The White Ship

THE WHITE SHIP BY CHINGIZ AITMATOV TRANSLATED BY MIRRA GINSBURG 1 He had two tales. One was his own, unknown to anybody else. The other he had heard from grandfather. Then one day both were gone. That's what this story is about. He was seven years old, going on eight. First came the schoolbag. A black imitation-leather schoolbag, with a shiny metal snaplock that slipped into a catch. With an outside pocket for small things. A most extraordinary ordinary schoolbag. That was, perhaps, the beginning of it all. Grandfather bought it from the visiting store truck, which made the rounds of the cattle breeders in the mountains and occasionally looked in on the forest post in the San-Tash Valley. Beyond the post, the forest preserve rose densely up the slopes and ravines to the mountaintops. There were only three households here, but once in a long while the store truck would visit the foresters. The only boy in the post, he was always the first to see the truck. "It's coming!" he would shout into the doors and windows. "The store truck is coming!" The road that wound its way here from the banks of the Issyk-Kul Lake ran through deep gorges, along the riverbank, over rocks and gulleys, all the way. It was a very difficult road. When it came to Outlook Mountain, it went up slantwise from the bottom of the canyon, then made a long descent down the steep, bare slope toward the forest post. Outlook Mountain was near the post. In the summer, the boy climbed up there almost daily to watch the lake through his binoculars. And the road could be seen from the mountain as plain as the palm of his hand—the curves and turns, the rare pedestrians, the riders, and, of course, the cars. This time—it was a hot summer day—the boy was swimming in his pond when he caught sight of the truck raising dust as it came down the slope. The pond was at the edge of the river, where the water ran shallow over the gravel bottom. Grandpa had dammed it up with rocks. If it were not for the dam, who knows, the boy may have been drowned a long time ago. And, as grandma kept saying, the river would have washed his bones white and carried them away to Issyk-Kul, where fish and other water creatures would be staring at them. And nobody would search for him or mourn him, because there was no reason why a boy should be forever fooling mound in the water. So far, he hadn't drowned. If he did— who knows—maybe grandma really would not run to save him. If he was kin, at least, she said, but he was only a stranger. And a stranger, no matter how you feed him or look after him, remains a stranger. A stranger . But what if he didn't want to be a stranger? And why was he the stranger? Maybe it wasn't he, but she, who was the stranger? But all this will come later in the story—this, and grandfather's dam. Well, then, he caught sight of the store truck as it came downhill, trailing a cloud of dust behind it. And he leaped with excitement, as if he knew he would get that schoolbag. He ran out of the water and quickly pulled his pants over his skinny thighs. Still wet and blue—the water in the river was cold—he hurried down the path to be the first to announce the coming of the truck. The boy ran fast, jumping over low shrubs and going around boulders that were too big to jump across. He did not stop anywhere—not by the tall grasses, nor by the rocks, even though he knew that they were not plain grasses and rocks. They could take offense or even trip him up. "The store truck's coming, I'll be back," he cried as he ran past the "resting camel"—the reddish, humped granite boulder sunk chest-deep in the earth. At ordinary times the boy never passed by without patting the camel on the hump. He patted it with a light, familiar gesture, as grandpa patted his short- tailed gelding, as if to say, "Wait here, I must be off on business." Another of his boulders was a "saddle"—half-black, half-white, with a dip in the middle—and he could ride it like a horse. There was also a "wolf," brown-gray, hoary, with powerful shoulders and a heavy brow. The boy would stalk it on all fours and take aim at it. But his favorite was the "tank" —a huge, massive boulder right at the river's edge, the sand and gravel washed away around it. At any moment, the "tank" would plunge into the water, and the river would boil and churn and rise in fierce white-crested waves. That was what tanks did in the movies—down from the bank into the water, and on and on. The boy saw movies very seldom and therefore remembered everything. His grandfather sometimes took him to see a movie at the livestock-breeding farm in the neighboring village beyond the mountain. This was how a "tank" appeared by the water, ready to rush across the river. There were also other rocks, some "bad," some "kind," some even "sly," or "silly." Among the plants there were also "favorites," "brave ones," "fearful," "evil ones," and a variety of others. The thornbush, for example, was the chief enemy. The boy fought it dozens of times every day, but there seemed no end to their war—the bush continued to grow and multiply. The wild convolvulus, though also a mere weed, was the cleverest and merriest plant. Its flowers welcomed the sun in the morning better than any others. Other grasses did not know anything: morning, evening—it didn't matter to them. But the convolvulus—the moment it felt the warm rays of the sun it opened its eyes and laughed. First one eye, then another, then all the furled flowers opened up. White, pale blue, lilac, every color. And if you sat quietly, quietly near them, it seemed that they were silently whispering among themselves about something. Even the ants knew this. In the morning they ran along the sterns and flowers, squinting in the sunshine and listening to what the flowers were saying. Perhaps they told each other about their dreams? In the daytime, at noon, the boy liked to climb into the thickets of long- stemmed, reedlike shiraldzhins. The shiraldzhins were tall; they had no flowers, but they smelled good; and they grew in patches, gathering in dense groups, allowing other plants to come near them. The shiraldzhins were true friends, they offered the best hiding place, especially when you were hurt and wanted to cry where nobody could see. They smelled like the edge of a pinewood. It was hot and quiet among them, yet they did not shut out the sky. You could stretch out on your back and stare into the sky. At first, you could see nothing through the tears. But then the clouds would come up above and do whatever you wanted them to do. The clouds knew you were not happy, they knew you wanted to run away somewhere, to fly away where nobody would ever find you. And then everybody would sigh and moan: The boy is lost, where shall we find him now? And to prevent it, to keep you from disappearing, to make you lie still and watch them, the clouds would turn into anything you wished. The same clouds could turn into many things. All you needed was to see what they were showing. And it was quiet among the shiraldzhins, and they did not shut out the sky. That's what they were like, the shiraldzhins, which smelled of hot pine. There were many other things he knew about the grasses. Toward the silvery feather grass down in the meadow, he had a tolerantly condescending attitude. It was silly, that leather grass! Scatterbrained. Its soft, silky tassels could not live without wind. All they did was wait to see which way it blew, and then they bowed in the same direction. Not one or two, but all together, the whole meadow, as at a command. And if it rained or stormed, the feather grass went frantic, it did not know what to do, where to hide. It tossed and flattened, pressed itself against the earth. If it had feet, it surely would run away, just anywhere at all. But actually it was only pretending. The moment the storm was over, the giddy tassels were back at their game with the wind, bowing wherever it blew. Alone, without playmates, the boy lived with the simple things around him, and only the store truck could make him forget everything and rush to meet it. After all, a store truck wasn't like stones and grasses. There wasn't a thing you could not find in it! By the time the boy reached home, the store truck was already entering the yard behind the houses. The houses in the post faced the river. The front yard passed directly into the slope that ran down to the bank, and on the other side, across the river, the forest rose steeply from the washed- out ravine up the mountainside. The only way to drive up to the houses was from the back.

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