The camel was flattered. ‘Really? An admirer? Very well, let’s swap tails. But be sure to bring it back first thing tomorrow morning. And be sure you don’t spill any, erm, never mind, just look after it all right? It’s the most beautiful tail in the whole world, you know.’
Since then many days and years have passed, but the deer still hasn’t given back the camel’s antlers, and you can see for yourself that the horse still gallops over the plains with the camel’s tail streaming in the wind. And some people say, when the camel comes to drink at the lake he sees his bare, ugly reflection, and snorts, and forgets his thirst. And have you noticed how the camel stretches his neck and gazes into the distance, to a far-off sand dune or a distant mountain top? That’s when he’s thinking, ‘When is the horse going to give me back my tail?’ And that is why he is always so sad.
Dust-devils bounced off the shell of the jeep like kangaroos. Nothing amongst these rocks but scorpions and mirages, for the length and breadth of the morning.
Bodoo’s brother stopped in an isolated ger. A camel was tethered outside, but there was no one around. As Gobi etiquette permits, my host entered the ger, prepared some food, and drank some water. The owner’s camel snorted like a human. A warning flared up from my host’s unconcious, but it went before I could locate its source. The wind was strong but the world was silent. There was nothing to blow against, or in, or through.
We got back in the jeep. Gazelles darted through the distance, flocks of them turning like minnows in a river. Bodoo’s brother drove down the Valley of the Vulture’s Mouth, where we stopped at a store for enough provisions and petrol to get us to Bayanhongoor. Bodoo had passed through early that morning. We were catching him up.
Hawks circled high. One of the last Gobi bears shambled along the fringe of forest. There are less than a hundred left. Bodoo’s brother slept in the jeep, under several blankets. It gets cold at night, even in summer. Dreams came, of bones and stones with holes.
The next day, the dunes, the longest running for eighty miles, swelling and rolling, grain by grain. Bodoo’s brother sang songs that lasted for miles, with no beginning and no end. The dunes of the dead. There were bones, and stones with holes.
There was a stationary jeep in the shimmering distance. Bodoo’s brother pulled up to it, and cut his engine. A figure was asleep under a makeshift canopy in the back.
‘Are you all right, stranger? Are you in need of any help? Any water?’
‘Yes,’ said the figure, suddenly sitting up and showing his face, chewing gum. ‘I need your jeep. Mine seems to have broken down.’ At point blank range Punsalmaagiyn Suhbataar fired his handgun twice, a bullet for each of my host’s eyes.
Nobody replies. Firelight without colour. Outside must be night, if there is an outside. I am hostless and naked. The faces all stare in the same direction, all of them all of their ages. One of them coughs. It is Bodoo’s brother, his eye wounds already healed. I try to transmigrate into him, but I cannot inhabit a shadow. I’ve never known silence so deep. By being what I am, I thought I understood almost everything. But I understand almost nothing.
A figure rises, and leaves the ger through a curtain. So simple? I follow the figure. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid you can’t come through here,’ says a girl I hadn’t noticed, no older than eight, delicate and tiny as an ancient woman.
‘Will you stop me?’
‘No. If there is a door for you, you are free to pass through.’ Wrens flutter.
I touch the wall. There is no door. ‘Where is it?’
She shrugs, biting her lip.
‘Then what shall I do?’
A swan inspects the ground. She shrugs.
Tallow candles spit and hiss. These few guests are many multitudes. Thousands of angels swim in a thimble. From time to time one of the guests stands up, and walks through the way out that is not there. The wall of the ger yields, and re-seals behind them, like a wall of water. I try to leave with them, but for me it never even bends.
The monk in a saffron robe sighs. He wears a yellow hat that arcs forward. ‘I’m having some problems with my teeth.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I say. The little girl talks to her twitchy marmot.
Horses galloping by, or thunder? The swan spreads its wings and flies up through the roof. Bodoo’s brother has gone through the door.
‘But why can’t I pass through? The others have.’
The little girl is playing cat’s cradle with a length of twine, knitting her brow. ‘You chose not to!’
‘I chose nothing.’
‘All your tribe leave your body while it still breathes.’
‘What do you mean, my tribe?’
The monk with the yellow hat is here, humming through his broken mouth. He whispers in her ear, she stares at me distrustfully. ‘Very well,’ she concurs. ‘The circumstances are uncommon. But what can I do?’
The monk turns to me. ‘I’m sorry — my teeth.’ A prophet’s nod. ‘Time has gone around, the years are cold and far away... I kept my promise.’ And he, too, passes through the wall of the ger.
Last to leave is the little girl, carrying her marmot. She feels sorry for me, and I don’t want her to go. I’m all alone.
I was in a human host again, and the walls of the ger were living, pulsing with viscera and worry and nearby voices. I explored the higher rooms, but found nothing! No memories, no experiences. Not even a name. Barely an ‘I’. Where were those voices coming from? I looked deeper. There were whispers, and a suffusion of purposeful well-being. I tried to open my host’s eyes to see where I was, but the eyes would not open. I checked that there were eyes — yes, but my host had never learned to open them, and couldn’t respond. I was in a place unlike any other, yet my host didn’t know where. Or rather, my host didn’t know anywhere else. A blind mute? The mind was pure. So very pure, that I was afraid for it.
The well-being transformed into palpitating fear. Had I been detected? A knot of pain was being pulled tight. Panic, such panic I had never known since I butchered the mind of my first host. The curtain was ripped, and my host emerged into the world between her mother’s legs, screaming indignantly at this rude wrenching. The cold air flooded in! The light, even through my eyelids, made my host’s tender brain chime.
I transferred into my host’s mother along the umbilical cord, and the depth of emotion is sheer and giddy. I forgot to insulate and I was swept away by joy, and relief, and loss, and gain, and emptiness, and fulfilment, a memory of swimming, and the claw-sharp, bloodied love, and the conviction that she would never again put herself through this agony.
But I have work to do.
Another ger. Firelight, warmth, and the shadows of antlers. I searched for our location. Well. Good news and bad. My new host was a Mongolian in Mongolia. But I was far to the north of where Bodoo was last heading, not far from the Russian border. I was in the province of Renchinhumbe, near the lake of Tsagaan Nuur, and the town of Zoolon. It was September now and the snows would be coming soon. The midwife was the grandmother of the baby I just left, she was smiling down at her daughter, anaesthetising the umbilical cord with a lump of ice. Her hair cobwebby, her face round like the moon. An aunt bustled about in the background with pans of warm water and squares of cloth and fur, chanting. This flat and quiet song is the only sound.
It is the early hours of the morning. The mother’s labour was long and hard. I dulled her pain, put her into a deep sleep, and set about helping her unstitched body repair itself. As my host slept I had time to wonder where I had been since Suhbataar shot my previous host. Had I hallucinated the strange ger? But how could I have? I am my mind — do I have a mind I don’t know about within my mind, like humans? And how was I reborn in Mongolia? Why, and by whom? Who was the monk in the yellow hat?