The Infinite Garden Dengyi Zhou
In the deep valleys of Mongolia lay the great frozen freshwater Lake Khovsgol, and to the east of the lake stood aggressive mountains like a pack of saber-tooth snow tigers, with icicles hanging down their cavernous jaws like fangs, frozen in time. All was silent.
Ding, ding, ding sounded suddenly a soft, lyrical chime, as the bell hanging off Bold sung its melody. The Cashmere goat trotted by his master, Naranbaatar, who trudged by the bank of the lake, picking up the carcasses of dead goats to a heap out of sight from his mother. The slight goatherd’s face was beetroot purple and his back was bent double by the ferocious wind, which screamed violently past his ears.
To the West of the lake the land dipped, plunged to the deep unknowns. Naranbaatar stared far off into the world’s edge as he knew it and imagined a land of clouds or a bird’s paradise, with eagles, falcons, milans, cranes, corbels and larks that he had spied rising up from that forbidden territory.
Immediately his momentary trance was broken as his mother weakly whispered out to him in fear, leaning on the door of their ger for support:
“How many have died overnight?” She referred to their cashmere goats: their livelihood. Naranbaatar flinched to see his own mother, who was a frail, skeletal creature, with a face etched deep by the wind and worry, so terminally ill
“Only one mother. The rest are all healthy,” Naranbaatar lied. His mother looked reassured and as the little boy went to help his mother to bed, Bold followed, with the delicate bell that hung by his neck tinkling softly, announcing his master’s arrival.
The ger was the simplest of its kind, a mere tent, with a pale and worn complexion. A puddle of melted snow left Naranbaatar’s boots, warmed by the last dying embers in the stove. The deadly night dawned as a cloud drifted across to cover the full moon and deep in the heart of the maleficent mountains echoed the hostile hungry howls, muffling the continuous bleating of the goats, as they huddled together in fear.
Naranbaatar sprang right up, awoken by the rapid ringing of a bell. The boy crept swiftly off his bed, shoved on his wet snow boots and pursued the distressed goat to the door silently. Dread overwhelmed him as he pushed open the door, trembling. It was too quiet. He stood horrified. He blinked in disbelief. Silence! The goats had vanished.
Tears surged up like a tidal wave, overpowering Naranbaatar into a helpless heap. This was a death sentence to him and his mother. They had nothing! Bold nudged the boy gently. The goatherd realised what he had to do. His mother’s fate was in his hands. He swallowed back his tears.
“Blood!” the boy exclaimed, as he caught sight of fresh red stains down the faded white walls of the ger. “Wolves,” he hissed with vengeance. Bold trotted to the lake’s edge and bleated. Naranbaater felt a rush of hope, as he discovered intertwined dirt tracks on the icy surface. The goats had fled! However, as usual, nature decided to muster all its forces to bring across despair; snow fell down like an impenetrable, thick, white curtain, concealing the faint trail. The goatherd gritted his teeth in resolve, wrapped up tightly in his coat and dropped his head downwards to face the whipping gusts of the blizzard. Bold faithfully tailed his master, so together – step by step – they marched west as two tiny specks across the endless stretch of the sea of ice.
The blizzard finally stopped, because nature had failed to depress such remarkable determination the young boy possessed. Naranbaatar lifted up his head and witnessed a true spectacle. He watched as the large glowing sphere rose slowly into the dull morning sky, consuming the night and transforming the sky into a vibrant display of crimson colours. He stood there drinking the liquid gold orbs, which warmed up his pale skin, while the dancing sunbeams spread down, illuminating the winter scene surrounding the small boy and he stood speechless, entranced with the picture.
He had reached the world’s edge; except it wasn’t, as the land just dipped to expose a haven of green to as far as the eye could see. Tall evergreen pines in full leaf and cloaked in majestic white snow created a canopy, reaching up to greet Naranbaatar and Bold.
“The infinite gardens,’ breathed Naranbaatar in wonder. This was the only part of the world where the winter could not devastate. Then he closed his eye. He inhaled the fresh perfumes from the differentiating wood aromas. He heard a symphony of bird songs, with high, chirpy flute-like tunes from the swallows; the accompanying more resonant bassoon-like harmonies from a hoopoe; and even trumpet like fanfares performed by crows. The soft pitter-patter of melted snow, which trickled off leaves, provided the percussion. Naranbaatar, as a keen hunter, also caught distant crunches of leaves under the fleeing hooves of a deer. There was food here for his famished mother.
Suddenly, the goatherd heard a familiar bleating and his eyes flicked open. He laughed in relief as he looked closely down by the foot of the forest to see goats, his cashmere goats!
Naranbaatar’s mother staggered up from sleep and tottered to her son’s bed. It was empty. She felt lightheaded to discover that her son had disappeared. Her heart beat faster, as she leaned weakly against the ger’s door and convulsed when she realised all her goats had vanished too.
“Naranbaater? Naranbaater? Naranbaatar?” she called out repeatedly in vain. Her heart bled with sorrow and she whimpered softly, as anguished tears spilt out of her tormented soul. She paused and it was as if the whole world held its breath to hear an answer. All was silent.
Suddenly, in the distance, over by the lake, sounded a soft, lyrical chime.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
