The Spirit Is Fully Dissipated

Bazar stays for three days. He spends most of that time sitting in the lotus position beside the body of my grandfather. Occasionally he burns incense, chants, daubs the skin with yak’s milk. Though Övöö is no longer breathing, Bazar says his death is not yet complete, that my grandfather is questing through the bardo, the intermediate state, and that we must not disturb him on this most important journey. At sundown on the third day, there is a flash of lightning in the sky but no thunder. Bazar places a finger between Övöö’s eyes and holds it there. The spirit is fully dissipated, he finally says. I peer at my grandfather to see if I can notice a difference. Maybe the skin around his eyes looks looser, more relaxed. Maybe he appears less gray, less waxen, more like he is sleeping after returning from a long journey.

My father nods. There’s a place about an hour’s ride from here where no one ventures, Aav says.

Bazar looks off into the fire. Perhaps a full minute passes before he responds. You are aware of your father’s final wish to be free, he says.

Now it is Aav’s turn to fall silent. Our father simply peers at the same spot among the flames. Finally he sighs. Because of the hardship in his life, I know how my father wishes to leave the earth, he says.

And you consent to this, Bazar asks.

Aav bows his head. Do you know how it’s done, he whispers. Bazar nods. A spark snaps in the fire.

That night Mun and I lie on our leitur wondering what is to come. We both know of a ceremony called khödöölüüleh in which the body is wrapped in felt, then transported by oxcart to a remote place and left in nature. Sometimes those accompanying the body howl to attract wolves, thus speeding the process along. Most times the body is simply buried. Whatever is to come, may our grandfather’s journey back to this earth go smoothly.

Our father is sleeping out in the ger with the mare and her new foal, which for the time being needs to be fed milk by hand until the mare recovers. Ideally the foal should be born some icy spring morning, when the days are growing longer and the earth greening. Instead it arrives on the cusp of winter. If the zud blows down out of Siberia, the area herders could lose everything. We would be no exception.

The foal glistens redly in the light, his coat still slicked with afterbirth, which the weakened mare has yet to lick off. Father chooses to save the mare over her second baby, though the mare’s survival is still in doubt. There isn’t much time. The mare must regain her strength quickly before we move for the season. If she dies, the remaining foal is like my brother and me. Motherless.

Through Mun’s eyes I relive the moment of my father’s choice. How Aav takes a small blade and carefully slides it inside the mare, keeping the cutting edge toward his hand. Then slowly, piece by piece, he begins to cut the unborn baby apart, removing it from the mare’s body before passing each part to Mun. It is the only thing to do. The foal is breached. There is no place on earth beyond the reach of death. Not in a mountain cave, in the ocean or sky. Mun taking the pieces and laying them on the floor, a bloody jigsaw puzzle, reassembling the animal instead of just tossing the pieces in a pile. When our father sees this, he shakes his head but remains silent, his arms and torso soaked in blood.