The White Ship (7 page)

But, unfortunately, the grown-ups did not do the things the boy thought would be just. They did everything the other way around. Orozkul would come home tipsy, and they would welcome him as if nothing were wrong. Grandpa would take his horse, his wife would run to make the samovar. As though everybody had been doing nothing but waiting for his coming. And he'd begin to carry on. At first he would lament and cry. How was it, he'd complain, that every man, even the lowest good-for-nothing whose hand you need not shake, had children, as many as his heart desired? Five, even ten. In what way was he, Orozkul, worse than others? What was wrong with him? Didn't he have a good job? Thank God, he was chief overseer of the forest preserve. Was he some homeless tramp? But even Gypsies had their brats, swarms of them. Or was he a nobody, without respect from anyone? He had everything. He was a success in every way. He had a fine saddle horse, and a handsome whip in his hands, and he was welcomed and honored wherever he went. Then why were other men of his age already celebrating their children's weddings, while he . . . What was he without a son, without his own seed?

Aunt &key also wept, bustled about, tried to please her husband. She brought out the bottle she had tucked away and took a drink herself to drown her troubles. And so it went, till Orozkul would suddenly go wild and take out all his anger on her, on his own wife. And she forgave him everything. And grandfather forgave him. Nobody tied him up. He'd sober up by morning, and his wife, all black and blue, would have tea ready for him. Grandpa would already have his horse out, fed and saddled. Orozkul would drink his tea, mount his horse, and once again he was the chief, the master of all the San-Tash forests. And it never occurred to anyone that a man like that should have been thrown into the river a long time ago. . . .

It was dark. Night had fallen.

And so the day ended, the day when the boy was given his first schoolbag.

As he was going to bed, he could not think of a place for his schoolbag. Finally, he put it next to his head. The boy did not know, he would learn later, that half the class would have exactly the same schoolbags. But that would not upset him anyway. His own would remain a very special one. Nor did he know that new events awaited him in his small life, that a day would come when he'd be left alone in the whole world, with nothing but his schoolbag. And that the reason for it all would be his favorite tale about the Horned Mother Deer.

That evening he had a strong desire to hear it again. Old Momun was also fond of it and told it as though he had witnessed everything himself, sighing, weeping, falling silent now and then, and listening to his own thoughts.

But the boy did not venture to disturb his grandfather. He understood that old Momun's mind was not on tales that evening. "We'll ask him another time," the boy whispered to his schoolbag. "Tonight I shall tell you about the Horned Mother Deer, word for word, just like grandpa. And I shall speak so low that nobody will hear. And you will listen. I like to tell stories and see everything before me, as in the movies. Well, now. Grandpa says that all of this is true. It really happened. . .

4

It happened long ago. In ancient, ancient times, when there were more forests on earth than grass, and more water in our country than dry land, a Kirghiz tribe lived by the banks of a wide, cold river. The river's name was Enesai. It flows far from here, in Siberia. To go there on horseback, you must ride three years and three months. Today this river is called Yenisei, but then its name was Enesai. And that is why there is a song that goes like this:

Is there a river wider than you, Enesai,

Is there a land more beloved than you, Enesai,

Is there a sorrow deeper than you, Enesai,

Is there a freedom freer than you, Enesai?

There is no river wider than you, Enesai,

There is no land more beloved than you, Enesai,

There is no sorrow deeper than you, Enesai,

There is no freedom freer than you, Enesai.

Many peoples lived along the Enesai in those days. Their lives were hard because they were always at war with each other. Many enemies surrounded the Kirghiz tribe. It was attacked by one enemy, then by another. Often the Kirghiz themselves made raids on others, took away their cattle, burned their dwellings, killed the people. They killed everyone they could—such was the time. Man had no pity on man. Man destroyed man. It became so bad that there was no one left to sow grain, breed cattle, go out hunting. It became easier to live by looting: you went out, you killed, you plundered. But blood had to be paid for by more blood; revenge by more revenge. And so blood flowed in rivers. Men lost all reason. There was nobody to make peace among enemies. The greatest glory went to those who knew how to catch the enemy unaware, destroy the alien tribe to the last soul, and seize its cattle and its wealth.

A strange, sad bird appeared in the taiga. It sang and wept all night in a grieving, human voice. It cried, flying from branch to branch: "Great trouble is coming! Great trouble is coming!" And it came to pass. The dreadful day arrived.

That clay the Kirghiz tribe on Enesai was burying its old chief. The great hero Kulche had led the tribe in peace and war for many years. He had led his warriors in numerous campaigns and fought in many battles. He had survived the battles, but at last his dying hour had come. His tribesmen sorrowed greatly for two days, and on the third day they prepared to lay the hero's body in the earth. According to ancient custom, a chief's body had to be carried on its final journey along the bank of the Enesai, over its cliffs and crags, so that the soul might bid farewell to the mother river from the heights. For "ene" means "mother," and “sai" means "river." And now, for the last time, the soul would sing the old song:

Is there a river wider than you, Enesai,

Is there a land more beloved than you, Enesai,

Is there a sorrow deeper than you, Enesai,

Is there a freedom freer than you, Enesai?

There is no river wider than you, Enesai,

There is no land more beloved than you, Enesai,

There is no sorrow deeper than you, Enesai,

There is no freedom freer than you, Enesai.

On the burial mound, beside the open grave, the hero's body was lifted over the heads of his people and shown the four corners of the world. The people chanted: "Here is your river. Here is your sky. Here is your earth. Here are we, born of the same root as you. We have come to see you off. Sleep in peace." And, to keep his memory alive for future generations, a rock was set upon his grave.

During the days of the funeral, the yurts of the whole tribe were put up in a row along the riverbank, so that every family could bid the hero good-bye from its doorway as his body was carried past. Every family lowered the white flag of mourning to the ground, wailing and weeping. Then it joined the procession as it went on to the next yurt, where the people would once more bow the white flag of mourning and weep and wail, and so on to the end, until they came to the burial mound.

In the morning of that day, when the sun rose for its daily journey, all preparations were complete. The standards with horsetails on their staffs and the hero's battle dress and armor had been brought out. His horse was covered with the funeral cloth. The musicians were ready to blow into their karnais—their battle trumpets; the drummers were ready to strike their drums so that the whole taiga would rock, and birds would fly up like a cloud into the sky and whirl overhead with screams and moans, and beasts would rush, gasping and snorting, through the forest thickets, and grass would bow to earth, and echoes rumble in the mountains, and mountains tremble. The mourners loosened their hair ready to weep and chant in praise of the dead hero Kulche. The warriors dropped on one knee, to raise the mortal body on their powerful shoulders. Everyone was ready, waiting for the body to be carried out. And at the edge of the woods nine sacrificial mares, nine bulls, and nine times nine sheep stood tethered, to be slaughtered for the funeral feast.

But now came something unforeseen. Although the tribes along the Enesai warred constantly among themselves, it was the custom that on days when chiefs were being buried neighbors were not to be attacked. Yet now hosts of enemies, who had stealthily surrounded the encampment of the sorrowing Kirghiz tribe during the night, rushed out of their hiding places on all sides, and not a man had time to mount his horse or seize his weapons. A frightful carnage followed. Everyone was killed. The enemy had planned it so, in order to put an end to the proud Kirghiz tribe forever. No one was spared, so that none would be left to remember the crime and avenge it, so that time would bury all traces of the past with shifting sands. And who could tell, then, what had been, and what had not been . . . ?

It takes a long time to bear and rear a man, but killing him is faster than fast. Many people lay hacked to death in pools of blood. Many had leaped into the river to escape from the swords and spears, and drowned in the waves of the Enesai. And all along the bank, along the cliffs and rocks, the Kirghiz yurts were flaming, for miles and miles. No one had managed to escape, no one survived. Everything was burned and destroyed. The bodies of the vanquished were thrown from the cliffs into the Enesai. The enemies rejoiced: "Now these lands are ours! These woods are ours! These herds are ours!"

The enemies were leaving with rich booty and never noticed the two children, a boy and a girl, coming home from the forest. Mischievous and disobedient, they had run off into the woods that morning to strip bark for baskets. In the excitement of their game, they had gone deeper and deeper into the thickets. Hearing the din and noise of the attack, they rushed back, but found nobody alive—neither their fathers, nor their mothers, nor their brothers and sisters. The children remained without kith or kin. They ran, crying, from one burnt yurt to another, but did not find a single living soul. In one hour, they were turned into orphans, alone in the whole world. And in the distance billowed a cloud of dust; the enemies were driving to their own lands the herds and flocks seized in the bloody raid.

The children saw the dust raised by the hooves and ran after it. After their cruel enemies the children ran, weeping and calling. Only children would do such a thing. Instead of hiding from the murderers, they tried to catch up with them. Anything seemed better than being left alone. Any place seemed better than their dreadful, wrecked, accursed home. Hand in hand, the boy and the girl ran after the herds, crying out to the people to wait, to take them along. But how could their feeble voices be heard amidst the neighing and the clattering of hooves, how could children overtake the raiders, galloping hotly away with their booty?

The boy and the girl ran for a long time, but they never caught up with the enemy. At last, exhausted, they fell upon the ground. They were afraid to look around them, they were afraid to stir. They pressed themselves to one another and never noticed when they fell asleep.

It's not for nothing people say an orphan has seven destinies. The night passed safely. No beast had touched the children, no forest monsters had dragged them off into the woods. When they awakened, it was morning. The sun shone brightly. Birds were singing. The children rose and followed the raiders' trail again. On the way they picked berries and roots. They walked and walked, and on the third day they halted on a mountain and looked down. Below, on a wide green meadow a great feast was in progress. There were yurts without number, rows upon rows of smoking fires, and countless multitudes of people. Young girls flew up and down in swings, singing songs. Powerful men circled around each other like golden eagles to amuse the people, wrestling one another to the ground. Those were the enemies, celebrating their victory.

The boy and girl stood on the mountain, not venturing to approach. But the desire to be near the fires was too strong —a tasty smell of roasting meat, bread, and wild onions came from them. The children could not resist and came down from the mountain. The hosts wondered at the newcomers, surrounded them:

"Who are you? Where are you from?"

"We are hungry," said the boy and the girl. "Give us something to eat."

The people guessed who they were from their manner of speech. They shouted, argued—should they, or should they not kill the children, the remaining enemy seed, at once, or take them to the khan? While they disputed, a kind woman managed to slip the children pieces of roast horsemeat. They were dragged off to the khan, but they could not let go of the food. They were brought to a tall red yurt, guarded by warriors with silver hatchets. And the troubling news that children of the Kirghiz tribe appeared from who knows where in the encampment spread among the people like wildfire. What could it mean? Everyone abandoned the games and the feasting and came running in a huge crowd to the khan's tent. The khan was at that moment sitting on a snow-white rug with his leading warriors, drinking koumyss sweetened with honey, listening to songs of praise. When the khan heard why the people had come to him, he flew into a mighty rage: "How dare you trouble me? Haven't we exterminated the Kirghiz tribe, to the last man? Have I not made you masters of the Enesai for all time? Why have you gathered here, cowardly souls? Look who it is before you! Hey, Pockmarked Lame Old Woman," cried the khan. And when she stepped out of the crowd, he said to her: "Take them away into the taiga and do what is needed to put a final end to the Kirghiz tribe, so that no trace of it is left, so that its name is forgotten forever. Go, Pockmarked Lame Old Woman, do as I bid you . . ."

The Pockmarked Lame Old Woman obeyed silently. She took the boy and girl by the hand and led them away. For a long time they walked through forest, then they came to the bank of the Enesai, to a high cliff rising over it. The Pockmarked Lame Old Woman stopped the children and placed them side by side at the edge of the cliff. And, before pushing them down, she said: