Free Silent Girl by Tricia Dower Page B

the starting line. Kyal gives Aisulu an extra spur and leans forward until her chin is on the mare’s neck. She’s conscious of the sun lighting her jacket and the wind lifting her skirt above her thighs, of Jyrgal’s eyes on her as she leaves Almaz pitifully behind, his war cries feeble in the distance. Conscious seconds later of the sound of hooves and the panting of another horse and rider at her flank. She turns her head to see Jyrgal no farther away than the length of her whip.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she shouts.
    He draws up, blows her a kiss, turns sharply away and rides back to the laughing, cheering camp.
    â€œI’ll never agree to marry that horse’s ass,” she tells Aigul and Dimira later.
    Aigul stamps her foot. “Selfish, selfish! Ama, what will I do?”
    â€œCalm yourself, child,” Dimira says. “You can’t afford to get sick.” She touches Aigul’s head with an intimacy that pains Kyal. She no longer belongs to the world they so comfortably inhabit. Everything they do feels like a rebuke.
    Dimira turns to her. “Before you make your decision, you will meet Jyrgal’s family. We have been invited.”
    â€œI’m not interested.”
    â€œThen find a way to be. The grandfather will be there. You will accompany me to the manaschi’s camp. I will not let you lose this opportunity.”
    In a rusty pick-up that transports their yurts from pasture to pasture, Usen’s oldest brother drives Kyal and Dimira for several hours to reach Jyrgal’s jailoo . It has only a few yurts, each made of white felt, not the humbler grey that suffices for Kyal’s family. Satellite dishes rest on the ground. Here is a family of means, they shout.
    Emil and Jyrgal stand outside in pressed slacks and sports jackets. Two men next to them wear ceremonial vests and kalpaks. One, an older version of Emil, must be the father; the other, with Jyrgal’s long and narrow face, the manaschi. A white beard puffing like smoke from his chin makes him look mad. Was he initiated into his calling through a vision as it is said true manaschi must be? Kyal doesn’t believe in divine intervention, but, sometimes, it scares her to think her destiny is in her hands alone.
    As Dimira and Kyal step from the truck, half a dozen women surround them and hustle them past the men to the largest yurt where a well-fed, ruddy-faced woman waits between richly embroidered doorway flaps. She bows to Dimira and says in a voice as smooth as yak butter, “Welcome, Mother. I am Batigul,” drawing out the last syllable as though her tongue is stuck. Taking Kyal’s hand, she says, “Come, Daughter.” Daughter? The other women follow them into the yurt where Aigul, a white scarf on her head, sits bent over on a carpeted platform, looking like a thief caught stealing the last of the winter hay. She does not raise her head when Kyal calls out to her in surprise. Spread on the floor in front of Aigul is a large cloth with loaves of round and layered bread, sour cream, dried fruits, and sweets Kyal has seen only on festival days. The strong, sweet smell of the bread makes her hungry. Is Jyrgal’s family so wealthy they can go to this expense for all visitors? Batigul introduces Jyrgal’s aunts and female cousins. “They’ve been baking and cooking for days,” she says. “The men slaughtered a mare for the feast.” She hands Dimira a white scarf like the one Aigul wears. “As we have no grandmother in our camp,” she says, “the honour is yours.”
    Dimira spreads the scarf with her fingers and drapes it over Kyal’s head. She kisses Kyal on both cheeks, but doesn’t look in her eyes.
    â€œSounds of joy want to leap from my throat!” Batigul says. “Has anyone else ever been blessed with two beautiful new daughters on the same day?”
    The yurt begins to feel small. The shirdaks on the walls press