The White Ship (16 page)

"You little silly." Old Momun smiled cautiously. "Well, let it be your way. Maybe it is she," he said quietly, "the miraculous Mother Deer, who knows? I think . . ."

The old man did not finish. Grandma appeared in the door. She hurried in from the yard, she had already heard something there.

"Go out there, old man," she said from the threshold. Grandpa Momun drooped at once. He looked shrunken and pitiful. "They want to drag the log out with the truck," said the old woman. "Go and do everything they tell you . . . Oh, my God, I haven't boiled the milk yet," she recalled herself and ran to fire the stove and rattle with the dishes.

The old man frowned. He wanted to argue with her, to say something. But grandma didn't let him open his mouth.

"What are you staring at?" she shouted. "Who are you to be stubborn? What do you think we are? Who are you to stand up against them? Some people came out there to Orozkul, with a truck big enough to carry ten logs up the mountains. And Orozkul won't even look our way. I begged and pleaded, I crawled before him. He wouldn't let your daughter cross the threshold. There she sits, your barren one, at Seidakhmat's. Crying her eyes out. And cursing you, her brainless father . . ."

"That'll do," the old man lost his patience, and, turning toward the door, he said: "Give the boy some hot milk, he's sick."

"I'll give him, I'll give him, just go, go, for God's sake." And after he left, she still grumbled: "What's come over him? He never crossed anyone, always quiet as a mouse, and now —look at him. And grabs Orozkul's horse on top of it, and gallops off. It's all on your account." She shot a vicious glance at the boy. "At least, if it was somebody worth taking risks for . . ."

Then she brought the boy hot milk with yellow molten butter. The milk scalded his lips, but grandma made him drink it:

"Drink, drink, the hotter the better, don't be afraid. The only way to drive out a cold."

The boy burned his mouth, tears stood in his eyes. And grandma suddenly relented:

"All right, let it cool, let it cool a bit. . . . Picked such a time to get sick," she sighed.

The boy had long wanted to urinate. He got up, feeling a strange, sweet weakness throughout his body. But grandma stopped him:

"You want to piss?"

"Yes," the boy admitted.

"Wait, just a minute."

She brought him a basin.

Awkwardly turning away, the boy let the stream run into the basin, wondering at the urine being so hot and yellow.

He felt much better now. His head ached less. The boy lay quietly in bed, grateful for grandma's help and thinking that he must get well by morning and go to school tomorrow without fail. He also thought about how he would tell every-one at school about the three deer that had come to their forest. He would tell them that the white doe was the Horned Mother Deer herself, that she had a calf, already big and strong, and a great brown buck with huge horns; that he was powerful and guarded the Horned Mother Deer and her son from the wolves. He also thought that, if the deer remained with them and didn't go away, the Horned Mother Deer would soon bring Uncle Orozkul and Aunt Bekey the magic cradle.

In the morning the deer came down to the river. They emerged from the upper levels of the forest when the brief autumn sun was halfway up over the mountain range. The higher it rose, the brighter and warmer it became below, among the mountains. After the numb, chill night the forest came alive with the movement of light and colors.

Making their way among the trees, the deer walked unhurriedly, warming themselves in the sunny clearings, nibbling the dewy foliage on the branches. They went in the same order: first the buck, then the fawn, and last, the high- flanked doe, the Horned Mother Deer. They followed the path down which Orozkul and the old man had dragged the ill-starred pine log to the river the day before. The trace left by the log in the black earth was still fresh—a ragged furrow with scattered tufts of grass. The path led to the ford where the log had been left, caught among the rocks.

The deer walked to this spot because it was the most convenient watering place. Orozkul, Seidakhmat, and the two men who had come for the timber walked to the river to find the best way of getting the truck down to the bank, in order to get the log out with a towline. Grandpa Momun ambled uncertainly, with bowed head, behind the others. He did not know how to conduct himself after the previous day's scandal. He did not know what to do, what to say. Would Orozkul allow him to take part in the work? Would he drive him away as he had done yesterday, when Momun was going to try and drag the log out with the horse? What if he said, "Hey, what are you doing here? Weren't you told you're fired?" What if he insulted him before strangers and sent him home? The old man was torn with doubts. He walked as to an execution, yet he walked on. Behind him was grandma, pretending that she was just going on her own, out of curiosity. But she was really keeping an eye on him. She drove Obliging Momun to seek a reconciliation with Orozkul, to win his forgiveness.

Orozkul stepped out importantly—the lord of the woods. He walked, puffing, snorting, and throwing stern glances right and left. And though his head ached from the previous night's drinking binge, he gloated vengefully. Glancing back, he saw old Momun ambling behind him like a loyal dog whipped by his master. "Wait, I'm not done with you yet. I won't even glance at you now. You're nothing to me—an empty place. I'll have you crawling at my feet," Orozkul gloated, remembering the frenzied shrieks of his wife the night before as he was kicking her, stretched on the ground before him, throwing her out of his house. "Just wait and see. I'll get these fellows with their logs out of the way, and then I'll bring the two together, let them go at one another's throats. She'll scratch her father's eyes out—she's gone berserk, like a she-wolf," Orozkul thought to himself during the breaks in the conversation with his visitor as they walked.

The man's name was Koketay. He was a dark, burly peasant, the bookkeeper from the collective farm by the lake. He had long been on friendly terms with Orozkul. About twelve years ago he had built himself a house. Orozkul had helped him with the timber, selling him logs for boards at bargain prices. Then the man had married off his older son and built a house for him as well. And again Orozkul had supplied him with logs. Now Koketay was setting up his younger son on his own, and needed more timber for construction. This time, too, his old friend Orozkul came to his aid. Life was damned difficult. You did something and hoped that now, at last, you'd have some peace for a while. But no, something else kept turning up. And a man couldn't get along nowadays without people like Orozkul.

"God willing, we'll invite you to a housewarming soon. Come, we'll have plenty of fun," Koketay was saying to Orozkul.

The other puffed smugly on his cigarette.

"Thanks. When we are asked, we don't refuse; when we're not asked, we don't invite ourselves. If you call me, I'll come. It wouldn't be the first time I visited you. I'm just thinking—it might be best if you don't start out back till evening. Let it get darker. The main thing is to get past the Soviet farm without attracting attention. If they find out . . ."

"You're right enough." Koketay was undecided. "But it's a long wait till evening. We'll start out slowly. After all, there's no patrol post on the road to check us. Unless you accidentally run into the police or someone like that . . ."

"That's just it," mumbled Orozkul, frowning with heart-burn and headache. "You can travel a hundred times on business and never meet a dog on the road, and then you'll take some timber once in a hundred years, and you'll be sure to get into a mess. It's always that way."

They fell silent, each thinking his own thoughts. Orozkul was angry because the log had been left in the river. Otherwise, the truck could have been loaded last night and sent off at dawn, and he'd be rid of the worry. But no, they had to get in trouble! And it was all the old man's fault, with his sudden rebellion. Decided to go against authority, to have his own way. All right! He will not get away with it so easily . . .

The deer were drinking when the men came to the river at the opposite bank. Busy with their own affairs and conversations, the people did not even notice the animals across the river.

The deer stood in the reeds, red with the morning light, up to their ankles in water, on the clear, pebbled bottom. They drank in small sips, unhurriedly, stopping now and, then. The water was icy. And the sun above was getting ever warmer and more pleasant. As they quenched their thirst, the deer enjoyed the sun. The dew that had dripped abundantly upon them on the way down was drying out. A light mist rose from their backs. The morning of that day was blessed and serene.

And the people still did not notice the deer. One of them returned to the truck, the others remained on the bank. Their ears alert, the deer caught the occasional voices coming from the other bank. When the truck with the trailer appeared, they started, a shiver running down their skins. The truck clattered and roared. The deer stirred, deciding to withdraw. But the machine stopped and ceased to clatter. The animals lingered. Nevertheless, they cautiously began to move away—the people on the opposite bank were speaking too loudly and moving about too much.

The deer quietly walked up the path among the low- growing shrubs, their backs and horns appearing and disappearing over the greenery. And the people still failed to see them. And only when they started across the dry sandy stretch beyond the shrubs the people suddenly caught sight of them —clear against the lilac-colored sand, in the bright sunlight. And they stopped short in mid-movement, with open mouths.

"Look, look at that!" Seidakhmat was the first to cry out. "Deer! Where did they come from?"

"What's all the shouting for! We saw them yesterday," Orozkul spoke indifferently. "Where from! They came, so they're here."

"Oh, oh, oh," the burly Koketay cried admiringly, so excited that he had to unbutton the collar of his shirt that seemed to have grown tight. "Such smooth ones," he ex-claimed. "Must have had plenty of food all summer."

"And the doe! Look at her stepping out," the driver echoed. "As big as a mare. First time I've seen one like her."

"And the buck! Look at those horns! How does he hold them up? And they aren't afraid of anything. Where do they come from, Orozkul?" Koketay kept asking, his little pig's eyes glinting greedily.

"Must be from the sanctuary," Orozkul replied importantly, with lordly dignity. "They came over the pass, from the other side. Sure, they are not afraid. No one to frighten them, so they're not afraid."

"If only I had a gun now!" Seidakhmat burst out suddenly. "I'll bet there's more than two hundred pounds of meat there, eh?"

Momun, who had stood timidly at the side till now, could not contain himself any longer.

"What are you saying, Seidakhmat! You're not allowed to hunt them," he said in a low voice.

Orozkul threw a sidelong, frowning glance at the old man. "You dare to talk yet!" he thought with hatred. He was tempted to curse him out so that the old man would drop on the spot, but he restrained himself. After all, there were strangers present.

"We'll do without sermons," he said with irritation, without looking at Momun. "Hunting is banned in places where they live. And they don't live in these parts, so we are not responsible for them. Is that clear?" He gave the old man a threatening look.

"It's clear," Momun answered meekly and, bowing his head, walked away to the side. Grandma stealthily gave him another tug on the sleeve.

"Can't you keep quiet," she hissed. Everybody seemed embarrassed.

They looked again at the animals ascending the steep path. The deer walked single file: the red brown buck went first, proudly carrying his great horns; next came the hornless calf; the Horned Mother Deer closed the procession. Against the bare clay of the slope the deer stood out distinctly. Every graceful movement, every step were clearly visible.

"Ah, what a picture!" the driver, a round-eyed, quiet young fellow, burst out enthusiastically. "A pity I don't have my camera—it would have been a beauty . . ."

"Never mind beauty," Orozkul broke in morosely. "No use standing here. Beauty won't fill your belly. Come on, back up the truck to the water, drive right in. Seidakhmat, take off your boots," he commanded, secretly glorying in his power. "You too," he pointed at the driver. "You'll tie the towline to the log. Get moving. There's still a lot to do."

Seidakhmat began to pull off his boots. They were a bit tight.

"What are you gaping at, go help him." Grandma poked the old man when no one was looking. "And get your boots off, too, go in with them," she ordered in a vicious whisper.

Grandpa Momun hurried over to help Seidakhmat with his boots, then he quickly pulled off his own. Meantime, Orozkul and Koketay directed the truck.

"Here, this way, this way."

"Just a bit over to the left. That's it."

"A little more."

Hearing the unfamiliar noise below, the deer quickened their steps. They glanced back anxiously, and leaped over the cliff, disappearing among the birches.

"Oh, they're gone!" Koketay cried out regretfully.

"Don't worry, they won't get away!" Orozkul boasted, guessing his thoughts and pleased with his own cleverness. "Don't leave till evening, be my guest. God himself has willed it. I'll treat you to a feast you won't forget." Orozkul roared with laughter and slapped his friend on the back. Orozkul could be genial too.

"Well, in that case, I'll go along: you're the host," the burly Koketay agreed, baring his powerful yellow teeth in a grin.

The truck was already at the river's edge, its rear wheels halfway in the water. The driver did not venture to back in any deeper. Now the towline had to be carried to the log. If it was long enough, there would be no great difficulty in freeing the log from the rocks.

The towline was made of steel—it was long and heavy, and it had to be dragged across the water to the log. The driver reluctantly began to pull off his boots, glancing at the water anxiously. He had not yet decided whether it might not be best to go in with his boots on. "Maybe it's better to go in barefoot," he thought to himself. "The water will get in over the boot tops anyway—the river's deep there, up to the hips. Then I will have to go around all day in wet boots." But then he imagined how cold the water must be. Grandpa Momun saw him hesitating and hurried over to him.