As the storm was reaching its peak, wind battered our ger determined to bludgeon everything in its path. Usually when the elements assailed us, once our animals were safe, Pa would tell us stories. Without him around, I felt as awkward as I imagined Linet and Adoma were feeling. Awkward because grief makes you heavy; so heavy that from waking to sleeping is like wading through a swamp that swallows you whole. Mindful of every step you take, every word you say, it sucks you in, until you’re forced to face the fact that nothing will be the same again.
Mired in pain our pride of three didn’t behave as we normally did. How could we when we hadn’t had a chance to reconnect, to take stock and plan for our circle. Linet, in particular, troubled me. Suspiciously calm, she was evasive, distracted, while Adoma spent morning, noon and night consoling her grandmother or trying to find the culprit behind Okomfo Gran-pa’s murder. I was distraught yet busy at the same time seeing to Ma and my brothers. Out in the pasture, without Pa to supervise us, I made sure our animals were milked and watered. Every day I tried to compensate for Pa’s absence by doing more than I usually did.
Outwardly, my hands on Altan’s mane and my legs around his girth were constantly in motion. Inwardly, I was drowning. I ached for Pa’s steadying hand on my shoulder, his warm gaze and easy praise. Yet much as I yearned for him to be with us again, I was angry and confused as well. How could he and Grandma leave when there was so much I still needed to learn from them, so many questions I needed answers to?
The raging wind rattled the columns that held up the ceiling of our home, tipping it to the left. Huddled by the stove sipping noodle soup we looked up: Knenbish and her daughters, my brothers, Ma and me. Knenbish’s youngest, still a toddler, started mewling. Knenbish stroked the child’s hair, rocking her gently as the girl shivered, expressing what each of us, in our different ways, was feeling: fear that in this our first storm without Pa, our home was about to collapse.
Ma caught my eye and chased fear away: ‘See us through this storm, Zula,’ she said. ‘Tell us one of those stories your grandmother used to tell you.’
I was not in the mood for story-telling. I was about to shake my head and shrug when I heard Pa’s voice. ‘Go on, Zula,’ he whispered. ‘Give it a try.’
I did what Pa asked. My lips twitched in a smile that kindled the shine in my eyes. Then, with my brothers seated either side of me and Knenbish and her daughters opposite, I started a tale of how the wind when it rages is not the wind as such, but shrieking warriors of the Great Khan, warriors hurling war cries as they gallop into battle.
I was halfway through the story, naming the whoosh and swoop of the elements; halfway through giving wind, dust and lightning familiar faces to help us tame them, when a mighty thump sounded at our door. After a second thump, the door opened.
In came my Uncle Batu. A small, stocky man with a weatherworn face, he was followed by three skin-walkers. Two were tall and bony. The third, broad as a bear with a shaggy mane of brown hair, entered our home with a swagger. Beside Broad Bear was a Mongolian, a city man from Ulaanbaatar, by the look of his coat. My uncle introduced them to Ma, naming the men one after the other: Mr Anderson, Mr Lee, Mr Clements and Mr Atagan, their interpreter.
I watched the strangers closely: watched how they walked, how they talked. Watched as Ma bowed and with arms outstretched welcomed them by placing her hands around theirs. She didn’t smile. She looked on them favourably with kindness in her eyes, as is our custom; and in doing so, found a seat for each of them, before I served them tea with milk and a dash of salt.
Tea dispensed, I arranged a plate of dried meat and boortsog biscuits, and holding it aloft, my eyes devoured the foreigners while my nose filtered their aroma.
What surprised me was that they stank of sweat the same as we did. But there was something more: of the tall, bony ones, the taller of the two had downy hair white as an egret; the other the eyes of a vulture and hair every bit as black as those scavengers I’d seen feasting on the carcases of rabbits. Both, I noticed, were highly-strung, as skittish as the most nervous of our horses. Their bodies shook before they thanked me, their hands trembled lifting bowls of tea to their lips, and seeping from their flesh was the sour musky scent of deep unease.
The Broad Bear of a man was different. The more I looked at him, the more my heart raced. He reminded me of the enormous brown bear I’d encountered in my soul journey before Grandma fell ill after she’d shouldered a blow intended for me. Seemingly relaxed, the man’s sallow eyes hinted at a cold, steely will, while the interpreter, sitting beside him, gave the impression of a sleek, self-satisfied cat; a cat with a tongue adept at lying, whose clothes still held a whiff of city dust. What I saw with my wolf’s eyes was that the one thing they had in common were hearts as unforgiving as rock. It was then my mind stirred, hissing and spitting because of Pa and Grandma.
And how they stared, those men! I forget, sometimes, how odd I must look to outsiders with my thunder-snow hair and grey eyes. Unlike our fellow herding families who knew me as Pa’s daughter, the skin-walkers seemed astonished by me. Their eyes followed me everywhere. And to be honest, I was tempted to finish them off there and then, to use my gift to dazzle-blind them with a blink of an eye. It would have been easy; too easy and inhospitable. So I bided my time in the hope that soon, I would pick them off one after the other.
Another roar of wind and the columns of our ger creaked again. I had to bite my tongue not to chuckle at the tall strangers, for they flinched, looking around nervously. My eyes locked with theirs and it dawned on me that they were as frightened of the storm as Knenbish’s toddler.
Pa would have told them that they were foolish to travel in such weather: dust and wind can bring death to the home of the richest of princes. Pa would have said that it’s safer to travel when the wind is with you, not fighting you. Perhaps the storm hadn’t started when they’d set off from their camp. Perhaps they were halfway through their journey before the wind began to stir, lashing their vehicle with dust.
What I observed was this: the tall strangers shivering, then pulling up their collars before downing their tea. And while they trembled the Broad Brown Bear and the Cat man gently mocked them. When they’d finished and I’d cleared their bowls away, my uncle invited them to drink some of Pa’s vodka with him. They agreed.
That’s when they explained to us, through Cat man, how they had happened to arrive late in the middle of the storm. They were on the way back to their camp having delivered the bodies of two of the men killed in the avalanche of rocks. Pa’s body was not with them.
Ma’s head dropped. She rubbed a sleeve over her eyes to clear them of tears. When she was able to raise her head once again, she asked: ‘Why? Why have you not returned my husband to us? His body is all we have left of him and we need to see him one last time.’
‘Wife of my brother,’ my uncle replied, ‘there is a reason for this.’
A flush of anger reddened Ma’s cheeks: ‘Then tell me!’
‘It is what my brother wanted. He instructed those who went with him to the mountains that if any danger befell him they should take his remains to the Giant’s mouth and leave him for the eagles there. These men here,’ said my uncle referring to the skin-walkers, ‘with your permission, are willing to transport my brother, your husband, to his final resting place. Say the word and they will help you fulfil his wishes.’
‘I do not know where the Giant’s mouth is,’ said Ma.
A glint of surprise flitted over Batu’s face: ‘One of you must know, surely!’
Ma shrugged: ‘If it’s the place I think it is, it’s a dwelling place for shamans. Only they may set foot there: shamans and, at times, their relatives.’
‘Well this is such a time,’ my uncle replied. ‘Zula, do you know where it is?’
My thoughts were far away weaving a story around Pa: his final wishes, his instructions to his friends. So he’d known, after all, of the danger he was in. Why didn’t he tell me? Warn me at least? The answer hit me like a slap on the cheek and my weaving ceased. Grandma had warned me, so why should he, especially if he wanted to protect me? I heard my uncle call my name again: ‘Zula!’
‘Yes, Uncle?’
‘Do you know the place where your father wants to be laid to rest?’
I nodded. But as I did, I sensed waves of excitement radiating from Broad Bear and his accomplices. They shifted their stools, inching closer. They came so close I smelled the sulphur on their breath; I saw sparks of delight in their eyes and greed in my uncle’s.
What did they want from us? What were these strangers after and why was my uncle helping them?
Unsure of how far I could trust my uncle or how my words would be translated in language the skin-walkers understood, I spoke plainly: ‘Weren’t you once a shaman yourself, Uncle? In fact, didn’t you recognise the man in the mountains before my father did?’
Blood drained from Batu’s cheeks.
‘Uncle, why didn’t Pa and Grandma show you the trail to the Giant’s mouth?’
The summer breeze around Batu turned icy as rage thickened his throat. Yet before he gave way to anger, he swallowed it with a smile. ‘Don’t play games with me, Zula. Answer me when I ask a question.’
I nodded again. ‘I know the place well, Uncle, but I will not take these men there. The Giant’s mouth is sacred. It is not a place for foreigners.’
Batu snorted. A snort that implied that in his opinion I had no idea what I was talking about and should keep quiet in a conversation that was the preserve of adults. Edging closer to where Ma was seated, he touched Ma’s knee: ‘Woman, these people have agreed to compensate you for the loss of your husband. If you take them where they want to go as well, they will reward us handsomely.’
Ma looked from Batu to me, her dark eyes searching, anxious. I already knew how worried she was that without Pa we wouldn’t be able to survive.
Ma pressed him: ‘You say they’ve agreed to compensate us for our loss?’
An eye on me, the silky Cat man nodded at Ma.
‘How much?’ I asked him. ‘How much is my father’s life worth?’
Cat man told us.
My cheeks burned in disbelief. Pa was worth ten times that amount. No, not ten, a million times more!
‘And if I were to take these strangers to the Giant’s mouth?’
The sum he quoted was double the amount.
With a slight shake of her head, Ma covered her face with her hands. I placed an arm around her, as did Knenbish. And when my little brother Gan tiptoed behind Ma to ask her why Pa hadn’t come home yet and when he would return, she shuddered swaying back and forth.
Funerals are expensive here; so expensive that I would be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted by the skin-walkers’ offer. It dangled before me bright as a jewel. So much money could help us restock our herds as well; help us buy books for school. As it was, apart from over the winter when my brothers and I attended classes at Gobi Altai, we relied on our labour over the summer. With extra money we might be able to fulfil Pa’s wishes. He’d wanted my brothers to attend school full time, so they could benefit in ways I hadn’t been able to. Now Pa was gone, my schooldays were over.
The possibility of what might be slipped in. I know because Cat man smiled thinking he’d succeeded in persuading me to do the bidding of his masters. Yes, I was tempted, but before I could utter a word, a drizzle of honey and milk sweetened my tongue and my soul shimmered.
The breath of the Sleeping Giant, grazing my skin, swept me into his embrace. The higher he lifted me, the more I tasted milk and honey, and from one moment to the next, I was up in our lair a lone wolf baying in wolf-light. The wind, sharp as a whip’s slash, would have hurt if not for the beauty of the setting sun. While around us the air, alive with the swoop and whirl of eagles, sparkled as I howled serenading him in wolf song.
How could I even think of betraying Pa by showing strangers our secret place? There was no chance. I was too far on the shaman’s journey. The Giant was part of me; glints of his flint sharpened my blood. I would rather die than dishonour him.
Cat man had smiled too soon.
I shook my head: ‘Give us compensation for my father’s death,’ I said, ‘and when the storm has ceased making mischief, you people should go.’
Ma smiled, confirming my request.
The strangers agreed to do what we asked of them. In the meantime, with the storm still shrieking outside, they had to stay.
My uncle poured more tots of Pa’s vodka. They drank a second glass, then a third. As the liquor quickened their tongues, the skin-walkers pleaded with Ma and my uncle. They begged them to make me change my mind. Indeed, they increased the sum they’d offered three times over. And when I still wouldn’t budge, but gave them a puzzled smile instead, they turned to my uncle.
My uncle nodded. In that single gesture, the dip of his head combined with the hunger on his face, I grasped he was under their spell. Sometimes, I reasoned, in the full knowledge that I’d been enticed as well, the lure of money can make people travel to places most of us dare not venture. In the same way that the strangers realised that what they had to offer me was nothing compared to my love of Pa and the Sleeping Giant, I saw with my wolf’s eyes that my Uncle Batu was preparing to betray us.