White Horse Neighing in the West Wind - Chapter 7

Su Luke’s whip had long since stopped being a father’s discipline. It was the wild rage in his heart, venting itself. Every stroke fell as though he were lashing an enemy. “Why won’t those dog-bandits come face me in an open fight? Will you answer or not? Am I, Su Luke, the first warrior of the Kazakhs, unable to beat a handful of Han rats…”

The boy that Huo Yuanlong and Chen Dahai and the rest had killed was his most beloved eldest son, and the wife they had raped to death was his childhood companion, the love who had grown up beside him since they were small. And he himself, for over twenty years everyone had called him the first warrior of the Kazakhs. In dao, in fist, in strength, in horseracing, he had never lost to anyone.

Li Wenxiu thought Supu looked pitiable, beaten so by his father, and Su Luke too was pitiable, shouting like that with tears in his voice. “He beats him so hard, he must never love Supu again. He has no son, and Supu has no father. It’s all my fault, all the fault of this Han girl whom Allah has cursed!” Suddenly she felt sorry for herself as well.

She could bear to hear Supu’s crying no longer. She returned to Old Man Ji’s house, took the wolf-skin from under her bedding, and stared at it for a long, long time. She and Supu’s tent were a little over two li apart, but faintly she seemed to hear Supu weeping, to hear the crack of Su Luke’s whip. Though she loved the wolf-skin dearly, she could not have it.

“If I take this wolf-skin, Supu will be beaten to death by his father. Only Kazakh girls, their Muslim girls, may have a great wolf-skin like this. Among all the Kazakh girls, which one is the most beautiful? I love this wolf-skin so. It is the wolf Supu killed, the wolf he killed without a thought for his own life, to save me. Supu gave it to me, but… but his father will beat him to death…”

***

The next morning Su Luke came out of his tent, his eyes threaded with red. Che’erku came humming a mountain song at the top of his voice, la-di-la-di-la, his head tilted as he looked at Su Luke. His expression was strange, smiling, his eyes full of goodwill.

Che’erku was also a famous warrior among the Kazakhs. People a thousand li away knew of his skill at breaking wild horses. He could run faster than anyone dared believe. Some said that within a single li, no swift horse could catch him, and even beyond a li he would lose by only a nose’s length. When the herdsmen sat around their fires in the open grassland and chatted, many said that if Che’erku’s nose were not so flat, he would have won after all.

Su Luke and Che’erku had never liked each other much. Su Luke’s name was great, his bladework and his fists alike unmatched, and Che’erku had been quietly jealous. He was six years younger than Su Luke. Once the two had matched their bladework, and Che’erku lost, a long cut opened on his shoulder. He said, “I’ve lost today, but in five years, ten years, we’ll see.” Su Luke said, “In another twenty years we two brothers will have another go, and then I won’t go so easy on you!”

Today, though, there was not a shred of hostility in Che’erku’s smile. Su Luke’s anger from the night before had not yet cooled. He glared at him fiercely. Che’erku laughed, “Old Su, your son has a good eye!” Su Luke said, “You mean Supu?” His hand went to his dao-hilt, and his eyes turned fierce. He thought, “You are mocking me because my son gave the wolf-skin to a Han girl.”

Che’erku’s words had already reached the tip of his tongue, “If it wasn’t Supu, do you have another son?”, but he did not say them. Instead he smiled and said, “Of course it’s Supu! The boy’s handsome, and capable too. I’m very fond of him.” A father who hears another man praise his son cannot help but feel pleased, but Su Luke and Che’erku had spent so long trading barbs that he said, “You’re jealous, are you? Too bad you can’t sire a son yourself.”

Che’erku was not offended. He laughed, “My daughter Aman isn’t bad either. Otherwise, why would your son have set his sights on her?”

Su Luke spat, “Stop your preening. Who said my son was sweet on your Aman?”

Che’erku reached out and hooked his arm through Su Luke’s. “Come with me, I’ll show you something.” Su Luke found it strange, but he fell into step beside him. Che’erku said, “Your boy killed a great grey wolf a while back. A tiny child, and remarkable. When he grows up, won’t he be just like his old man? A hero’s son, a hero too.”

Su Luke said nothing. He was certain Che’erku had set a trap to lead him into, and thought, “I must watch every step.”

They walked over three li across the grassland to Che’erku’s tent. From far off, Su Luke spotted a great wolf-skin hung outside the tent. He ran a few steps closer. Hey, wasn’t that the skin of the very grey wolf Supu had killed? His son’s first kill in all his life, and he knew it at a glance.

His mind swirled. Then joy came, and confusion. “I wronged Supu. I beat him senseless last night, and all along he’d given the wolf-skin to Aman, not to that Han girl. Curse it, why didn’t he say so? The boy’s too young and shy to speak up. If only his mother were still alive, she’d have told me. Ah, a child always confides in his mother…”

Che’erku’s great hand clapped his shoulder. “Come, have some wine.”

Che’erku’s tent was tidy and clean. Woollen blankets woven with red flowers and green grass hung on every side. A slim girl came out bearing wine. Che’erku smiled, “Aman, this is Supu’s father. Are you afraid of him? This old bearded fellow is fierce!” Aman’s blushing face seemed even more beautiful, her eyes bright with a laugh, as though saying, “I’m not afraid.”

Su Luke laughed aloud. “Old Che, I’ve heard people say you have a daughter, a walking flower of the grassland. True enough. A walking flower, well said. And you, you’re a two-legged swift horse, ha ha…”

The two men, who had squabbled for more than ten years, grew close all at once. You offer me a bowl, I offer you a bowl. In the end Su Luke drank himself blind drunk, his eyes narrowed to slits, slumped over his horse, and rode home.

***

Some days later Che’erku sent over two finely woven woollen blankets. He said, “Aman wove them, one for the elder, one for the younger.”

On one blanket was woven a great man, a long dao in his hand, striking down a leopard. In the distance another leopard fled, its tail between its legs. On the other blanket was woven a boy, stabbing a great grey wolf. The two of them, one large, one small, were both stern and gallant, their bearing proud. Su Luke was delighted, crying, “Fine work, fine work!” For in the Western Regions leopards were extremely rare, and that year two had appeared from somewhere, harrying man and beast alike. Su Luke had once charged bravely into the snow mountains and killed a great leopard, and the other, wounded, had fled far. Now he saw the proudest deed of his life woven into a blanket by Aman’s hands, and naturally he was greatly pleased.

This time it was Che’erku who came home drunk, slumped over his horse. Su Luke told his son to escort him back. In Che’erku’s tent, Supu saw his own wolf-skin. He was just puzzling over it when Aman, blushing, came to thank him. Supu stammered a few words, not knowing what he was saying at all. He did not dare ask how the wolf-skin had come into Aman’s hands.

The next day he went early to the little hill where he had killed the wolf, hoping to see Li Wenxiu and ask her. But Li Wenxiu did not come.

He waited two days. Both were in vain. On the third day he finally found the courage to go to Old Man Ji’s house. Li Wenxiu came to the door. When she saw him, she said, “I never want to see you again.” With a slam she shut the wooden door.

Supu stood stunned for a long while, then returned home without a clue, a hollow feeling in his chest. “Ai, Han girls. Who knows what they’re thinking?”

He did not know, of course, that Li Wenxiu was hiding behind the wooden door, her face in her hands, weeping. She cried for a long, long time. She wanted very much to play with Supu again, to tell him stories, but she knew that if his father found out, Supu would be whipped again, savagely. His father might even beat him to death.

***

Day by day time passed. The three children were blown taller by the grassland wind, frozen older by the ice and snow at the foot of the Tianshan. The walking flower grew still more graceful and beautiful. The wolf-killing boy became a handsome young man. And the Tianling bird of the grassland sang ever more softly, ever more movingly. But she rarely sang. Only in the dead of night, when no one was about, she would sing a single song, alone on the little hill where Supu had killed the grey wolf.

Not for a single day did she forget that companion of her childhood. She would often see him riding out with Aman, and sometimes she heard the two of them answering each other in song, their voices tender and intertwined.

The meaning in those songs, Li Wenxiu had not understood when she was small. Now she understood, and wished she understood less. If she still did not know, wouldn’t there be less heartache? Fewer sleepless nights? But once a thing is understood, one can never go back to that muddled yet honey-sweet bewilderment of childhood.

One late-spring evening Li Wenxiu rode her white horse, alone, to the little hill where the wolf was killed. The white horse’s yellow-dyed coat had long since shed away, and it was white again, white as the snow on the Tianshan peaks.

She stood quietly on the small hill. Far off, between the Kazakh tents, a great bonfire burned. Music and laughter rose and fell in waves. That day was the Kazakhs’ festival. The young men and women had finished the Girl Chase¹, and now gathered around the fire, dancing and singing, giving themselves to joy.

Footnotes

1. 姑娘追 – gūniang zhuī, “girl chase.” A Kazakh horseback game: a girl rides away at a canter and a young man pursues her. If he catches her before she reaches the appointed goal he may claim a kiss, or her sash. ↩