The Gray Earth. Galsan Tschinag

      THE PRISONER

      Did I really live through all this? Or was it all a dream?

      I feel as if I have been beaten and crushed, and died and gone to hell. But I have my things on me: my head scarf is in my breast pocket and my bone pipe tucked in my boot. A dead sheep gets its wool plucked, a dead yak its skin flayed. All things are taken from the dead so they may stand naked and bare before Erlikbej. Hence I cannot be dead. That I am in pain is yet another sign that I am alive. My head rings, my ribs hurt, my ears burn. I seem to recall punches and kicks. But I am just a child, and he is a grown man, strong enough to kill a dog, or even a yak.

      Some time ago, I sensed a strong brightness. I must have been outside. Then it turned dark again. Wood squeaked and iron clanked. There were other sounds as well, and there seemed to be other bodies along with something I sensed most distinctly: raw meat. It was no longer fresh and had a pungent smell. And there was no breeze to carry away the sweetish smell of the blood trapped in the meat.

      Beneath me I feel damp cool gravel. A small clump of earth under the gravel is slimy. A musty smell assaults my senses and makes my eyes water. I shouldn’t lie here any longer. I should try to escape. I lift my head slowly, prop myself up on my elbows, and slowly sit up. The darkness around me spins. My mouth feels sticky, and the skin on my face is taut as if covered in glue. When the spinning stops, I decide to explore my environment. Stretching my arms sideways, I bump into a wooden log panel on my right and recognize peeled larch beams stacked on top of each other. I feel my way along the wall and reach a corner where another wall starts, this one cooler and smoother but also made from larch beams.

      So I did land in prison.

      I have heard of prison. Everyone fears it. Prison is where enemies of the People are sent. In the beginning there were many enemies, now not so many. Most of them have been eliminated, a few reeducated.

      Samdar is one who went to prison and returned. Once he stayed overnight at our yurt and talked through half the night. He spent ten years in prison, the first three of them alone in complete darkness. His cell was narrow and built of stone, and he was allowed outside for just ten minutes a day. Just long enough to finish a bowl of hot tea, he said. Prison tea comes without milk or salt and is drunk from a tin cup instead of a proper bowl. Along with the tea, prisoners get a piece of black bread no bigger than two matchstick boxes. I have had tea without milk or salt, but I have never had bread. I would love to try some—ideally, right now.

      After that night Father and Mother’s fear of prison seemed to grow. As we say in our family, any yak cow that fails to calve and any sheep whose wool gets lost can land you in prison. So far we have fulfilled our quota, if barely.

      And as for me now?

      I feel a light but insistent pressure from my bladder. What to do? I must explore my cell and find out what I have here. Samdar said he had a plank bed and a tin bucket. I may have a bucket, too. If I don’t, I’ll have to find a corner to relieve myself in, at least for now.

      The beams lead me farther. My prison seems big compared to Samdar’s. Its floor drops. The farther down I go, the eerier it seems. First I think of a cave, then again of hell. Maybe I should turn around. What if this gaping mouth has no end, or if an abyss opens up suddenly?

      My hand touches something soft, and I quickly pull back. Then I reach out to touch it again. It must be flour—many sacks, piled on top of each other. One sack contains something grainy. Is it rice? Rice grains are not this small and round. It must be millet. The discovery brightens my spirits. Now I think I can see what towers in front of me: a heap of white sacks, filled to bursting with powdery snow-white flour. Not even Father has ever seen this much flour. He brings home flour in a small rumen bag I can easily carry over my shoulder. In exchange for the pelts and small intestines he takes to the trading agent he receives not only flour, but also brick tea, salt, rice, gunpowder, lead, primer, candles, and wolf poison. When she stands in front of the provisions Father brings home, Mother always gets a little shaky before solemnly proposing: “Let’s have a look at the flour and the tea.”

      If I were to show her this heap of flour and say “You can have a whole sack,” she would probably pass out. But if she didn’t, I’d say, “Have as much as you like, Mother. Take not only flour, but millet as well!” Then she would say, “Really? This is such fine food—but I won’t eat, my dear child, unless you will, too,” and then she would pause. Once, a long time ago, I ate so much cooked millet that now I can no longer stand it. So Father stopped buying millet. At this point I would say, “I’ll find something else to eat. You go ahead and have the millet. You like it, don’t you?”

      I am burning with curiosity as I feel my way forward. I can feel shelves with more sacks. Salt, I realize. And onions. Finally I come across the meat whose sweetish-foul smell is making my prison unbearable. It is leftover meat from a goat’s spine. I shake my head: why would pieces of marrow that should have been used up first be left while the haunches and ribs are gone? I can hardly believe what I discover next: a heavy wooden box full of sugar cubes. The box has been torn open and it is almost full. What would happen if I were to haul out the heavy box and open it in front of our clan’s children? They’d probably cry out in shock and then fall silent for who knows how long. In the end they might tear into the box. After much hesitation I take four sugar cubes and tuck them into my breast pocket.

      At that moment I hear a sound like a pebble rolling across a stretched hide. It seems very close, almost inside my right ear, and makes me jump. Is it a mouse? I hold my breath and listen, but all I can hear is my own heartbeat. My whole body is shaking. No matter how hard I try, I don’t hear the sound again. But then I think I can actually see the mouse. It appears and disappears, runs away and back toward me. It is a hideous long-tailed mouse with bald skin and a bloated belly. Its kidneys shine bluish through its thin skin.

      “One of your clan’s chieftains was devoured by mice,” Camel-Lips Shunu told me one day while he watched me hunt them. Why, he wanted to know, was I not afraid of mice? Of course one doesn’t believe everything Shunu says, particularly since his camel lips made a strange laugh after he asked me. But he was basically right. Father can’t even bear hearing about mice. If he happens to see one, his hand instantly reaches for the dagger on his belt. Mother doesn’t go so far as pulling a knife when a mouse crosses her path. But she uses language she would never use otherwise, which is bad enough. Everyone in the ail finds mice disgusting. And disgust is worse than fear.

      The pressure from my bladder, which I had forgotten, reasserts itself. I lose interest in my treasure and turn away from the shelf. Arms stretched out and head tucked in, I trot forward. Going up feels better than down, and I feel relieved because I imagine the exit is close. Instead I soon run into the log panel. No matter how carefully I grope to the right and to the left, my paths are blocked by walls of big hard beams, as solid as rock.

      I keep trying to find an exit or at least a nook, but in the end I give up and pee on the beams.

      The