I Rode a Horse of Milk White Jade: "Outside Hangchou, China—AD 1339"–Chapter 5

A knobby finger was thrust from beneath the fraying edge of the deep blue silk robe.

So it must have been June, or maybe July, for the months of summer are but fleeting visitors in Mongolia.

As I lay upon my back, a helpless, whining toddler, she lowered her head to nuzzle me.

She picked her way daintily now, as if fearful of crushing a flower.

The filtered glow of each morning’s sun found me limping fitfully behind my mother, confined to learning the skills of the hands.

Always there was a pot in the fire to stir: mutton boiling, yogurt thickening, tea leaves brewing.

Sometimes I wondered if the sadness I stitched into a del followed its wearer, like a shadow, out across the steppes.

Day after day I pushed that stick through the foamy mare’s milk, waiting for it to ferment into the drink so enjoyed by my father and his brothers.

The most stifling of tasks, until I discovered that the sloshing echo could be coaxed into hoofbeats: Thud. Sl-slosh. Thud. Sl-slosh. Thud. Sl-slosh.

The cadence reawakened my heart, sent it bucking.

Always his stubby fingers tousled my black hair.

For that meant that yet another drum-beating, white-robed shaman would examine my foot.

Again prayers were offered, incantations sung, ointments that stank and burned rubbed into my flesh.

That night, and for many days and nights afterward, I humbly cringed beneath the leer of the red-footed doll.

Placing my hands around his moss-soft muzzle, I blew into his nostrils.

I ran my hands along his brow, under his thick mane, and down his withers.

Tengri, the blue sky spirit, was pleased, for soft puffs of wind fingered my black hair, lifting the plaited ends.

Heart beating happily, I balanced the basket across my back like a saddle, clutching the wide leather strap to my chest. Then, whinnying softly, I bent to my task, an honest horse, though a lame one.

With my long silk del—the tawny color of a sandgrouse’s underfeathers—rustling against my trousers and stirring a spicy fragrance from the purple and red flowers shivering in the breeze, I gratefully hobbled toward the low rise where the horses had spent the day grazing.

I saw hands that knew how to coax a wet and trembling lamb from a birthing ewe, hands that knew how to comb the soft underbelly of a goat without pulling the skin and how to ease between a nursing foal and its protective dam long enough to squeeze a little of the mare’s milk into a leather bag.

My breath was coming hard now with the climb, so I stopped to rest, turning around to gauge my progress.

Yet in my mind I was a horse, halting at the crest to sniff the air for danger—an angry boar whose yellowed tusks could rip through the belly of a fallen animal, or a hungry long-fanged wolf, roaming the grasslands for an easy dinner.

Hobbling up the rise, the basket swaying upon my back, I must have resembled a small camel.

But only a plaintive mewing met my ears.

"Bator!" I exclaimed as the tiny tiger-striped kitten bounded into sight, instantly weaving a pattern around my legs.

I could barely see Bator’s stubby tail wending its way through the grasses, but his loud mewing served as an effective guide.

Ahead, I knew, lay a dried creek bed, strewn with rocks.

Her sides were swollen with a late pregnancy, and one miniature black foot attached to a spindly black leg protruded from beneath her tail.

When she saw me, the goat lifted her head and bleated pitifully.

Her voice quavered when she spoke again.

The misty green stone was carved into the likeness of a galloping horse, its long mane and tail streaming in the wind.

The girl, still nestled beneath her grandmother’s arm, waited respectfully, then prompted her to continue.

She stretched her hands before her, and the moonlight shone upon mottled flesh sagging from swollen joints.

But I had already seen them: the lifeless bodies of three horses and two cousins sprawled grotesquely on the hillside.

Between my mother’s splayed fingers I stared and stared at the blackened clothing, the singed manes and split hooves.

Then a dun-colored mare and her nursing foal were led to the hole.

After the dirt was piled on top of the bodies and the sod patted into place, my mother’s favorite horse, a gray mare, was killed. The meat was set aside for the evening dinner, while the hide was stuffed with dried grasses. The huge, wobbling apparition was then impaled upon a long pole angling toward the sky.

An arm’s length from him, I saw that the fleece covers pulled high across his face shook erratically.

Finally, keeping one wary eye on the gray horse apparition that leaped motionlessly toward the sky, I fell to my knees and searched through the grasses surrounding my mother’s grave.

Searching, my hands found thick mane, and I lifted my weight from the ground. Kicked wildly to free myself. Knees found their familiar niche behind warm ropes of muscle.