The White Ship (11 page)

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.

Meantime, Orozkul was returning from the ford, leading the unharnessed horse by the bridle. The horse limped on one of his front legs. The women watched silently as Orozkul approached the yard. They were still unaware of what was going on in his mind and heart, what he was bringing them that day, what trouble, what terror.

In wet, sloshing boots and wet trousers, he came up to them with heavy steps and threw them a dark look from under his brow. His wife, Bekey, cried anxiously:

"What is the matter with you, Orozkul? What happened? You're all wet. Was the log carried off?"

"No." Orozkul waved her off. "Here"—he gave the reins to Guldzhamal—"take the horse to the stable." Then he turned toward his house. "Come inside," he said to his wife. The old woman wanted to go with them, but Orozkul did not allow her on the threshold.

"Go your way, old woman. There's nothing for you here. Get back to your house and stay away."

"What are you saying?" Grandma took offense. "What's all this about? And what about our old man? What happened?"

"Ask him," said Orozkul.

In the house, Bekey pulled off her husband's wet clothes, gave him a warm robe, brought in the samovar, and began to pour him some tea.

"No." Orozkul rejected it with a wave of the hand. "Give me a drink."

His wife took out a bottle of vodka and poured it into a glass.

"Fill it up," said Orozkul. He drank it in a single breath, wrapped himself in his robe, and, lying down on the rug, said to his wife: "You are no wife to me, and I am not your husband. Get out, and never set foot in my house again. Go, before it's too late."

Bekey sighed, sat down on the bed, and, swallowing her tears, as always, said quietly:

"Again?"

"Again what?" bellowed Orozkul. "Get out!"

Bekey jumped out of the house and, as always, wrung her hands and screamed for the whole yard to hear:

"Why was I ever born into this world, why must I suffer this misery?"

And, in the meantime, old Momun was galloping on Alabash toward his grandson. Alabash was a fast horse. Still, Momun was more than two hours late. He met the boy on the road. The teacher herself was leading him home. The same teacher, with the wind-roughened hands, in the same, shabby coat she had worn for the past five years. The weary woman looked glum. The boy, who had wept for a long time, walked next to her, swollen eyed, with his schoolbag in his hands, pathetic and humbled. The teacher gave old Momun a sharp scolding. He dismounted and stood before her with bowed head.

"Don't bring the child to school if you won't come in time to pick him up. Don't count on me, I have four of my

own.,,

Momun apologized again. Again he promised it would not happen anymore.

The teacher went back to Dzhelesai, and the grandfather turned homeward with his grandson.

The boy was silent, sitting on the horse before his grandfather. And the old man did not know what to say to him. "You're very hungry?" he asked.

"No, the teacher gave me some bread."

"And why are you so quiet?"

The boy said nothing.

"You take offense too easily," Momun said with a guilty smile. He took off the boy's cap, kissed him on the head, and replaced the cap.

The boy did not turn around.

They rode, both of them depressed and silent. Momun restrained Alabash, keeping a strong hand on the reins. He did not want to let the boy be shaken up on the unsaddled horse. Besides, there seemed no reason to hurry anymore.

The horse quickly understood what was expected of him and moved at a light trot, snorting now and then, his hooves tapping on the road. A fine horse, a horse to ride by oneself, singing quietly, just to oneself. There were many things a man could sing to himself. About dreams that never came to pass, about lost years, about the days when one was still in love . . . A man likes to sigh for the days when something was left behind, something forever unattainable. And yet, he never even knows rightly what this something was. But sometimes he wants to think about it, to feel his own self.

A good horse, a good companion . . .

And old Momun was thinking as he looked at his grandson's cropped head, his thin neck and wide ears, that all he had left of his whole unlucky life, of all his toil, all his sorrows, was this child, this still helpless little being. If he could only live long enough to put him on his feet. The boy would have a hard time if he was left alone. No bigger than a budding ear of corn, but already with a character of his own. He ought to be simpler, more easily affectionate. . . . Men like Orozkul would hate him and tear into him like wolves into a cornered deer.

Suddenly Momun remembered the deer that flashed by like swift shadows, the deer that caused him to cry out in joy and wonder.

"Do you know, my son," Momun said, "the deer have come to us."

The boy glanced quickly over his shoulder.

"Is it true?"

"It's true. I saw them myself. Three head."

"Where did they come from?"

"From over the pass, I think. There is a forest preserve there, too. The fall is still as warm as summer—the pass is open. And so they came to visit us."

"Will they stay with us?"

"If they like it here, they will. If no one touches them, they'll stay. There's food enough for them—even for a thousand. In old times, when the Horned Mother Deer was here, there were countless numbers of them around here."

Feeling that the boy was relaxing at the news, that he was beginning to forget his grief, the old man began to talk again about old times, about the Horned Mother Deer. And, carried away by his own tale, he thought: "How easy it is to feel happy and bring happiness to others! If we could always live like this." Yes, just as they were living at that moment. But life was not like that. Right next to joy, there was misfortune, watching out for you constantly, breaking into your life, following you always, eternal, inescapable. Even at that hour, when they were so happy, anxiety nagged at the old man's heart: What about Orozkul? What punishment was he preparing for the old man who had dared to disobey him? For Orozkul would not ignore it, or he would not be Orozkul.

And so, in order not to think about the imminent disaster awaiting his daughter and himself, Momun spoke to his grandson about the deer, about their nobility and beauty and swiftness with such self-oblivious joy as though this could somehow avert the inevitable.

And the boy was happy. He never suspected what awaited him at home. His eyes and ears were burning. Could it be true that the deer had come back? So everything his grandfather had told him was true. Grandpa was saying that the Horned Mother Deer forgave men's crimes against her and permitted her children to return to the Issyk-Kul Mountains. He was saying that three deer had come back to see how it was here, and if they liked it, all deer would return to their homeland.

"Ata," the boy interrupted his grandfather. "Perhaps it is the Horned Mother Deer herself who came here? Perhaps she wants to see how it is here, and then call her children?"

"It could be so," Momun said uncertainly. He hesitated, wondering: Had he not gone too far? Had the boy put too much faith in his words? But Momun did not try to dispel the boy's belief. It would have been too late now, anyway.

"Who knows." He shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps. Perhaps it was the Horned Mother Deer herself. Who knows . . ."

"We can find out," cried the boy. "Let's go to the place where you saw the deer. I want to see them too."

But they don't stay in one place."

"We'll follow in their tracks. We'll follow and follow for a long time. And as soon as we catch sight of them we'll turn back. And then they will believe that people won't harm them."

"You funny child." The grandfather smiled. "Let's get home first, then we'll see."