The Exile

3. To the Jailiaou!

3

To the Jailiaou!

Ten days after the death of Shakir, the scouts Djantemir had sent to choose, secretly from the other auls, and lay claim to the best summer pastures in the Alatau mountains, returned from their mission. Everyone had guessed by now that this year the aul would wander much farther than they usually did, but no one dared ask the terrible bai about it.

On dismounting, the scouts went directly to Djantemir.

“Well?” the bai asked, without responding to their sa­laams.

“Glory be to Allah and his Prophet,” Murzabai replied; Djantemir trusted this forty-year-old man, more than the others, for his thriftiness. “Beyond the river Hi it’s already warm, but in the mountains the snow is still knee-deep. We have chosen a good place by a river fed from the huge glacier on the Kungei mountain ridge. Down below there are forests all around, full of berries, nuts and all sorts of fruit.”

“I know!” Djantemir interrupted him. “Did you lay the aul’s claim to it?”

“Of course! We’ve tied the grass in bunches in nine places by the waterfall, shoveled away the snow, and laid out your tamga with black stones on the ground.”

“And then the snow will fall and cover up ‘my tamga’ so that it will be impossible to find!” Djantemir remarked derisively. “You’ve made me happy indeed!”

“There is no reason for you to be angry, Djantemir Aga,” Murzabai rejoined calmly. “We’ve painted your tamga in yellow on the steep cliffs, then we made notches with axes on the fir trees in a lot of places, and here and there we stripped the bark and branded your tamga on the fresh wood with red-hot knives.”

“Oh, that’s much better,” Djantemir gave a nod of sat­isfaction. “A good thing you thought up. All right, go and have a rest. If it doesn’t rain, we’ll set out tomorrow.”

In the sheds near the bai’s white yurts stood the light yurts intended for the summer pastures in the mountains. All of Djantemir’s three wives — Zeineb, the thick-set Nurina, and Shauken — were taking down the yurts with the assistance of two servants, and the agile Kuljan was care­fully looking them over and telling the servants which of the yurts needed cleaning or patching. Not far away the jigits were sharpening their soyils, knives and Bukhara yatagans on whetting stones, as if they were preparing not to travel but to engage in a barimta or some other kind of raid. In the yurts the women were emptying their trunks and packing separately everything they would be needing for summer, and chose for themselves and their children the best adornments and holiday dresses for the ceremonial departure, while the old people got ready their fishing gear, nets, hooks, and what they called “muzzles” to catch fish in the numerous steppe rivers they would be crossing on their way.

The trek was to be a long one. It would be a happy event only for the children and teenagers riding on camels beside their mothers or on horseback. Everything they would be seeing on the way would be entertaining and joyous. But the shepherds and herders scowled sullenly, since nomadic wandering spelled the hardest and most responsible work for them.

Kumish was worried: she understood that Djantemir would not postpone the departure even for the sake of his own son, but Jaisak could neither ride on horseback nor even get up on his feet without somebody’s aid. Kuljan, who brought them milk and mutton every day as she had done when Shakir was still alive, met a weeping Kumish.

“What has happened, dear auntie Kumish?” she said, rushing to the widow.

“It looks like we will have to stay here guarding the winter camp,” Kumish replied, swallowing her tears. “Jai­sak cannot ride on horseback yet. And without any cattle we’ll die here.”

“But isn’t he strong enough to ride a camel? Didn’t my father fulfill his promise and give him a horse and a camel?”

“He did, hut where can I get a saddle for a man who still cannot sit or stand?”

“Zeineb has such a saddle,” Kuljan exclaimed joyously. “I just saw it by her cattle shed.”

“But will she give it to me?”

“I won’t even ask her,” Kuljan said with a jerk of her braids, her eyes flashing with an impish light. “Just don’t ride with all the women up front. If anyone asks where you are, I will say that you went to the grave of Shakir Aga to bid him farewell and will catch up with the aul at the summer camp. So get on a horse, we’ll put Jaisak on the camel, and you’ll follow us way behind the aul. The horses and sheep will raise such a cloud of dust nobody will see you behind it, and if anybody sees the saddle when we make a halt for the night, they’re not going to take it away from you, because I’ll be doing the explaining then.’’

“May Allah bless you, girl,” Kumish thanked her from the bottom of her heart, as a pale smile of joy touched her prematurely withered lips.

The morning of the next day was sunny and cloudless. One hour after dawn the aul was ready to depart.

The caravan set off in a strict, traditionally established order: the first to gallop ahead were three scouts who were to explore the lay of the land, warn the aul of danger if there be any, and choose a place for a halt or for the night. When they disappeared behind the horizon, they were fol­lowed by thirty tyulenguts who were well armed with soyils, shakpars, knives, slings, and Bukhara yatagans, and after them came the slowly and solemnly strutting camels.

Up front on the two-humped camels rode the women with their infants and children — all of them dressed in varicolored holiday garb which stood out vividly against the tender green of the vernal grass.

Behind the women the one-humped camels strode along with great dignity, burdened with light travel yurts called jolim uyami, and little summer yurts known as turlin ujami. Then came the cattle surrounded by mounted shep­herds and herders, wolfhounds and sheep dogs. After them walked the camel bearing the sick Jaisak, alongside Kumish riding an old peaceful mare. A second detachment of armed jigits brought up the rear of the caravan.

They moved right across the steppe, without keeping either to streams, caravan tracks or even wells, because with the arrival of spring there was plenty of water everywhere.

After midday the caravan made a halt. The sheep and mares were milked, the flocks and herds were allowed to graze, but the men did not unsaddle the horses: they only slackened the girths and took off the bridles, while the guard intently watched the steppe lest any marauding band of Khivans or other Kazakh tribes at odds with Djantemir might fall on the traveling aul and snatch an easy booty. But the halt was uneventful, and three hours later the aul set off again after a good rest.

The camel bearing Jaisak strutted forward with a swing­ing gait, rocking the sick rider to sleep. His youth was gaining the upper hand, and his wounds were slowly heal­ing. Jaisak was happy to stir the fingers of his maimed hand and feel the pain receding with every day. He was disgusted with having been laid up in the yurt, choking on the smoke and steam, and seeing day in and day out how his mother’s slave labor for the bai was draining her last strength. He dreamed of catching an eagle in the moun­tains, training him for hunting fox, and selling a lot of furs for which the Russian “mayirs” paid lavishly — and then… The first thing he would do then was put up a good yurt, warm and clean, and maybe leave Djantemir’s aul completely and wander about with his own flock. Occasion­ally a number of poor nomads got together into a wandering aul and gradually became not exactly rich, but in any case not as poor as they had been before. And then… then his sweet dream about a young wife — a gentle, bashful girl — made his chest rise and fall with deep, stealthy sighs.