by Chi Zijian
As he helped Vladimir up onto his horse, these were his last words: ‘You Evenki are amazing! Your dance can kill a war-horse, and your music can heal a wound!’
Vladimir didn’t know where we were then, but he guessed we were active within the Bistaré River basin, so he followed the river to find us.
Due to the artillery attacks, the reindeer herds began to scatter, and we spent the better part of each day looking for them. The sound of artillery is a thunder that originates in the land itself, and the arrival of this unwelcome guest threw humans and animals into a panic. We often saw wild animals running scared, but without bullets, our hunting rifles were just scrap metal. Our flour bags were empty and little jerky remained. We were forced to slaughter our beloved reindeer for food.
It was just at this extraordinary time that we encountered Valodya on the banks of the Bistaré.
If my first matchmaker was hunger, then my second was the fire of war.
As soon as the gunfire of the Red Army sounded, the Japanese soldiers stationed in the area took flight. But since all the roads and fords had been occupied by the Soviets, the Japanese could only flee into the forest. They weren’t familiar with the mountain terrain and lost their way easily.
Valodya was a Clan Chieftain, but by then his clansmen numbered only twenty or so. He had received orders from the Red Army to track down Japanese who had lost their way in the mountain forest. When I ran into him, he had just captured two deserters.
Axes in hand, the Japanese were felling trees to make a wooden raft that they planned to ride downstream on the Bistaré. When Valodya and his clansmen encircled them, the deserters realised that they were outnumbered, so they threw down their axes and rifles and surrendered.
It was high noon, and the Bistaré was so illuminated by the intense sunlight that it gave off a blinding white light. Swarms of blue dragonflies danced above the river.
Lean Valodya stood on the bank, and there was something extraordinary about him. He wore a pair of deerskin breeches, and a buckskin vest that bared his arms. Around his neck hung a purple cord of leather decorated with fish bones, and his long hair flowed behind him.
I guessed he was a Clan Chieftain, because only he would be allowed to wear his hair long. His face was gaunt, and his cheeks marked with several crescent-moon furrows. His gaze was tender and melancholic like the fine rain of early spring. When he looked at me, I could feel a breeze penetrate to the bottom of my heart, and my body felt warm and fuzzy. I felt like crying.
That night our tribes set up our shirangju by the riverbank, built a bonfire, and gathered to feast. The men used the rifles and bullets they had seized to shoot a wild boar that weighed more than two hundred kilos. Boar generally move in groups, but the artillery fire had also scattered them. Our catch had become separated from the herd, and it was gnawing at the bark of a poplar tree with its sharp teeth when it met its end.
The two Japanese soldiers eyed the yellow-orange flames hungrily as we roasted the wild boar. They probably thought Valodya wouldn’t give them food, so when they were invited to eat the very first slices that had been cooked through, tears rolled down their faces.
They used broken Han to ask Valodya: ‘Now that you’ve captured us, are you going to kill us?’
Valodya told them they’d be taken out of the mountains and handed over as prisoners of war. ‘Once we’re in the hands of the Soviet Red Army, we’re dead for sure!’ said one of the prisoners. ‘Let us live here in the mountains and herd reindeer for you.’
But before Valodya could answer, Yveline spoke up. ‘Wouldn’t that be like asking two wolves to be our guests? Go back to wherever you came from!’
Then she went over behind the Japanese and stuck a few of the steel-hard wild boar hairs down their collars. The prickling sensation made them cry out. We were all heartily amused by Yveline’s behaviour.
The next day we parted with Valodya’s clan there on the banks of the Bistaré. He escorted the prisoners to Uchiriovo while we continued searching for our stray reindeer. I knew he was going in the direction of the Argun, so I asked him to look for Vladimir.
I still recall his reply: ‘I’ll return to your side with Vladimir.’
I didn’t immediately understand the significance of those words. So when he brought Vladimir back ten days or so later and suddenly appeared before me to propose marriage, I fainted.
I want to tell you all something: if a woman can faint out of happiness for a man, she has not lived in vain.
Valodya’s wife had departed twenty years ago after a difficult childbirth. He deeply loved her and had never been moved by another. Alone, he led the members of his tribe in their nomadic hunting in the mountains, persuaded that happiness would not occur again in his lifetime.
Yet there by the Bistaré, Valodya said when he saw me standing on the bank his heart trembled. For that I must thank the rays of the midday sun. They clearly illuminated my melancholy, weariness, tenderness and tenaciousness, and it was this complex expression that touched Valodya. He said that if a woman possesses a look that etches itself in his memory, she must be a richly spiritual person with whom he could weather the storms of life.
Although my complexion was pale indeed, he said the sunlight softened that paleness, and if my eyes had a melancholic air, they were also very limpid. For a man, such a pair of eyes are the waters of a lake where he can rest. When he learned from Luni that Lajide had already left me, he decided to take me for his wife.
When I came to I was already in Valodya’s embrace. Each man’s embrace is distinct. When Lajide held me, I was a wisp of wind weaving through mountains and valleys; in Valodya’s embrace, I was a fish in spring waters swimming carefree. If Lajide was a big tree standing tall, then Valodya was a warm bird’s nest in a big tree. They were both my loves.
Even though Vladimir returned safely, he was no longer fully intact. When he was searching for us, he passed through a pine grove one day, and a circling Soviet plane dropped two bombs. The violent explosion gave his horse a fright, and it took Vladimir on a mad gallop that jolted him so badly that everything went dark.
When his mount finally came to a halt, Vladimir felt the saddle under him was warm and sticky. And when he looked, he saw a puddle of fresh, purplish blood. His scrotum had been lacerated and his testicles jiggled to pieces.
That aeroplane was a hellish old eagle, and Vladimir’s testicles were unborn birds suffocating inside their shells, snatched away by that eagle before they had a chance to sing.
Vladimir said he realised then that he was no longer a real man, and he didn’t want to go on living. He braided a straw string, wrapped his mukulén in it, tied it to the horse’s neck, and let the horse go and find us. He reckoned when Dashi saw the horse and the mouth harp, he’d understand that Vladimir was no longer on the earth.
Vladimir intended to commit suicide with his rifle, but he fired twice without success. The sound of the rifle shots caught the attention of Valodya and his prisoners, however. Valodya rescued Vladimir and took him and his horse all the way to Uchiriovo.
By that time the Kwantung Army Garrison was in ruins, and except for Yoshida who had committed hara-kiri on the banks of the Argun, the Japanese soldiers were now prisoners of the Soviets.
Vladimir came back with that horse of his. When it saw Dashi, its eyes filled with tears. It refused to eat grass or drink water. Dashi understood what was on its mind. They took it to a gully, and killed and buried it there. Dashi and Vladimir wept where the horse was buried, and we knew they weren’t crying for the horse alone.
From then on, our urireng stopped keeping horses and the task of castrating the reindeer bucks was shouldered by Vladimir alone.
That autumn saw the demise of Manchukuo, and Emperor Kangde was escorted to the Soviet Union.
In late autumn Nihau bore a son, and she named him Tibgur, ‘black birch tree’. She and Luni hoped he would be as solid, healthy and strong and resistant to wind and rain as a black birch.
After the child was born Nihau looked much more cheerful and presided over two successive marriages: one was Dashi’s, and the other was mine.
Dashi didn’t go back on his word. He married crooked-mouthed Zefirina and brought her into our urireng. At Dashi’s marriage ceremony, Maria got drunk and sprinkled a bag of flour over Yveline’s head. With her hair and face covered in flour, Yveline looked like she was sprouting mould.
My marriage with Valodya was a grand and bustling affair. Our people and theirs celebrated together, and everyone drank and sang to their hearts’ content. Once again I was a bride, and I wore the wedding gown that Yveline had sewn for me. Valodya also loved the pink cloth that edged the collar and sleeves and embellished the waist. He said their rosy hues were rainbows against the gown’s sky-blue.
Suddenly, right there during my marriage ceremony, when happiness flowed like the river in springtime, a masked rider appeared in our camp. The date-red horse he rode was swift and fierce, and it made Dashi and Vladimir sigh in envy. The masked man jumped off his horse, walked over to the bonfire, poured himself a bowl of baijiu, and drank it all in one go.
The giant hands that held the bowl were so familiar to us that we were shocked. Even before he tore off his mask, people were shouting his name – Ivan!
PART THREE
DUSK
IT IS DIM inside the shirangju, and it seems dusk has arrived. The warm waves emanating from the hearth and the sombre light in the sky have rendered both my tale and me drowsy. I think I should go out and get a breath of fresh air.
The rain has ceased and a few strands of orange-red afterglow drift in the western sky. If the sunset is a golden drum, those strands are distant drumbeats. Cleansed by the rain, the floating clouds are already white, but I discover the campsite has turned green. An’tsaur has transplanted pines in the clearing where the shirangju were disassembled today.
There remains just one shirangju in the camp. An’tsaur must have feared that those empty spaces would make me sad. The fresh air and the suddenly arrived green saplings run towards me like two gentle kittens. They stick out their frisky, moist tongues and lick me, one on the left cheek and one on the right, and sweep away my drowsiness.
The herd has already left the camp to go foraging. The smoky daytime bonfire that we fed with fresh grass to drive away the insects that bother our reindeer has burned itself out, but the ashes continue to give off the warm scent of fresh vegetation.
Reindeer resemble stars. At night they blink their eyes as they roam, and in the day they return to the camp to rest.
Only sixteen head remain with us. Tatiana worried that if she left too many An’tsaur and I couldn’t manage them, but if she left too few we’d feel unoccupied. In the end An’tsaur and I selected which reindeer would keep us company.
We’ll move camp in the forest again in the future so Tatiana left us the Malu King and the reindeer that transports live cinders for our fire. As for the others, half were chosen by An’tsaur, half by me. An’tsaur is an affectionate and merciful soul, so the six or seven head he chose were old and feeble – and two even have a severe cough.
To ensure that our herd grows in number and strength, I chose two studs, three does in their fawning prime and two bouncy fawns. When I finished my selections, Tatiana’s eyes sparkled with tears. ‘Eni’s eyes are still so bright!’ she said.
A bucket of water in one hand and a bunch of purple chrysanthemums in the other, An’tsaur approaches from afar. He knows I adore this flower, and on his way to fetch river water he must have picked some just for me.
He sees I’ve emerged from our shirangju and smiles. He walks up to me, hands me the flowers and then takes the bucket to water the newly planted trees.
When he finishes watering the trees, he puts the bucket down and, without pausing, enters the shirangju to bring out the dried bats. He places them on a limestone slab and grinds them with a smooth rock from the river. He’ll pound them into a fine powder, add water and pour the concoction down the nostrils of the sick reindeer to cure their cough.
I return to our shirangju and discover that the fire in the hearth is burning more intensely than when I left. It seems An’tsaur threw some kindling on the fire when he came inside to get the dried bats. The firelight illuminates the shirangju and I decide to locate the birch-bark vase and arrange the flowers in it.
I haven’t used this vase in a long while. Valodya knew I adored purple chrysanthemums, so he crafted it just for me. To set off the purple blossoms, he chose darkish birch-bark with a wavy pattern. The vase is only as high as my hand is long, and seen from the side it’s flat and equally wide from bottom to top, except at the neck where it narrows slightly.
Valodya said that you shouldn’t use a tall, slender vase for this sort of flower. Not only would this limit the number of blossoms; they might appear crowded and thus less enchanting. When arranging this sort of small-blossomed flower with luxuriant foliage, you should employ a large-mouthed vase with a short body to make them look vivacious.
I have a deerskin bag containing objects that I hold dear: the tiny round mirror that Rolinsky intended to give to Lena, the vase crafted for me by Valodya, the deer-leg drumstick used by Nidu the Shaman and Nihau, the deerskin cloth Linke used to polish his rifle, the birch-bark sheath for Lajide’s hunting knife, and a handkerchief with a pair of embroidered butterflies. Yveline gave me a mosaic of reindeer and elk hairs left by Irina, and I have a leather satchel inlaid with tree and antler patterns from Zefirina. These are all items left by people who have passed away.
Of course, there are also objects from people who are still alive. For instance, a candelabrum of tree roots made by Maksym; a spittoon shaped like antlers carved by Shiban from wind-dried oak branches; a silver hairpin engraved with a magpie and plum blossom design, purchased by Tatiana; a pair of reading spectacles Beriku had made for me in the city; and a watch from Lyusya that stopped running long ago.
Even though I’m ninety years old I don’t need reading spectacles; occasionally I catch cold, but I just cough for a day or two and then it’s over, so the spittoon is just for decoration; I prefer moonlight and the light of the fire emanating from the hearth, so the candlestick serves no purpose in the night’s darkness. In my eyes the sun and the moon are two round clocks, and I’m accustomed to reading the time from their faces, so in my hands the watch might as well be blind. If you stick a silver hairpin in black hair it’s as lovely as a white bird perched on a shirangju, but now my head is covered with grey and the beauty of a silver hairpin perched on hair like this is buried, so it too has been set aside. If only Valodya were here, I’d give the hairpin to him and let it serve as a bookmark, for he loved to read.
I open the deerskin bag and the objects inside are like long-separated old friends who can’t wait to shake hands. Just after I touch the drumstick, the birch-bark sheath sticks to the back of my hand. And then when I push away the silver hairpin that pricked my hand, that ice-cold watch slips heavily into my palm.
I dig out the vase, fill it with water, stick the purple chrysanthemum in it, and place it in front of the deerskin bedding. Once in the vase, the flower resembles a maiden who has found a reliable man, and now she looks even more dignified and beautiful.
An’tsaur enters and it appears he has already pounded the dried bats into powder. He gives me a loaf of khleb. I break off a half and give the other half back.
Before she departed, Lyusya baked two bags full of khleb and left them for us. This sort of unleavened bread will go unspoiled for a month. She spent two entire days baking it. Her eyes were red and puffy for those two days; perhaps it was the fumes from the fire. As I drink tea and chew on the khleb, An’tsaur goes out again. He’s a restless sort.
The sun must have set. From the opening at the top of the shirangju I can see the sky has turned deep grey. But in a summer night’s fair sky, this deep grey won’t last long. The moon and stars will recast it deep blue.
Ah yes, I haven’t finished te
lling my tale. I imagine that early today the objects inside the deerskin bag pricked up their ears to listen, first in the morning alongside the rain and fire, and then in the afternoon together with the items that An’tsaur picked up while cleaning the campsite.
I’m willing to tell all of you the rest of the story. If you chrysanthemums don’t catch on immediately, don’t be anxious. First put your heart at ease and listen along with everyone else. Wait until I’ve reached the end and then the vase will narrate it again from the start just for you.
Now, birch-bark vase, no excuses accepted! After all, who told you to pull the purple chrysanthemums into your embrace and suck their fragrant sap?
***
When Ivan removed his mask at my marriage ceremony with Valodya, the campsite went wild. Luni cheered and jumped about like a child and promptly poured Ivan a second bowl of baijiu. Hase cut him a big chunk of fresh roe-deer liver. Ivan swallowed the liver and downed the drink in a flash.
Then he walked over to Valodya and me. ‘I heard about your marriage ceremony so I put on a mask to give you a pleasant surprise!’
He poured himself another bowl, finished it off in one go, and wished us happiness in our union. Then I poured a fourth bowl for him, and welcomed him back to our urireng.
‘I can only stay a day or two,’ said Ivan,’ because I’m an enlisted soldier now. The year I escaped from the Kwantung Army Garrison, I ran into a small unit of Anti-Japanese Allied Forces who were battling the devils in the mountains. The situation was precarious, so the forces were preparing to withdraw to Soviet territory where they could preserve their strength.
‘I guided them to the Left Bank of the Argun, and then I joined the army there. Now we’re coordinating with the Red Army to battle the Japanese. There are still some remnants in the mountains, and I want to wipe them out before I return to our urireng once and for all.’