battle of the shamans and the NKVD

PLATE 40: THE BATTLE OF THE SHAMANS AND THE NKVD. Everyone is wound up to breaking point. We sit and play cribbage to try and pass the anxious hours; nobody knows exactly when the Russians will attack. In every household, rituals are being performed to insure Buryat victory; many are engaged in the making of japata, special war biscuits. Westcott, with his total hatred of all things NKVD, is anxious to help prepare the shamanic army, but is told that the battle may contain little in the way of hand-to-hand combat. The shamans intend to defend their land by using ritual weapons to hurl potent curses at the invaders; never wanting to be done of a good brawl, Westcott is incensed. Secretly, I conclude that the entire village will be massacred. I briefly consider trying to plot our escape, but immediately reject this idea as cowardly: we owe our lives to Balog - it would be a bad show to flee now. Nevertheless, I extract an agreement from Westcott not to put himself in any unnecessary danger.

On the fourth day, around noon, a thunderous drone sounds throughout the settlement, as if every single drum, shang, buddhang, and throat singer were simultaneously caterwauling at top volume; it is suggestive of the coming of Armageddon. My stomach constricts and my throat goes dry. Looking down, I see a large damp spot spreading through my trousers; Bindon streaks round the tent, panicking openly. At a loss, I feel myself start to glaze over. Someone slaps me, hard. “Tis no time to be emptying the cistern, boyo!” Sobered, I pull myself together something swift and step outside to see what’s going on. It is a frightening scene: the Buryat are running in every direction, stampeding like frightened oxen. Anything or anyone in their path is trampled instantly. I quickly duck back into the yurt. Conferring with the others, we decide to escape from the rear of the yurt, away from the confusion. Westcott hastily packs up the camera gear - he is determined to photograph the ensuing battle. In the back alley, we stop a Top-hat running full tilt, buddhang in hand; he tells us that the communists have been spotted crossing the circular river and are now within five miles of the village. A large army of shamans have positioned themselves around a shallow bog-filled valley through which the Russians must pass to reach the settlement; here, they will be ambushed. Within half an hour we have reached the rim of the bowl shaped depression where the Buryat lie waiting. We have barely taken cover when hundreds of NKVD troops start to pour down the long, flat sandy incline that leads to bog. Westcott leaps to his feet and starts to set up the camera on a perilously exposed spot - I start to yell at him to take cover, but my voice is lost in the ensuing hurricane of noise and violence, as the shamans emerge from their hiding places in the dunes, bellowing curses at the top of their lungs, charging headlong down the slopes like beserker-devils. I wince automatically, waiting for the first volley of rifle fire from the Russians. It doesn’t come. I start to stand up, but my knees buckle and everything goes black. (continue)