The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure

by Adam Williams

  What was she thinking? Nellie roused herself. Daydreaming by the pool, when the evening would soon be advancing and she had to return with water to her thirsty family! If she did not return quickly the social consequences of Helen Frances’s pregnancy would be academic. As it was, she feared that the girl would not survive many more days. Even the miracle of finding this water might not be enough to save her.

  Her tired body was reluctant to leave the cool spring, but she forced herself to sit up and fill the goatskin. Poor darlings, she thought. Jenny and George must be going mad with thirst. Well, she would reach them shortly. She had enough water in the skin to last them for today. And tomorrow she would bring them here. Perhaps George really would find a way to trap one of the marmots—the little white furry animals that inhabited these wastes and had first charmed, then later annoyed them as they stuck their whiskered heads over the ridges, always just too far out of reach to catch. A vision of hot meat stew suddenly overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes. Enough. She would go mad. She leaned down and picked up the goatskin, and took two steps, dragging it behind her. And froze.

  The late-afternoon sun was throwing shadows over the grass, but the shadow she saw in front of her, in dark, precise clarity, was not projected by any natural phenomenon of hillside or cloud. Thinking that she was dreaming she turned, and was dazzled for a moment by the sun, but unmistakably, in front of the fiery ball, stood the silhouette of a man. He was of short, squat build and was sitting on a small pony. He was holding another horse on a rein. A shotgun hung over his shoulder, he had a fur hat at a rakish angle on his head, and he was wearing a tunic with wide skirts that came to the top of his boots. As her eyes adjusted to the glare, she saw that he was smiling at her.

  Something in his kind expression put her immediately at ease.

  * * *

  For the children, the months they stayed with Orkhon Baatar remained in their memories as a golden period in their lives. Each morning, when the small hole at the top of the ger, the felt tent in which they all slept, began to pale with the dawn light, they would wake to see the comforting figure of Sarantuya, Orkhon Baatar’s plump wife, feeding dried cakes of animal dung into the stove. Orkhon Baatar himself would have been up long beforehand, stepping quietly over the sleeping bodies to release his sheep from their pens and tend the horses. By the time the wooden door opened and his wrinkled, humorous face reappeared, greeting the waking family with a merry laugh and as often as not producing from behind his back a rabbit or a partridge he had just shot, the stove would be alight and the tea kettle on top of it beginning to boil. They would eat their breakfast, huddled in a ring round the stove. Orkhon Baatar would take his proud position on the one patterned carpet the family possessed and pass round the bowls full of curdled whey, which he would pour out from a copper jug. He knew how eager George and Jenny would be to get away, and he would tease them, inventing excuses as to why they should delay, feigning tiredness or a sore stomach, or discussing the weather with his wife in such interminable detail that the children would be fidgeting with irritation—but he always knew when their patience was getting exhausted, and then his eyes would twinkle, and his mouth would open in a smile revealing his jagged teeth, and he would ask, in his broken Chinese, if there was anyone here who would be willing to help him find his sheep today. That would be the signal for George and Jenny to leap to their feet, and rush out of the ger into the bright sunshine. (In their memories it never rained and every day was glorious.)

  Soon they would have saddled and be sitting astride two of his short-legged ponies, following him at breakneck speed down the sloping valley to where his sheep were grazing on a hill. He would turn round occasionally to smile at them, his shotgun bouncing on his back. They always tried to overtake him, and he would deliberately slow down his horse, until they had nearly caught up with him, and when they were near he would howl like a wolf and, leaning forward in his saddle, gallop away to the bottom of the hill, wagging his finger at them when they caught up.

  For the next hour as Orkhon Baatar checked his animals, the children would lie on the grass, inventing names for the shapes of the big clouds that rolled in the sky above them. Orkhon Baatar had taught George how to catch a grasshopper, and tie a piece of string round its leg so it would chirp in circles around him, but Jenny did not enjoy that game and she was happier making necklaces with flowers. When Orkhon Baatar returned he would squat in the grass beside them and, smiling, ask them what they wanted to do today. Sometimes they went down to the riverbank, where Orkhon Baatar would retrieve a dead mouse from the folds of his coat and tie it to a length of twine. This was the bait for the savage taimen, the huge salmon with teeth that protruded from its tongue and could grow in size to nearly five feet in length. While Jenny watched, Orkhon Baatar and George would wade into the river to seek a bush under which one of these monsters might be hiding. If ever they caught one it would give them a fight, which might last for half an hour, but when it was landed, Orkhon Baatar would always throw it back. It was unlucky to kill a fish, he told them. When people died their souls would go into the river and take the form of a fish. He would look solemnly at them as he said this, but then he would laugh so they never knew if he was being serious or not.

  On other days they would just ride out as far as the fancy took them. A favourite destination was a rocky outcrop that rose mysteriously out of the grasslands about six miles away from Orkhon Baatar’s camp. There was a cairn of stones on its slope, and always when they reached it Orkhon Baatar would dismount and lead them in a circle round the cairn three times before he was satisfied. Before they left they each had to search for a stone to place on it. Orkhon Baatar told them the first time they had come here that this was a holy mountain. He recounted to them the legend of the warrior who had fled with all that remained of his slain king’s treasure after a terrible battle in which his master had been defeated. He had buried the treasure somewhere on these slopes and no one knew exactly where—for by the time he had finished his pursuers had overtaken him. There were too many to fight so he had galloped his horse to the top of the outcrop and, as his enemies surrounded him, he had spurred his animal over the cliff. He had been blown by the wind into the sky where he hid among the clouds, and was never seen again, so the secret of the king’s treasure had always been preserved. George wanted to look for the gold, but Orkhon Baatar had told him that that would be a great sin. No Mongolian ever dug into the earth, he said, for the earth was alive and would feel the wound. He made them promise solemnly that they would never seek for the treasure, which would only bring evil upon them if they found it. After they had promised, he had winked at them and, laughing, led them to the summit of the rock from which the warrior had jumped. They had stood with the wind flapping their clothes, gazing in awe at the rolling grasslands, which stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see.

  They would eat dried meat for lunch, which Orkhon Baatar kept in his woven saddlebag, and afterwards wind their way slowly home. The afternoon was a time for learning. Orkhon Baatar would teach them how to catch a running pony, galloping beside it and dropping round its neck a loop at the end of a long pole. He taught them how to herd the sheep in the evening back to their byres, and told them why they should gather the dung that the animals left behind. The sheep, he explained to them, provided every necessity of life. Their wool was used for clothing, and felt to make the ger; the milk provided them with sustenance in the form of yogurt or whey; the meat served for feasts. And the dried dung provided fuel for the fire. The most terrible thing, he said, was a cold winter, when sometimes a herdsman could not save his animals from perishing in the snow. Yet if the sheep died, it spelled famine for the family. If there was no dung for the fire how could they keep themselves warm? Let alone eat. No, the shepherd protected his animals—that was his duty, but it was also in his self-interest, because his sheep also protected him. One day he showed them how to cut the ringworm out of a sheep’s stomach. They had been disgusted and n
ervous at first, but Orkhon Baatar told them that by doing this they were making the animals more comfortable and preserving them from harm. Every life was sacred, he said, and if they expected an animal to serve them, they in turn had a sacred duty to look after the animal. When it came to killing an animal a man should also show respect. To show them, he brought out a young sheep from the byre. It had a hurt foot and Sarantuya had asked him to prepare it for their supper: it had been a long time since they had tasted freshly killed lamb. They watched as Orkhon Baatar gently laid the sheep on its side. He pulled out his knife, cut a quick incision in its belly, reached his arm fully inside and squeezed its heart. With a mild bleat it died. He pulled out his arm and smiled. ‘You see?’ he said. ‘She died painlessly, and none of her precious blood was spilled on the ground. Next time you will do it. I will teach you.’ But George and Jenny had shaken their heads and run away. Of course, after a while, they did learn to do this, and many other things, which Orkhon Baatar taught them, before the golden days of summer passed into autumn, and they felt the first cold winds blowing through the steppes.

  For Nellie and Helen Frances these were also days of calm and healing. They found comfort in the many domestic chores, whether it was cooking, or washing, or milking the ewes. They had rapidly become friends with the good-natured Sarantuya, who had welcomed them as sisters. Although at first they shared no common language—Sarantuya, unlike her husband, spoke no Chinese—they had quickly established a means of communication with her, using gestures of their hands and expressions of their faces, and sometimes they would draw pictures in the sand, laughing together as they tried to interpret each other’s meaning. Over time, both women learned a few words and phrases of Mongolian, and could conduct rudimentary conversations with Sarantuya. They discovered that she was a thoughtful woman who, like her husband, had a practical wisdom as well as deep wells of earthy humour.

  They also had their daily routine. They particularly enjoyed the walk after breakfast to the riverbank, where they filled the copper pitchers with water and once a week washed their clothes. These were always occasions for gossip and jokes. Sarantuya was nothing if not forthright and had no embarrassment about asking them the most personal questions, and they responded in kind. Sarantuya took a proprietorial pride in the advancement of Helen Frances’s pregnancy. She would often rub her hand over the growing belly, sometimes putting her ear to it to see if she could detect any signs of movement. On the first occasion when she had felt the kick of the child within, she had given a great squeal of delight, clapping her hands, and hugging Helen Frances to her broad bosom. And for some time after she had rocked on her heels, clasping Helen Frances’s hands in hers, and making clucking noises as tears of joy ran down her smiling cheeks. Within days she had decided that Helen Frances would bear a girl. She ran her hands over the womb, emphasising its round shape. Then she drew a figure of a woman in the sand with a more pointed belly, and followed it with a picture of a baby with an enormous penis and testicles. Then she crossed out both pictures, replacing them with a picture of a baby girl, and pointed at Helen Frances, smiling broadly. Nellie and Helen Frances gathered that a round belly denoted a girl, a pointed belly a boy, and now that this had been explained, the three giggled happily.

  Once Nellie asked Sarantuya, again using a mixture of language and pictures, whether Orkhon Baatar and Sarantuya had children, and where they were. Sarantuya had smiled sadly, pointed at her own belly and indicated, with a swipe of her hand, that she was barren. Nellie and Helen Frances could not hide their concern, and embarrassment, but Sarantuya had taken their hands and made them understand that they should not be sad: this was something both she and her husband had accepted. Then she had pointed at the hill where, far away, Nellie’s children and Orkhon Baatar were romping with the horses. ‘Orkhon Baatar,’ she said, thumping her heart. ‘Jay-nee. Zhoorj. Like his own children. Orkhon Baatar’s children. He very happy have Jay-nee, Zhoorj,’ and she had smiled, with only a hint of a tear in her soft brown eyes. Nellie had a sudden glimpse of the tragedy that lay behind Orkhon Baatar and Sarantuya’s simple life together, and she understood what might have been one of the reasons why they had been welcomed so warmly into this household. Impulsively she had embraced Sarantuya, and afterwards, if it was possible, she had felt even closer to her.

  One subject that Sarantuya never asked about was Nellie’s relationship with her husband. Indeed, they hardly ever spoke of Airton at all. Occasionally they would see him wandering, with bowed shoulders, over the hills. He kept to himself, joining them for their evening meal, where he sat, hunched and silent, waiting for Orkhon Baatar to pour out his bowl of nermel, the sour spirit made from distilled mare’s milk in which he nightly sought oblivion. Some nights Orkhon Baatar would drink with him, matching him bowl for bowl, although neither spoke. There was an almost tender expression in Orkhon Baatar’s eyes on these occasions as he observed the doctor succumbing quietly to his stupor. The liquor never seemed to affect Orkhon Baatar. On other nights, when he did not feel like drinking, he just left the pitcher for the doctor. Airton would sit with his back to the wicker frame of the ger, drinking steadily, while Orkhon Baatar entertained the others with rambling, humorous stories, or strummed his er-hu, or sang, full-chested, his rumbling, melancholy nomad songs.

  Orkhon Baatar fascinated Helen Frances.

  His had been the first face she had seen when she had woken from unconsciousness. She remembered the eyes, so warm, so understanding. They projected such peace, inspired such trust. She had thought at first that she had died, and that the face hanging over hers must be that of a devil or an angel. There was certainly something devilish about the features, the downturned mouth, the jagged teeth, the wispy moustache, the moonlike face cracked into wrinkles like a toad skin. It was illuminated by firelight, and shadows flickered over its yellow surface. She had never seen a face like it. It was alien, hardly human—but the eyes … The eyes were wise, as she imagined an angel’s eyes might be; at least they were the eyes of a good man, and instinctively she had known that she was safe with him. She had felt his hand as he laid it on her forehead. It was warm, a bit leathery, but surprisingly gentle. The eyes above her closed, and the hanging firelit face became still, trancelike. She heard words in a language she could not understand, a deep, rumbling incantation, which must have come from the man’s throat because his lips hardly appeared to move. After a while she had felt the hand on her forehead become hot, burning but not uncomfortable. She felt waves of peace and contentment flow through her body, and soon after she had slipped into a dreamless sleep. When she had woken again she had found herself in this ger, sleepy still and hungry, but there was a delicious languor in her every limb, and she had a strong sense of life within her, within her womb. She heard familiar voices, George’s then Jenny’s squealing excitedly, ‘Come. Come. She’s awake. She’s awake.’ And then Nellie was leaning over her, smiling, and over Nellie’s shoulder she had seen the same strange man, standing bashfully by the door.

  Nellie had told her the story of how she had ridden with Orkhon Baatar from the spring, as the evening light slanted over the hills. The little party, which she had left in the afternoon, were in their last extremities of hunger and thirst. Dr Airton had been kneeling listlessly by the embers of their fire, his arms around his sleeping children’s shoulders. Nellie said that she had never seen such despair written on a man’s face. He had hardly recognised her and did not seem to know what the goatskin was that she was offering him. It had taken Nellie several alarming moments to wake her children, but they recovered quickly enough after they had drunk the life-giving water. Nothing she could do would wake Helen Frances, though she squeezed water on her lips and shook her fragile shoulders. Finally she had realised, with horror, that Helen Frances had already slipped into the coma that preceded death. Her pulse had been so weak that Nellie could hardly feel it. All this time, Orkhon Baatar had remained on his horse, observing her.

  She had screamed at her husband
to do something, but the doctor had turned a blank face in her direction, and bowed his head. Desperately, she had turned her agonised face towards the Mongolian who had brought her here. His sudden arrival had itself been a miracle. Could he perform another? He had stepped off his horse, and walked unhurriedly towards her. Kneeling beside Helen Frances’s body, he had bent his head to her breast, listening for her heartbeat, then moved his nose close to her face, as if sniffing for breath. He had laid his hand on her belly, and looked up at Nellie as if for confirmation. ‘Yes, yes, she’s pregnant,’ Nellie had screamed. ‘But what of it? She’s dying. Dying.’ Orkhon Baatar had nodded. He muttered something, that sounded like the Chinese for ‘Return.’ Then, he had jumped into his saddle and, whipping his horse with his reins, galloped off into the dusk.

  Nellie said that she had known at that moment what it was to be abandoned.

  Orkhon Baatar had returned, however, not long afterwards. First he had reached into his saddlebag for a cloth bundle, which contained meat. This he gave to Nellie, gesturing to her that she should give it to the doctor and her children. Then he had efficiently relit their fire, and boiled water in a copper bowl. Taking from the folds of his coat what looked like strands of grass mixed with wild flowers, he crumbled them in his hands and dropped them into the bowl. Leaving time for whatever concoction he was making to infuse, he took the goatskin and knelt by Helen Frances, dripping a little water into her mouth. Then, to Nellie’s surprise, he began to massage the prone body, all the time mumbling what sounded like prayers or incantations into her ear. He laid the bowl beside her head, lifted Helen Frances gently into a lolling position, raised the bowl to her nostrils and looked intently into her face as he did so to see if there was any sign of revival. After a moment he put it down again and renewed his massage and the incantations. When the mixture in the bowl had cooled, he soaked a cloth with it and dripped it carefully into Helen Frances’s mouth. Then he massaged her again.