tent village

PLATE 31: WE MEET THE CHIEFTAIN OF THE BURYATS. Finally, after ten months of remarkable ordeals, we are to meet the King of Buryatia at his summer encampment, now less than a day’s march hence. In order to curry favour with this monarch, we must deliver, of all things, a box of woodpecker feathers as a token of our respect; Bindon finds this hilarious, but Balog assures us this is no laughing matter - only with the King’s support will we stand any chance of locating Peter. Worse still, if we offend him, we will be forcibly made to leave the territory within the circular river. Westcott asks how on earth we�re going to come up with a box of these feathers. Not to worry, says Balog, I will obtain one for you. Balog also insists that we make a gift of our remaining whiskey and chocolate supplies, a thought which makes us groan; these constitute our only palpable tie to our own world. But if we must, we must.

The following day we round a knoll and there before us, looking tiny and insignificant on a vast plain crisscrossed by small streams and chequerboarded with areas of sand and shrub, sits a small shabby-looking settlement of tents. Although nothing is said, a strong wave of disappointment passes through Bindon, Westcott, and myself. Balog, sensing our mood, tells us that it is far bigger than it looks; a man might wander for days in the tent village and not find his way back to the edge of it. How foolish does he think we are?
Less than an hour later, I am approaching a weird personage with an inverted top-hat tied to his head and a single white stripe painted down the middle of his otherwise-blackened face. According to Balog, the king is a living God: the white stripe represents a bolt of lightening, the terrifying illumination in the darkness that the God-King, in his earthly incarnation, represents to his mortal subjects; the inverted top-hat portrays the King as a vessel of celestial knowledge. In my hands is a box containing our last few packages of biscuits and a couple of half-empty bottles of scotch; the woodpecker feathers have already been handed over by Balog and received without interest. As I kneel with the box and present it to the God-King a strange smell overpowers me - a pungent, acrid burning smell, gunpowdery, spicy, metallic; a hot, dark energy emanates from this creature, who every fiber of my being screams is not human. I find it hard to concentrate, the ancestral monkey-fur on my back standing on end as I try desperately not to leap up and down, shrieking in alarm. But then I feel the God-King adjust my brain, as sure as one might tune a radio, and suddenly I feel calm. The God-King is wolfing down our chocolate McVities and laughing uproariously. “You are a biscuit magician, nape!” he bellows, slapping me on the back. He instructs one of his minions to take us into the settlement, show us his own biscuit magicians, and then lead us to a tent where we shall be put up as honoured guests. We pause to wait for Balog, but he motions us on, saying he will rejoin us later. (continue)