Wilting grass and flowers, having borne witness with us,
Now are eager to rise and bloom.
Streams will water the sand,
Pebbles will roll again.
Release me, oh Spirits!
I want to return to my dear little ones,
To mingle with my flock
And disappear among them,
And with tiny steps to climb
The mountain of life,
And become a mountain myself ...
With my aunt’s arm around my shoulders, I wave the shawyd. And then we return, side by side, following the sounds of the pattering ribbons and the peaceful farewell chant. The White Mountain recedes into the distance, gradually reverting back into clouds before disappearing altogether.
Days later the rain arrives with thunder and lightning. But the dusty earth is too parched to absorb the much-longed-for water when it finally comes. In no time a sea of fluttering bright strands spreads across the steep slopes, as if a ravenous giant were choking and spewing foam and mucus from all his pores. The cloudburst stops as abruptly as it started and, rather than easing into the usual fine drizzle, is followed by a windstorm that quickly dries the ground again. And so the drought persists.
Hardly any news arrives from the world beyond, and what little seeps through does not sound good. Eventually we get the feeling that people are avoiding our clan and especially our yurt. “What did we do,” Mother asks in one of her nightly outbursts, “to merit the stares of strangers? Are we writhing flesh or stuffed intestines?”
I understand only after some time that her comparison means we are feeling uneasy. But once I do, I feel even more uneasy myself, and so embarrassed I wish I could disappear in a hole each time I encounter strangers, even if the topic of conversation is something as simple as the weather. I feel guilty, almost as if I had single-handedly cut down the trees, torn up the earth, sent people to their deaths, and conjured up the drought that has continued beyond the summer.
And yet I feel blissful and powerful when I am in the mountain steppe, alone with the lively silence that rushes and roars around me. Then I feel inside me the White Mountain again, and beyond it the mountains of the ages, towering above. I know they will move toward me, transformed into hours, days, and nights; and then into springs, summers, falls, and winters. They will pull me into themselves, kneading me first into a grown man, later into an old one, and finally into a stone to be ground into dust, before kneading that dust and giving me shape once more.
No one seemed to notice the arrival of fall. It was as if spring had simply continued, until one day we began to refer to the season as fall. Everything is lean. Our family packs up the yurt and leaves the rest of our clan, who have decided to settle for good at the District Center. Alone, we move westward across the bridge, so that our flocks can graze the earth eyes that stand out slightly darker against the reddish-gray rocks just below the glaciers before the snow arrives. Father decides that we must conserve the pastures in the Black Mountains for later in the season, so that at least part of our flock has a chance of surviving through the coming winter and into the spring. Torlaa, Galkaan, and I accompany Father and Mother to the bridge, where we are put on a raft. The Kazakhs who own the raft promise to drop us off at the settlement in exchange for the butter and cheese Mother gives them, and they do just that.
Galkaan and I are admitted to the dormitory right away, but Torlaa has to stay with us for a couple nights before she can take the post van to the provincial capital. There have been a number of changes. Jadmaj is in prison for embezzling state funds. Tasan, the new Party Secretary, is an older Ak Sayan man who used to have a job at the District Court. The school has two new teachers, both of them Hara Sayan. The older one, Ündük, is the new principal. He has a Mongolian wife and is quiet and tired. Silence reigns. The number of students has decreased to way below one hundred. Some people prefer the quieter school with fewer students. They say having more space means more breathing room. But to me this notion sounds like a retroactive rebuke aimed at our big brother. It cuts deeply into my soul. Fortunately, other voices draw comparisons in favor of the previous principal, suggesting that the school and quite possibly the whole district would really take off if he were still around. Music to my ears!
Sister Torlaa implores us to study harder than ever. After all if our excellent grades were to go down now, everyone would say that we only did well because our brother was the principal.
“Some people are envious and take pleasure in other people’s misfortune. Don’t give them a chance to throw dirt at our late brother,” she says before leaving. I don’t particularly feel like working for top grades, but somehow I manage to remain the top student in my class. Because I am now saddled with Sürgündü, I regurgitate the lessons over and over, which fills me with book knowledge the way a bucket is filled with water. Even quiet Galkaan gradually becomes a doggedly ambitious fighter, climbing the ladder until one day he is made Leader of the Pioneers’ Council. Among his privileges is the right to be saluted by other students, who must stand at attention until Galkaan returns their salute. This way, neither of us provides any room for the slander of our big brother.
Nevertheless, we overhear rumors that hurt. People say that his body has not yet been touched. This extremely rare phenomenon usually befalls the bodies of only very impure people. It can also be caused by a mistake made during the funeral. When Galkaan and I are alone, we talk about it. We rule out the first possible cause completely, as we know for a fact that our big brother was not impure. This leaves the second possibility, and it does not take us long to identify the likely mistake. “We had no juniper when we said farewell to him,” I say, reminding Galkaan of what happened. He immediately agrees.
Then one afternoon, on a half-good day around the middle of the tenth month, Mother appears unexpectedly. Her mount is so loaded down it looks like the horse of a hunter on his way home from a successful outing. Mother’s goat bag hangs from both sides of her saddle, each of its legs stuffed to bursting, and another fat bag is tied to the back. After she has talked with the teacher on duty, Galkaan and I are granted permission to leave the dormitory for the night.
Together the three of us go to our relatives’ yurt at Hara Dash, which is just under an hour’s walk away. We have gone there a few times before, when other yurts from our clan had stayed at Hara Dash. But their yaks kept escaping to the familiar pasture at Ak-Hem, until people finally gave up on the idea of settling in the black steppe on the eastern banks of the great river, and returned instead to their traditional fall pastures. Just Uncle Sargaj and Aunt Buja stay back with their yurt. Nothing, they say, could possibly deter them from taking the side of progress.
As we walk to their yurt, Mother tells us that the shaman has decided to help with the decomposition of the still untouched body. Because the only person able to take the necessary steps is Bagshy, a former lüüdshing lama, our aunt rode to see him and ask for his help. He agreed and set the date, which is tomorrow. Father stayed behind to take care of the flocks, and so, for one whole day, the stove in our yurt will be cold.
The next morning, while people in the new world of settlements and all-good days are sleeping in, we rise early, the way people used to rise in the disappearing nomadic world, when they moved their yurts and their flocks. The world is still pitch black in spite of the stars sprinkled across the sky. We start walking after a quick bowl of morning tea, just as a shimmer of blue begins to appear in the east. Uncle Sargaj stays in bed, snoring, and our aunt was unsuccessful in her effort to wake up her nearly grown-up children. No matter how hard she tried to pull back their blankets, her children kept tugging them from her hands, defending deep sleep with their hands and their feet. Mother pleaded: “Buja, my dear, leave them alone. Let them sleep. Maybe they’ll even improve with the rest. The Sky knows I wouldn’t wish going through this on anyone, not even on those taking pleasure in my sorrow. But as long as you come with us and I don’t have to stand there al
l by myself with these two thimble-sized little things, I’ll be just fine.”
And so the four of us set out eastward toward Saryg-höl, across the dim steppe crackling with late-autumn cold. We all walk, pulling the horse with its saddle and heavy load behind us. No one wants to ride. Galkaan thinks I should ride because I am the youngest; I think Mother should because her hip and her soul are hurting; Mother thinks our aunt should because if it weren’t for us, she could have slept in. And Aunt Buja, who once was one of five children of the wealthiest man around, confesses that she has become used to walking after not riding for close to ten years. “The man gets furious whenever he catches sight of a rider,” she says. “He says riding on horseback is a throwback to the old days. He says it’s outmoded.” By “the man” she means her husband. That she brought this proletarian hopeful—this purultaren, as Uncle Know-It-All fancies himself—into our clan has been so upsetting for so long that no one feels too upset about it now. To the contrary, I am grateful our aunt is talking about something. Walking across the steppe in silence would be far worse.
When we finally reach the edge of the steppe, the ridges of the eastern mountains glow like copper against the flames of the rising sun. A figure on horseback approaches us from the east. It is Bagshy, or Teacher, the great old man whom no one calls by his given name. He is Teacher Makaj’s father and was released from prison only a few years ago. Strange stories about him abound. For example, three times he was sentenced to death, but no one managed to kill him, and when he later was asked if the story was true, he is reported to have said there was no point in answering the question: “If I tell you the truth, you won’t believe it. If I make something up, you’ll instantly fall for it. If you really want to know, try to get rid of me yourself. I’m around.”
Bagshy quickly returns brief but deferential greetings, dismounts, ties his horse’s lead to our horse’s neck, and tells us to spread out what we have brought. He himself has brought a leather bag, dark from grease and scratched with age, which he takes off his saddle, ties around his waist above his belt, and fills with half of everything that Mother has brought: stewed mutton, sliced fresh yak cheese, flat pieces of medium-dry cheese, and bunches of dried juniper. Then he swings the half-filled bag over his shoulder, grabs with his other hand one of the two dorsuks filled with aragy, and leaves. When he has gone some distance, he calls back to us, “Stay where you are and keep quiet.”
He walks toward our hand-sewn bag in a direct line. The bag has faded to the color of the rocks around it, and it seems to have shrunken. I secretly wonder if Bagshy rode out here earlier and took a look, then left again to avoid the eyes of any unwanted witness.
Crouching closely together, a mute huddle in the steppe, we watch with bated breath as the slightly stooped man walks determinedly toward his destination. Each time he walks a rope’s length, he stops for a moment and glances to the right and left. He seems to be talking to someone. Shortly before he arrives at the bag, he puts down his burden and gestures like someone arriving at a yurt with a dog: he bends down, picks up a bit of soil, straightens, and tosses one, two, three handfuls of gravel and sand onto the ground in front of him.
We estimate the distance at about five or six lasso throws, and are just able to make out what he is doing. He takes the juniper from his bag, fumbles for his flint, and finally strikes it. It takes forever before we see the first ribbon of smoke. A bit later Galkaan thinks he sees flames. The smoke ribbon pulls behind it teetering blue clouds that rise into the sky. Then, all of a sudden, yellow and red flames flare up. The mutton fat must have caught fire.
Everything is the way it is when we give offerings, until Bagshy hastily empties his leather bag onto the steppe and flings it back in our direction, pours a good jolt from the dorsuk down his throat, draws the dagger from its sheath on his belt, and walks up to the bundle. Without hesitating he quickly cuts open the bag, pulls the rags out from beneath the dark-brown something that is now exposed, throws them into the fire, and forcefully thrusts his dagger into this brown something. We hear a blunt thud, much like the sound of a slow bullet entering the chest cavity of a wild animal. Next we hear crunching and creaking sounds and see dark pieces fly through the air. Bagshy has apparently severed them from the brown something and flung them onto the pile of cheese and meat. It makes me think of wood getting split to fit into the stove, and of bortsha being broken to fit into the pot.
Soon all the contents of the bag have been cut up and spread out. Bagshy, who was bent over working as fast as a butcher, finally straightens up. He slowly raises his upper body, and after pushing his dagger back into its sheath, he stands still for some time, his hands on the small of his lower back. He looks up and moves his head in slow circles. Then he suddenly squats, raises his arms, flaps them like wings, and starts skipping with childlike ease while simultaneously clicking his tongue, smacking his lips, and cackling like a magpie. Still moving the same way, he starts to crow. Finally, he gets up again and trudges back to us, looking old and tired. When he has come as close as a lasso throw, he scolds us: “Why aren’t you burning juniper? Do I have to tell you everything? You’re not little kids anymore.”
Mother and Aunt Buja reply with one voice: “Dear Brother, we didn’t know ...” They quickly light a bunch of juniper, and it crackles and explodes while Galkaan and I dash off for dry horse manure. Soon we have a clearly visible smoke offering. All the while Bagshy is panting and tottering, and his knees creak as he awkwardly drops to sit on the ground. He pulls his legs into the cross-legged position, as if he had to slowly gather up his pieces and force together what was pulling him apart. When at long last he sits correctly—his knees wide apart and close to the ground, his back straight—he begins to sing. His voice is beautiful and deep. Unfortunately, we can’t understand a single word of what crosses his lips. He must be speaking Tangutan.
A magpie arrives where Bagshy did his work a short while ago. It flutters and lands, and skips about with clicking sounds. Soon a second, then a third and a fourth magpie join the first one. Kites, crows, and ravens follow. Brother Galkaan and I copy the adults and sit bending over, our hands clasped in prayer. But we keep our eyes trained on the birds as they cackle and gaggle, coo and caw, every so often screaming and attacking each other with gaping beaks. The entire feathered nation seems to have lost its wits over so many tasty bits.
The singsong swells. Bagshy’s voice has grown strong and now booms with great power. Like an epic, his song spills verse upon verse, surging and flowing beyond the steppe and into the hazy distance, awakening the clouds and the winds. Meanwhile the sun, heavy with its bursting bundles of rays, rises to meet the song. With each passing moment, it climbs higher into the boundless Sky, where it will soar unsupported and move closer and closer toward the Sky’s misty navel and the shimmering blue heights opening up beyond. Bagshy’s eyes are closed tightly and his upper body rocks from side to side. His rugged face with its sharp features expresses a fierce and sublime severity that I recognize from the epics sung through the night in the flickering light of a fire, or from our snowcovered mountains reflecting the white light of an early winter morning, making us shiver with their bracing chill.
Then the song dies unexpectedly. I hear it even after the voice has broken off, as one hears raging storms or galloping riders after they have left, but Bagshy falls silent and sits still again, more exhausted than before. Only his eyes are fully alert, and fixed on the frenzied birds until he finally looks away.
As if he had just awakened, he nods at the food and drink the women have spread on the ground. “Let’s get started now, shall we?”
Aunt Buja has filled a bowl with milk and offers it to him with both hands. He casually accepts it, takes a small sip, and passes the bowl along to us. Next he is given aragy. He hesitates briefly, but then empties the bowl in a single gulp. Next he pulls his heavy dagger with its long stag-antler hilt from its sheath, and grabs a shoulder piece of meat. Alarmed, Mother calls out: “Uj höörküj Ag
a-uj, dear Brother, please, let me wipe the blade for you first.” Bagshy pauses, looks around, finds a tuft of grass, and carelessly wipes his dagger. “Don’t worry, dear Sister,” he says defiantly, pulling a face. “I’m a lüüdshing lama, remember?” Then he cuts a thin slice, picks it up with his right thumb and index finger, and dangles it high above his wide-open mouth before letting it drop. In spite of his roundabout ways, he eats a lot of food quickly, hardly seeming to chew. And he drinks: each time he empties the bowl he makes a blunt snort accompanied by a light smacking sound.
Bagshy tells us that we, too, must eat and drink. The feast is the last gift the departing leave for those who remain behind. Because we want to believe what he says, we do our very best, but we simply can’t finish the mountain of meat. Bagshy, on the other hand, keeps at it. By now the dorsuk has run dry. Aunt Buja, who has been pouring the drink, suddenly realizes that we left the second dorsuk over there.
“Oh, that’s all right,” says Bagshy, sounding relaxed. He turns to Galkaan and me: “Boys, run over there and get the dorsuk. And since you’re at it, bring back my leather bag and your piece of felt.” Galkaan and I look first at each other, then at the women. But neither of them will get involved when a lama has spoken. Besides, Bagshy sits there like royalty with his long flashing dagger and his thousands of secrets, and he is close enough to see and hear everything. We get up and walk over.
Birds whir like spirits in front of us. I can’t help but wonder if they are spirits, conjured up by someone who speaks their language and may be a spirit himself. I am terrified, and I almost feel like shamanizing on the spot, in order to force the feathered creatures to explain themselves: Why did you come so late? Was it the wound inflicted on Mother Earth? The missing juniper smoke? Or did you, my Brothers and Sisters from the Sky, have another reason? Have your eyes become dull and your beaks blunt?
The Gray Earth Page 22