notice for the first time how old he now looks.
“Odval, nothing will change if you do,” he says quietly. “What happened can’t
be reversed.”
“I know that.”
“Then why do you insist on returning to them? They didn’t fight when the army took you.
They just stood there and let it happen! They virtually abandoned you!”
“It’s because they didn’t know,” I say softly, staring at my uncle’s feet.
“What didn’t they know?” he asks me.
“It didn’t happen the way they say it did. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen to me!”
Guilt starts to rise in my stomach. Bataar lays a hand on my shoulder.
“I know, Odval,” he says. “Believe me, I know. But I
also
know it was wrong of them to blame
you because they favored Chuluun.”
The tent is silent. “I couldn’t stop him,” I say eventually, hot tears dripping down my cheeks.
“But they have to know that I tried to. I
need
them to know.”
“I understand,” Bataar says, his own eyes suddenly glistening. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop the
army from taking you,” he whispers, and I remember how much he cared about me. The prospect
of leaving so soon after our reunion suddenly disheartens me, but at the same time, I know
Chuluun’s face will never leave me unless I do.
“How will you find your parents?” Bataar asks after composing himself.
“I plan to ride north until I reach the Altay Mountains. The tribe will have moved since I last
saw them, but I can search for them once I’m there.”
“That’s an awfully large area to be searching blind.”
“It needs to be done,” I say stubbornly.
Bataar nods dolefully. “When will you leave?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Take this with you,” he says, drawing his scimitar. He passes it to me, and I wrap my fingers
slowly around the hilt. Balancing the sword carefully against my palm, I watch the firelight dance
across the blade like the ball of the desert sun.
The image of that fire fills my mind as I set out the next day, the real desert sun rising to my
right. Bataar told me I should reach the mountains in two days. I reach down and lay my hand
on the hilt of his sword, drawing some comfort from its coolness. My neck starts to burn and I
look up at the sky; the angle of the sun has shifted since I left camp. So the gods are playing their
game again.
Gradually, the sand dunes begin to flatten. The grains solidify into a harsher ground, and I
begin to hear the thud of my horse’s hooves against the earth. The light rhythm punctuates the
whistle of wind across the plain. A herd of wild horses emerges just ahead, and I watch them
dig into the ground with their hooves and teeth, trying desperately to break through the thin
permafrost to get at the moss beneath. The earth is the color of mould. Phantom shapes loom up
in the distance, breaking the unity of Earth and sky, and soon I am among them, ascending their
rocky slopes and venturing into their spectral heart.
I am alone here. There is no life, nothing but grey rock and permafrost around me. It is strange
to think I once called this area home. I ride on until the jagged slopes to my left and right begin to
level. Around the next bend, the breeze that was channeled through the valley becomes suddenly
still. The only remaining movement is the slow trot of my horse’s legs, the sharp clicking of hooves
