The telluric current thus flowing under the hill acted on water and minerals in the magma chambers under the earth’s crust and, by electrolytic action, released hydrocarbons: ethane, methane and some intermediary organic compounds. As a result and in keeping with the predictions of a number of bold geological theorists, hydrocarbons were formed through an inorganic process that did not require the presence of fossils.
* * *
The tribes had camped along the great lake, the waters of which lapped against its shores rhythmically like the breakers of an inland sea which, in fact, it was. The lake bordered territory occupied by two great communist superpowers that, in turn, maintained a sort of discreet surveillance over the tribes which congregated on its shores annually. However, even the influence of superpowers has its limits and, apart from verbose, inconsequential and routine reports drawn up by their respective local bureaucrats, nothing about the meeting of tribes ever reached either Moscow or Beijing. Not that it was likely that anyone in the two capitals read the reports. After all, hundreds of such meeting places, undefined by political boundaries, existed on the steppe where the tribes gathered. If, however, bureaucrats of the respective countries had gone back far enough in their history, they might have been surprised to know that this particular meeting place had been watched with interest since the times of the Czar and the Ming. Presumably, nothing of importance had been gleaned from this yearly gathering even then, since no records survive of anything remarkable having taken place.
The fifty tribes – give or take a few – gathered at this meeting place had moved with their families and livestock after the first melt, happy to be wandering again after the bitterly cold winter of the steppe. Of Caucasian and Mongoloid stock or a kind of hybrid that hovered somewhere in between, the tribes spoke different dialects and wore garments identifying them as nationals of their respective countries. They moved along the traditional routes their forebears had used from the beginning of their own history or, perhaps, even before that. The descendants, however, enjoyed the advantage of modern camping gear, with waterproof tents, battery-operated lighting and kerosene stoves at their disposal. Even their fishing gear and the long-barrelled hunting rifles were an improvement on what had been available to their ancestors. What the tribes did share with their forebears, however, was their mode of transport – they still travelled on horseback and in ox carts, driving their slow-moving sheep and cattle along, for there was as yet no mechanized vehicle that would have been able to navigate the rugged trails over the Altai mountains where no roads existed and probably never would.
Beyond the lake lay the lush pasture or
jailoo
on which their livestock grazed. It was a miracle of the steppe that on these barren, unforgiving plains, swept by icy-cold winds, summer could bring forth the sudden bounty of grass which had provided sustenance to countless generations of nomads and continued to do so. That was not all. For under the light blue canopy of a sunny sky where the eagle soared, hoping to make a meal of the furry marmots popping out from their burrows, lay not only hundreds of square miles of pasture, the grass gently swaying in the breeze, but also islands of blooms – poppies, tulips and buttercups. It was on this pastureland that the tribes camped, forming a rough perimeter around the lake. For each of the tribes, their respective camping grounds were clearly demarcated, as they had been for centuries. Changing the location of the traditional camping ground was unthinkable; in a land where the fattening of the livestock meant the tribe’s survival through the winter, grazing land would be fought over, seized and fiercely guarded. The elders of the tribes, who had lived through many summers by this lake, ensured that boundaries were enforced and respected, though there was enough for everyone.
Life was good and the men, after a day on the saddle following their grazing livestock, would gather around campfires, drinking vodka and other more potent home-distilled brew like
kumis,
made from fermented mare’s milk. There would be much singing, dancing and gambling and a few fisticuffs as well to end the evening, before they got back to the yurts and their women. On certain days, they would go fox hunting on horseback – to do so on foot was considered shameful – putting aside their rifles and using their bows and arrows to kill their quarry. The fox pelts were fawn coloured and beautiful, prized possessions which the young men would strive hard to acquire. The older ones among them would declare with lascivious grins that special delights would be in store for them if they managed to present a pelt to their new brides on their wedding night. The fishing was good too, but they would not venture far out into the lake, working their nets from the small foldable canoes which had been transported here from back home.
In August, when the grass yellowed and the first cotton-ball clouds appeared in the sky, the elders met, each dressed in his traditional best, their demeanour conveying a sense of purpose and gravity as they entered the tent which had been pitched some distance from the camping grounds. By common consent, the eldest of them, a bent old man called Madagol, began the proceedings.
‘Greetings,’ he said, speaking in Kazakhi, a language not all of them understood fully.
For that reason alone, he chose his words carefully, using the simplest of terms to express his thoughts and grand sweeping gestures when words proved inadequate. While the gathering of tribes was annual, these special meetings took place every twelve years and most of the elders, barring the ones who had gone to their graves some previous winter and been replaced by their successors who were here for the first time, knew each other from having met on previous such occasions.
‘For those of you who are new to this meeting, this is the Year of the Tiger, the time for us to send our tribute to the Great Khan.’
The others nodded solemnly.
One of them, a man called Baidak who had led his tribe all the way from Lake Baikal, responded, ‘We are ready with our people, Madagol.’
The others murmured their agreement.
‘These men and women you have chosen – are they hardy? Can they survive the journey?’
‘Yes, Madagol,’ Baidak assured him.
Again, there was a murmur of agreement.
‘That is good news. We can now let Arrim, the shaman, do his job.’
‘Arrim has found his mare?’ asked another old man, not expecting an answer to his question.
‘Yes. And as always, you shall see,’ Madagol answered.
The elders trooped out of the tent and walked some distance, until they came to the spot where Arrim, the shaman, waited, holding a lamb by the scruff of the neck. Some distance away, a white mare was tethered to a peg in the grass. A stooped, pockmarked man with dark features and sunken eyes, Arrim wore a thick fur coat, although the day was warm. Some of the elders who had seen him on many a previous occasion looked at him now with a frisson of distaste and fear.
At a nod from Madagol, Arrim drew out a long, heavy knife from his coat and brandished it. Muttering a chant in a language none of them understood, he slit the throat of the lamb. A fountain of blood gushed forth from the animal and spattered him. Wiping the blood off his face, Arrim made another slit in the dead animal’s belly, allowing its guts to spill out on the grass. The shaman dragged his knife through the guts, his chants growing louder. Then without warning, he lifted his robe. Madagol, who had witnessed the ceremony before, turned away, but the others stood watching in horrified fascination as the shaman began vigorously stroking his erect member only to ejaculate quickly with a loud groan on the spilled lamb guts.
‘Come and see, the sacred pattern of the Sky God is formed,’ Arrim announced, grinning at the assembled men as he beckoned them and pointed to the mess on the grass.
Moving almost as one, the men recoiled in disgust, making the shaman cackle loudly.
‘They will reach safely,’ he said after some time, then added with an evil grin, ‘but this year, there is danger, great danger – let them be warned!’
The elders nodded. Ignoring the carcass, Arrim reached into the pocket of his coat and took out a bag. From this, he pulled out an unshapely piece of metal – magnetized iron – and flung it far into the grass. Then he approached the mare and untied her, whispering into her ear. The mare looked up into the air, as if it had scented something, then began walking through the grass in the direction of the spot where the piece of metal had landed, finally coming to stop where it lay. Arrim grinned again, this time in triumph, at the gathered men, who nodded their appreciation. He patted the mare, picked up the piece of metal and put it into his pocket.
‘Then our job is done here,’ said Madagol. ‘As our custom dictates, the eldest of those selected will be the leader. Let them carry enough salt, tea and cloth, in addition to the horses, as tribute. They will leave tomorrow night, after Arrim has initiated them in the ancient song which will guide them to the Northern Gate. From that point onwards, the mare will guide them. May the Sky God, Tenger, be with them.’
The elders dispersed, but not before hurriedly dropping a gold coin on a piece of cloth Arrim had spread on the ground. He grinned and nodded as each coin landed, but was careful to check the authenticity of the pieces individually by biting into them.
‘I wonder why he does that. Surely, he knows that our fear of the shaman’s curse would prevent us from even thinking of cheating him.’ Baidak muttered to Madagol as they rode back to their respective camps.
That night, each of the tribal elders summoned the young men and women he had chosen to his own yurt. He also requested their parents to join them. Then he gave them the news. The young people looked surprised, but remained silent. The parents nodded their assent. Later that night, the young couples were married in a ceremony which was followed by much drinking, dancing and feasting. They spent their nuptials in a yurt specially erected for the purpose on the steppe.
The following night, they would set off on their journey, guided by an ancient hymn, a shaman and the mare that had smelt the magnet in the grass. They would never return to their tribes again.
* * *
Tashi Namgyel was seated in a cave high on the ridgeline, watching the sun go down. The cave was actually a small grotto hewn into the rock face, perhaps thousands of years ago, by some ancient mystics who had been seeking an isolated, undisturbed spot to meditate. But Tashi suspected the spot had been chosen more for the spectacular view it offered than for its absolute isolation. Isolation was the one thing never in short supply in this land.
An eagle was soaring high in the sky. Had it gazed down, it would have seen, other than the imposing three-faced mountain standing taller than all the peaks around it, some irregular patches of green where wild barley grew along the banks of the river, a scattering of yaks and wild horses, the odd nomadic tent or yurt and, perhaps, some nomads tending their herds. The valley would probably have appeared no different to its eyes than any other in these high mountains. The eagle would not have noticed the village or the lamasery, tucked as they were into the rock face.
Tashi’s vantage point afforded him the same view as that of the flying eagle, except that from where he sat, he could see the lamasery perched at a slightly lower elevation on the adjacent ridge, the brown shutters of its windows thrown wide open to let in the sun. If he screwed up his eyes, he could even make out the red robes of the monks inside as they sat and gossiped in the halls, before the bells and drums signalled the moment for them to close the windows and move in for the evening prayers.
It was a tradition that had been followed for as long as the people he had asked could remember, that on clear summer days, a man from the village would come to this vantage point to look down and see if the eagle that flew overhead could detect any signs that risked betraying the location of their habitation. The books he had read and the pilgrims he had spoken to mentioned fantastic man-made creations which could fly like birds and carry people inside their bellies. Some had even referred to machines which could go all the way up to the kingdom of the stars and could look down on the earth and see them. And where they could not see, they could pick up the heat of their fires. But it was also said that as long as they lived the life of the nomad and dwelt in the hillside, they could not be seen, much as the eagle could not see the brown marmot as long as it stayed near the brown earth of its burrow.
In his lifetime, he had never seen one of these incredible machines and he doubted he ever would. That bothered Tashi.
Tashi Namgyel had started from the village early in the morning, before the sun had cleared the crests and the valley was still in shadow, to reach his present vantage point. He had stopped only once on the way to have his sparse midday meal of dried meat and barley flour which he mixed with yak butter to make small balls, washed down with cold river water which he carried in a small animal-skin bag. The children he taught in the village school would have come to his small shelter in the morning and, overjoyed not to find him, would have rushed off to play in the lush grass on both sides of the tributary, shouting and laughing, their faces pink from the cold. Tashi could not remember when he had last been joyful. His family and friends had long since given up on him and though he had been athletic and energetic as a young man, he remained aloof, closeted in his thoughts, with few friends to interrupt them. In the valley where everybody knew each other, this was a rarity. And though some chided him for his self-imposed solitude, most left him alone, treating him with politeness, consideration and, most of all, patience. For they believed that each life had a purpose; in Tashi’s case, he had yet to find his.
It was a tradition in the village that on attaining puberty, the young men and women would select their trades, which they would follow for the rest of their adult life. The best riders and archers would ride with the Jhagun. Then there were those who would be householders. Farmers, herdsmen and craftsmen, they would marry, have families and lead normal, domesticated lives. A few of them would be picked up by the monks to join the order. They would spend their entire lives cloistered in the lamasery on the Trimukha Mountain, never to see their families again.