The White Ship (13 page)

"Help me, Horned Mother Deer, help me. I am also your son, Horned Mother Deer!" he shouted loudly.

The Horned Mother Deer followed him along the bank. She ran so fast that the wind whistled in her horns.

The boy threw off the blanket and felt easier at once. He was dripping with perspiration. Then, remembering that in such cases grandpa always covered him more warmly, the boy wrapped the blanket round himself again. There was no one in the house. The wick in the lamp had burned down and the light was very dim. The boy wanted to get up and get a drink, but again sharp voices came from the yard. Someone shouted at someone else, somebody was crying, somebody was trying to console him. There were sounds of a scuffle and stamping feet. Then two pairs of feet were heard outside the window, as if one person was dragging another, gasping and groaning. The door flew open, and grandma, furious and breathing hard, pushed Grandfather Momun into the house. The boy had never seen his grandfather in such a state. His mind seemed to be gone. His eyes wandered over the room without sense or recognition. Grandma shoved him in the chest and forced him to sit down:

"Sit down, sit down, old fool! And keep out of other people's business. Is it the first time they're fighting? If you want things to settle down, sit quiet and stay out of it. Do as I tell you. Do you hear? Or he will ruin us, he will destroy us altogether. And where are we to go in our old age? Where?" And with these words grandma banged the door and ran off somewhere again.

The house was quiet once more. The only sound was grandfather's hoarse, broken breathing. He sat on the bench by the stove, clutching his head with trembling hands. And suddenly the old man dropped on his knees and raised his hands with a moan, addressing heaven knows whom:

"Take me, take me, old wretch that I am! Only give her a child! I've no more strength to see her suffer. Just one child, take pity on us . . ."

Weeping and swaying, the old man rose and, groping along the wall, he found the door. He stepped out, closed the door behind him, and there, behind the door, he broke into choking sobs, covering his mouth with his hand.

The boy was sick. He shivered again. Now he was burning, now cold. He wanted to get up and go to his grandfather. But his hands and feet refused to obey him, his head seemed to be splitting with sharp pain. And the old man cried behind the door, and the drunken Orozkul ranted again in the yard, and Aunt Bekey screamed desperately, and the voices of grandma and Guldzhamal were pleading with them both, trying to quiet them down.

The boy escaped from them into his imagined world.

Again he was on the bank of the swift river, and on the other bank, on the pebbles, stood the same deer. And the boy broke into a prayer: "Horned Mother Deer, bring Aunt Bekey a cradle in your horns. I beg you, I beg you, bring them a beshik. Let them have a child." And he ran over the water toward the Horned Mother Deer. The water did not yield under his feet, but he could not get any nearer to the other bank, as though he were running on the same spot. And all the time he prayed and pleaded with the Horned Mother Deer: "Bring them a cradle on your horns. Make grandpa stop crying. Make Uncle Orozkul stop beating Aunt Bekey. Make them have a child. I will love everybody, I will even love Uncle Orozkul, but give him a child. Bring them a cradle in your horns . . ."

It seemed to the boy that he could hear the tinkling of a bell in the distance. It tinkled more and more loudly. It was the Horned Mother Deer running over the mountains, carrying a baby's cradle in her horns—a birchwood cradle with a tinkle bell. The cradle bell rang and rang. The Horned Mother Deer was in a hurry. The ringing came nearer and nearer.

But what was that? The throbbing of a distant motor joined the sound of the bell. A truck was going by. The hum of the motor grew louder and stronger, and the bell grew fainter; it tinkled with long breaks, then was lost altogether in the noise of the truck.

The boy heard a heavy truck stop near the yard, with the clanking of iron against iron. The dog ran out of the yard barking. For a moment the headlights flashed in the window, then went out at once. The motor stopped. The cabin door slammed shut. The new arrivals—there seemed to be three of them—passed the window under which the boy was lying, talking among themselves.

"Seidakhmat is home," Guldzhamal cried out joyfully, and the boy heard her run to meet her husband. "We thought you'd never come!"

"Good evening," unfamiliar voices answered her. "How is everything here?" asked Seidakhmat.

"Oh, all right. As usual. Why so late?"

"I'm lucky to be here at all. I went to the Soviet farm and started waiting for a car going this way. At least as far as Dzhelesai. And then they turned up—coming for logs," Seidakhmat was saying. "It's dark in the canyon. You know what the road's like .

"And where is Orozkul? At home?" one of the newcomers asked.

"He's home," Guldzhamal answered uncertainly. "He's not too well. But don't worry. You can spend the night with us, there's room enough."

They started across the yard, but halted after a few steps.

"Good evening, aksakal. Good evening, baibiche."

The visitors were greeting Grandpa Momun and grandma. So they stopped quarreling, they were ashamed to carry on before strangers, the boy thought. They met the guests in the yard, properly, as custom demanded. Perhaps Orozkul would, too? If only he wouldn't disgrace himself and the others.

The boy calmed down a little. He felt a little better now. His head did not ache as badly. He even thought of getting up and taking a look at the truck—was it on four wheels, or six? New, or old? And what kind of trailer did it have? Once, just last spring, they even had an army truck come into the yard—on high wheels and with a pug nose, as though someone had chopped off its front end. The young soldier at the wheel allowed the boy to sit for a while in the cabin. That was something! And an officer with golden shoulder straps had gone with Orozkul into the forest. The boy had wondered why—nothing like that had ever happened before.

"Are you looking for a spy?" the boy asked the soldier. The latter grinned:

"Yes, for a spy."

"We've never had a single spy yet," the boy had told him regretfully.

The soldier laughed.

"What do you want a spy for?"

"I'd chase him and catch him."

"Wow, what a hero! Kind of young, though. Wait till you grow up a bit."

And, while the officer with the golden shoulder straps walked in the woods with Orozkul, the boy and the driver had a good talk.

"I love all cars and all drivers," said the boy.

"Why?" asked the soldier.

"Cars are fine, they're strong and fast. And they smell of gasoline. And the drivers are all young, and all of them are the children of the Horned Mother Deer."

"What? Whose children?" The soldier didn't understand. "What horned mother?"

"Don't you know?"

"No. Never heard such wonders."

"And who are you?"

"I'm from Karaganda, a Kazakh. I went to a mining school."

"No, I mean, whose are you?"

“My father's and my mother's."

And whose are they?"

"Their own mothers' and fathers'."

"And they?"

"Wait a moment, you can go on without end that way." "Well, I am the son of the sons of the Horned Mother Deer."

Who told you that?"

"My grandpa."

"I wonder." The soldier shook his head doubtfully.

His interest was caught by this roundheaded, lop-eared boy, the son of the sons of the Horned Mother Deer. How-ever, he was somewhat embarrassed himself when it turned out that he not only was ignorant of the origin of his clan, but did not even know the obligatory seven generations of his forefathers. All he knew were the names of his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather. And beyond that?

"Weren't you taught to remember the names of seven of your forebears?" the boy asked.

"No. What for? I don't know them, and I'm doing all right. I live like everybody else."

"Grandpa says that if people will not remember their fathers, they'll go bad."

"Who'll go bad? People?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Grandpa says that nobody will then be ashamed of bad deeds, because his children and his children's children won't remember them."

"You've quite a grandpa, haven't you!" the soldier said admiringly. "An interesting grandpa. But he fills your head with all sorts of nonsense. And you have a big head. . . . And a pair of ears like the antennas on our polygon. Don't listen to him. We're moving toward Communism, flying into space, and look what he's teaching you. I'd like to get him into some of our political courses; we'd educate him—one, two, three. Wait till you grow up and go to school, then get away from your grandpa. He's an ignorant man, uncivilized."

"My grandpa is a good man," the boy said. "I'll never leave him."

"Oh, that's just for a while. Later you'll understand."

Now, as he listened to the voices in the yard, the boy recalled that army truck and how he could not explain to the driver why drivers, at least those he knew, were the sons of the Horned Mother Deer.

The boy had spoken the truth. He had not invented anything. Last year, also in the fall, or even a bit later, the Soviet farm trucks had come into the mountains for hay. They did not pass the forest post, but turned off shortly before reaching it, where the road divided. They drove along the branch that led to the Archa hollow and then ran upward to the highland meadow where the hay had been prepared in summertime, to be taken to the farm in the fall. The boy had heard the roar of many motors from Outlook Mountain and ran down to the fork in the road. So many trucks at once! One after another. A whole column. He counted close to fifteen.

The weather was just about to change. Snow could begin any day; then it would be good-bye to the hay until next year. There would be no getting through. Apparently, they had been delayed by other business at the farm, and when the time grew short, they had decided to send out all the trucks at once. But their calculations were to be proven wrong.

The boy, however, did not know it then, nor did he care. Wildly excited, he ran to meet each truck, raced it for a while, then ran to meet the next one. The trucks were all new, with fine cabins and wide windows. And in the cabins were young fellows, each better looking than the next. In some of the cabins there were two fellows, the extra ones coming to help load and tie the hay. They all seemed to the boy brave, handsome, jolly.

And it was true. The boy was right. The trucks were in good shape, they rolled easily and fast down the slope past Outlook Mountain, over the hard smooth road made of crushed stones. The drivers were in a pleasant mood—the weather was fine, and here, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, came this lop-eared, roundheaded kid, meeting every truck as though crazed with joy. How could they help laughing and waving to him, and shaking a finger jestingly to add to his excitement and fun?

The last truck even stopped for him. The driver, a young fellow in a soldier's coat, but without shoulder straps, and without a military cap, looked out of the cabin.

"Hello, what are you doing here, eh?" He winked in a friendly manner.

"Oh, nothing." The boy was suddenly shy.

“Are you old Momun's boy?"

“Yes.”

"I thought so. I'm a Bugan too. In fact, all those fellows are. We're going up to get the hay. Nowadays, the Bugans don't even know one another anymore. Scattered all over. . . . Give your grandpa my regards. Tell him you saw Kulubek, the son of Chotbay. Kulubek. Tell him Kulubek has come home from the army and now works as a driver at the Soviet farm. Well, see you." And in parting he gave the boy a military badge, a very interesting one. Looked like a medal.

The truck roared like a mountain lion and sped away, to catch up with the rest. And the boy was suddenly overcome with such a strong desire to go along with that brave, kindly fellow in the army coat, his brother Bugan. But the road was empty now, and he had to go home. He went back proudly, and told his grandfather about the meeting. And he pinned the badge to his chest.

Toward the evening of that day the San-Tash wind swept down suddenly from the highest range. It struck like a hurricane. The leaves rose in a column over the woods, and, swirling higher and higher into the sky, rushed howling over the mountains. In a moment everything was in a flying uproar—you could not open your eyes. And all at once—the snow. White darkness dropped upon the earth, the woods swayed, the river raged. And snow came down and came down in wild gusts.

The people at the post had somehow managed to get the animals into the stall, remove a few things from the yard, and bring as much wood as they could into the houses. After that they could not poke their noses out.

"What could it mean?" Grandpa Momun wondered and worried as he fired the stove. He kept listening to the howling of the wind and going over to the window again and again. Outside, the whirling snowy murk grew thicker and thicker.

"Sit down, will you!" grandma scolded. "It's not the first storm you've seen. 'What could it mean?'" she mimicked him. "It means that winter's here."

"All at once, in a single day . . ."

"And why not? If it wants to come, it comes. Expect it to ask your leave?"

The wind boomed in the chimney. At first it frightened the boy. He was chilled, too, after helping his grandfather take care of things outside. But soon the wood burned brightly in the stove, filling the house with warmth and the smells of heated resin and pine smoke, and the boy calmed down, warm and comfortable.

They had supper and went to bed. And outside the snow fell and swirled, the wind raged on.

"It must be very frightening in the woods," the boy thought, listening to the sounds outside the window. He grew worried when he suddenly heard muffled voices and cries. Someone was calling out, someone answered. At first the boy thought he had only imagined it. Who would be coming to the forest post at such a time? But Grandpa Momun and grandma heard it too.

"People," said grandma.