Called to Gobi

by D. I. Telbat

  She sighed, then kissed me slowly.

  "How can you do that, Pond?"

  "Do what?"

  "Turn all the bad into good?"

  "The good is already there, Zima. We just have to look for it."

  "When will we marry?"

  "I have an idea. When we're all ready for winter, we'll invite the other camps to celebrate the autumn season and have our wedding. At Three Rocks tonight, I'll make the announcement."

  "May I come?"

  "If you want. There'll be a lot of waiting. What about the baby?"

  "Sembuuk says a woman in middle camp lost her baby that was still nursing."

  With my fingertips, I brushed her face. I knew she'd grown attached to the infant, but the new arrangement would be for the best.

  "You'll be giving them the baby?"

  "I'm not a mother, Pond. Maybe this will help her pain."

  "How do you do that?"

  "Do what?" She frowned.

  "Make everything so beautiful?"

  "You think I'm beautiful?" She smiled.

  "Oh, yes."

  "The Mongols believe I'm ugly."

  "They have to say that."

  "Why?"

  "Because they are bitterly jealous."

  "What about Gan-gaad and Luyant? I worry about Skaamaan and the children."

  "After our wedding, perhaps we can take a trip down south if there's no snow yet. It shouldn't be too hard to find where they're camped. Unless they're hiding in the mountains from the Chinese as well."

  "I think Gan-gaad would fight the Chinese."

  We talked some more, then read the Psalms and prayed for our safety as well as the safety of the others. It was a glorious afternoon.

  *~*

  Chapter 19

  When it was dark, ten of us gathered at Three Rocks, some from every camp. Still, we didn't hear from Duulgii, but no one could look for him. We had to fend for ourselves.

  The convoy five miles below us was thinning out. Yet in its scarcity, there was an additional danger. Occasional vehicles were now passing from the north and going back into China. Some looked like ambulances, probably carrying wounded from whatever battle raged in the north, and some were official vehicles, with emblems on the doors, likely carrying ambassadors and officers. But then, between the traffic, there were gaps of five or ten minutes, but no more. Only after these observations did we depart with ten horses—Sembuuk, me, and one other man, Jugder, to hold the horses and do the packing. Jugder was a large Kazakh with only two fingers on his right hand. Regardless of his handicap, those from Middle Camp claimed he was their most able and leading man.

  The moon had set early that night, so it was unusually dark on the open plain. Sembuuk was in the lead and Jugder brought up the rear with his train of pack horses. Jugder wasn't much for words, which was especially handy on such an operation.

  About two hundred yards from the destroyed camp, Sembuuk and I dismounted and gave our mounts to Jugder so we could continue on foot. Prowling now, the two of us moved ahead only when there were no headlights in sight. When we reached the edge of the camp debris, we lay on our bellies as a truck bounced toward the south going far too fast on the dirt road. After it passed, Sembuuk rose and ran into camp. Halfway through, he crossed the road, and located something of value.

  There was a growl and a bark no more than a stone's throw away to my left. Whether they were wolves or dogs, I didn't know, but they were carnivores tearing at one of the many dead animal or human bodies. As long as they stayed away from us, we'd be fine. We certainly weren't going to fight them for their food. If they came toward me, I'd hiss at them like a snow leopard. For an emergency, I'd brought my flare gun. I had two more flares left, but I prayed I wouldn't need them as it would only draw attention.

  Sembuuk dove to my side and lay as still as a rock along with me as a tank rumbled past at forty miles per hour, then a Jeep not far behind it.

  "Two saddles," Sembuuk whispered.

  As soon as it was clear, I dashed away with my two burdens and Sembuuk ran away to find more treasures. I reached Jugder and handed off the two saddles. The seven-fingered man had staked each aduu side-by-side but spread apart enough for him to fit between. It was a smart way to move amongst them while he packed our goods onto their backs.

  I ran back in time to retrieve three more saddles. Sembuuk had found a stash.

  It continued like this for some time. Sometimes we were resting with our faces to the ground, and other times we were dashing mad with burdens too heavy to carry except for the rush of adrenalin that pushed us onward.

  When we had twelve saddles—four for each camp—the canvas and felt for the gers was our next important need. He found bundles of these, and others he dragged off collapsed ger frames, wrapping them hastily for our transport back to camp. Some were torn or partially burned, but anything and everything would be used.

  Next came food—human food. Like the Mongols, the Kazakhs had smoked and dried much meat. There was also flour, a half-trampled bag of potatoes, wild radishes, and turnips.

  Then came the horses' grain. This was mandatory to supplement the horses' diets since they weren't going to be eating much during the winter.

  Sembuuk located and brought me tools—axes, shovels, saws, wood-carving tools, blades, two picks, and a dozen axe heads. All this he brought in a single trip that was so heavy, I had to half-drag the bundle back to Jugder's station.

  At this point, it was two in the morning. My elbows, knees, and chin were skinned and bleeding from diving to the ground so often, and my legs were cramping every time I rested when there were passing vehicles. The cold night air has a way of tearing and breaking a man down to a trembling heap in time. I hadn't run and darted this much since I was twenty-two when police were chasing me through the Bronx.

  "How's Jugder doing?" Sembuuk asked me as we huddled together. A train of five tractor-trailers filled with machine parts drove past. "Can he take more?"

  Our cheeks were to the ground as we hid our faces, our heads only inches apart as we spoke. At a glance, we probably appeared as some of the many dead scattered around the camp since our bodies were motionless.

  "Yeah, we can go till daylight if we have to," I said, "but we'll be walking back. There'll be no room to ride. How are you doing? The dead . . . I mean, you knew these people."

  "I try not to look, Andy. I lost a child a few years ago. It was a hard time. But this? There are no words for it. They are all gone now. You are lucky to have Zima still."

  "I'm sorry I didn't know your family."

  He said nothing for a few moments, then lifted his head.

  "We have to get the wood stoves together," he said. "I've already taken off the chimney pipes so we can pick up the stoves."

  "What about the pipes?"

  "They're too awkward. We'll have to get them another night or make our own back at camp. If there's time, maybe we can get them last."

  "We'll need about nine stoves," I said, calculating. "A stove per ger."

  "I think I only found six. The others are too damaged or crushed."

  "Crushed is okay. If it eats wood, the heat's all that matters."

  "Fine." He chuckled. "You and Zima get a crushed stove in your wedding ger."

  Jumping up, we ran together to the nearest stove. The stoves were two-by-two-by-three, a little large for the gers Kandal was fabricating, but I'd trade space for heat any night! The stoves weren't too heavy for two of us to carry, only awkward. We reached Jugder five minutes later with the first stove. Jugder began to strap the stove onto one of the horses, then stopped and dropped the stove on the ground. He opened the hinged door and dumped out five pounds of ash.

  "How often do you guys clean those out?" I gasped. "Listen, we're running out of time. We need to each put a stove on our shoulders, then get back. Either that, or we relay like we've done with everything else. They're not too heavy if we pour out the ash first. Going together like this, we're wasting too much time."
>
  "Fine," Sembuuk said. "We'll both carry one."

  Dashing back, we found two more stoves, made sure the ashes were discarded this time, then I hefted one onto his shoulder. I'd managed to get one onto my shoulder, but gestured him closer.

  "I can take another one on this shoulder, too. Go ahead."

  Shaking his head, he set his stove on my other shoulder, my head sandwiched between the two. He found one for himself and we ran—me a little slower. Halfway back to Jugder, my shoulders felt so bruised, I was nearly in tears. I rolled them onto the ground with a wince. Sembuuk noticed and slapped me on the back.

  "Two at a time, huh?" he said, laughing. "I think you should carry three!"

  "I got greedy," I said, rubbing my shoulders.

  We went back and forth two more times, finding ourselves with a total of eight.

  "That's all I can pack on here," Jugder said. "Anything more and I'll have to strap it between the horses' legs."

  "Just one more," I pleaded.

  "One more and you carry it!" the seven fingered man declared.

  "I can carry it." I nodded. "We're walking back, anyway."

  Sembuuk plopped down on the ground at Jugder's feet. I rested my hands on my hips. Every muscle in my body hurt.

  "Come on, Sembuuk. One more trip."

  "You can manage. Let me rest before we go back."

  Turning, I walked back to the damaged camp. At the edge, I hid as a half-dozen all-terrain vehicles zipped past. Chinese soldiers on four-wheelers? When I started to climb to my feet, a burst of gunfire made me sprawl flat. A dog or wolf yelped to my left. Another burst silenced it. Breathlessly, I opened one eye. While I'd been watching the ATVs approach and pass, I hadn't seen a Jeep with a trailer coming from the north. The driver of the Jeep—holding a Chinese SKS at the ready—stood on his seat and watched as his passenger, an officer in uniform, picked through the camp debris. The same assault rifles were in New York City, and with the glow appearing on the horizon, there was no mistaking the long banana clip. The officer was armed as well, with a pistol on his hip, and he worked his way through the deserted camp, picking up objects and throwing others aside. He seemed set on finding something valuable in the mess.

  Praying in silence, I squeezed my eyes shut. It was growing lighter by the minute as the sun rose. A careful look to the west and I could see ten horses burdened with goods. They would never outrun the Jeep if a chase ensued, but I hoped they were obscured enough by the dim morning light.

  The officer stepped in my direction and kicked a cooking pot so hard, it soared over my head. It landed behind me. He spoke Chinese to the driver and the driver laughed. The man picked up a sack of dog hair and shook it out all over the ground. His voice sounded cruel, like he was ridiculing the primitive culture. Then he spotted me. I shut my eyes and didn't move. My breath came in shallow half-breaths from my stomach—indiscernible breaths, I hoped.

  He kicked me lightly in the ribs. My eyelids fluttered, but the lighting seemed too weak for him to see the slight movement. The officer spoke again to his driver, another joke the driver didn't seem to find too humorous.

  I could smell whatever stench his boots had stepped in, and even his aftershave.

  The officer nudged my feet, then stooped down to untie my laces. My boots? He tugged at my left boot, but it wouldn't come off. They were tight on my feet and usually took much of my own effort to pull them off. But because they were the most modern and most expensive item he'd probably seen this side of China, he wanted them. Fortunately, I couldn't see what he was about to do next or I would've flinched away.

  Since he couldn't get the first boot off, he gave up trying. Instead, he drew his sidearm and pulled the trigger. My whole body jerked. My eyes bulged, then I quickly closed them again. Lord, help me!

  He loosened my laces more, and when he tugged again, the boot came off smoothly. The officer held my boot up to his own foot, which I wish he'd done at the beginning. My boot was two inches too long for his small feet. Cursing, he threw the boot into the air and shot at it again and again as it landed on the ground. The man emptied his pistol at the boot a dozen paces away from me.

  Frustrated, he stomped back to the Jeep. When I opened one eye to see if he was departing, I wished instantly that I would've kept my eye closed. The officer ripped the driver's machine gun from his hands, chambered a round for good measure, and pulled the trigger. Bullets snapped at the ground all around me, battering the debris on all sides like hail from a horror film. I was too frightened to move. Deep down, I wanted to run, but I believe God kept me still, protecting me as much as those not far away in the plain who were watching everything unfold.

  The gunfire lasted five seconds—until his fifty-round clip was smoking and exhausted.

  The driver started the Jeep and drove to the south with the officer mumbling, probably about the boots being too large or his feet being too small. A tanker truck nearly collided with the Jeep as they zoomed away. Both vehicles honked, swerved, and continued on their way.

  I listened to the dawn breeze through the ringing in my ears. Full daylight wasn't far away now, so I wasn't hasty to jump up. It was bright enough that I could see my boot. Was it safe to move? Maybe . . . Jumping to my feet, I limped to the boot. Had the man been shooting blanks? There wasn't a hole in my boot! Only when I tugged it on did I feel wetness in my sock. Pulling up my pant leg, I saw that when he'd shot point-blank at my calf, the bullet had grazed me—enough so I knew they weren't blanks he'd been firing!

  "Lord, I don't even know what to say right now," I said as I tied my boot. "I should be dead, but I'm humbled at Your protective hand."

  In thirty seconds, I found a stove, though a crushed one. A horse hoof had caved it in on one side, but it would prop upright adequately. After dumping out the ashes, I checked for vehicles, then shouldered the stove. I jogged all the way back to Sembuuk and Jugder.

  "How are you still alive?" Sembuuk exclaimed in awe. He patted my shoulders and head as he walked in a circle around me. Jugder stood silent, his eyes narrowly judging my condition. "If I wouldn't have seen it myself, I would never . . ."

  "It's his God," Jugder said. "Isn't it, Andy? The God that saved those people in the boat with the animals from the flood. It's the same thing."

  Jugder turned and led the horses up the mountain at a fast pace while we followed after.

  "If your God is this powerful, Andy, why were you even playing dead?" Sembuuk asked.

  "Because nobody, not even God, likes a show-off."

  Sembuuk laughed and slapped his leg as we walked back to camp.

  *~*

  Chapter 20

  At Three Rocks, there was a mighty cheer for the three of us as we arrived mostly unscathed. Many more from the other camps had gathered since the day had fully dawned. Sembuuk supervised the separation of the gear as Zima inspected me from head to toe. Using my binoculars, she and the others had observed much from afar and couldn't believe what they'd seen. Finally, she found the entry and exit hole in my pant leg, with my light wound beneath.

  "You did get hurt!" she shouted.

  "He was shooting at me, Zima. I'm not invincible."

  "But God was protecting you, wasn't He?"

  "Of course! See? I'm alive. That's just a scratch to remind me it was Him doing the saving." I pointed at the sky. "And it was Him telling me I'm still human."

  "I told you not to go, Pond!" she said, fuming, and kicked me square on the shin.

  The following days were spent incorporating all the gear Sembuuk and I had found. Everyone's spirits were high as we realized we could actually survive the winter now.

  While Sembuuk hunted with his eagle, Bolor and I took the axes and a saw north of our camp to cut firewood. Since winters are nearly nine months long in Mongolia, there was an amazing amount of wood to be cut, split, and stacked for our small camp. There was little need to actually chop any trees down since the virgin timber had plenty of blow-down. Splitting the wood into sizeable piece
s for the stoves was a chore that would extend well into the winter. Normally, on the steppe, the stoves burned only horse dung.

  Kandal and the two kids still in our camp, Manai and Beveg, Bolor's daughter, made good time with the ger frames. Sembuuk had gathered nearly twenty felt covers and canvas pieces, but three were so badly damaged, they needed to be cut and patched to make one. As it was, every camp received their issue of four covers, and all accepted their allotment without complaint. One camp might have had more of one item than the other two, but there was a compromise to off-set with an extra tool or blanket.

  South Camp had already slaughtered and butchered one of their aged mares and was putting its hide and organs to use. Sembuuk brought in a number of little critters every day, and at morning khuruldai, when at least one person from each camp met at Three Rocks, an exchange of items was made. However, there was no doubt in my mind that our camp was doing better with provisions than the others, so the three of us able men—Sembuuk, Bolor, and I—made a point to chop extra wood and provide extra meat for the other two camps.

  Though it was a sad time of loss for everyone, the level of companionship was astounding. No one argued. No one had a dispute. Everyone knew what needed to be done, and if they didn't, Kandal or Zima would set them straight. If I saw something to address, I addressed it. One such example concerned the stove pipes.

  Even though every ger being fashioned in every camp had a hole in its roof—a toono—the gers were still as smoky as a brush fire. The answer to this discomfort was to have stove pipes. But getting the stove pipes meant someone had to go back to the plain and find them. The military traffic on the road below was just as constant after a week as it was the night Sembuuk and I had prowled about. But I was the one who had to go.