The swan-girls returned from their bathing to the willow tree. One by one they slipped into their robes, and rose as silent swans, circling out and away over Lake Baikal. The ninth swan-girl — and the most beautiful — searched frantically for her missing robe, and called out to her sisters, but the swans were already vanishing towards the north-east.
With a thump, Khori Tumed jumped down from the tree, gripping her robe.
‘Please! Give me back my dress! I must follow my sisters!’
‘Marry me,’ said Khori Tumed. ‘I will dress you in emerald silk when the summer comes, and the fur of black bears will keep you warm when the snows fall.’
‘Let’s talk about it — but please give me back my robe for now.’
The hunter smiled gently. ‘That I will not do.’
The swan-girl watched her sisters disappear from sight. She knew that she had no choice — either accept the stranger’s hand in marriage, or freeze to death that very night. ‘Then I must go with you, mortal, but be warned — when our sons are born I shall not name them. And without names, never shall they cross the threshold into manhood.’
So the swan-girl returned to Khori Tumed’s ger and became a woman of his tribe. In time, she even learned to love the precocious young hunter, and they lived in happiness together. Eleven fine sons were born to them, but the swan-girl was bound by her oath, and Khori Tumed’s sons were never blessed with names. And in the evening, she looked longingly to the north-east, and Khori Tumed knew she was thinking of her homeland beyond the winter dawn.
Years arrived, years saddled up and rode away.
One day at the end of autumn when the forests were dancing and dying, Khori Tumed was gutting a ewe, while his wife sat embroidering a quilt. Their eleven sons were away, hunting.
‘Husband, do you still have my swan’s robe?’
‘You know I do,’ replied Khori Tumed, carving the sheep’s midriff.
‘I would so like to see if I can still fit into it.’
He smiled. ‘What do you take me for? Some kind of marmot brain?’
‘My love, if I wanted to leave you now, I could use the door.’ The swan-girl got up and kissed his neck. ‘Let me.’
Khori Tumed’s resolve melted. ‘Very well, but I’m going to bolt the door.’ He washed his hands, unlocked his iron-bound chest, and gave the robe to his wife. He sat in the bed, watching her undress and wrap herself in the magical garment.
A wild beating of wings filled the ger, and the swan flew up through the gap in the roof, the chimney-flap which Khori Tumed had forgotten to seal! In despair Khori Tumed lunged upwards at the swan with a ladle, and just managed to hook the swan’s foot with its handle. ‘Please! My wife! Don’t leave me here without you!’
‘My time here is over, mortal. Love you I always shall, but my sisters are calling for me now, and I must obey their call!’
‘Then at least tell me the names of our sons, so that they may become men of the tribe!’
And the swan-girl named their sons, as she hovered above the tent: Caragana, Bodonguud, Sharaid, Tsagaan, Gushid, Khudai, Batnai, Khalbin, Khuaitsai, Galzut, Khovduud. And the swan-girl circled the encampment of gers three times to bless all who lived there. And it is said that the tribe of Khori Tumed were such people, and that the eleven sons became eleven fathers.
The drunk’s eyes had closed, and his face had drooped into his plate of lukewarm meatballs. Everyone in the place was silent. Three young children sat on the other side of the table, entranced by the story. Beebee remembered his new daughter. I looked at Bodoo’s picture in the newspaper, and wondered who he really had been, this man I had only known through the memories of others.
The restaurant was emptying out, and the conversation reverted to recent wrestling matches. The sight of two roundeyes eating was only gossipworthy for so long. I watched the way Sherry whispered something to Caspar, and I watched the smile spread over Caspar’s face, and I knew they were lovers.
This venture was futile. To look for the source of a story is to look for a needle in a sea. I should transmigrate into Sherry or Caspar, and resume my search for noncorpa in other lands.
The bearded hunter walked in with his gun. The memory of being shot flashed back, but the hunter leaned the rifle against the wall, and sat down next to Beebee. He started dismantling it, and cleaning the parts one by one with an oily rag.
‘Beebee, right? Of the Reindeer Tribe of Lake Tsagaan Nuur?’
‘Yes.’
‘With a new baby daughter?’
‘Arrived last night.’
‘You’d better return to your tribe,’ said the hunter. ‘I met your sister at the market just now. She’s looking for you, with your brother. Your wife’s hysterical and your daughter’s dying.’
Beebee cursed himself for coming to town. I wanted to beg his forgiveness. I thought about transmigrating into the hunter, and from him back into Caspar or Sherry, but my guilt made me stay. Maybe I could help with his baby’s illness if we got back in time.
I’ve often thought about that moment. Had I transmigrated at that time, everything would have been different. But I stayed, and Beebee ran to the market-place.
Dusk was sluggish with cold when we reached Beebee’s encampment. The breath of the yaks hung white in the twilight. From far up the valley we heard the wind. It sounded to me like a wolf, but all reindeer people know the difference.
Beebee’s ger was full of dark shapes, lamps, steam and worry. A bitter oil was burning in a silver dish. The grandmother was preparing a ritual. Beebee’s wife was pale in her bed, cradling the baby, both with wide unblinking eyes. She looked at Beebee. ‘Our baby hasn’t spoken.’
The grandmother spoke in hushed tones. ‘Your daughter’s soul has gone. It was born loose. Unless I can summon it back she will be dead by midnight.’
‘At the hospital back in Zoolon, there’s a doctor there, trained in East Germany in the old days—’
‘Don’t be a fool, Beebee! I’ve seen it happen too often before. You and that mumbo jumbo medicine. It’s not a matter of medicine! Her soul’s been untethered. It’s a matter of magic!’
He looked at his limp daughter, and began to despair. ‘What do you intend to do?’
‘I shall perform the rites. Hold this dish. I need your blood.’
The grandmother pulled out a curved hunting knife. Beebee was not afraid of knives or blood. As the grandmother washed his palm I transmigrated into the old woman, intending to transfer into the baby to see the problem for myself.
I got no further.
I found something I had never seen in any human mind: a canyon of another’s memories, running across her mind. I saw it straight away, like a satellite passing over. I entered it, and as I did so I entered my own past.
There are three, says the monk in the yellow hat, who think about the fate of the world. I am a boy aged eight. I have my own body! We are in a prison cell, smaller than a wardrobe, lit by light from a tiny grille in one corner, the size of a hand. Even though my height is not yet four feet, I cannot stand up. I’ve been in here a week and I haven’t eaten for two days. I have become used to the stink of our own excrement. A man in a nearby box has lost his mind and wails through a broken throat. The only thing I can see through the grille is another grille in a neighbouring coffin.