A Mongolian Lament: Excerpt Chapter 13: The Horse Race Begins

Chapter 13: The Horse Race Begins

Mongolian Proverb: Judge not the horse by its saddle.

Jorja stared at the picture of Genghis Khan and his Golden Horde—a stylized painting in a brochure. The text, in English, used the Westernized spelling of his name: Genghis Khan. Signs in Mongolia used the traditional spelling: Chinggis Khan. In between, there were as many different interpretations of his name—Chinghiz, Chinghis, Jenghis, Khaan, Han, and Xaan—as there were about his appearance: tall, short, slim, rotund, long-bearded, red-haired, white-haired, black-haired, green-eyed, and blue-eyed. Drawings of the great man were few, and no accurate depiction existed, maintained the historians. The image on the brochure was a pencil sketch of a round face, high cheekbones, soft nose, bushy eyebrows, small mustache, short beard, and a down-turned mouth with a thin top lip and a fuller bottom lip. Chinggis Khan is more than a Mongolian national hero for he is viewed as the father of all Mongols and beloved by all Mongolians, the caption said. Wearing a helmet, he was depicted as a soldier, stern-faced and steely-eyed.

Thousands of warriors were mounted on their steppe horses in full military regalia; the faster horses for warfare surging forward at the front of the cavalry, and the slower remounts at the back for carrying arms and provisions. The caption told of shooting platforms from which the warriors could pluck arrows from their quivers so rapidly they could shoot eight arrows into the air before one fell to hit its mark.

So vivid was the painting, and so vivid was her imagination, that Jorja had visions of horses as her head lay upon the pillow. The bedroom window drapes, perpetually open, hung limply and the mountain range on the horizon disappeared into the darkness. The iridescent blue silk khadag that was tied around the curtain for good luck, looked like the waters of Lake Baikal.

Russet curls of dust rolled across the barren steppes, kicked up by the hooves of a thousand horses. There was a climate of unpredictability; when an early storm could herald rain, wind, or snow. The equestrians came prepared for anything. Ten days of stamina, speed, and mental prowess; a race across the country to finish at an unknown location, dictated by the day’s events, the geography, the climate, and the whims of demanding officials. Let the race begin!

The Dappled Horde stamped and snorted impatiently, spittle forming white spumes in the corner of their mouths. Forceful sneezing reverberated among the throng. Eyeball to eyeball, the mounts stared with bulging orbs at their enemies: their competitors. Ahead of them lay an expanse with no parameters; an extreme distance that swept onward and onward. In this virgin stretch of space, their psyche would be tested, not only of beast, but also of man.

‘Well, Butch, this is going to be the ride of people’s lives. It looks like men and riders are all raring to go, champing at the bit.’

‘That’s men and women, Kid. Let’s not forget the great females on the steppes. I can see Dale Evans and her mount, Buttermilk. And isn’t that Velvet Brown on Pie chatting to Lisa Simpson on Princess? They look calm under pressure.’

‘Yes, that’s right, Butch. Joan of Arc is there too. What a brilliant horsewoman she is! And she’s known to pull a trick or two out of the bag. This is a no rules race to the finish.’

‘There are actually a few rules, Kid. No foul play is allowed. Officials are inspecting the riders now. There’s a glut of officials on the steppes, and when the race commences, they’ll be interspersed along the route to keep an eye on proceedings. Oh, it looks like we have a disqualification already, Kid.’

‘Yes, that’s right, Butch. The centaur is disqualified. No part-man part-beast is allowed in the race. He’s on his way out of the pack. He’s shaking his head. Oh, he looks disappointed.’

‘Rules are rules, Kid.’

‘That’s right, Butch.’

Side by side Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid winked at each other. In his black hat only the lower half of Cassidy’s face was visible. When he lifted his head his black eyes squinted in the sun. ‘This is going to be one heck of a race from the commentary box, Kid. We’ll have a bird’s eye view from start to finish.’

‘That’s right, Butch. This is the Tour de Horse of course. It’s the Dakar Rally in the Valley, the original cross-country off-road horse ride. No bicycles or vehicles here.’

‘Ha, ha, you’re getting carried away with yourself. This is bigger than Ben Hur’s chariot race, that’s for sure, Kid.’

‘No chariots here either, but plenty of horses.’

Saddle leather creaked as the riders shifted position. Bareback rider, Stacy Westfall, repositioned her grip on the rigging, holding the small piece of rawhide snug between her fingers and palm. Her white Stetson seemed to glint under the sun.

‘That’s a good camera angle of Stacy and her horse, Roxy. She’s great at the eight-second bronco, but she may not last the distance in this marathon, Kid. Lovely Stetson hat!’

‘That’s right, Butch. But she’ll definitely be a crowd pleaser. I like the look of the Conquistador too with his jewel-encrusted blade. He’s even shined his armor-plated breast, which is the first time I’ve seen sheen on his armor. But his stallion stands in need of company; it’s looking restless.’

‘Oh, he’s got plenty of company. He’s not the only Spaniard on the steppes, Kid. We’ve got a fine looking contingent of Andalusian, Azteca, Mangalarga, and Lusitano breeds with their riders. From all over the globe the riders have come to participate. All spruced up for the start, but what will they look like at the end? This event will not be for the faint-hearted. This is a race to reveal the best horse matched with the best rider on the tour. But I’m watching those Andalusians. They’ve got the fire in their belly to pull out a winner here.’

‘That’s right, Butch.’

The Moors were the finest horsemen of their time on their magnificent, unmatched warhorses. With long sloping shoulders, short backs, rounded strong hindquarters, wide chests, deep girths, naturally arched necks, and sturdy legs, the Andalusian horses appeared confident and arrogant as they waited for the official start. Quick and agile, they were among the favored horses to conquer the grueling conditions.

In matching red and black uniforms the Spanish riders look resplendently groomed. The finest of all was Zorro, black-caped and masked, on his sleek steed, Tornado. To the rear of Tornado, similarly masked, and sitting high in the saddle of his white horse, Silver, was an ex-Texas Lone Ranger; his red neckerchief knotted tight around his clean pale throat. Unlike Zorro in a black hat, the Lone Ranger preferred white rabbit-fur. Both wore gloves; the Lone Ranger’s thicker gloves seemed more appropriate for the conditions, whereas Zorro’s tight-fitting sheaths revealed long, slender fingers, susceptible to frost bite in Mongolia’s harsh winter. Beside him, his faithful companion, Tonto, was hatless and gloveless on his chestnut horse, Scout, second only to Silver in speed, strength, and beauty. Silver and Scout nudged each other.

Toward the rear stood the steppe horses, small and squat, thick of neck and hide. The Asiatic Wild Horses of Mongolia were truly an ancient breed with Neolithic origins, procreated to survive harsh conditions. Dun-colored with dark brown manes, the horses nuzzled each other as if to whisper the secrets of the steppes. Their medium-sized heads with broad foreheads and straight noses faced the wind in defiance. Wild small eyes rarely blinked for they were already judging the ability of the surrounding horses. Their small low-set nostrils inhaled, testing the sweat of their competitors, sniffing for signs of reticence, apprehension, or fear. Hard hooves stood solid in the snow.

‘What do you know of the Mongolian horses, Sundance Kid?’

‘They might be short and stocky at only twelve hands high, but watch their stamina, Butch Cassidy, because they’ll keep on going through hardships and challenges.’

‘Yes, Kid, and they have a home ground advantage. There’s nothing they don’t know about the terrain and conditions. They’ve been around for a million years, so they ought to know the steppes like the back of their hooves.’

‘What, a million years ? Come now, you jest, Butch, for surely they’ve only been here for a thousand years. But the steppe is wide and heaven is far, Butch. That’s what the great G.K. used to say.’

‘Please explain! The audience might not know of the great G.K., Kid.’ 

‘Oh, yes they do. Who would not know of the great Genghis Khan? Chinggis Khan to the folks around here.’

‘Ah yes, the Great Khan. Well, just look at the magnificent riders on those stocky little Mongolian horses. I’d like a helmet like that, with its earflaps and felt neck-guard. That’d keep the cold at bay.’

‘And their breast plates, Butch. I’m not sure that they need all that weaponry. Surely it would weigh them down?’

‘What do they have, Kid? I can see a quiver with one-hundred-and-fifty arrows and a nice-looking bow. That’s a tad excessive, isn’t it?’

‘And the shield and iron club. I think one of the Mongolian riders has three quivers with different types of arrows. Oh, I see a lance and a sabre, and is that an axe? Maybe they know more than we do, Butch. There might be wild animals along the route.’

‘I’m not sure about that, but they are riding tactically, Kid. They are making a wide swathe, rather than single file. There’s got to be a reason for that, but I don’t know what it is. I’m distracted right now by the sight of the Clydesdales.’

At the rear, accustomed to the cold and bleak environment, were the elegant heavy Clydesdales, draught horses from Scotland. High stepping into place, their large knees were prominent and knobby, and their thighs strong. Long, white, silky hairs covering their legs and feet were sure to stave off the chill of the harsh winter. Their big ears pricked up, waiting for the starting pistol.

‘That’s an intelligent, good-tempered horse, the Clydesdale. The Clydes will keep their heads in an emergency, Cassidy.’

‘That’s right, no doubt about that. They’re tall too; sixteen or seventeen hands high. They dwarf the Mongolian horses next to them, Kid.’

‘They’re the tallest of the Horde, Butch. Strong boned too and remarkably muscular. I like their proportions and their wide feet. They’re good plow horses on the farm.’

‘Yes, don’t be fooled viewers. They might be at the back of the pack, but their wide, open nostrils will suck in the air. This isn’t a plowing competition though, and hitched horses aren’t allowed. Let’s see how they go on their own. These are from the British Household Cavalry and they are beautifully groomed, Kid.’

‘There are a few Budweiser Clydesdales from America among them; they’re the bays with the blinkers. I’m not sure that they’ll need blinkers for the race; there won’t be any distractions here. Beautiful feathering on the lower legs—a fine horse, a fine, fine horse.’

‘Yes, Kid, the breed that built Australia. However, there are no Aussie Clydesdales in the race. The Australians have chosen their mountain horses and their top racers. This will be a marathon of all marathons—no stopping until the end.’

‘Well, Butch, they can sleep if they want to. The rules say that if they can catch a nap or two, or even a few hours, that’s their choice. They have to determine how far in front they are, or how far behind. This is a race to the award ceremony. To stand on the victory stage, with the race run and won; that’s the goal here in the winter wonderland of Mongolia.’

‘Winter wonderland, for sure. I can see the fat flakes coming down. Is this the edge of a storm, a lizard of a blizzard, a north-driven hand of winter wind? Billions of flakes are parachuting down. There’s a spiral, a corkscrew, a white quilt of feathery snow.’

‘That’s a bit poetic. Let’s focus on the horses and not the snow. Is that Phar Lap in the starting gates, Butch? What a beautiful Australian racer with the largest heart of them all. He’ll be a stayer, Butch. Oh, look, there’s something wrong with the gate. It looks broken to me. It’s banging, banging, and banging.’

‘Yes, Kid, the stewards can’t get the gate latched. The big horse looks restless. It might bolt before the starting gun.’

‘Look at that gate. What a nuisance. It’s banging, banging, and banging. It’ll work itself off the hinges soon. Banging, banging, and banging.’

Jorja woke to a thud, thud, thud as the morning sun entered her bedroom window. The banging from the living room was relentless. She slid her feet into Mongolian felt slippers. Entering the living room, she gasped in amazement. The fierce wind had forced the window open, causing it to thud against the wall. Below the window was a pile of fresh snow—inside, in the living room! Like a conical mountain, it remained intact. Despite the central heating, not a flake had melted. The thermometer outside the window showed minus forty-eight degrees Celsius.

Jorja latched the windows. She showered, dressed for work, and cooked breakfast before scooping the snow into a plastic bucket. As it filled, she tipped the snow into the kitchen sink. She hadn’t imagined she’d be shoveling snow inside her apartment in Mongolia. As the mound diminished, she used the dustpan as a spade. She was bending over the last slush of snow when Nekhii burst into the apartment. He looked at the snow, at Jorja, and at the snow again. Shaking his head and stifling a grin, he grabbed the mop from the bathroom to wipe up the remains of the overnight precipitation.

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MARTINA NICOLLS is the author of:- The Shortness of Life: A Mongolian Lament (2015), Liberia’s Deadest Ends (2012), Bardot’s Comet (2011), Kashmir on a Knife-Edge (2010) and The SudanCurse (2009).