No longer able to control himself, Orozkul led the horse across the underbrush directly to a steep descent. Let Obliging Momun dance a little around the log. And let him just try and fail to hold it. "I'll thrash the old fool," Orozkul growled to himself. Ordinarily, he never would have ventured on such a dangerous slope with a log in tow. This time some devil must have tempted him. And before Momun had time to stop him, just as he was shouting, "Where are you going? Stop!," the log whipped sideways on the chain and, crashing through the underbrush, rolled downhill. The log was fresh and heavy. Momun tried desperately to block it with his pole, to hold it back. But the thrust of the log was so great that it knocked the pole out of his hands.
It all happened in a second. The horse fell and was dragged down on its side after the log. As it fell, it threw Orozkul. He rolled down, frantically trying to catch at the bushes. And at that moment some horned animals dashed in alarm through the underbrush. With high, strong leaps they bounded away and disappeared in the birch thicket.
"Deer! Deer!" Grandfather Momun cried out, beside himself with fright and joy. And instantly fell silent, as though he did not believe his eyes.
And suddenly all was still in the mountains. The jackdaws vanished. The log got stuck on its way down, crushing some strong young birches. The horse, tangled in his harness, rose to his feet by himself.
Orozkul, bruised and torn, crawled aside. Momun rushed to his aid:
"Oh, holy Mother, Horned Mother Deer! It was she who saved us! Did you see? They were the children of the Horned Mother Deer. Our Mother has returned. You saw it!"
Still disbelieving that they had escaped disaster, Orozkul stood up, sullen and shamed, and shook himself:
"Quit babbling, old man. That'll do. Get the horse un-tangled from the harness."
Momun obediently hurried to free the horse.
"Oh, miraculous Mother, Horned Deer!" he went on muttering happily. "The deer have come back to our forest. The Horned Mother has not forgotten us! She has forgiven our sin . . ."
"Still mumbling?" Orozkul snappped at him. He had already recovered from the fright, and his anger returned. "Again your fairy tales? Touched in the head himself, and thinks that others will believe his stupid notions!"
"I saw them with my own eyes. Deer." The old man would not yield. "Haven't you seen them, my son? You saw them yourself."
"Well, and what if I did—two or three of them . . ." "Right, three. I thought so too."
"Well, what of it? What's so damned great about it? A man could have broken his neck, and this one makes a fuss over some deer. They must have come across the pass. There are still deer, they say, on that side of the mountains, in Kazakhstan. There's a preserve there too. They came, so they came. It's none of our business. What has Kazakhstan to do with us?"
"Perhaps they'll settle here," Momun said dreamily. "If they would only stay . . ."
"That's enough," Orozkul broke in. "Let's get going!"
They still had to go a long way down the mountain with the log, then get the horse to drag it across the river. That was another difficult task. And then, if they succeeded in bringing it across, there was the job of pulling it uphill, to where the truck was to be loaded.
Orozkul felt altogether wretched. The whole world seemed unjust to him. The mountains—they felt nothing, wanted nothing, complained of nothing, just stood and stood there. The woods were drifting into autumn, then winter, and found nothing wrong with that. Even the jackdaws flew about freely, screaming to their hearts' content. The deer, if they were really deer, had come from beyond the pass and would wander in the forest anywhere they pleased. In the cities, carefree people walked on paved streets, rode in taxis, sat in restaurants, enjoyed themselves. And only he was condemned to exile in these mountains, to this misery. . . . Even Obliging Momun, his worthless father-in-law, was happier than he: he believed in fairy tales. The old fool. Fools were always pleased with life.
Orozkul hated his life. This kind of life was not for him. It was for people like Momun. What did Momun need? Bending his back in labor day in, day out, without rest. And not once in his lifetime had he been master over a single man; forever ordered about by someone else. Even his old woman had him under her thumb, with never a word of protest from him. Such a miserable creature, yet a fairy tale could make him happy. Sees a few deer in the woods, and he's moved to tears, as though he's met his own brothers after searching for them for a hundred years.
Oh, what's the use . . .
They came at last to the final ledge, beyond which lay a sheer descent to the river. They halted to rest.
Something was smoking in the forest post across the river, near Orozkul's house. They could tell it was the samovar. Orozkul's wife was waiting for him, but this brought him no relief. He gasped for breath, his mouth wide open. There wasn't enough air. His chest ached, and in his head each heartbeat throbbed like an echo. The sweat dripping from his forehead made his eyes smart. And before him was still the long, steep descent. And the empty-bellied wife waiting at home. Ugh, prepared the samovar . . . Trying to please him. He had a sudden, violent desire to take a running start and kick that samovar to the devil, then throw himself upon his wife and beat and beat her till she started bleeding, till she dropped dead. He gloated, imagining her screams, her curses against fate. "Let her," he thought. "Let her scream. If I suffer, why shouldn't she?"
Momun broke in on his thoughts.
"Oh, how could I have forgotten, my son!" He hurried over to Orozkul. "I must go to the school, to pick up the child. Classes are over."
"And what about it?" Orozkul asked with deliberate calm.
"Don't be angry, my son. Let us leave the log here and go down. You'll have dinner at home, and I will ride down to the school. I'll bring the boy, then we'll come back and get the log."
"How long did it take you to think this up, old man?" Orozkul taunted him.
"The child will cry."
"So what?" Orozkul exploded. At last he had a pretext for loosing his full rage against the old man. All day he had looked for something to pick on, and now Momun himself provided it. "He'll cry, so we must leave our work? In the morning you nagged-1 have to take him to school.' All right, you did. And now 'I have to take him from school.' And what do you think I am? Are we playing games here, or what?"
"Don't, my son," begged Momun. "Not today. It doesn't matter about me, but the boy will wait, he'll cry—on such a day . . .
"What kind of day? What makes it so special?"
"The deer are back. Why, then, on such a day . . ."
Orozkul stared at him. For a moment he was speechless. He had already forgotten the deer who had flashed by—quick, leaping shadows—while he had rolled down over thorny bushes, his soul in his heels with terror. At any second he could have been flattened by the log.
"What do you take me for?" he snarled, breathing into the old man's face. "A pity you've no beard, or I would give you such a shaking you wouldn't think that others have less sense than you. What the devil do I care about your deer? Don't try your tricks with me. Get down to the log. And don't you dare to bother me about anything until we get it across the river. It's none of my business who goes to school, or who is crying. That's enough. Come on. . . ."
As always, Momun obeyed. He realized that he would not break away from Orozkul until the log was delivered, and he worked with silent desperation. He never uttered another word, although his heart was crying out. His grandson waited for him near the school. All the other children would be gone, and he alone, his orphaned grandson, would be looking down the road, waiting for his grandfather.
The old man saw in his mind the children bursting out of the schoolhouse all together and scattering to their homes, hungry after their classes. Already in the street they smelled the food prepared for them, and eagerly, excitedly, they ran past the open windows, each to his own home. Their mothers were waiting for them. Each with a smile that made their heads turn round. Life might be hard or easy for the mother, but sh
e would always have a smile ready for her child. And even if she scolded, "Are your hands clean? Go wash your hands!" her eyes would smile in welcome all the same.
Since he had started school, the boy's hands were always smeared with ink. This actually pleased Momun: it meant the boy was doing his work. And now the child was standing on the road, his hands ink-stained, holding his beloved schoolbag. He was probably tired of waiting, and looked and listened anxiously for his grandpa to appear over the hilltop on his horse. Because Momun was always prompt. By the time the boy came out of school, his grandfather would already be dismounted, waiting for him nearby. Everybody would go home, and the boy would run to his grandfather. "There's grandpa," he would say to his schoolbag. "Let's run." And when he came up to the old man, he'd stop, embarrassed. If no one was around, he'd fling his arms around his grandfather and press his face to the old man's stomach, breathing in the familiar smell of his old clothes and dry summer hay. These past few days Momun had been bringing the hay in large bundles from across the river. In winter it would be impossible to reach the hay through the deep snow; the best thing was to bring it over in the fall. AFter this autumn chore, Momun would go about for a long time smelling of the slightly acrid hay dust. The boy liked the smell.
The old man would put the boy lip on the horse behind him, and they would ride home eithef at a slow trot, or at a walk. Sometimes they were silent, sonietimes they would ex¬change a word or two about something unimportant. They'd get across the pass between the mountains, and then, before they knew it, they would come down iiito their own San-Tash valley.
The boy's enormous eagerness for school annoyed grandma. The moment he awakened, he quickly dressed and rearranged the books and copybooks in his schoolbag. It an¬gered the old woman that he always 1ept the schoolbag near him at night.
"Glued to his stinking schoolbag! Why don't you marry it—save us the bride money . . ."
The boy ignored grandma's wads. Besides, he didn't rightly understand them. The main thing to him was to get to school on time. He'd run into die yard and hurry his grandpa. And he would not calm down until the schoolhouse was in sight.
One day last week they were late, anyway. Momun had gone across the river mounted on his horse at dawn. He thought he'd bring some hay over fiirst thing that morning. It would have been all right, but the bundle got untied and the hay scattered. He had to tie it up t again and reload it on the horse. Because he had hurried, the bundle got untied a second time right by the riverbank.
And his grandson was already waiting for him on the other side. He stood on top of a jagged rock, waving the schoolbag and shouting, calling him. The old man hurried, and the rope got tangled; he couldn't straighten it. The boy kept shouting, and Momun saw that he was crying. He left the hay and the rope, and hastened across the ford to his grandson. But fording the river is a slow job, the current is strong and swift. In the fall it's not so bad, but in the summer it may throw the horse, and then you're gone. When Momun had finally gotten across, the boy was sobbing. He did not look at his grandfather, but kept repeating, "I'm late, I'm late for school." The old man bent down, lifted the boy into the saddle, and galloped off. If the school had been nearer, the boy would have run there himself. But now he cried all the way, and the old man could not quiet him down. And that was how he brought him, sobbing, to school. The classes had already started, and he led the boy right to his teacher.
Momun apologized and apologized to her, promising that it would not happen again. But he was shaken most of all because his grandson had cried so bitterly, because he had suffered so deeply over his lateness. "May God grant that you always love school so much," the grandfather thought to himself. And yet, why had the boy cried so uncontrollably? It meant there was some pain, some unexpressed pain of his own in his soul.
And now, as he was climbing down beside the log, jumping from one side to another, pushing and guiding it with his pole, Momun kept thinking about the boy out there.
But Orozkul was in no hurry as he led the horse. In truth, one could not hurry there. The way was long and steep. It was necessary to move slantwise. Still, he might have listened to the old man's plea to leave the log and go back for it later. Ah, thought Momun, if he had strength enough, he'd lift the log onto his shoulder, step across the river, and throw it down on the spot where the truck was to be loaded. Here, take your log and do not bother me again. And then he'd hurry off for his grandson.
But how could he! It was still necessary to get the log down to the riverbank, over the rocks and gravel, and then drag it across the ford. And the horse was already at the end of his strength, after climbing up and down the mountains all that time. They'd be lucky if everything went right, but what if the log got stuck among the rocks in the water, or the horse stumbled and fell?
When they entered the river, Grandpa Momun prayed:
"Help us, Horned Mother Deer, keep the log from getting stuck, keep the horse from stumbling." Barefoot, his boots slung over his shoulder, his trousers rolled up over his knees, Momun struggled, with the pole in his hands, to keep up with the floating log. It was dragged slantwise, against the current. The water was as cold as it was clear. Autumn water.
The old man endured silently: never mind, his feet wouldn't drop off. If only they could get across without delay. And yet the log got stuck, as if in spite. It caught on the stones in the most difficult, rocky spot. In such cases, the horse must be allowed to rest awhile, then urged to move. A strong, sudden pull might dislodge the log from the rocks.
But Orozkul, sitting astride the horse, mercilessly whipped the weakened, exhausted animal. The horse slipped, stumbled, dropped on his hind legs, but the log would not budge. The old man's feet were numb, everything began to turn daA before his eyes, he was overcome with dizziness. The cliff; the woods above it, the clouds in the sky careened, stood sideways, tumb ed into the river, were carried off by the swift current, rettrned. Momun felt faint. The damned log—if only it had been dry! Dry wood floats by itself, all you need to do is keep it from rushing off downstream. But this one was freshly cut, and now try and drag it across the river. Who ever does such things? No wonder they had all this trouble. An evil deed can only have an evil end. Orozkul did not dare to let the log lie in the woods until it dried; one never knew when an inspector might drop in. Then he would send off a report that valuable trees were being cut down in the forest preserve. And so, the moment a tree was cut, it had to be removed out of sight.
Orozkul hammered at the horse with his heels, beat him on the head with the lash, and swore, and cursed at the old man, as though the whole thing was Momun's fault. And the log refused to yield, but sank still deeper among the rocks. And now the old man lost his patience. For the first time in his life he raised his voice in anger.
"Get off the horse!" He went to Orozkul and resolutely pulled him from the saddle. "Don't you see the beast can't pull? Get off, right now!"
Stunned with surprise, Orozkul obeyed silently. He jumped into the water straight from the saddle, in his boots. From this moment on he seemed to have turned deaf and stupid, to have been shocked out of his usual self.
"Come on! Bear down! Together now!" At Momun's command, they bore down on the pole, prying up the log, trying to free it from the rocks.
But what a clever animal a horse is! He gave a sharp tug iust at that moment, and, stumbling, slipping on the rocks, pulled the traces as taut as a bowstring. But, after shifting an inch, the log slipped, and was held fast in the rocks again. The horse made another effort, and this time he lost his footing and fell into the water, struggling there and tangling up his harness.
"Get to the horse! Get him up!" Momun pushed Orozkul.
Together, after much difficulty, they managed to get the horse back on his feet. The animal shivered with the cold and was barely able to stand.
"Unharness him!"
"What for?"
"Unharness him, I say. Take off the traces."
And again Orozkul obeyed in silence. When
the harness was removed, Momun took the horse by the bridle.
"Come on, now," he said. We shall return later. Let the horse rest."
"Wait, now, just you wait!" Orozkul seized the bridle from the old man's hands. He seemed to have awakened, to have recovered himself. "Who d'you think you're talking to? You won't go anywhere. We'll get the log across right now. People are coming for it in the evening. Harness the horse, and no more talk from you, you hear?"
Momun turned without a word and hobbled on his cold- stiffened feet toward the bank.
"Where are you going, old man? Where are you going, I say?"
"Where? Where? To the school. My grandson's been waiting there since noon."
"Come back, now! Come back!"
The old man did not listen. Orozkul left the horse in tl; water and caught up with Momun at the very edge of 6 river, on tht pebbled slope. He caught the old man by 6 shoulder an4 twisted him around.
They stood face to face.
With a short swing of his arm, Orozkul tore Momuis cheap, worn boots from the old man's shoulder and smashd him on the lead and face with them.
"Get back to work! You!" Orozkul ordered hoarse', throwing away the boots.
The old man walked up to the boots, lifted them frcn the wet sant and straightened up. There was blood on ts lips.
"Swine" said Momun, spitting out the blood, and slu g the boots Over his shoulders.
This was said by Obliging Momun, who had never cci-tradicted an'zone. It was said by a miserable little old mai, blue with cold, with a pair of shabby boots over his should(rs and blood oh his lips.
"Corrie on, I say!"
Orozkul dragged him back to the river, but Momun broke away knd silently walked off without a backward lock,
"Watch out, now, old fool! I'll remember this!" Orozkil shouted after him, shaking his fist.
The old man still did not look back. Coming out on tae path near the "resting camel," he sat down, put on his boots, and rapidly walked home. Stopping nowhere, he went reedy to th stable. He led out the gray horse, Alabath, Orozkul's own riding horse whom no one was allowed to mount, who was never harnessed to a cart in order not to spoil his style. As though rushing to a fire, Momun rode cutof the yard on him without saddle or stirrups. And when he galloped past the windows, past the still smoking samovar, the women—Momun's old wife, his daughter Bekey, and young Guldzhamal—immediately understood that something had happened to the old man. He had never mounted Ala- bash and never galloped across the yard at such breakneck speed. They did not know as yet that this was the revolt of Obliging Momun. And they did not know what it would cost him in his old age.
The White Ship Page 8