The Exile: A novel about Taras Shevchenko

by Zinaida Tulub

  It was only now that Jaisak sensed with his heart that fortune had visited him at long last. It would bring him freedom and win him the girl he loved so passionately.

  “Oi, Mayir Maksi! Oi, Taras Aga. You are like two great magicians,” his words ran into each other from excite­ment.

  Something constricted his throat, tears grew in his eyes, and his heart throbbed like that of a lark hovering over its nest.

  “You two did as much to me as only Allah could have done!”

  He clenched his fists and pressed them to his chest, as if afraid lest his heart jump out of the chest. Excitement robbed him of speech, and he looked wordlessly at his friends. To hide and contain their emotions, Maksheiev and Shevchenko started counting the money. Maksheiev wound ev­ery one hundred-ruble bill with a thread, while Shevchenko sorted the coins and arranged them in neat stacks starting with the bright yellow imperials and half-imperials of gold and the white silver one-ruble coins to the heavy, dark five-kopeck pieces of copper.

  Jaisak took only three rubles to pay the tax and fif­ty to buy the sheep; the rest — a fortune of six hundred rubles — was buried under the floor, and its existence would be the knowledge only of the dwellers of the earth house from now on.

  “Mind you don’t tell anybody how much money you have and where it is, because the Khivans might attack, kill us, and plunder you,” Shevchenko and Maksheiev frightened him intentionally. “If anyone in the aul asks you where you got the money to buy the sheep, tell them that the mayirs bought your fox furs for five rubles a piece, and that’s what made you rich.”

  Jaisak rushed back to the aul on wings to share his joy with his mother and, of course, with Kuljan too.

  Kuljan had been weeping for days at the thought of her marriage to Moldabai. But on learning of Jaisak’s good fortune, she smiled for the first time in days and at once started praying for the health of Taras Aga and the “Mayir Golden Mustache,” as Maksheiev was called by the Kir­ghiz.

  27

  The Big Toi

  For Djantemir the birth of a son was a great joy. When the infant was three weeks old, Djantemir sent out his jigits to all the near and outlying auls to broadcast the news and invite the people to the big toi, while the women, relatives and servants were ordered to make preparations to receive the guests.

  Djantemir wavered for a long time in his choice of a messenger to the Russian chiefs in Raïm and Kosaral. Out of respect for them he’d have to send axakals or one of his sons, but Iskhak had left for Ibrai’s funeral, while Baisali and Undasin did not know the Russian language and the axakals did not know it either. To send Rahim he did not dare, since the mayirs might take offense on seeing such a young courier.

  “Send me, ata!” Rahim insisted relentlessly. “They invit­ed me to their place the last time. They are not as haughty as our bais. I’ll take along only Jaisak who is so liked by Taras Aga.”

  Without finding any better alternative, Djantemir agreed in the end.

  The first thing Rahim and Jaisak did when they arrived in Kosaral was to see Butakov. They found him in his earth house with all the former dwellers of the wardroom. Rahim took off his shaggy cap and made a ceremonious bow like a real envoy.

  “Glorious and highly respected chiefs and mayirs,” he be­gan in a solemn mien, but the next moment he faltered and blurted out, mixing Kazakh and Russian words: “Let’s go, mayirs, to our aul for a big tol. There’ll be a big ait, too. Very lavish. Akyns will come. A baiga will be! My ata Djantemir invites all of you! I ask you very much — let’s go! Ata ordered me to bow real low to you and ask you very much! Let’s go to the aul!”

  Butakov smiled unwittingly, but lest he offend the boy, he quenched his smile and answered in a serious tone:

  “Tell your father Djantemir that we are very grateful for his invitation and will come by all means, the more so since Alexei Ivanovich” — he motioned toward Maksheiev — “likes fine horses and has a good knowledge of horse breeding. For him a baiga is the best type of entertainment. On behalf of all of us I thank you and your father for the invitation and say, ‘Rahmet!’ as you do in your tongue!”

  The guests started arriving in the morning. Baisali, Undasin and Iskhak met them in the steppe, a hundred sazhens from the yurts, and after exchanging greetings, saw them to the house of Djantemir. The other guests arriving from afar were first invited into a yurt where they could have a rest after the journey, and only then did they go and see Djantemir.

  The aul soon turned into a noisy and merry place. Camp-fires were on everywhere as the women cooked mutton and manty, and boiled water for tea. The young people walked around in groups, making the acquaintance of their peers from the other auls. Here and there they jostled or started playing games.

  At midday the men from Kosaral arrived, followed al­most immediately by the guests from Raïm. Djantemir him­self went out to meet the mayirs and solemnly saw them to his house.

  The army and naval officers were in dress uniform, and the officials wore their civil servants’ uniforms and decora­tions. Even Werner, on Butakov’s permission, wore his stu­dent’s uniform from the Warsaw Technological College, while Shevchenko donned his old coat tail.

  The guests merrily greeted Djantemir and Shauken who after a long pause waddled out of her room with the infant in her arms. The mariners presented the happy parents a beautifully polished cradle made by the ship’s carpenter and a big veil of curtain lace against mosquitoes.

  In the delta of the Syr Darya, with its placid inlets, nu­merous lakes and impenetrable thickets of reeds, mosqui­toes were a prodigious nuisance, which made children suf­fer most. Realizing what an amazingly useful present he had received, Djantemir thanked Butakov and all the mar­iners profusely.

  The guests were invited to the table for a lavish and tasty treat. Apart from the traditional mutton, there were also veal, game, and fish in gravy. This was followed by Oriental sweets, nuts, dried apricots, sultanas and almonds. For the officers and the other Russians there was wine, vodka, cognac and rum.

  The axakals remained silent for a long time, as they sipped their tea, until a bai from the Irghiz clan spoke up, placing his empty drinking bowl on the table:

  “In my opinion, Kudaibergen knows horses best of all and will be an honest and impartial judge.”

  “Wonderful!” Djantemir remarked. “But we need not one but three judges. Whom will you bestow your trust upon, axakals?”

  The old men exchanged whispers. Some wanted to elect Djantemir, but others disagreed: since his horses were to take part in the baiga, he could not be an impartial judge. A number of names were proposed, but each was immedi­ately met with one objection or another. In the end, a gaunt old man in a dazzling yellow gown of heavy Persian silk decisively cut short the whispers and low-voiced arguments.

  “Choose Djangirbai and Kaskarbai. They are honest peo­ple and have a good understanding of horses!” he declared.

  At first the proposition came as a surprise. Everybody raised their heads and sat silently for a minute or so, then they laughed with their toothless mouths and nodded agree­ment.

  “That’s right! They are good people! How didn’t it come to our minds earlier?”

  Both Kaskarbai and Djangirbai were elected unanimously.

  The three judges got to their feet of one accord and went to the adjoining room to hold counsel. They had to decide on the procedure of the baiga. Occasionally not separate horses but the best racers from each clan’s herd were en­tered in a baiga. In such cases the prize went to the clan which owned the herd. There were also free competitions when every Kazakh, even a servant, tyulengut or semi-slave, could enter his horse with the hope of falling into luck. The influential bais did not favor such independent contest­ants and sedulously protected the fame of their herds, but today, after passing by the long horse lines, the judges had seen a great multitude of wonderful racers of unknown ownership, and barring them from the competition went against the judges’ compunction as real connoisseurs of
good horses.

  Besides, the judges had to determine the entry price in the baiga, and agree on the division of the prize and the number of racers each owner could enter.

  In the meantime, a big crowd had gathered by the win­dows of Djanteniir’s house, eagerly waiting for the final decision of the judges.

  Kaskerbai came from a poor family. Throughout the en­tire steppe from the Ural to Alatau he had gained fame as the best herder and horseman of Kazakhstan. He never asked whose horse it was that flew the first over the furrow of the finish line, but always looked whether it was a fine horse and whether it could rival the best of the best mounts of the Big Steppe. When Kudaibergen and Djangirbai proposed to double the entry price for the baiga, Kaskerbai immediately stopped them with a convincing objection:

  “A baiga is a trial for a horse, not the horseman. Let more light-footed horses take part in the baiga, and the po­ckets of their owners will become heavy without our assis­tance.”

  In respect of his experience, the axakals did not argue, and the three judges went out onto the porch to announce their decision. The crowd froze and then surged ahead like a sea wave.

  As the oldest, Kudaibergen had to speak first. He stepped forth and announced in a voice that was unusually ringing for his age:

  “It is not clan with clan, but horse with horse that compete in this baiga for the joy and glory of those who reared it, because this baiga is held on the occasion of a joyous event — the birth of man. So let the life of the newly born be joyous, satisfied, and merry as today’s toi.”

  A noise of approval rolled through the crowd which again lapsed into tense silence when Kudaibergen stepped back and Djangirbai came forward.

  “For each horse the owner pays fourteen sheep or two cows: if he has not sheep or cows, he pays one bull camel or one cow camel. Those who do not want to pay in cattle, can do so with money: five rubles in silver or seven rubles in bills.”

  As soon as he finished he stepped back, and Kaskerbai continued loudly:

  “The horses of one age accepted to the baiga form up in one line. On the sign of the master of ceremonies they will race to the aul along one and the same course, without deviating from it or impeding the progress of the others. The race course must be straight as a taut string, marked with pegs, without any obstacles whatsoever, and twenty versts long. The two- and three-year-old colts run in the first heat during the first half of the day. Horses that are four or more years old run in the afternoon.”

  After Kaskerbai, Kudaibergen announced the final condi­tions of the race:

  “Nobody has the right to enter more than a pair of horses in the baiga — only one pair to each heat.”

  The crowd droned either with approval or displeasure — it was difficult to tell. That instant a young ringing, ex­cited voice asked:

  “And how will the prizes be distributed?”

  The judges raised their arms, demanding silence, and Kudaibergen announced:

  “The horse that comes first will be awarded half of the cattle paid as the entry price. The horse that finishes sec­ond gets a half of the cattle that remain from the prize of the first horse, that is, a quarter of all the cattle. The third horse gets a half of what remains after the prizes for the first two horses are paid out, that is, one eighth part, while the last eighth part will be distributed between the fourth and the fifth horse — not in equal parts, but two sheep out of every three for the fourth horse, and the last sheep for the fifth.

  “And now, jigits and axakals, take your horses to the review ground and herd the cattle to the baiga!”

  The horses were lined up like at a cavalry parade. Not completely broken yet, the steppe racers had barely grown accustomed to bridle and saddle and could not stand still beside their neighbors, which they tried either to bite or kick. Their saddles were straddled mostly by teenagers who kept their mounts in check with effort. It was only Jaisak’s horses that stood still — the snow-white, thin-legged Akbozad and his younger brother Karkerat which was black all over as if he were chiseled out of black marble. They were used to each other and had frequently stood in the steppe with crossed necks; their neighbor, Djantemir’s beauty Whiteleg, was also well known to them. He was not picking on Jaisak’s favorites but only bobbed his head, irritated by his neighbor, a red-pelted colt which time and again pushed or tried to kick him.

  To their right and left stood clusters of onlookers. They all rode horses which were barred from the baiga for one reason or another. But most of the guests had already gal­loped ahead and disappeared beyond the horizon. It was much more interesting to stop far off in the steppe near the racing course and watch the passing hoofed avalanche in which the potential winners could already be discerned. Of the judges there was only Kaskarbai on this stretch of the course. He, too, was on horseback, while Djangirbai and Kudaibergen were waiting for the winners at the aul. Rahim kept his eyes glued on Kaskarbai. Presently he raised his pistol. A cracking shot ripped the air — and the line of horses immediately dashed forward; only one horse reared, trying to throw off the rider, but he did not get con­fused, whipped his mount which then seemed to tear itself loose from the ground in one big bound and joined the others in a thunderous gallop.

  The straight line broke up at once. At first the horses raced in one bunch similar to a shower of meteorites grad­ually stretching in a long tail like a comet, out of which Akbozad broke quickly, followed by someone’s silvery dap­ple-gray, Whiteleg, and two red-pelted racers from Ishimbai’s kin.

  Rahim was riding Akbozad.

  “Giddap! Giddap!” the mounted rooters shouted frenziedly and whipped their horses lest they lag behind the baiga.

  Kaskarbai was racing outside the peg line, watching that none of the guests stray onto the broad race course. From behind the horizon appeared the horsemen from the aul to meet the baiga.

  But where had Ismagul with his Karkerat disappeared to? Oh, there he was! Ismagul was slowly gaining on Ra­him. That was a good development! If not one, so the other would be the winner! Rahim was already hearing the loud pit-a-pat of Karkerat’s spleen, and then came Ismagul’s voice:

  “Drive him on, Rahim! We’ll win!”

  Suddenly Akbozad slipped on a heap of thawed clay; he did not hit the ground but went down for a moment like a dog on his haunches. Rahim tumbled over the horse’s head and landed in the snow covered with a prickly frozen crust, badly bruising his hands and face. Slightly stunned, he nonetheless made himself jump to his feet with superhu­man effort. He ran up to Akbozad standing a dozen paces away from him.

  That was the end!

  Whiteleg, Karkerat, and the dapple-gray shot past him. Ismagul shouted something and waved his hand. Never mind! Rahim was again in the saddle. And again the wind was whistling sharply in his ears. As before, Akbozad was flying ahead. Presently Red flashed by on the left and disappeared somewhere behind. Then the dapple-gray was racing alongside and started slowly falling behind. Rahim did not spare his snow-white beauty. He kept whipping away at its sides, while his voice, faltering and filled with despair, implored:

  “My dearest dear! Make it faster! Faster! Save my sister! Save her!”

  The horse did not understand the words, but in the boy’s pleadingly insistent voice Akbozad discerned both torment and despair — and the wind whistled the sharper in Rahim’s ears.

  From behind his back he heard shouts, cursing, and the furious lashes of whips. Never mind! Forward! Forward! At any price forward!

  Red had been behind just moments ago. Now he was galloping side by side with Akbozad. Presently he started falling behind. There were only Whiteleg and Ismagul on his Karkerat up front. Suddenly Ismagul turned round and lashed Whiteleg across the muzzle. The suddenness of the blow made Whiteleg jump aside, and the road was open. Now there was only Ismagul in the front, but Karkerat also belonged to Jaisak after all.

  The white yurts of the aul came into sight. Akbozad was losing breath but did not slacken his speed. Whiteleg again showed up slightly
behind on the right. One of his eyes was bloodshot; he shook his head from pain but could not outdistance Akbozad, much as he tried. Karkerat still held his leading position.

  At the same moment Whieleg managed to overtake Rahim’s racer. Ahead was the black furrow dug the day before.

  Karkerat was the first to fly over the finish line, then came Whiteleg and Akbozad.

  Deafening shouts hailed the winners, behind which came the rest of the contestants to which nobody was paying any attention by now.

  Bruised, offended, his cap lost somewhere along the race course, Rahim jumped to the ground.

  Rahim came in third. But Karkerat was first — so this was a victory for their cause after all. Jaisak came running to him and Ismagul. His face was of a bloodless pallor, but a happy smile touched the corners of his pale lips when the judges went up the porch of the bai’s house after a brief counsel and announced the names of the winners — the horses and their masters.

  “Wonderful,” Maksheiev said, counting up quickly in his mind. “Jaisak earned about one hundred and fifty sheep, that’s half the bride money.”

  The toi unfolded by the rules of a custom developed throughout centuries. The carefree young people danced and made merry. Musicians strummed their dombras. Merry banter and pert jokes evoked unbridled roars of laughter. A heavy jamba of pure gold was fixed to a pole and archers shot at it with long arrows fletched with eagle feathers. Jigits grappled in wrestling bouts, demonstrating their strength and agility, matched their skills in wielding yatagans in mock fencing, and the rest of the time pursued the girls and women with attention.

  When the songs died away, there followed fantastic fairy tales or heroic lays about the glorious batyrs of long ago.

  There was no end to tea drinking, and the jigits tirelessly carried deep bowls with cooked mutton back and forth among the guests. In the yurt that had been converted into kitchen, the women worked night and day. The poor people were especially happy for the occasion to still their perpetual pangs of hunger for three days in a row. They ate everything that was served and could be eaten, even gnawing at the tendons that remained on the bones and sucking out the marrow, throwing away to the dogs only what the strongest teeth could not cut.