Wolf Totem: A Novel (12 page)

Laasurung shouted back, “My horse is spooked, the way it gets when there are wolves around. If there are, how will the four of us manage?”

“As if our lives depended on it,” Batu shouted.

They aimed their flashlights to the north and waved them back and forth as a signal to their two comrades.

A gray horse appeared in the two beams of light; it slowed and stopped next to Batu, as if it had found its savior. The gray was snorting anxiously. It had been bitten below the neck, and blood leaking from the steaming wound formed lines of red ice. The sight of blood spooked Laasurung’s mount, who trampled the ground in a frenzy, then lowered its head, thrust out its neck, and single-mindedly galloped off with the wind. Batu spun around and raced after his comrade; the gray ran into the blinding snow.

By the time Batu managed to catch up to Laasurung and grab the reins of his horse, the herd was right next to them. All the horses he could see with the aid of his flashlight were as spooked as the big gray. They whinnied into the wind, their shuddering hooves madly kicking up waves of snow that obscured the ferocious, turbulent whirlwind down below their flanks. When Batu and Laasurung fearfully shone their lights down there, the sight so unnerved Laasurung that he fell forward and wrapped his arms around his horse’s neck, all that kept him from falling off. The beams of light were not so dim that the two sharp-eyed herders could not make out the outlines of wolves, one or more of whom was sinking its fangs into every horse the men could see. The fur of the pack leader was inlaid with snow driven there by the wind, turning it a spectral white. The wolves’ bodies appeared larger than usual, terrifyingly large, and so white it made the men’s skin crawl. A white wolf pack, a ghostly wolf pack, an evil wolf pack that frightened the herders half to death. Wolves that normally turned and ran in fear from flashlights were so set on revenge that they were uncommonly ferocious and fearless, led by the alpha male and the mother wolves.

When Batu and Laasurung realized that the other two herdsmen were nowhere to be seen, they assumed they were half frozen by the blizzard, or had been taken away by their terrified mounts. Since they had been on a day watch, they were unarmed and had no flashlights; nor were they protected by fur jackets. Batu was forced to make a painful decision. “Forget about them,” he said. “Saving the horses is more important!”

The herd was still running in the beam from Batu’s flashlight, seventy or eighty Ujimchin warhorses, the treasure of a dozen herds and dozens of horse herders; of noble bloodlines, famous as warhorses throughout Mongol history, they were known historically as Turks. Fine-looking steeds, they were able to endure hard, taxing work; they feared neither hunger nor thirst; and they held up well in boiling heat and bitter cold. Able to run long distances at great speeds, they were normally ridden only by their herders and headquarters leaders. If they wound up as food for the wolves or drowned in the lake while fleeing, the other herders would, just like the wolves, tear Batu and his comrades to shreds.

Seeing that Laasurung was holding back, Batu dug his knees into his horse, rode over, and smacked his comrade on the head, then nudged Laasurung’s horse toward the herd. He aimed his flashlight at the other man’s face and shouted, “If you run away, I’ll kill you myself!”

“I’m not afraid,” Laasurung shouted back, “but this horse is.” He jerked the reins to bring the horse under control, then flicked on his flashlight and, waving the herding club over his head, charged toward the herd. He and Batu led the horses with their lights, beat the recalcitrant animals with their clubs, and got them to follow the rest of the herd to the east instead of running with the wind. Batu reckoned that they were nearing the small lake, no more than three or four miles away. The big, broad-chested geldings had none of the burdens of ordinary horses—pregnant mares, young horses, or old ones. They were so fleet-footed that in less than half an hour the entire herd could be stuck in the muddy lake. The biggest problem the men faced was that the lake was narrow from north to south and wide from east to west, which meant that it spread horizontally directly ahead of them, difficult to skirt unless the direction of the wind changed. In Batu’s mind, it was the gaping mouth of a gargantuan demon, waiting for a feast of fat horses, delivered by the wind devil and wolf god.

The direction of the blizzard—due south—did not vary, and the wind raised a steady howl. Even in the dark, Batu could get a feel for the topography by changes in the way his horse trampled the grass. He could tell where he was and where he was going by the alignment of the earth’s veins and the spongy quality of the ground. He was beyond restless, feeling that the female wolves whose dens had been plundered were more frenzied even than the alpha male. He disregarded the fact that he was surrounded by wolves, ignored the possibility that they could bring down his mount at any moment, and ignored the prospect of his horse losing its footing and sending him down into the midst of a starving, vengeful, enraged pack of wolves. He ignored it all as he screamed and shouted and struck out madly with his herding club. He had but one thought on his mind, and that was to stabilize the horses and keep the herd together as he drove them eastward, around the lake, and from there to the yurts, where men and dogs could fight off the wolves.

Led by flashlights and beaten by two herders who refused to leave them, the horses gradually regained their poise. A white horse took the lead, raising its head and whinnying loudly as a sign that it was assuming leadership of the herd. Batu and Laasurung immediately shone their lights on this new leader, whose presence provided a stimulus for the others to quickly reestablish the disciplined unity of Mongolian warhorses, as they organized themselves in the traditional battle array necessary to fight this enemy. The lead horse sounded the battle cry, drawing the herd around it and forming a seemingly impregnable rampart of horses. Hundreds of hooves struck with great force, stomping, crushing, kicking. Caught by surprise, the savage wolves suddenly lost their tactical advantage. The few that had been caught in the circle could not get out from under the horses’ bellies; their legs were broken, their spines smashed, their heads crushed. The shrill, demonic, agonizing wails were more hideous than the sound of the blizzard. Batu began to breathe a little easier, knowing that no fewer than three of the wolves had been killed or injured by the horse hooves. He committed the spot to memory, for when the wind died out and the sky was clear again, he’d return to skin the fallen predators. With these kills behind them, the horses closed ranks, with more timid members of the herd protected by an outer rank of stronger horses. Using explosive force, they formed a line of defense against a pack of wolves that resembled a chain of iron fists.

The lake was drawing nearer, and Batu was satisfied with the formation of the herd, which made giving commands easy; so long as he could control the lead horse, safely reaching the eastern edge of the lake was certainly possible. But remnants of fear remained stuck in his heart, for this was no ordinary pack. Striking out at a crazed wolf only increased its savagery and led to even more frenzied killing. Everyone who lived on the grassland feared the vindictiveness of a crazed wolf. The entire pack surely heard the agonizing wails of its injured brethren, and danger lurked on all sides. Batu saw that many of the horses had sustained injuries. But these were fine warhorses, steeled in battles with wolves, and so, wounded or not, they still ran in formation, refusing to give an opening for further attacks.

That said, the herd had a fatal flaw. Made up exclusively of geldings, it lacked a “son horse,” a powerful uncastrated animal that could be counted on to carry the fight to the wolves. On the Mongolian grassland, herds of horses were made up of a dozen or more families, large and small, and each family was led by what was known as a “son horse.” These horses, whose flowing manes reached their knees, sometimes even touching the ground, were a head taller than the other horses in the family, valiant males that were true leaders and fearless killers. Whenever they encountered wolves, the son horses formed the herd into a circle, with females and young horses on the inside, males on the outside, while they remained on the margins to fight the enemy head-on, manes flying, flared nostrils snorting, rearing up on their hind legs, a flesh-and-blood mountain suspended above the wolves. When such a horse came thundering down, it crushed the wolves’ heads and torsos with its enormous hooves. And if a wolf turned tail and ran, the horse lowered its head and gave chase, fiercely kicking out and nipping at its flanks. The largest and most ferocious of these horses had been known to pick up wolves with their teeth and fling them into the air, waiting for them to hit the ground before stomping them to death. Even the most savage wolves were no match for son horses, which kept vigil over their herds, day and night. They protected their families not only against wolf packs but also against lightning strikes and wildfires, minimizing injuries to mates, offspring, and the very old and always leading them to safety.

Batu wished he had a son horse at that moment, but the white horse that took the lead was a gelding, like all the others; while it was clearly powerful, it lacked aggressiveness, which meant a less potent tendency to attack. Batu grumbled inwardly. It had been years since the military had come to the grassland to recruit horses, and people had neglected the consequences of not having a son horse in a herd of warhorses. Even if they’d pondered the matter, they’d figured that the horses would be taken away within days anyway, at which time the pastureland would play no further role. There’d been only a slim chance of something going wrong, and yet the wolves had found an opening. Batu was forced to admire the vision of the leader, which had likely known that this was a herd without a son horse.

Batu rushed to the front and whipped the lead horse as hard as he could to get it moving to the east, at the same time switching hands to grip his semiautomatic rifle and release the safety; he’d fire only when it was absolutely necessary, for these were novice warhorses and gunfire would likely scatter them. Like Batu, Laasurung prepared for what was coming. The blizzard had increased in intensity, and the two horsemen were so exhausted they could barely wave their herding clubs. But the lake drew nearer. Under normal conditions, by this time they could have smelled the alkali.

Batu, his eyes red from the tension, decided to fight fire with fire. He sat up in the saddle, thumped the lead horse on the head, and let loose with a shrill watering whistle. All the horses appeared to understand their herder’s warning: the lake where they were taken to drink once every two days was due south. The spring season had been characterized by drought, and the lake had nearly dried up. It was surrounded by muddy land, and only in two spots, where watered animals had tamped down the dirt, was there a measure of safety; everywhere else was a death trap. Since the beginning of spring, a number of domestic animals had suffocated in the mud or starved when they could not free themselves from it. Each time the horses went to drink, they were led nervously down safe paths to the water by whistles from their herders. They would never have rushed toward the lake at this speed on their own, even during the daytime.

But Batu’s whistling did the trick. The horses, so familiar with the grassland, understood that danger awaited them to the south. They whinnied forlornly, shaking all over; they stopped, changed direction, and, with the intense wind now coming at them from the side, galloped to the southeast for all they were worth. Due south lay a trap of sticky mud; due north was where the wind and vicious wolves waited, leaving only the southeast as a possible road to safety. Panic filled their wide eyes as they ran madly, heads lowered. Sounds of labored breathing replaced the whinnies as the herd raced against death under a cloud of tension and terror.

The shift in direction changed the face of battle. As the formation headed to the southeast, the poorest fighters, those with the weakest defenses, were suddenly exposed to the wind and the wolves, while those whose rear hooves were most capable of dispensing death and injury were out of position. The gale-force winds slowed the pace of the herd and weakened its ability to ward off the wolf-enemy’s weapons. The wind lent the wolves wings. Under normal circumstances, wolves can outrun horses, with the wind or against it. But with the wind, even though they are faster, they would not dare to try to bring horses down from the rear, afraid of meeting up with a clever horse that might suddenly dart ahead, causing the wolf, aiming for the back of its prey, to land on its hooves; injury or death would be inevitable. To be successful, they would have to attack obliquely. But that would affect the speed of attack. Even if they somehow managed to leap onto the horse’s back, sinking claws or fangs into the animal would be all but impossible; at most they would leave a few gouges as the attack failed. But this change in direction gave the pack an ideal chance to make a kill. With the wind behind them, and a slowing herd of horses, there was no need to attack obliquely. They needed only to leap from the side, the wind propelling them onto the horses’ backs or necks, where they could dig in their claws and clamp down on the horses’ vital spots with their razor-sharp fangs, then jump to the ground. If a horse tried to dislodge the wolf by rolling on the ground, one wolf would be taken care of, but the rest of the pack would make the kill in short order.

Desperate cries rose from the herd as the wolves tore into one horse after another—sides and chests spurted blood, the stench of which drove the crazed predators to commit acts of frenzied cruelty. The raw meat in their mouths meant nothing to the wolves; only the murderous tearing of horseflesh mattered. More and more horses suffered grievous injuries as wave after wave of wolves attacked. The wolves that led each charge and those that followed were absolutely wild; they leaped onto the backs of horses, gathered their strength, clamped down with their feet, and bounced around like taut springs as they tore off chunks of hide, hair, and flesh with their razor-sharp teeth. After spitting out what they held in their mouths, they leaped to the ground, did a somersault, regained their feet, ran a few steps, and pounced on another horse. The entire pack followed the example of its lead males. Every wolf was giving full and vivid play to the killing instincts passed down by its ancestors.