study at a madrasah in Omsk not so much out of respect for education as exclusively for the sake of prestige.
Although the aul had set out in the middle of April, it was dry and unusually hot in the steppe; the next day would be the beginning of the most difficult trek across the Karakum Desert. Broiling heat and calm portended a storm which in the Karakum was much more terrible than the wildest blizzard in February; not without reason did Djantemir call all the axakals, shepherds and herders for a council during a halt.
“The main thing is to preserve the cattle,” he said. “We’ll have to walk across the desert for three or four days, and there will be only two wells along our way.”
“There’s a third one beyond the valley swarming with snakes,” old Mirzabai added, hacking into his fist.
“I know. But it has too little water, whereas we have over five thousand cattle and ourselves to think about. Then there are also the camels. So water them today as much as they can drink, and apart from the usual load, put two water skins on each. Water the horses as much as you can, too. A clever horse will drink more when its master asks it to. We’ll move on at midnight so as to cover as long a distance as possible by dawn. Throughout the day we’ll be resting. Mind you, the nights in the desert are very cold now. Let your women dress the children warmer, and don’t forget about quilted robes and mittens yourselves.”
Up till then the aul had been crossing a damp green plain where puddles of snow water stood out in silent blue. Then they entered the realm of drifting sand with steep dunes up which the heavily loaded horses could barely clamber as they sunk knee-deep into the sand. The worst off were the sheep. One mile across such sandy terrain exacted much more effort than five miles of green steppe, and the people gladly swerved to the rocky places they came across here and there in the sea of sand.
The caravan made a halt when the sun was already high. By midday the heat was so intense it blistered bare feet. A slackless thirst plagued the people. All the pails, water skins and bottles had been emptied by now, and there was still a day’s trek to the first wells. During the night the axakals remembered a trick of the Khivans, and when the caravan passed salt marshes, they picked up handfuls of salt that sparkled like snow in the moonlight. In the daytime they dissolved it in water and rubbed their bodies with the solution which made their pores contract and secrete less sweat. Those who had failed to pick up the salt looked at the sagacious old men with envy.
At six in the evening the caravan set forth again. The sinking sun was bright, but the sky in the west seemed to have been reddened with blood or the flames of countless fires raging behind the skyline. Looking at the fiery sunset, the axakals exchanged alarmed glances and shook their heads.
Walking became ever more difficult, because the respites under the blistering heat of midday did not augment anyone’s strength. Djantemir sent out thirty horses and twenty jigits to help the shepherds pick up the exhausted sheep and carry them on the unloaded horses.
Just before dawn they reached the first wells full of spring water. The people drank greedily and could not have their fill, after which they watered and fed the animals.
By the time the sun started to beat down on th
e desert the people were fast asleep after the trying night march. Nobody knew how long they had been sleeping when a piercing whistle made them jump to their feet. Bleary-eyed, nobody could understand what had happened. A dry yellow mist hung in the air, shielding off the sun. Clouds of dust rose from the crests of the dunes like throngs of apparitions, the wind chasing them somewhere into the distance. The storm toppled the light summer yurts and tents, scattering dishes, carpets, clothing, and pails on all sides. People shouted and caught all these things flying about them, or else tried to find refuge from the storm as they pressed to the camels’ sides. Swept off their feet under the onslaught of the wind, they covered their heads with whatever tatters they could catch. The camels, however, remained lying quietly on the ground, feeling instinctively that this was the best way to survive.
The storm raged on. A sharp stone cut Kuljan’s cheek and a heavy piece of felt hit her side. Horror-stricken, the girl clasped a kerege and shielded herself with the felt from the driving stones. Her dust-filled eyes watered with tears and squinted in pain. Kuljan tried to go round a yurt to hide behind it from the wind, but a new gust, more violent than anything before, picked her up and swept her away. She tried to catch hold of something but the wind carried her farther and farther away. Then she suddenly slipped down a steep slope and rolled into a deep ditch between the dunes, gasping for breath and stunned, unable to get up or even stir. A hot dry dust kept piling on her from above, pinning her down under its heavy burning burden.
I have to get up; I must get up, the thought flashed through her mind. But she only stirred weakly and then lost consciousness.
The storm raged for another hour, turning the desert into a choppy sea of huge dunes which lifted their heads and dashed away with incredible speed like tumbling billows.
When the storm had spent itself, the people rushed about, looking for their wives, children and relatives, while Djantemir yelled in his yurt which had been half buried by the sand. The aul poor started to dig into the sand with their hands, because no one had any spades, ketmens or even a piece of board to work with. At long last Djantemir crawled out of his yurt and clasped his head in despair.
The Exile: A novel about Taras Shevchenko Page 7
