七部小说 · Seven Novels

第 16 章 ——《安答》

她没有起身。

她坐在补给车背风处行军榻旁那张矮折凳上，置身于盐碱滩的拂晓——天上还未落雪——的、干涩短促的滴答里，双手平放膝头，靴子叉得很开，狼皮*马儿盖*压到眉线，望着我。她看我的眼神，和那回押车的老把式拖毡布盖住爪印的那天清晨望我的眼神是一样的——不是那把式漫不经心、装作有事去办的那种慢吞吞，而是那把式若是七十岁、身上结着熊魂、命在旦夕，又坐在营盘东缘、脸上压着三夜未眠的等待时该有的眼神。

她用草原话说：“坐。”

我跨过那四步。

我在她凳子旁边那一片被踏白的草上跪了下去，臀坐脚跟，双手手心向下平放在自己膝上，垂眼看着她我两双靴子之间被踩烂的草。

她用草原话说：“你有那个相。靴子和札甲不对。脸不对。胸膛盛暖意的那个方式对了。眼睛搁的位置对了。手平放在膝上的样子对了。你是一个十九岁的安答，两只手平放在一个穿着外乡靴子的外乡老妇的膝旁。好。”

我什么也没说。

她用草原话说：“班火边那位老兵告诉过你，朱砂院在点牲口。”

“他讲过。”

“他没告诉你点出了几头。”

“没有。”

“点数，按那位文书的账册昨日午时第三刻为准，是三十一。是行进队列里没在册的牲口数，昨日午时第三刻。第三十一头是一头狼，文书没瞧见、没记上、没填册号，只在那一页页角点了个小点儿，因为那位文书是你那位军士的人。朱砂院的秘书昨夜二更瞧见了那个点。秘书什么也没说。秘书只说了一个『是』，便回他自己的车里去了。你听见了吗，女儿。”

我用帝国官话开口——因为草原话这个东西，我活到这一夜，只从她口里听过、只从囚犯帐里十四个夜里每夜一个音节地听过、只从十五年前祖母俯在我摇篮上的、含义被压在一块石头底下的那段记忆里听过——我说：“听见了。”

她用草原话说：“你可以用草原话讲。我头上这顶狼皮马儿盖，是五十步之内唯一这四个月里在这营盘听我讲草原话的东西。女儿，狼皮不会把你说的话传出去。”

风吹动榻角的毡布。我用草原话、用祖母在那个灯油与杜松之夜俯在我摇篮上低唤过的、那个短促低沉的音节说——“听见了。”

她点了点头。

她用草原话说：“好。你不必每一句都用草原话讲。你练出来的那把腹底的声口是一件趁手家什。草原话留给那些在你我之间这块毡上，用别的话都讲不出来的东西。来。告诉我你的名字。”

我屏住了那一息。

队列尽头某处一匹哨马挪了挪重心，又静了下去。我用草原话说：“彦升。第五什的。”

她说：“那是你父亲的名字。”

“是。”

“那不是我要的名字。”

盐碱滩的风在车篷上敲了一下。

我说：“玉兰。黄河南谯家的。”

她说：“那是你母亲给你起的名字。”

“是。”

“那也不是我要的名字，女儿。”

我没有说话。

她说：“女儿。我问你的名字。”

我没有说话。

她用草原话、用那位俯在我摇篮上低语的祖母的嗓音说：“你出生的那夜，在黄河南那栋宅子厨后的冷屋里，你祖母俯在摇篮上低唤过一个名字。那个名字不是别人叫她去唤的名字。那个名字是她自己在嘴里含了六十年的名字，自她祖母在白石分汊处那条河东南的一顶毡帐里俯在她摇篮上低唤她起。那名字在你四岁那年被压到了一块石头底下。那块石头已经在那名字上压了十五年。”

她那双河泥色的眼睛没有离开我的眼睛。

她说：“那石头动了。”

我把那点暖意托在我自己左手手背底下、贴肉衫里、裹胸布下、札甲深处——就是十四日工日结尾时狼伏下过的那一处。

我让那暖意张开。

我用草原话、用那个十九年里从未被我从喉底放出去过的、短促低沉的音节说——把它放到外头的风里，放到一座营盘的东缘、第十四夜的三更、放到一个老妇的靴子和我的靴子之间那片被踏烂的草上——

“阿苏兰。”

她没有动。

她用草原话说：“再说一遍。”

我说：“阿苏兰。”

她说：“再说一遍。送进风里。”

我把头极轻地转向那一缕从盐碱滩西北方向、自补给车背风处掠上来的干风，又把那名字送进风里——“阿苏兰”——风把那三个音节接了过去，越过老妇头上的狼皮马儿盖，吹进铁匠车以西那片白草里——那头狼伏在草上，头夹在两爪之间，抬了一下头，又放下，把右耳贴平到地上。

她点了点头。

她说：“他听见了。”

她说：“他在你摇篮下的梦雪里听你说这个名字，已听了十九年。他在你舌下、在你那些别的名字底下听你说这个名字，已听了十九年。直到这一更，他还没听过你拿一副当真的胸膛把它送进外头的风里。今夜他听见了。女儿，你听得见他听见你吗。”

那暖意在我手底压成了灰，又低又有耐心。

我说：“我听得见他。”

她说：“好。”

她说了我送进风里的那三个音节里的任何一息，都没有动。她说了那三个音节里的任何一息，都没有改变她头颅的角度。她坐在折凳上，双手平放膝头，靴子叉得很开，狼皮马儿盖压到眉线，那双河泥色的眼睛没有离开我的眼睛——而她那头熊，在营盘东缘、补给车小小背风里、行军榻后面的某处，呼出一口低长的气，我在自己胸膛的腔子里感觉到了，仿佛那口气，是从我自己胸膛的腔子里呼出来的。

直到那一口气之前，我从不晓得，我胸膛的腔子也能感觉到另一个不是我那头狼的腔子。

她用草原话说：“告诉我那军士说了什么。”

我说：“他说『挑两个』。他说『第三个我来扛』。他没说他要扛的是哪一个。”

她说：“那三个里头，他一个也扛不起。”

我没有说话。

我说：“没错。”

她说：“他要扛的，是不知道你挑了哪两个那回事。他会从第十四夜四更换班坐到第十七日清晨，他不会晓得你是往南去了、往东去了、还是留在他班火边——这『不知道』就是那第三件。这就是他要扛的。他是好人。他也是这一更里不对的人，女儿。南朝帝国的军士册子上，没哪一本写着要他扛一个跟铁匠车南线那头狼结魂的女儿。一个跟铁匠车南线那头狼结魂的女儿，这一更，只能自己扛自己的。”

她让那个问题搁在你我之间的冷里。

她说：“什么是你的，女儿。”

我用帝国官话慢慢说：“铁匠车南线那头狼。我母亲，在黄河南那个村子里。我弟弟，在村子里。被锁在囚犯帐中柱上的那个人，离班线东头那块产羔毡十八步。”

她说：“按什么次序。”

我望着那片草，望了好一会儿。

我说：“我不知道。”

她说：“女儿。次序是有的。你知道那次序。『不知道』是你拿来挡在你和那次序之间的一件东西，因为那次序要你在你母亲和中柱上那人之间挑。『不知道』是一桩奢侈，我们已经没的用了。把次序告诉我。”

那暖意自我掌底向上顶，像一个想出去的东西。

我极慢地、对着她我靴子之间那片被踏烂的草，用草原话说：“那头狼。”

“是。”

“我母亲。”

“是。”

“我弟弟。”

“是。”

我使自己呼吸得又慢又匀。

我说：“中柱上那个人。”

她没有动。

她说：“女儿。中柱上那个人在第十四夜半更换班的时候告诉过你，『挑你母亲』。他告诉你『我没在求』。他告诉你『我也不会求』。他告诉你，无论怎样，三更那盏灯就是三更那盏灯。你听见了吗。”

我说：“听见了。”

她说：“那个人晓得次序。那个人不是要你把他摆在你母亲前头。那个人不是要你把他摆在你弟弟前头。那个人是要你把他摆在谁的前头都不要。那个人，在他自己胸膛的腔子里，已经按他给你的那个次序站好了。你听见了吗。”

我用我把阿苏兰送进风里时用的那个短促低沉的音节说：“听见了。”

她说：“好。”

她从肘边一个铁皮杯里咽了一口黍米水——我没看见她什么时候倒的。整整一更她都把那杯子捧在手里。

她说：“好了。女儿。那个第十四夜里把你打发到营盘东缘时，中柱上那个人还不晓得、所以没告诉你的事——铁匠车南线那头狼已经在南线上了四天。铁匠车南线那头狼，已经大到不能再搁在身子外头了。”

我屏住了那口气。

她说：“你晓得那暖意是什么吗，女儿。十四个夜里在班线东头那块产羔毡上、在你自己左手手背底下的那点小东西，你晓得它是什么吗。”

我说：“是那头狼。”

她说：“是一扇门。狼一直伏在门口。狼伏在门口已经伏了十九年四个月十一天。狼伏在门口，是因为门一直关着。门一直关着，是因为这十九年四个月十一天里，没有一个萨满给它开过。帝国里没有哪个萨满肯给它开。这条车队走了十一天，里头只有一个萨满有这本事。从第十四夜起，给那萨满去做这件事的，只剩三天。第十七日清晨四更换班之后，就一天也不剩了。”

她等着。

她说：“女儿。第十七日之后，那头狼再也不能在门口等了。”

那暖意已经不再翻转了。它只往外顶。

我说：“他会破门。”

她说：“他会破门。不论你结没结那道魂、不论萨满在不在毡帐里头、他都会破门。女儿，他会在第十八日清晨擂晓鼓前的那一小时之间、在班线东头那块产羔毡里破门——他会和一匹马一般大，那块毡盛不下他，你也盛不下他。”

她饮了一口。

她说：“你会死。女儿。第十八日清晨擂晓鼓前的那一小时之间，你会死在班线东头那块产羔毡里——晓鼓点名时第五什来巡毡的兵会瞧见毡上一具尸首和一头马一般大的狼，那狼自己胸膛里盛着那具尸首的暖意，却已经没有门可以把它送回去——那狼会奔进那片白草里，发起伤悼热，三日内死掉。这一什过不了第十八日清晨晓鼓点名。朱砂院第十七日不会点出三十一头。朱砂院只会点出一头——一头马一般大的狼——那个数就是唯一管用的数。你听见了吗，女儿。”

我说：“听见了。”

她说：“今夜。”

我说：“今夜。”

她说：“第十五夜二更时分，你要来这张凳子前。你不要带弓。你不要带厨刀。你不要带那截竹管。你内袋里那军士给你的几方黄表纸要带，因为黄表纸不算兵刃。除此之外不要带任何属于你的东西。你穿肉衫、裤、靴，外面披我给你的那件德勒。札甲留在榻上。裹胸布留在榻上。狼皮马儿盖我不会给你——它已经在你自己头上。”

她等着。

她说：“你要躺在我在营盘东缘一辆车后头支起来的一顶毡帐当中的一块毡上。你会听见鼓。你会听见呼麦。你会躺在自己的汗里，躺到汗淌尽——然后你会躺进自己的骨髓。你会在一片不在你到过的任何屋子里的雪上走路。你要走到门口那头狼破门为止。那头狼会比你大。那头狼破门时，会是一头有我祖母眼睛的狼。他会唤你的名字。”

那寒气直沉到我里头，我让它沉。

她说：“你要说『我是阿苏兰，谯家彦升之女，我不会再向你藏起我是什么』。你要用草原话讲。你要用那个短促低沉的音节讲。你要把它讲进那头狼张开的口里。你要把额头抵到他的额头上。那道魂就结上了。你听见了吗，女儿。”

我用那个短促低沉的音节说：“听见了。”

她说：“好。”

她又从她整一更都捧在手里的那个杯子里饮了一口。

她说：“女儿。这是要付代价的。代价是我的，也是熊的。熊六十二岁了。今晨那个跟他共一只胸膛腔子的老妇人告诉他，他要在第十五夜二更躺在毡帐侧旁的一块毡上，给那位老妇人等了一辈子的女儿当桥。熊到第十六日晓鼓，口鼻就会发灰。熊到第十七日晓鼓，就跑不动了。熊到破营的那一天清晨——也就是第十八日清晨，女儿，因为第十七夜是黑帆车驶到囚犯帐外那一夜，第十八日清晨就是中柱上那个人不再在这里的清晨，也是你那头狼凭熊的这道桥成为你胸膛腔子里的一具身、和与你一同躺在白草上的一具身的清晨——熊会跑到他跑得动的最后一步，然后他会卧下来。”

她等着。

她说：“老妇人会和熊一同卧下。”

我屏住了那一息。

我说：“蒙克达姆。”

她说：“这是代价。这也是熊和我自己挑的事。女儿，别用拒绝结那道魂来把这件事从我们这里夺走。”

她饮了一口。

她说：“你的拒绝，是一桩奢侈。我们已没的夜可挥霍。”

我自己左手手背底下，那点暖意极慢地翻了整整一圈——那一圈是十四个夜里在产羔毡上裹着裹胸布始终翻不出来的——铁匠车南线那头狼把头夹在两爪之间，把耳朵贴平到地上，朝向营盘东缘补给车背风的那一面。

他听见了。

我用那个短促低沉的音节说：“我应。”

她点了点头。

她说：“好。回那军士那儿去。告诉他你挑了两个。告诉他『那头狼』，告诉他『那个人』。不要告诉他你母亲的事。他会在自己胸膛的腔子里，替你扛你母亲。他没法在自己胸膛的腔子里扛那头狼，也没法扛那个人——因为那头狼不在他的腔子里，而那个人，在他那一什里凡守了十四夜囚犯帐的每一个兵的腔子里都已经在了。你听见了吗。”

我说：“听见了。”

她说：“军士会在第十七日晓鼓时给你写一张条子。条子上会写『腹疾，三日，班线东头产羔毡』。这张条子是第十八日清晨的遮掩——那个清晨，班线东头那块产羔毡是空的，哨马线上那匹枣红母马没了，铁匠车南线那头狼没了，中柱上那个人也没了。朱砂院第十八日清晨会读这条子。朱砂院会按朱砂院读条子的法子读。朱砂院会晓得。朱砂院回头来问的时候，军士会给军士的答。你明白吗。”

我说：“他不会撒谎。”

她说：“他不会撒谎。他会说一名军士对朱砂院秘书该说的话。他会说得很好。他在一方黄表纸上已经写了十四夜了。女儿，他见不到下一回满月了。”

我闭上了眼。

我又睁开。

我用帝国官话说：“我明白。”

她说：“去吧。二更再来。”

我起了身。

我先按那个短促合手的礼欠了一下身——然后我放下两只手，按草原话里向狼皮马儿盖下、补给车背风处第十四夜三更的一位安答行的那种礼又欠了一次——掌心平贴腕内，头低到靴线，屏息数三——然后我直起腰，跨过那片被踏白的草走了回去。

铁匠车南线那头狼起了身。

他沿着那条线陪我走了五步——在我外肩侧后三步开外，正是一头狼陪着一个安答行走的样子，在那安答这十九年里头一回把她自己的名字送进外头的风里之后的那一瞬——而后他停下，蹲坐到后腿上，看着我跨过那片被踏烂的草，走向班线正中军士那顶帐子。

我在军士的帐帘前站住。

我用那把今夜已不再是第三把腹底之声、而是第四把的嗓子说——是她教我用的那把嗓子，那把送进风里的嗓子，那把把三个音节托住的嗓子——

“军士。”

他过来到帐帘前。

他望着我。

这一回，他望我的眼神，像一个时辰前他在帐帘前望我的那样——望得齐整——他看见了一个时辰前他在帐帘前没看见过的、在我脸上的那件东西——也就是我没戴在头上的那顶狼皮马儿盖，和我送进风里的那个短促低沉的音节——他的嘴动了。

他说：“女儿。”

我说：“军士。我挑了两个。”

他等着。

我说：“那头狼，和那个人。”

他望着我。

他望了我好一阵子。

他极轻声地说：“好。”

他说：“回你的毡上去。睡。我晓鼓时来。”

我说：“是，军士。”

他对着风说：“女儿。”

我说：“军士。”

他说：“她会晓得是哪两个。”

我说：“她晓得。”

他说：“第三个，我扛。”

他转身回进帐里。帐帘落下。

我回到班线东头那块产羔毡上。

我穿着札甲、扎着裹胸布、把竹管贴在腹上、把几方黄表纸贴在竹管上、把厨刀别在腰后，躺到行军榻上，闭上眼——铁匠车南线那头狼伏平了身子，头夹在两爪之间，耳朵贴地，朝向营盘东缘补给车背风的那一面——我把阿苏兰托在风里、托在脱古鲁之下、托在喉底所有别的名字之下——我睡下了今早第三刻传令官沿线走过之后第一回真正的觉。

我没做梦。

今夜，那头狼没让我做。

Chapter Sixteen

Anda

She did not stand up.

She sat on the low folding-stool in the open beside the cot in the lee of the supply-wagon, in the small dry tick of the salt-pan dawn that was not yet snow, with her hands flat on her knees and her boots set wide and her wolf-skin malgai pulled down to the line of her brow, and she looked at me. She looked the way the wagon-master had looked at me the morning he had dragged the felt across the paw-print — not as the wagon-master had looked, in the slow lazy route of his pretended errand, but as the wagon-master would have looked if the wagon-master had also been seventy years old and bear-bonded and dying and at the eastern edge of the camp with three nights of waiting in his face.

She said, in steppe-tongue, "Sit."

I crossed the four paces.

I knelt at the trampled white grass at the side of her stool, and I sat back on my heels, and I put my hands palms-down flat on my own knees, and I looked at the trampled grass between her boots and mine.

She said, in steppe-tongue, "You have the look. The boots and the lamellar are wrong. The face is wrong. The way the chest holds the warmth is right. The way the eye is set is right. The way the hands are flat on the knees is right. You are an anda of nineteen years with two hands flat on the knees of a foreign woman in foreign boots. Good."

I did not say anything.

She said, in steppe-tongue, "The old man at the squad-fire told you that the Bureau is counting animals."

"He did."

"He did not tell you the count."

"No."

"The count, at the third hour of yesterday afternoon by the orderly's ledger, is thirty-one. The count of animals on no roll in the column, at the third hour of yesterday afternoon. The thirty-first is a wolf the orderly did not see, did not write down, did not put a roll-number to, and put on the ledger with a small dot at the corner of the page because the orderly is a man of your sergeant's. The Bureau secretary saw the dot at second watch last night. The Bureau secretary did not say anything about the dot. The Bureau secretary said only, Yes, and went back to his wagon. Do you hear me, daughter."

I said, in the imperial — because the steppe-tongue was a thing I had only ever heard out of her mouth this night and out of the prisoner-tent at one syllable per night for fourteen nights and out of my grandmother's mouth over my cradle in a memory the meaning of which had been under a stone for fifteen years — I said, "I hear."

She said, in steppe-tongue, "You may say it in the steppe-tongue. The wolf-skin malgai on my head is the only thing within fifty paces that has been listening to me speak the steppe-tongue for the four months I have been in this camp. The wolf-skin will not, daughter, repeat what you say."

The wind moved the felt at the corner of the cot. I said, in the steppe-tongue, in the small low syllable my grandmother had said over my cradle on the night of the lamp-oil and the juniper — "I hear."

She nodded.

She said, in steppe-tongue, "Good. You will not say everything in the steppe-tongue. The belly voice you have learned is a useful tool. Save the steppe-tongue for what cannot, on the felt between us, be said in any other tongue. Now. Tell me your name."

I held the count.

Somewhere down the line a picket-horse shifted its weight and was still. I said, in the steppe-tongue, "Yansheng. Of Squad Five."

She said, "That is your father's name."

"Yes."

"It is not the name I asked for."

The salt-pan wind ticked once against the wagon-canvas.

I said, "Yulan. Of Qiaojia south of the Yellow River."

She said, "That is your mother's name for you."

"Yes."

"It is not the name I asked for, daughter."

I did not speak.

She said, "Daughter. I asked for your name."

I did not speak.

She said, in the steppe-tongue, in the voice of the grandmother who had whispered over my cradle, "Your grandmother, on the night you were born in the cold-room behind the kitchen of the house south of the Yellow River, whispered a name over the cradle. The name was not the name she had been told to whisper. The name was the name she had been holding in her own mouth for sixty years, since her own grandmother had whispered it over her cradle in a yurt south-east of the place where the river forks at the white stone. The name was put under a stone when you were four years old. The stone has been on top of the name for fifteen years."

Her river-mud eyes did not leave mine.

She said, "The stone has moved."

I held the warmth at the place where the wolf had lain down at the end of the fourteenth day's work, under the back of my own left hand inside the under-shirt under the binding-cloth under the lamellar.

I let the warmth open.

I said, in the steppe-tongue, in the small low syllable that had not, in nineteen years, been let out of the back of my throat into open air — into open air at the edge of a camp at the third watch of a fourteenth night with the trampled grass between an old woman's boots and mine —

"Arsulan."

She did not move.

She said, in the steppe-tongue, "Again."

I said, "Arsulan."

She said, "Again. Into the wind."

I turned my head, very slightly, to the small dry wind that was coming up off the salt-pan from the north-west under the lee of the supply-wagon, and I said it again into the wind — "Arsulan" — and the wind took the three syllables and carried them past the wolf-skin malgai on the old woman's head and out into the white grass to the west of the smith's wagon where the wolf, on his belly, with his head between his paws, lifted his head and laid it back down and laid his right ear flat to the ground.

She nodded.

She said, "He heard."

She said, "He has heard you say that name in the dream-snow under the cradle for nineteen years. He has heard you say it under your tongue under your other names for nineteen years. He has not, until this watch, heard you say it into open air with a chest that meant it. He heard you tonight. Do you hear him hear you, daughter."

The warmth lay banked under my hand, low and patient.

I said, "I hear him."

She said, "Good."

She did not, in any breath of the three syllables I had said into the wind, move. She did not, in any breath of the three syllables, change the angle of her head. She sat on the folding-stool with her hands flat on her knees and her boots set wide and her wolf-skin malgai down to the line of her brow, and her river-mud eyes did not move from mine, and her bear, somewhere behind the cot in the small lee of a wagon at the eastern edge of the camp at the third watch of a fourteenth night, breathed out a low long breath that I felt in the bowl of my own chest as if it had come, instead, out of the bowl of mine.

I had not, until that breath, known the bowl of my chest could feel another bowl that was not my wolf's.

She said, in steppe-tongue, "Tell me what the sergeant said."

I said, "He said choose two. He said the third I will carry. He did not say which third he would carry."

She said, "He cannot carry any of the three."

I did not speak.

I said, "No."

She said, "He will carry the not-knowing which two you chose. He will sit at his flap from the changing of the fourth watch on the fourteenth night to the morning of the seventeenth day, and he will not know whether you have gone south or east or stayed at his squad-fire, and the not-knowing will be the third thing. That is what he is carrying. He is a good man. He is also a wrong man for this watch, daughter. Sergeants of the southern empire do not, on any roll, carry a daughter who is bonded to a wolf at the line of a smith's wagon. A daughter who is bonded to a wolf at the line of a smith's wagon has to carry, this watch, what is hers."

She let the question sit in the cold between us.

She said, "What is yours, daughter."

I said, slowly, in the imperial, "The wolf at the south line of the smith's wagon. My mother in a village south of the Yellow River. My brother in the village. The man chained to the centre-pole in the prisoner-tent eighteen paces from the lambing-felt at the eastern end of the squad-line."

She said, "In what order."

I looked at the grass a long moment.

I said, "I do not know."

She said, "Daughter. There is an order. You know the order. The not-knowing is a thing you are putting between yourself and the order because the order asks you to choose between your mother and the man at the centre-pole. The not-knowing is a luxury we are out of. Tell me the order."

The warmth pressed up under my palm like a thing wanting out.

I said, very slowly, into the trampled grass between her boots and mine, "The wolf."

"Yes."

"My mother."

"Yes."

"My brother."

"Yes."

I made myself breathe slow and even.

I said, "The man at the centre-pole."

She did not move.

She said, "Daughter. The man at the centre-pole told you, on the fourteenth night at the changing of the half-watch, Choose your mother. He told you I am not asking. He told you I will not ask. He told you the lamp at the third quarter would be the lamp at the third quarter either way. Do you hear me."

I said, "I hear."

She said, "That man knows the order. That man is not asking you to put him in front of your mother. That man is not asking you to put him in front of your brother. That man is asking you to put him in front of nobody. That man is, in the bowl of his own chest, in the order he gave you. Do you hear me."

I said, in the small low syllable I had said Arsulan into the wind in, "I hear."

She said, "Good."

She drank, from a tin cup at her elbow, a swallow of millet-water that I had not seen her pour. She had been holding the cup the whole of the watch.

She said, "Now. Daughter. The thing the man at the centre-pole did not tell you, because the man at the centre-pole did not yet know it on the fourteenth night when he sent you to the eastern edge of the camp. The wolf at the south line of the smith's wagon has been at the south line for four days. The wolf at the south line is too large to be held outside the body any longer."

I did not breathe.

She said, "Do you know what the warmth has been, daughter. Do you know what the small thing under the back of your own left hand has been, in the lambing-felt at the eastern end of the squad-line, for fourteen nights."

I said, "It is the wolf."

She said, "It is the door. The wolf has been at the door. The wolf has been at the door for nineteen years and four months and eleven days. The wolf has been at the door because the door has been closed. The door has been closed because no shaman has, in the nineteen years and four months and eleven days, opened it. There is no shaman of the empire who would open it. There has been, in the eleven days of the wagons, one shaman in this column who could. There has been, since the fourteenth night, three days for the shaman to do it. There are, after the changing of the fourth watch on the morning of the seventeenth day, no days left."

She waited.

She said, "Daughter. The wolf will, after the seventeenth day, not be able to wait at the door."

The warmth had stopped turning. It only pushed.

I said, "He will come through."

She said, "He will come through. He will come through whether you have made the bond or not. He will come through whether the shaman is at the felt of the yurt or not. He will come through, daughter, in the lambing-felt at the eastern end of the squad-line at the small hour before the dawn-drum on the morning of the eighteenth day, and you will be alone with him in the felt, and he will be the size of a horse, and the felt will not hold him, and you will."

She drank.

She said, "You will die. Daughter. You will die in the lambing-felt at the eastern end of the squad-line at the small hour before the dawn-drum on the morning of the eighteenth day, and the soldier of Squad Five at the wake-pattern of the dawn-drum will find a body in the lambing-felt and a wolf the size of a horse with the warmth of the body in his own chest and no door to put it back through, and the wolf will go into the white grass and bleed grief-fever and die in three days. The squad will not, on the seventeenth day, be alive past the wake-pattern of the morning of the eighteenth. The Bureau will not, on the seventeenth day, count thirty-one. The Bureau will count one — a wolf the size of a horse — and that count will be the only count that matters. Do you hear me, daughter."

I said, "I hear."

She said, "Tonight."

I said, "Tonight."

She said, "At the second watch of the fifteenth night, you will come to this stool. You will not bring the bow. You will not bring the kitchen-knife. You will not bring the bamboo tube. You will bring the brown-paper squares the sergeant has given you in your inner pocket because the brown-paper squares are not weapons. You will bring nothing else of yours. You will come in the under-shirt and the trousers and the boots and the deel I will give you. You will leave the lamellar at the cot. You will leave the binding-cloth at the cot. You will leave the wolf-skin malgai I will not give you on your own head."

She waited.

She said, "You will lie on a felt at the centre of a yurt I will pitch behind a wagon at the eastern edge. You will hear the drum. You will hear the khoomei. You will lie in your own sweat until your sweat has run out and then you will lie in your own bone-marrow. You will walk on a snow that is not in any room you have been in. You will walk until the wolf at the door comes through. The wolf will be larger than you are. The wolf will, when he comes through, be a wolf with my grandmother's eyes. He will say your name."

The cold went down into me and I let it.

She said, "You will say I am Arsulan, daughter of Yansheng of Qiaojia, and I will not hide what I am from you. You will say it in the steppe-tongue. You will say it in the small low syllable. You will say it into the wolf's open mouth. You will press your forehead to his. The bond will knot. Do you hear me, daughter."

I said, in the small low syllable, "I hear."

She said, "Good."

She drank again from the cup she had been holding all the watch.

She said, "Daughter. There is a cost. The cost is mine, and the cost is the bear's. The bear is sixty-two years old. The bear has, this morning, been told by the old woman who shares the bowl of his chest that the bear is to lie down on the felt at the side of the yurt at the second watch of the fifteenth night and serve as the bridge for the daughter the old woman has been waiting for. The bear will, by the dawn-drum of the sixteenth morning, be grey at the muzzle. The bear will, by the dawn-drum of the seventeenth, not be able to run. The bear will, on the morning of the breakout — which is the morning of the eighteenth, daughter, because the seventeenth night is the night the wagon comes to the prisoner-tent under the black canvas and the morning of the eighteenth is the morning the man chained to the centre-pole is no longer here, which is also the morning your wolf, on the bear's bridge, will be a body in the bowl of your chest and a body on the white grass with you — the bear will run as long as he can and then he will lie down."

She waited.

She said, "The old woman will lie down with the bear."

I held the count.

I said, "Möngke-Dam."

She said, "It is the cost. It is also a thing the bear and I have chosen. Do not, daughter, take it from us by refusing the bond."

She drank.

She said, "Your refusal is a luxury. We are out of nights."

Under the back of my own left hand the warmth turned, very slowly, one whole turn — the turn it had not been able to turn in fourteen nights in the lambing-felt with the binding-cloth on — and the wolf at the south line of the smith's wagon set his head down between his paws and laid his ear flat to the ground in the direction of the lee of the supply-wagon at the eastern edge of the camp.

He had heard.

I said, in the small low syllable, "I accept."

She nodded.

She said, "Good. Go back to the sergeant. Tell him you have chosen two. Tell him the wolf and tell him the man. Do not tell him about your mother. He will, in his own bowl, carry your mother. He will not, in his own bowl, carry the wolf or the man, because the wolf is not in his bowl and the man is in the bowl of every man of his squad who has watched the prisoner-tent for fourteen nights. Do you hear me."

I said, "I hear."

She said, "The sergeant will, at the dawn-drum of the seventeenth, write you a slip. The slip will say stomach-flux, three days, lambing-felt at the eastern edge. The slip will be the cover for the eighteenth morning, when the lambing-felt at the eastern end of the squad-line is empty and the bay mare at the picket-line is gone and the wolf at the south line of the smith's wagon is gone and the man chained to the centre-pole is gone. The Bureau will read the slip on the eighteenth morning. The Bureau will read the slip the way the Bureau reads. The Bureau will know. The sergeant will, when the Bureau comes back to ask, give the sergeant's answer. Do you understand."

I said, "He will not lie."

She said, "He will not lie. He will say what a sergeant says to a Bureau secretary. He will say it well. He has been writing it on a slip of brown paper for fourteen nights. He will not, daughter, see another full moon."

I closed my eyes.

I opened them.

I said, in the imperial, "I understand."

She said, "Now go. Come back at the second watch."

I rose.

I bowed at the small clipped angle, and then I lowered my hands and I bowed in the way the steppe-tongue bowed to an anda under a wolf-skin malgai at the lee of a supply-wagon at the third watch of a fourteenth night — palms flat at the inside of the wrists, head down to the line of the boots, the breath held for the count of three — and I straightened, and I went back across the trampled white grass.

The wolf at the south line of the smith's wagon got up.

He walked five paces with me along the line — outside of my shoulder, at three paces, the way a wolf walks beside an anda in the moment after the anda has said her own name in open air for the first time in nineteen years — and then he stopped, and he sat back on his haunches, and he watched me cross the trampled grass to the centre of the squad-line where the sergeant's tent was.

I stopped at the sergeant's flap.

I said, in the third voice that was not a third belly voice tonight, that was a fourth — the voice she had taught me to make, the voice into the wind, the voice that carried the three syllables —

"Sergeant."

He came to the flap.

He looked at me.

He looked at me, this time, the way he had looked at me at the flap an hour ago — fully — and he saw the thing in my face he had not seen at the flap an hour ago, which was the wolf-skin malgai I was not wearing and the small low syllable I had said into the wind, and his mouth moved.

He said, "Daughter."

I said, "Sergeant. I have chosen two."

He waited.

I said, "The wolf and the man."

He looked at me.

He looked at me for a long count.

He said, very quietly, "Good."

He said, "Go to your felt. Sleep. I will come at the dawn-drum."

I said, "Yes, sir."

He said, into the wind, "Daughter."

I said, "Sergeant."

He said, "She will know which two."

I said, "She did."

He said, "I will carry the third."

He went back into his tent. The flap fell.

I went to the lambing-felt at the eastern end of the squad-line.

I lay down on the cot in the lamellar with the binding-cloth on and the bamboo tube against my belly and the brown-paper squares against the bamboo tube and the kitchen-knife at the small of my back, and I closed my eyes, and the wolf at the south line of the smith's wagon lay flat with his head between his paws and his ear to the ground in the direction of the lee of the supply-wagon at the eastern edge, and I held Arsulan in the wind under Toghrul under all the other names in the back of my throat, and I slept the first sleep I had slept since the herald had walked the line at the third hour of the morning.

I did not dream.

The wolf, this night, did not let me.