But their joy did not extend to you.
I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been upset with you, Shizuka. That night, acid filled my throat; that night, a foul anger clouded an otherwise wonderful celebration. Every time I saw you, the taste in my mouth grew more bitter. And I was not the only one to notice.
“Your friend,” Otgar whispered to me, “is she always like this?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t know why we ever let you stay with the Hokkarans,” Otgar said. “No sense for a good party!”
She was a far better dancer than I was. Four more years of experience did that. I struggled to keep up with her steps, and hoped all the kumaq in my belly wouldn’t topple me over into the fire. Whenever I took a false step, Otgar caught me. If I fell, it was mostly her responsibility, but I like to think she didn’t want me to hurt myself.
During one such false step, I fell backwards and landed on my bottom. A chorus of laughs followed. My relatives teased me for having more kumaq than I could handle. Otgar helped me up, just as a gust of wind flickered the fire. Hardened warriors spat on the ground. Superstition. Winds were not meant to enter the ger, for they brought with them the foul spirits that haunted the steppes at night.
I spat on the ground, too.
But I also saw the tail of your dress as you left through the red door. My chest burned, my stomach churned; the speech I wanted to give you formed in my mind. I got to my feet, told Otgar I’d return soon, and followed you out.
Outside, spring winds cut through my Hokkaran clothing. I wished I’d brought my deel. I’d be warm in my deel, and I could’ve smuggled some kumaq out. But no, I wore the clothing you bought me. Earlier this morning, it made me feel braver.
Now I just felt cold.
Wordlessly I followed you. At some time, you’d stop. At some time, the cold would get to you, or the faint smell of horse manure, or one of the animals would startle you.
But no. You kept walking. And by the time you stopped, I’d been following you for what felt like an hour.
“You have a party to attend, do you not?” you sneered.
A puff of vapor left my nostrils. The tips of my ears fast turned red. I scowled at you and dug in my heels.
You hid your hands within your sleeves. The Moon cast her silver light onto you, and lent an unearthly air to your complexion. In that moment, I saw some traces of the woman you’d become: I saw your sharp lips painted red as your sword; I saw your cheeks pink as petals; I saw the brown-gold of your cutting eyes.
And I saw the eight-year-old girl shaking in the freezing cold.
Despite the fire of anger in me, I could not just stand there and watch you freeze. I walked up to you and wrapped an arm around you.
“You’re leaving in the morning, aren’t you?”
I nodded. Another puff of vapor left my lips and spiraled into the air between us. You looked out at the pure white gers alight from within, looked out at the horses and the dogs and the guards.
“I will see you again,” you said. “I know I will. But until that time, you will keep yourself safe. I know there are no tigers on the steppes; do not go chasing anything large and fanged and terrible. You aren’t allowed to get hurt until I see you again. You just aren’t.”
You leaned your head on my shoulder as you spoke.
I tried very hard to hold on to my anger, but it was like holding water. Only my fingers were still wet.
“Celebrate,” I said.
You scoffed. “Celebrate your leaving?” You shook your head. “No. I will not celebrate that.”
Ahh, there it was again, a bit more water in my palms. “My name. Barsalai.”
You paused. You took my hand and hid it in your flower-scented sleeves. I was struck by how small your wrists were.
“Then I will not celebrate your going, Barsalai, but we will celebrate in the halls of Fujino when you return. And I will call you Shefali, and you will call me Shizuka, even when we are adults.”
And I said nothing, lest my voice ruin the beauty of the moment. Because we were together beneath the great silver moon, together on the steppes, and I did not know when I would next be near you.
*
“WRITE TO ME,” you said.
I did.
Over the next three years, I wrote to you whenever I had the chance. I did not have the chance often. Paper was too delicate to last long traveling with us; Qorin favored oral messages when possible. But every now and again, we would meet with a merchant on his way to Sur-Shar, and I would buy as much paper as I could, and have Otgar write you.
When our travels took us to the great mountain Gurkhan Khalsar, I secretly cut a few mountain flowers and sent them to you. That night I prayed to Grandfather Earth to forgive me for what I’d done, but I cannot say I truly regretted it.
You, who had an entire Imperial Garden delivered from Fujino to Oshiro simply so I could see—certainly you deserved something sacred in return.
I did not tell you in that letter what Gurkhan Khalsar means to us.
You see, it is the highest point on the steppes. In front of it runs the river Rokhon, which flows from the harsh tundra of the North all the way down to the Golden Sands. As such, at the peak of Gurkhan Khalsar you are closest to Grandmother Sky, and at its base you are very near the waters given to us by Grandfather Earth. On Gurkhan Khalsar alone do you find this perfect union. So it is that Kharsas and Kharsaqs climb the mountain once a year to meditate. Only there, at the peak, will they hear the whispers of the future.
So the story goes.
And while my mother was busy meditating, I chose to pluck a livid flower from the earth and tuck it away within my deel. I did this knowing some of my ancestors are buried on this mountain. I did this knowing my mother would’ve slain anyone who dared to alter Gurkhan Khalsar in any way.
I did it because I thought you deserved it.
I hope the flower arrived intact. In your return letter, you wrote that it was still fragrant when it arrived. What did you think when you held it in your hands—this sacred object? If I had stolen a prayer tag from a temple and sent it to you, it would’ve been less sacrilegious. When you pressed it to your nose, what did you smell? For my people believe the soul of a person is in their scent, in their hair. On the mountain, there are dozens of banners made from the mane of Kharsaqs, Kharsas, and their horses. The wind whips through them and carries their souls forever across the great plains. One day I will take you to the mountain and you shall see them, all lined up, all swaying like dancers, and you will think of the flower I gave you when we were children.
WINTER LONELINESS IN A MOUNTAIN VILLAGE