when, on the coldest night of the winter, with Tsereng and his wife and the animals grunting and snorting in their sleep, she crawled naked to me across the yurt and slipped silently beneath my sheepskin. Without words and with tears on her cheeks she offered me the comfort of her body. On many nights after that as the screaming wind whipped the bare trees outside, and the wolves bowled higher up the forested slopes of the Altai, she came secretly to join me in a mute physical communion that eased her unbearable anguish and brought warmth and refreshment to both our injured souls.
I believed then I would stay with old Tsereng forever. The snows came and went, spring blossomed early and we moved eastward once more. When summer arrived we shifted dow n into the river valleys and in May and June I assisted in the sheep-shearing and the calving of the cows. At the end of June I joined in the almost celebratory ritual of rounding up and tethering the foals in lines alongside their mothers so that the milking of the mares could begin—and with it of course the ‘vital preparation of the new supply of kumiss.
It was only when the second sheep s hearing began at the beginning of September that I realised suddenly a whole year had passed since the crash. About the same time I began to fancy that old Tsereng’s daughter, whose name was Kiki, was gro w ing even plumper than before. It was with sudden surge of pleasure that I began to suspect she might be pregnant with my child.
But it was just then that it all ended, without warning, on a night of torrential rain.
The day had been filled with bright autumn sunshine under a sky of piercing blue, such as I have only ever seen in Mongolia. As we were gathering for the evening meal before the yurt, however, clouds raced up over the horizon, darkening the sky like a hastily drawn curtain. We moved inside to eat and soon a monsoon downpour was ham m ering loudly on the felt roof. Darkness fell immediately and a dung fire was lit in the open hearth to keep out the damp chill which had descended. I nside, crouched around the fire, we felt secure and warm, and we ate in silence, listening to the fierce beat of the rain. I remember smiling happily at Kiki, and she did a rare thing—she smiled back. I had never seen her smile before. I looked down directly at her thickening girth but she looked away qui ckl y into the fire. I felt sure, with a surge of pride, that she was pregnant.
One of Tsereng’s sons had been helping us with the milking and was eating with us. When the force of the downpour and a sudden wind began to shake the yurt, he got up with a laugh and went out to tighten the rope bands bound around it to prevent it falling in on us. It was his dying scream from outside that gave us our first warning.
The next moment there was a great rending sound and the felt wall beside me was slashed open from top to bottom. I stared in horror at the figure of a man standing outside in the storm. Even though he was drenched with rain and disguised in the clothes of a nomadic herdsman I recognised Chiao Feng, one of Wang Tung-hsing’s chief lieutenants from Peking. He held a long curved knife in one hand and a pistol in the other. His lips were draw n back from his teeth in a snarl of t r iu m ph—and his eyes held unwavering on mine.
Old Tsereng rose slowly to his feet, his hand reaching for the hilt of the decorated dagger at his belt. But there was a shout from the doorway behind us and we turned to find another dripping figure holding a sub-machine gun pointing in our direction. Old Tsereng’s hands fell to his sides and for a moment nobody moved or spoke. The rain on the roof and the shriek of the rising wind were the only sounds in the yurt. Tsereng’s wife and Kiki remained squatting motionle s s on the floor, their mouths agape with fear.
Chiao waved his knife menacingly in the air towards old Tsereng and the women, then stepped warily up behind me. He pinioned my arms quickly
I believed then I would stay with old Tsereng forever. The snows came and went, spring blossomed early and we moved eastward once more. When summer arrived we shifted dow n into the river valleys and in May and June I assisted in the sheep-shearing and the calving of the cows. At the end of June I joined in the almost celebratory ritual of rounding up and tethering the foals in lines alongside their mothers so that the milking of the mares could begin—and with it of course the ‘vital preparation of the new supply of kumiss.
It was only when the second sheep s hearing began at the beginning of September that I realised suddenly a whole year had passed since the crash. About the same time I began to fancy that old Tsereng’s daughter, whose name was Kiki, was gro w ing even plumper than before. It was with sudden surge of pleasure that I began to suspect she might be pregnant with my child.
But it was just then that it all ended, without warning, on a night of torrential rain.
The day had been filled with bright autumn sunshine under a sky of piercing blue, such as I have only ever seen in Mongolia. As we were gathering for the evening meal before the yurt, however, clouds raced up over the horizon, darkening the sky like a hastily drawn curtain. We moved inside to eat and soon a monsoon downpour was ham m ering loudly on the felt roof. Darkness fell immediately and a dung fire was lit in the open hearth to keep out the damp chill which had descended. I nside, crouched around the fire, we felt secure and warm, and we ate in silence, listening to the fierce beat of the rain. I remember smiling happily at Kiki, and she did a rare thing—she smiled back. I had never seen her smile before. I looked down directly at her thickening girth but she looked away qui ckl y into the fire. I felt sure, with a surge of pride, that she was pregnant.
One of Tsereng’s sons had been helping us with the milking and was eating with us. When the force of the downpour and a sudden wind began to shake the yurt, he got up with a laugh and went out to tighten the rope bands bound around it to prevent it falling in on us. It was his dying scream from outside that gave us our first warning.
The next moment there was a great rending sound and the felt wall beside me was slashed open from top to bottom. I stared in horror at the figure of a man standing outside in the storm. Even though he was drenched with rain and disguised in the clothes of a nomadic herdsman I recognised Chiao Feng, one of Wang Tung-hsing’s chief lieutenants from Peking. He held a long curved knife in one hand and a pistol in the other. His lips were draw n back from his teeth in a snarl of t r iu m ph—and his eyes held unwavering on mine.
Old Tsereng rose slowly to his feet, his hand reaching for the hilt of the decorated dagger at his belt. But there was a shout from the doorway behind us and we turned to find another dripping figure holding a sub-machine gun pointing in our direction. Old Tsereng’s hands fell to his sides and for a moment nobody moved or spoke. The rain on the roof and the shriek of the rising wind were the only sounds in the yurt. Tsereng’s wife and Kiki remained squatting motionle s s on the floor, their mouths agape with fear.
Chiao waved his knife menacingly in the air towards old Tsereng and the women, then stepped warily up behind me. He pinioned my arms quickly
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