by Harold Lamb
Princess was still holding to Kmita's heavy sheepskin collar. "He says no,” she called, "you can’t walk anywhere! You are not accustomed! And you haven’t lost a day! It will be only a few howers!” Suddenly she let Kmita go. "Oh, get in, Mr. Max, please!”
Stiffly, the American climbed into the front seat of the touring car, and the girl came in after him. With the doors closed, they could breathe more easily. Max struck a match to light a cigarette, and the girl’s face showed tired and tense. She didn’t smoke cigarettes. Her mittened hands wiped quickly at her eyes.
Hard snow seethed like spray against the windshield. "He has a stubborn devil in him,” she muttered. "But it is certainly true you are not accustomed.”
"Accustomed to what?”
"To these mountains, to this cold.” She hardly seemed to notice the American. "It’s his country," she said sharply. "And he has the wind with him.” A sudden suspicion made Max glance into the back seat. There was no sign of Kmita.
"He said he would bring power for the machine.”
They liked the word "power” almost as much as "wonderful.” Max swore and jammed down the horn button. A faint groan sounded in the rush of the storm. Forcing the door open, he tried to go after the boy. When he let go of the car, he fell and slipped down the slope until he hooked on a rock. In Chicago, when a blizzard came over the lake, you didn’t try to go more than a block or two. You didn’t try to go at all without holding on. You certainly didn’t try to follow a road, with a few thousand feet of nothing close beside you, six or seven miles back to a village with nothing but buffaloes and haystacks and a few old folk at home in mountain huts.
The chill that set his body shivering must come from the altitude, he thought. When he worked his way up, past the car again, he bumped into Princess, who did not move.
"Please!” she cried in his ear. "Kmita said he would be back in eight howers! His elder brother Nikita was a devil for climbing too! When Nikita almost climbed Kasbek, he had a prize and music at his funeral, with a parade down Golovinski Prospekt. Kmita let me walk in the parade, although I was so young.”
By then, Max knew there was no chance of finding the boy. Getting into the front seat with Princess, he felt around for a heater and found none. Those two youngsters had neither food nor primus heater in the car.
Princess was pulling at something in the back seat, which proved to be Kmita’s sleeping blanket. "Kmita says,” she chattered, "These burans are bad because they come from my district in the steppes. He says the true mountain snow is white, and does not kill so easily. So we have eight howers to keep from freezing dead. Kmita says not to sleep, but to talk. Where is your bottle?"
After taking a pull at the pint bottle of bourbon in his shoulder kit—Princess refused to taste it, saying it strangled her internally—Max persuaded her to accept a bar of his chocolate. By then she had tugged the blanket tightly around them, even over their heads. She had edged herself tightly against him, telling him to pretend she was his woman, riding back from a sports festival or something on their rest day.
The storm outside had taken on a new force. Particles of ice driven in around the battered glass struck through the thin blanket. Max felt numb on the side away from Princess. When the wind smacked full against the side, the car swayed. Princess began to rub her mittened hands against his neck, the tangle of her hair pressed against his head.
She was saying, "Drink more out of the bottle. Why don’t you answer me back? I asked you, why do women of the United States American dress like us in the Kavkaz?”
"You think they do?"
Princess was positive, having seen what she called documentary evidence of Persian-lamb svitkas and Russian kalpaks on American women, in the fashion ads of an old newspaper Max had along.
"It’s the style."
"What is style?”
"What the women like.”
"Don’t they like to please their men?”
"They do indeed. But it also pleases them to be stylish.”
That stopped Princess for a moment. "Don’t they really want to do what the men like best? Kmita says I want him to do everything he likes with me. And that is true.” The girl was silent, her mind going out beyond the storm. "Don’t American women feel like that?”
"Look,” he said irritably, "American women are fine, they do everything when the pinch comes, but they don’t talk about it the way you do.”
"Then you tell me a legend of one of your women who did everything.”
The only legends Max could remember were about Pocahontas and Minnehaha, which, being Indian, did not satisfy the sociologically minded Bashkir girl. He tried Barbara Frietchie, but Princess was still not satisfied.
"We have a legend about the one woman who did everything. Listen to it. She was a Bashkir redhead, a herder of the gray buffaloes of the palace. It was so long ago they had palaces in the Bashkir country. Because she kept the buffaloes, her love used to come and scratch at her window of nights, instead of taking her to the palace sleeping room. Because her love was Arghun Khan of the Bashkir, a boy of great political power. She felt afraid because he left her at night to go to the palace. Then something happened.”
Princess chattered over the whine of the wind, "She heard him scratch at the windowpane one night of a full moon. Arghun Khan was all in white, shining like. He would not come in, nor would he taste of the rice brandy and barley cakes she brought out. For the first time he would not touch her.
"He said, 'Come a little way with me, sweet wife.’ So they walked a way without touching, and he said again, 'Come a little farther with me, sweet wife.’ So they came to the gate of the palace, which was all lighted up.
"She heard music, and she inquired, 'Why is all this lighting and music?’ "Then he explained, 'It is for the sacrifice at the burial of the khan.'
"Then she began to be much afraid, and she asked, 'Why are they burying the khan?
"He explained, 'Because I am dead, sweet wife, and they are putting me in the grave in the mountain. So you can go no farther than this, nor will you see me again.’”
Rubbing at the car window. Princess peered out. Max caught a glimpse of dark bodies moving against white, outside.
"Deer,” said Princess. "White snow is falling now. Take another pull at the bottle and try not to go to sleep. . . . The buffalo girl felt her heart hurting because she could not touch him again and his son would be born to her alone among the gray buffaloes. She felt afraid. When she listened to the music, she did not know what to do, until she thought of the only thing to do.
"She said, 'It is good that you came to me tonight, my love, but that you should go away again like this is sad, very sad. Tell me in what way I can have you with me as you were before, to touch you and see you drink the rice wine again.’
"'That would be difficult for you—very difficult, and painful also,’ said the khan.
"'If it is necessary to tear bones from my flesh, I will try to do it.’
"The khan shook his head. 'It is more difficult than that,’ he explained, 'because it can only be done in one way, tonight after I am buried, while the moon is full. And the way is to go, as you are, into the mountain as far as the gate of Erlik Khan—he’s the Dictator of the Dead. First, inside the mountain, you will meet an iron man, and to him you must give a bribe of the rice brandy to drink. Then you will meet two tigers fighting, and you will need to quiet them by giving them barley cakes to eat. But at the gate of Erlik Khan you will find two orluks—two spirits—standing watch, and you can only bribe them with some of your blood.’ . . .”
The words ran together, and Max dozed comfortably until Princess jabbed him with an elbow.
"... 'and then, before the throne of Erlik Khan, you will find nine hearts lying in a mandala—that is a magic circle. Eight of the hearts will cry very loud, "Take me, take me.” The ninth heart will whisper softly, "Take me not.” But that is the one you must take, for that will be mine,’said Arghun Khan. 'The instant you touch that nint
h heart, great difficulty will arise, my sweet wife. The Lord of the Dead will stir on his throne, and you will hear the myriad voices of the dead crying out at you. "Take me too.” It will be very difficult at this moment, my sweet wife. Yet the most difficult thing of all you will have to do next. Because when you take the ninth heart, you must turn away without looking back; when the voices cry at you, you must not answer back. For if then you utter one word, sweet wife, you will never touch me again, and our son will not be born in the palace, but among the buffaloes.’ ”
The buffaloes. And the woman’s voice screaming. Max felt pain shooting through his limbs. He could not move, in the pit of darkness under the feet of Erlik Khan, although the pain was like fire, and the woman beside him thrust and pulled at the blanket enveloping them, crying out, "At, my wonderful one, my love, my khan! ”
The blanket ripped off and cold air struck his face. Beside him. Princess wrestled at the door handle, rubbing at the clouded glass. Outside the glass, light shone and danced.
On the American’s watch, the hands pointed at twenty minutes to two. The second hand still moved. When Princess flung the door open, a buffalo’s dark head appeared, steaming, the horns resting back against the yoke. There were two yoke of buffaloes and four men in sheepskin pushteens, one of them Kmita. Lifting a torch, he peered into the car, his bony face drawn and streaked with dried blood. When he beheld Max move, his cracked lips smiled.
"Good," he choked.
"Not good, you devil!” chattered Princess, her mittened hand going to his face. "I nearly died because you were gone all night! ”
Holding up the torch, the boy glanced at the American’s watch, and sighed as if frightened. "Nearly ten hours! But the buffaloes were hard to drive because the road was frozen.”
Sliding out of the car, Max grimaced with the pain gathering in his feet and hands. "Hell’s handsprings,” he grunted.
Watching him intently, Princess nodded. "If you hurt now, you are not frozen anywhere.”
Max looked around skeptically. One of the older mountain men was scraping a spot of ground bare of snow; another, with a rope over his shoulder, was dumping cattle-dung cakes from a sack, while the third, laying some frozen black strips on the ground, filled an iron pot with snow.
Over at the car’s hood, Kmita was exhibiting a square of some black substance to the interested Princess. Their slim bodies, pressed together, stood against the white gulf of the gorge.
And Max whistled softly, not quite believing what he saw. No wind stirred. The sky was translucent, with an old moon lighting the snow slopes. The breath of the sky and the fragrance of pines touched his chilled body. He looked at the Pass of Dariel, and saw the dark pinnacles and dull glaciers streaked with pure white. The storm had blown over.
On every side the heights had drawn back. Summits immeasurably distant rose against the shimmer of the sky. Down somewhere in the black shadow, a glacier stream roared faintly. For that moment. Max had the feeling that the mountains themselves had opened up before those two children, who were accustomed to the mountains, and so were alive. More alive at that moment than he had ever been in the city.
He wanted to say something. Calling to Princess, he asked, "What happened to that girl who went into the mountain? I’m afraid I went to sleep before she got there.”
Princess lifted her tousled head, puzzled; then she laughed. "You certainly did. Why, she brought her man back from among the dead; she did everything and even kept her trap shut, without answering back. Never in my life could I do that.”
The fire of dung was smoldering, the water steaming in the pot, when Princess came over to drop a handful of tea from Kmita’s pocket into it. The mountain men were holding deer steaks over the fire on the tips of their long knives, grinning at Max. Max passed cigarettes around, squatting close to the fire. Only Kmita, who was examining the broken distributor head, and Princess seemed to be worried.
The boy looked up several times at the American, and then spoke with an effort, "Mr. Max, Princess does not know much about being a guide. She had no experience at that during the war, and now she is afraid she has failed to guide you well.”
"Well,” responded the American, "if she had not guided us into those rocks, we would be down in the drink now.”
Kmita looked pleased. "She did not know how to drive a machine, and she wanted me to let her try. So I let her. She is learning quickly, very quickly,” he added earnestly.
Thinking of the hairpin turns they had negotiated before leaving the mud, Max nodded. "She's a powerful guide, Kmita,” he announced. "I’ll testify to that any day, if it will help her.”
For several moments Princess had been silent. When she offered Max the first cup of tea, she took a deep breath. "Uncle Max. at Tiflis they think Kmita is not a Grade-A mechanic, but he is, really. He is first category. See how he has brought power for the broken machine. He will melt this lump of tar, and cement the broken pieces with it. Then he brought a good rope.”
"For the buffaloes to pull?”
"Yes, for power. When the machine is fixed, I'll start it, and the buffaloes will pull from the road, while these old boys push, and we’ll soon be back on the military highway.”
As he gulped down the scalding tea, Max thought, They may do it, at that.
But Princess hurried on, "Will you please not tell them you were ditched? We will hurry, and by daybreak or perhaps noon, you will be in the city, where you will meet the people. Kmita says so.”
The two of them stared at the American, waiting.
"Kmita," Max announced, "is Grade A. I'll certify to that anywhere. As a mechanic, he is really wonderful."
Princess looked at Kmita with pride. "Did you hear? He said 'wonderful.’”
They both laughed as if there were nothing more on earth to worry them.
The Devil's Visit
SOMEWHERE Shad Donovan had heard that Kaskaland was the abode of magicians and such; (he queen of Kaskaland, he remembered, was a fairy queen so high-powered that she could cure any man’s ills by a touch. Since he had heard about this magical valley in Russia, he did not believe a word of it.
Shad Donovan had given up believing what these Russians told him, before he had been four days in the country. Belatedly, he had been sent up to the city of Tiflis in the Caucasus Mountain—a year and a half after V-J Day, it was—to try to find out why and where some American-lent rolling stock had disappeared along the railroad that led across the Russian frontier.
When the Russian transport officers in the old-fashioned burg of Tiflis—they spelled it "Tbilisi ”—informed him that his rolling stock was missing because it had disappeared, and only the devil knew why, Lt. Col. Shadrick J. Donovan didn’t believe a word of their excuses. He knew better.
For most of his forty-eight years and during two world wars Shad had lived only for freight-ton-miles—keeping freight moving at the point of highest efficiency across continents. He had accomplished miracles of efficiency at Châlons in France and Ahwaz in Iran, and in so doing, he had lost what imagination he had had as a boy. Now, for instance, he couldn’t imagine freight cars disappearing; he said he would not waste another hour in cockeyed Russia listening to children’s bedtime stories.
Although they told him it was dangerous to try to drive back alone through the Caucasus Mountains, he took off fast from Tiflis with only one guide, and spare gasoline tins stacked in the back of his jeep. He drove fast over the half-frozen mud of what they called roads. Even their gasoline smelled rank.
Another reason why Shad hurried on his way was a familiar aching in his limbs that meant fever. Fever meant nothing so much as another spell of malaria. Since he had no quinine with him, the sensible thing to do was to get himself back quickly to Teheran and his own medical supplies, to deal with malaria as it should be dealt with. By that time he had forgotten all about Kaskaland.
The first thing that struck him was the cold. When the road spiraled up into the clouds between mountain peaks which he coul
d not see, snow stung his face. Snow in April. "Now where did that come from?” Shad Donovan asked himself, and shoved down the accelerator.
Then, at a tower with a bell hanging in it, but without a sign, the road forked, and Shad slowed just enough to take the uphill fork. The boy who was guiding him began to chatter something in a Russian lingo which was meaningless to Shad. The guide jumped off the jeep, but Shad went on up the mountain.
This road looked all right on his map. The brown, ice-fringed river rushing past him looked like the Tartar River, which descended from the pass he wanted to reach. Snow flurries reduced visibility to a dozen yards, and the mountain showed no sign of coming to an end. Instead, the daylight blacked out.
Without stopping, Shad switched on his lights and buckled his trench coat tighter over his civilian suit. Because the cold was making his legs and head ache, he took a triple swallow from the pint bottle of brandy in his pocket. As he did so he noticed that the headlight glow showed animal tracks in the frozen dirt of the road, but no wheel prints. How high up he was he could not tell. It must have been plenty high, because when he breathed deep he coughed.
Although he shivered when the wind struck him, he felt hot and dizzy. When he sighted something like an oversize signpost, he pulled up and recognized it as a windmill. Between the motionless arms of the windmill, the wings of a giant bird flapped, and he heard a laugh that was like an eagle's cry. Not a light showed anywhere. And Shad wondered if the villagers had gone to bed or if there weren’t any villages. Farther on he sighted a tower rising from a grove of pines. "Castle,” Shad identified it, "without lights. Ruined castle.”
The fever was getting a good grip on him now, and because he knew he ought to look for shelter and blankets, he kept on over the Caucasus Mountains—"Kavkas,” the Russians called them—in the small hours of the night. It was all white in the glare of the lights, and the road had vanished into the whiteness. By the laboring and sliding of the jeep, he fancied he was shooting over rolling country like a prairie. They didn’t have prairies in Russia, at least not on mountain tops.