by Diane Wilson
Water, too, became scarce, especially when we didn’t come upon an arrow station before we stopped for the heat of the day. In the early morning hours I tried very hard to “smell” water as I had on the way from Karakorum. But with the gobi’s dust coating my eyes, nose, and throat, I could smell nothing. So I trusted Bayan to find water, urging her with a free rein and repeating the word, “Usan! Usan!” But even her senses seemed dulled.
Luckily, before long, my eyes grew well attuned to spotting wild camels and kulans from afar and following them—at a safe distance, for this was springtime and the bulls and stallions were territorial—to watering holes. Little more than muddy ponds, they grew thick with yellow rushes and rippled with the splashes of wading birds and black-headed ducks. Invariably the water was warm and lay stale upon the tongue, yet the three of us bent our heads and drank gratefully. Then we retreated a distance and collapsed beneath the blistering sun.
Bator always stretched, eyes closed and pink tongue fluttering, in the speckled shelter of some small bush. I hid my face within the hot shade offered by the upturned saddle and tried not to think about the rivulets of sweat running down my neck, under my armpits, between my legs. The padded winter del of my stepbrother, lined with sheepskin, sagged heavily upon my damp body. I welcomed its thickness in the night’s piercing cold, but in the day—how I longed to strip it from my body! We passed the day then, half-waking, just waiting and waiting for an end to the burning heat. In the vast gobi it was too hot to move, too hot to eat, too hot even to think.
Not until after the sun had dropped below the horizon were we able to sleep comfortably. We awoke to the cool light of the moon probing our eyelids and the chill night air brushing our cheeks. Always I took immediate notice of the moon—whether it was shrinking or swelling-—for in the past two months, I had begun to feel its pull upon my own body. With a long groan Bayan would lunge stiffly to her feet, shake off the dust, and, nose to the ground, wander off in search of grazing. My worried eyes followed her into the darkness.
Bator worried me, too, for each night he seemed to leap to his feet with added restlessness. Instead of curling beside me, round eyes intently watching as I sparked a fire with my steel, the little cat took to pacing in wide circles, crying to the moon. The wailing grew fainter as the circles grew larger. One night, after Bator had left the fire, I heard a feline scream in the distance that chased tight bumps up my arms. I stood, holding my breath, but then nothing more. A short while later, though, I looked up to see two round yellow eyes watching me. In the next instant a smaller pair of yellow-green eyes stared across the fire. Unmoving, the animals watched each other for a long, long time, neither making a sound. Then the one with the yellow-green eyes edged closer to the fire. It was Bator! He came slinking, his fur stiff upon his back, to sit, tail switching, beside me. When I looked up, the other animal was gone.
My one daily meal was taken after dark and began with tea boiled in the small iron cooking pot Echenkorlo had given me. When I had drunk the tea, I would dig through the pouch and toss into the pot any bits of meat I had been kindly handed by other travelers. When my hands came up empty one evening, my stomach growled an instant complaint. Bator had always been good about sharing his catches, but game was as scarce as grass in the gobi, resulting in only two gray-green lizards, which I had, with a grimace, thrown back to the waiting cat.
And so that night I caught, cooked, and ate my first fish, though my tongue still twists at the memory. Pulling from the pouch the fishhook and line Echenkorlo had given me, I snatched a large moth that had been flitting in and out of the firelight and pressed its fluttering body onto the prong. Then I marched down to the moonlit pond and, after rippling its surface with my bait for just a few moments, yanked a small fish, flopping, onto the shore. I dug out the fish’s purple and orange insides with my knife and threw what was left into the pot of boiling water. The cooked flesh was mushy and tasteless, but my stomach stopped growling and I rested beside the fire rather proud of my newfound skill.
I always ended up fingering the wax-sealed knot tying the Khan’s bags and wondering what they hid. I thought I could feel sharp points of dried grasses poking at the goatskin that protected what nestled inside. Porcelain tea bowls like the ones Genma collected? Gold icons for a temple? Jewel-encrusted bridles and breast collars?
On another night, with the cooking pot already stowed and a bright half-moon floating overhead, I was just setting the saddle upon Bayan’s back when an animal’s shrill squeal made me jump almost out of my skin. Spinning around, I came face-to-face with the head-tossing, yellow-coated body of a wild gobi stallion. In the darkness behind him, ears pricked with interest, huddled his herd of timid mares. And among the striped legs and stiff black manes cowered several steppe ponies like Bayan!
The heavy-headed stallion pawed the dirt and lifted his chalky mouth in another piercing squeal. Suddenly, teeth bared, he charged, knocking me to the ground as he bit and kicked at Bayan, trying to drive her into his herd. With the force of his attack, the saddle slid away. But the reins were wrapped around my fist, and Bayan, thus tethered to my weight, could only dance in a circle, trying to avoid the cruel blows while trying not to trample me. I scrambled to my feet. The stallion charged again, ramming Bayan with his shoulder as he tore at her neck and bellowed. It was my turn to dance out of the way, yanking on the reins to swing Bayan around behind me. The stallion shook his head angrily. Black eyes on fire, he stared right through me at Bayan. Pawing the ground, he prepared another charge. I threw up my hands, stamped my feet, and yelled with all my might. He swung away, half-startled, as if seeing me for the first time. Snorting loudly, the sand-colored animal sucked in the cold air again and again, trying to decide how dangerous I might be. His sides shuddered like a door flap in the wind. When one of the mares behind him nickered, he flicked an ear backward. Then, with a rumble that began deep inside him and burst forth in a chilling scream, the wild stallion charged again. His weight pinned me against Bayan’s shoulder until she stumbled backward. I felt the reins ripped from my hands as I slipped to the ground, the air knocked from my chest. In an instant, hundreds of hooves were pounding the earth, stirring up a pale dust that hung in the air like a choking fog. Gradually the thunder faded and the silence of the night closed in around me.
My fingers pulled at the sand, but the grains sifted through them and fell away. Blindly I stared upward, head throbbing, my addled brain screaming at my body to do something, do something! Gradually I became aware of my trembling arms lifting my weight from the dirt. Yet I remained slumped against one arm, gasping for air and shaking all over. A terror I kept trying to push aside-—being stranded alone and on foot in this gobi—clamped down upon my mind like a dog’s teeth upon the neck of its kill.
My ears caught the sound of the galloping hooves again; groggily I scrambled to my feet. There weren’t as many this time. I could not see a thing in the dust-filled air, but I could tell the hooves were headed my way. I had no place to run. Then, like a spirit careering out of the afterlife, the white body of a horse crashed through the silty fog and came to a halt at my side. Bayan! She was back!
Panting heavily, my white mare kept rolling her eyes nervously as she pranced fitfully in tight circles around me. She kept looking into the darkness. We both listened but caught no echoing sound of hooves. I rested a hand upon Bayan’s withers, wet with the stallion’s bites, and stroked her neck, trying to calm her. I tipped my head into the darkness for just another breath or two before deciding we had better use this chance to escape.
It was a struggle to fasten the saddle upon Bayan’s shifting back. But I managed to tighten it, then to lift the Khan’s bags across the seat, though they thumped against the mare’s sides as she continued pacing restlessly around me. I hadn’t seen any bloody wounds from her attack, but I did notice that one of her reins had been torn from the bit. Ripping three strips of silk from the belt around my waist, I quickly braide
d them into a strong cord and tied one end to the bit. Then I climbed into the saddle, Bayan practically bolting from beneath me in a lunge toward the south’s shadowy horizon.
“Bator!” I called as we trotted off. “Bator!”
From out of the cloudy night leaped a tiger-striped bundle of fur, claws digging painfully into my trousers for a hold. The terrified look on his face must have mirrored my own. I reached down to scoop up the panting cat, pulling him securely into my lap. Then I gave Bayan her head. The three of us were off.
***
With a groan long and low, the stiff-boned woman struggled to her feet. Leaning against the splintered stable wall for a breath to gain her balance, she saw the look of alarm flash across her granddaughter’s face.
“Do not worry yourself. Both your mare and I are fine.”
She limped the short distance to where the white head stretched from a quivering neck. Bending ever so slowly, the woman placed her gnarled hand upon the flat brow. She listened. Then, still in silence, she tapped the jade pendant knotted around the mare’s throat—once, twice—and stepped past the white belly rising and falling in straining rhythm. Echoing her earlier groan, the old woman sank into the dried grasses.
“I have no idea how Bayan got away from the gobi stallion that night,” she was saying as her hands smoothed the trembling flank. “But every evening after that I remembered to paint blood upon her forehead before she moved off to graze. For protection,” she finished.
The age-darkened hands lifted the silky white tail hairs and began nimbly braiding.
“What are you doing?” asked the girl, sitting upon her knees. “Are you sure she’s all right?”
“Yes, yes,” soothed the wise voice. “The time is coming. Be still and listen.”
24
Ice-Fire, Earth Serpents, and the Jade Green Eyes
When we had plodded the gobi a very long time, the land changed again. The sandy, gravelly earth gave way to rolling green hills that splashed skyward into distant blue mountains. Our path twisted through them. The instant we leaned our backs into the climb, shadows cool and wet began fingering our shoulders and fitful breezes whispered imperfect directions. As firmly as the hairs rose upon my arms I knew we had entered a strange place.
The land’s dangers tested our courage one dusky evening when a thick fog crept silently behind us, then billowed past, hiding the narrow path. Bayan, Bator, and I were forced to doze in our tracks, huddled hard beside a cold mountain wall. All through that blinded night I clutched a rocky crevice with one hand, my lucky gold ornament with the other, so fearful was I of falling over into the dark chasm below.
But when we awoke—such a sight! Every rocky dimple, every peeling twig, every tiny leaf had been painted a glittering silver. And towering directly above us in the sparkling morning air was a magnificent white palace, roof upon roof swooping across the sky like the upturned wings of so many birds. We had truly entered a magical land, I remember thinking, for only a god could have built upon the crests of mountains. At that moment an orange sun burst between the peaks, setting flashing fire to each crystal droplet. I knew not which gods lived in these mountains, but I quickly bowed my head nine times toward the palace, clutched the luck within my pocket close to my side, and, tugging on Bayan’s reins, scurried on along the path.
The few faces I began to meet also changed, becoming flatter. These persons stared at me, not with the kindness of my own people, but with distrust, and then, when they realized that behind the dirty face was only a girl, with annoyance.
“Sain bainu?” I always called politely. But they pretended not to understand me. “Which direction to the Khan?” I would ask. Yet their mouths hung open, their eyes blinked dully. Sometimes a torrent of cackling sounds would ripple past my ears without giving up their meaning. Then we could only stare at each other until Bayan stamped an impatient hoof and we rode away.
But soon I grew skilled at using my hands and eyes to make my needs understood. Even though the people I met remained grim and unsmiling, I gestured on. Pointing to the waxen knots upon the twin bags, each stamped with the royal seal, I spoke the words “Kublai Khan?” and, with an upturned palm scanning the horizon, raised my eyebrows. Without fail, at least one person would point to a hill or a notch upon the next horizon. Nodding my thanks, I would rein Bayan into line with the outstretched finger. In this way we continued our journey to deliver the Khan’s treasure and to find my swift horse.
We padded through lush valleys, Bayan, Bator, and I, our heads now shaded by gently drooping, long-leaved trees. My eyes, and those of Bayan, too, I think, looked upon the rich green grasses as heavenly fare for horses. Yet we saw few such creatures. And the people we passed did not gallop proudly upon their horses’ backs, but hunched, half-naked, over muddy ditches dug into the land. At day’s end, we watched them shuffle behind the mud walls surrounding their dark homes, pulling in after them the caged larks that hung by each doorway.
Sometimes I wanted to shout at them to get up from the ground, to climb upon the back of a horse and feel the wind ripping through their lungs. But in the end I rode past the earth-workers without speaking, only feeling a stinging sorrow for them.
Hunger was gnawing at me again. The camel’s milk I had been given by some traders at the gobi’s edge was long gone. I should not have been surprised that the people I passed did not offer me food or drink, for they rarely even lifted a head at my approach. In my land one never lets a stranger pass without inviting him into one’s ger. To do otherwise would be rude. But in this odd land, not once was I offered a morsel. Even when, in hungry desperation, I pointed to my open mouth and rubbed my stomach, I received only a grunt and a wave of the hand. To this day I thank Tengri for my cunning cat, Bator. For each evening as I unsaddled Bayan, Bator would disappear into the darkness, almost always returning with some small furred animal hanging limply from his mouth.
One day I was riding past gray earthen walls enclosing more mud homes when a woman strode toward me, cackling and pointing. I reined Bayan to a halt. Terrified, Bator leaped from the saddle and hid among the drooping fronds of a creek-side tree. The woman cackled some more, her dirty finger pointing at my knee. I realized then she was pointing to one of the silver ornaments sewn onto Genma’s saddle. I realized, too, that I could probably fill my stomach by making a trade. In pointing my own finger toward the silver medallion, then to her, then to my mouth, I set the woman’s head to nodding vigorously. She turned back inside the mud walls, then returned carrying a small cloth sack and a large knife. Handing me the sack, which weighed in my palm as grain, the woman cut the medallion free in one stroke. We each parted happily.
That evening I boiled a handful of the grain in my iron pot and discovered that the result, though sticky, bore a pleasant nutty flavor. I saddled Bayan the next morning already looking forward to my one meal. Bator continued to hunt and so twice I had blackened bits of meat to add to my bowl.
When we had traveled eight more days, the saddle had grown plainer, but my pouch fairly bulged with grains, fruits, and the eggs of birds. To tell truth, I could not stomach the idea of swallowing the slippery yolks, so I broke the shells into the dirt and let Bator lap up the yellow ooze.
We were climbing down from another string of small mountains, careful on the pebble-strewn path, when we saw the long ragged backbone of some gigantic snake or lizard slumping across the valley below and disappearing over the backs of the distant hills. I reined Bayan to a sliding stop with my jaw dropped. Only after several blinking moments did I realize that the winding, earth-colored ridge was an endless mud wall that traveled in opposite directions farther than my eyes could see. This, too, must have been thrown up by the gods, for how could any man have built a wall that had no end?
By late afternoon, the sun hanging low in a pink sky, Bayan, Bator, and I cautiously approached the rambling creation that rose past our heads. We could now see that
the ancient wall was crumbling in many places and that no soldiers guarded it. Still, my heart beat fast as Bayan picked a passage around the rubble and we crossed through this eerie barrier.
In the shadows of the long wall shrank another cluster of mud homes. I saw one of the earth-workers slip within an open doorway that faced me, so, riding up to it, I called a greeting. A raggedly dressed girl not much older than me appeared in the door frame, jostling a wailing child upon her hip. I pointed at one of the few ornaments left sewn to the saddle, yet, with no more than a quick scowl, the agitated mother dismissed me. I reined Bayan back to the path. But a loud hissing sound made me look over my shoulder.
A frail-looking woman wrapped in lavender gray was leaning against the door frame and motioning for me to return. Obviously curious, I circled back. When the woman remained fastened to the door frame, I dismounted and hobbled within a respectful distance. Bator had hopped from the saddle with me but stayed seated beside Bayan’s hooves. The slender hand motioned me still closer. More than a little nervous, I moved near enough to smell the woman’s oniony breath. She wasn’t old, although her face looked tired, even sickly. But it was her eyes that held my attention—twin cloudy green moons flecked with gold. And they stared into the last rays of the sun without blinking.