The Gray Earth Page 19

  The voices die down. Darkness thickens fast and threatens to swallow me, and I am retching with panic. I feel as if I can see a tall black person with eyes targeting me like a gun in each corner of the room. Unable to chant and soothe myself, I am stuck in a slag heap of noisy repetitions, with no apparent openings. Words that otherwise carry lights and wind into the world now huddle inside me, paralyzed with fright. My throat quivers and all the tricks I use to escape the dread fail. When I realize I am surrounded by more powerful forces, the blanket I pull up over my head weighs heavily on my feverish body, and stinks of sweat and urine in spite of the disinfectant. I feel as if I will suffocate.

  An eternity must have passed. Through the blanket I feel groping fingers. I cry out first with shock, then with joy as I recognize Torlaa’s voice: “What’s the matter, dear little one? You’re drenched and trembling.”

  I try to calm down, but first I have to cry in order to release the pent-up fear. But Sister has no time for that. She grabs my shoulders and gives me a good shake: “Stop right now. Tell me if anything hurts. If not, shut up and listen. Something terrible has happened to Brother Dshokonaj.”

  The news sobers me, and instantly I go quiet. I don’t have the strength to ask questions, but I am dying to know. Is he dead? The thought flashes through my head. Torlaa’s red cheeks look pale and her sharp tongue is unusually sluggish. While I wait, another thought flashes to my mind: If only he’s alive! Nothing else would matter then, and before I know what is happening, the longing travels through my body like the echo of an ache.

  “He has lost a lot of blood and needs to be bandaged up,” she says finally. So he’s alive! I am overjoyed. I may or may not hear the details, but they can wait. I am in no rush, and concentrate on the candle that sits on the square tin stove at the center of the room. Its flame casts a quivering light on the ceiling and four walls.

  At that moment the door to the adjacent room opens. Above the murmur of deep male voices I make out a bright female voice, probably the nurse’s. “They’re bringing him in. Keep quiet!” Sister whispers as she dashes to open the door. When she does, the doctor is standing there, swaying and stopping and keeping his upper body very straight as he unhurriedly swings one leg and then the other up and over the doorsill. I haven’t seen the doctor since the morning, but I have longed for him and his voice and his firm, soft fingers. Now he comes through the door, as white as milk, and behind him, halfway up, floats a stretcher with the patient, presumably my big brother, wrapped in a white sheet. At the far end of the stretcher is the nurse, also in white. And on her right a third white figure emerges. I suspect that he is the bundled-up person from the truck.

  They all enter the room. As the door slowly closes without a sound, I can just make out Brother Galkaan on the other side of the cone of dim light. I look for Sister Torlaa, but can’t see her anywhere. She must have slipped from the room just as the group arrived, the way stray dogs vanish from sight. Why did such a terrible fate befall us? Only two days ago, we were brothers and sister living in quiet happiness. How will all this end?

  The stretcher is set on a bed in the opposite corner and then pulled out from beneath its narrow burden. It is hard to recognize this figure as Brother Dshokonaj. The thick bandage around his head makes my heart stop. It reminds me of the pale figure I saw in my ladle that fall day I sat by the river. Brother appears to be either unconscious or asleep, as he is not making a sound. The three white figures surround him. As still and silent as ghosts, they stand there doing nothing. But if they were not standing around him, I think he would float away, for I can see the lightness hanging above him like a gossamer-thin white cloud.

  Any breeze, my little cloud,

  Will blow you away.

  Hearing myself think aloud is frightening, and I quickly try to find different words to counter the ones that slipped out. But I can’t come up with any on the spot, and before I know it the three people wake from their trance and move toward me.

  “Here is the young man who created such trouble for the nurse,” says the doctor as he walks up to my bed and puts his hand on my forehead.

  “Not just for me,” the nurse says. “If you would have heard to the words he was spewing when he was admitted, you’d be shocked. In fact, you’d probably give him a good slap.”

  “Every nurse either wants to become a doctor or is given to histrionics.” The doctor’s laugh is short and bitter. Then he adds, “But basically, you’re right. We should have known.”

  He steps aside and signals for the other doctor to take over. Tall and elderly, the other doctor has deep-seated eyes that he raises with a critical, piercing expression when he takes over. Without a word he grabs my wrist and feels for my pulse. The bony fingers of his big, heavy hand feel cool, but the longer my hand remains in his, the more restless I feel. He takes forever before raising his pinkie, pointing to its nail, and telling me to focus on it. The fingernail moves to the right and to the left, then finally comes closer. I keep my eyes fixed on it, aware that everyone in the room is staring at me.

  Suddenly the hand comes down. In a deep rumbling voice the doctor says a Kazakh word I don’t understand; obviously it was meant for the others. He then turns to me, speaking in the same voice, this time in a Mongolian that sounds awkward and much clumsier even than the Mongolian we speak.

  “Do you feel any pain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “In my head.”

  “Anywhere else?”

  “In my belly.”

  “Any joint pain?”

  “Yes. They hurt, too.”

  Suddenly he wants to know if the earth is alive and can bleed and has quivering kidneys as sheep do. No, I say, never. The earth holds water and is made up of sand, clay, and rocks. Have I always thought that way? Yes. No. Why?

  I pause to think before I say anything else. Then I say that sometimes sick people can’t think straight. I ask if I am healthy now. Yes! In spite of the fact that I hurt all over? Darn! I pause to think again. How can that be? And then finally the truth: I am still a little sick, but I am getting better. The man laughs quietly, but somehow it resounds from all four corners of the room. “Smart boy!”

  The first doctor, who has seemed a bit uneasy while listening to our conversation, says, “He’s the top student in his class. He makes up songs, too.”

  “I’m not surprised,” says the second doctor. “Shamans send out their calls in chants, don’t they?”

  He says all of this in his own language. Then he switches back to Mongolian and asks me if I understand Kazakh. I say I don’t.

  Finally the doctors leave me alone and turn to the nurse, who has been busy at the other bed. She is to stay in the room through the night and call them immediately if the patient gets worse. Then the men leave.

  At long last I can focus on my brother without distraction. I can’t see his face because he is lying on his back and the bandage around his head covers his chin and neck. His body seems long and narrow. The visible-invisible cloud above him has lingered, and now it’s getting denser, spinning faster and faster, like a whirlwind approaching from afar. The sound I hear reinforces that impression: each of Brother’s gasps begins and dies equally abruptly against the background of his continuous soft crying.

  The nurse goes to the unmade bed next to Brother’s and drops on it like a lump. She groans and yawns loudly. The door opens quietly, and first Sister’s and then Brother Galkaan’s face become visible in the opening.

  “Have the doctors left?” the nurse asks in a loud whisper. When she learns they have, she says, “Come in.”

  Torlaa and Galkaan slip into the room, trying to make as little noise as possible as they step on the creaking floorboards. They close the squeaking door and stop, too shy to go farther, unsure where to look. Brusquely the woman gets to her feet, walks over to them, and in a condescending yet clearly commanding tone says, “You can stay if you like. I have some work in the doctor’s office. Call me if
anything happens.”

  She leaves, and Sister Torlaa rushes over to the patient. Brother Galkaan hesitates, then follows with cautious small steps. I am not sure whether to stay put or sneak across to the other bed. I am terrified but can’t wait to find out what has happened to our big brother, and to see what he looks like. I sit up in my bed but stay put.

  Sister Torlaa calls out Brother Dshokonaj’s name several times before he responds. With her ear close to his mouth, she is the only one to hear what he whispers. He asks for cold water. Galkaan leaves to tell the nurse, and after some time he returns with a teapot. Apparently the nurse is sleeping so soundly he had a hard time waking her up. The patient is not to have anything cold, Galkaan reports, or else he will get gas. We are to heat the milkless tea before giving it to him, and we will find chopped wood in the yard. It takes time, but we do as we are told. And yet, when the tea is finally warmed, Brother Dshokonaj refuses to drink it and insists on having cold water.

  I find this frightening: thirst that can only be slated with a cold drink is the first of three dreaded symptoms of serious illness. The second symptom is incessant wiping of one’s eyes and nose, and the third is the craving to enjoy what has not previously been enjoyed, and to say what has not been said. Every child knows that. I realize that Brother’s obstinate craving for cold water has registered with Torlaa and Galkaan as well, and I understand their quiet, painstaking industriousness.

  Despite my fear, I feel compelled to approach our big brother. I creep toward his bed in the bleak corner even though the nurse has warned me to keep my bare feet off the filthy floor. Torlaa and Galkaan stare at me, and I can see the fear in their eyes. A thick bandage has been wrapped carelessly around Brother’s head. His light skin shines like a peeled onion, his eyebrows jut forth like a forest of black bristles, his eyelids have drooped, leaving two narrow, dark slits that look as rigid and hard as the edge of a knife, the ridge of his crooked nose looks sharper than before, his nostrils flare and tremble with each breath, and his normally thin lips have distinct, dark rims.

  “Aga!” I cry, scaring myself with my own voice. It sounds helpless and fearful. A light shadow flits across Brother’s face. Framed with gauze, it looks as bright and smooth as ice. His lips move slightly, and I put my ear to his mouth. “Dshuruunaj . . . please . . . please . . . something cold.”

  “Aga, please!” I cry. “You’re not allowed to have anything cold. Please!”

  I hold my ear close to his mouth again.

  “Listen . . . carefully,” he whispers. “Nothing . . . will ... help . . . it’s my . . . last . . . my . . . very last . . . wish . . . you mustn’t . . . deny . . . me.”

  For Torlaa and Galkaan’s sake, and perhaps for my own sake as well, I repeat what I have heard. It’s almost as if I need to hear Brother’s request one more time before I can even think about it. Silently I look from one to the other, wondering what to do. Torlaa nods first, then Galkaan. “I’ll run down to the river,” he says.

  The open door yawns with a mute heavy darkness. I call after Galkaan, who is already out the door with the teapot in his hand: “Wait! I’ll come with you.” Hand in hand we race down the hill. The sky is overcast and dull, except in the northeast, where a few stars flicker above Taldyg and Buluktug.

  “What happened to Brother Dshokonaj?” I finally ask.

  “He was hit by something,” says Galkaan. “The families of the people who got crushed were looking for him. That much we know. But no one seems to have seen the actual blow. And no one heard a bang, either. There was only a whirring and rushing.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “When he tried to climb on the truck. The militiaman, the doctors, the dargas, they were all standing right there. Then something came flying through the air, and suddenly he cried out and collapsed.”

  Strange, but somehow it makes sense, too ... or maybe it does. Brother Galkaan climbs on a ledge jutting out over the river and dips the teapot into the hissing waves of the angry current. He tries to reach the river’s artery, where the fresh glacier water throbs and rushes along, while I hang on to his other hand and cling to the ledge for balance.

  When we return, the patient gulps down the water greedily. It sloshes into his throat and gurgles and slaps as it sluices into the depths. He drains the bowl, but still looks desperately thirsty. Torlaa hands Galkaan the bowl for refilling, and the patient empties the second bowl with the same voraciousness. Then he opens his eyes, looks satisfied, and begins to talk. This time his voice is audible, and his words come pouring out clearly.

  “My body is weaker,” Brother Dshokonaj says, “but my mind is sharper. I see everything with great clarity. I see and feel that Father and Mother are coming. But Erlik’s messenger will be faster than their horses, and I will no longer be here by the time they arrive. I will leave behind only my body, which will keep you busy for a while. Do no more and no less than is done for anyone else’s body. Father must take it out into the steppe for its last journey no differently than he would with any other body. Tell him I am sorry that I was created too weak to melt the ice inside him. Mother will have a hard time, harder than anyone else. I am well aware of that. Tell her she is still a duck on a lake. If she cannot believe it, remind her to look at all those around her, and then at the three of you. And tell her that I feel infinitely sorry for not having been able to keep alive the healthy body and bright mind she gave me.

  “And you, my brothers and sister. Like the three rocks that hold the kettle over the fire, hold tight to Father and Mother and keep them warm. Never abandon the path of knowledge. All the things you read and write day after day are the sheep and the yaks that one day will feed you. Walk on this path that I have only mapped out, blazing a trail for yourselves and for all who will follow you. Your path will be a tidal river connecting our lake with the ocean of the world. Study diligently, become knowledgeable, and avoid the mistake I have made: go along with people, not against them.

  “Dear Sister Dosunak,” he says, addressing Torlaa with the name Father calls her by. “Give free rein to your mind, your heart, and your fingers, but keep a tight rein on your tongue. You will reach the peak of knowledge and your life’s mountain only when you are able to control your tongue. Be a pillar of support for your mother, and a second mother for your younger brothers. My dear and only sister, I want you to keep the yellow box that is in the chest on the yurt’s right side. I believe it is made from dsandan, sandalwood, and so shares a name with you. It contains things our grandmother left behind. I only glanced at them once and thought they were junk. Be kinder toward them.

  “And another thing, Dosunak. Please tell Dügüj that I am infinitely grateful for all the kindness she showed me. Tell her to be a motherly sister to my orphaned brothers and sister. Ask her, above all, to protect my little brother from evil tongues as much as her powers will allow. And give her the red folder, unopened, from the chest on the left.

  “And you, my dear, innocent Brother Gakaj,” he says, calling Galkaan by the name Mother used for him, “stay as kind as you are but never forget: people like you are easily put at a disadvantage. Stay reliable as you follow in your father’s footsteps, and be a wall to protect your little brother from the storms and a skin to warm him in the cold. In exchange, take my black horse. He is not fast, but he is reliable.

  “And now to you, my little sparrow. Dearly beloved little Brother Dshuruunaj, listen carefully. Ask Aunt Pürwü to forgive me and, as a sign of her forgiveness, to protect you. You may be a shaman after all. But if you are, you will need to be different than shamans have been in the past. Let your mind be aflame and your heart ablaze whenever you want, but stay on your guard. And keep the things I leave behind. More than anyone else, it is you who shall have the books and papers I leave. Continue on the path that I must now abandon.

  “My dear Brothers and Sister, I thank you for the cool clear water. Thank you for not withholding it from me. It has slaked my burning thirst, cleansed my pain, and lit my
mind’s fire. But even more, I thank you for your love. You have loved me as your brother, and I am grateful I’ve been allowed to experience your brotherly and sisterly love before I have to go. And one last thing: I have caused Mother Earth great sorrow. Tell those who will deal with my body not to wake her or hurt her again . . .”

  With these last words his voice begins to shake. His face flickers with agitation, and suddenly pales to the color of ash. His lips twitch, and then we hear a scratchy, faint sobbing.

  As if we have been given a signal, the three of us cry along with him. Helpless, we cling to each other like three fingers of a hand, huddling beside the bed in which the fourth finger, now severed, is writhing.

  At that moment the light dims abruptly. We turn and see that the candle has burned down to a shrinking dot of light, glimmering on the stove lid. Brother Galkaan dashes out of the room, and a draft extinguishes the fading dot. As Torlaa and I suppress our sobs and hold our breath to listen, the sound of shuffling footsteps in the hallway merges with those in the next room. In quick succession, we hear the bright squeak of a door, the sullen creaking of floorboards, a quiet shudder, a gravelly rattle, and a squelching sucking. My sister bends down to hug me and whispers into my ear, “Don’t be afraid, little one ... one mustn’t be afraid . . . no matter what . . .”

  She is trembling, as is her voice. I try to crawl deeper into her embrace. If only she would talk more loudly, maybe I wouldn’t hear the sounds beside me. I am furious with Galkaan. What could he possibly be doing all this time? Can’t he just tell the woman to hurry up and give him a candle? After all, right next to us . . .

  I am shocked by that thought, and I shake and shiver. Then we hear another squeak and more shuffling, and the door opens. “What kept you so long?” Sister says harshly.