I Rode a Horse of Milk White Jade: Chapters 12–18

The bones in my back felt as if they jostled loose from their string and fell, cracking one upon the other, like pebbles tumbling down a dry streambed.

It was Bator’s weakness, and with casual feline forgiveness he took a painful step closer and pushed his head into my hand for a scratch.

My eyes scanned the sparse grassland stretching in all directions.

The commander blinked, muttered something under his rancid breath, and blinked again.

For the second time that morning I pulled the cat to me and hugged him.
Bator’s squelched cry made two soldiers nearby look over their saddles with curiosity.

All knew him to be shy, always sidling away from attempts at conversation.

Throughout the day the scowling commander galloped back and forth, scrutinizing his groups of soldiers.

Ashen-faced, the hunters kept looking over their shoulders and nervously flicking their fingers toward the earth and sky.

My eyes were tearing so badly that I yanked my father’s big hat low over my brow, preferring to squint through its fringe of wolf hairs.

He slapped his forehead in the manner of my father’s exasperation, and the shadow of a smile flitted across my face.

“I’ll go,” offered a tall, swaggering soldier, leading his underfed horse to the commander’s side.

She stepped uncertainly at first, then abruptly leaned forward, lunging headlong into a loud-splashing, ground-covering gallop.

Loping at my left heel, red tongue flopping, was a wolf!

He recognized the burbling of the many streams they had splashed through and the humming of the winds that had shared their travels.

The round-sided mare, restlessly circling the stall again, paused to swing her head up and down and nicker emphatically, bringing smiles to the two humans in the corner.

I noticed the fine embroidery and wondered how many days it had taken some poor hunched-over girl to stitch all that material.

I hid my interest in her elaborate attire and, untying the heavy gold medallion engraved with writing from my waist, leaned over to hand it to her.

“Now,” she said, “notice that path over there beside the stream? Follow it through the thicket and up the mountain until you see—here!”

Tipping her weight precariously forward, she squinted.

Labored panting nearly choked her chuckles.

I’ll wager you have some stories for us.

“Do you know what’s inside the two bags you carry?”
I shook my head again. While Genma began a long list of speculation, I found myself held fast, almost cringing, just inside the first square room I had ever entered.

Sheets of wool felt, stirring slightly in the drafts, hung on each wall.

At the foot of each bed rested a stocky wooden chest, festooned with designs of cranes and sheep, horses and leaves.

I recognized it as Bayan’s, and a pang of worry for her safety and for Bator’s—if he was even alive—stabbed my stomach.

Nodding appreciatively, and feigning another long yawn, I gave my bowl one last lick, then rose and limped toward the bed.

In the morinkhour’s haunting melodies I heard the trilling nicker of Bayan’s greeting.

And slung over her meaty arm dangled one indignant tiger cat.

The fingers of my other hand tentatively tunneled through my short hair, which hung, dirty and unbraided, around my ears.

She’s a bit puffed up on her far hind leg, so my girls are wrapping it in a blue gentian poultice.

Slipping my hands inside my sleeves, I accepted the delicate bowl.

I had tried to say those words with a straight face, but already the laughter was bubbling up within me and both Genma and I doubled over in guffaws.

“Ah, yes. But does the Khan know you are delivering it? In my experience arrow riders, like my son Delger, are all boys. Just how did you come to risk your neck in the name of Kublai Khan? And why do you think I would let this bird-witted venture of yours continue?”

And I watched to see which stallion could stamp his likeness on his foals and which mare could pass on her steady disposition.

“But listen to me prattle on.” She laughed. “Might as well try to tell the stream to stop running once you get me talking about my horses.”

He didn’t even complain when I dumped him to the ground to answer Genma’s summons.

When at last we sat down to eat, all eyes darted apprehensively back and forth to Genma’s scowling face.

Not until halfway through the meal did she speak. And then it was bluntly.
“Is it your crippled foot that has kept you from marrying?”

“You tell me you’re dreaming of riding right up to the Khan’s palace and handing him his treasure. Well,” she said, leaning forward and lowering her voice as if she shared a secret, “my eyes may be growing cloudy, but they can still see that you’re a cripple, Oyuna, and last I knew they don’t welcome the ugly and infirm into the presence of Kublai Khan.”

Genma showed no pity, even though the old mare groaned and writhed beneath her grip.