The White Ship Read Online Free PDF Page A

you'll walk to Dzhelesai?" Seidakhmat asked with wonder. "Why, that's a good five miles across the mountain."
    "Grandpa said he'll take me there, on horseback."
    "Every day, both ways? The old man's daffy. It's time for him to go to school himself. He'll sit there with you at the desk until the classes are over, and then—back home!" Seidakhmat rolled with laughter. The idea of old Momun sitting with his grandson at the school desk was too funny for words.
    The boy stood by, bewildered.
    "Oh, I'm only joking," explained Seidakhmat.
    He gave him a light fillip on the nose and pulled the visor of grandpa's cap over the boy's eyes. Momun never wore the uniform cap of the Forestry Department. He was too shy: "What am I, some sort of bigwig? I'll never exchange my Kirghiz hat for any other." In summertime, Momun wore an old white felt hat, of the kind that used to be called akkalpak in former times, its brim edged with faded black satin, and in the winter an equally ancient sheepskin hat. He let his grandson wear the green uniform cap of a forester.
    The boy was offended at Seidakhmat for making fun of his news. He sullenly pushed the visor of his cap back over his forehead, and when Seidakhmat tried to give him another fillip on the nose, he jerked his head back and snapped at him:
    "Leave me alone!"
    "Oh, what a sorehead!" Seidakhmat smiled. "Don't mind me. The schoolbag is first-class." And he patted the boy on the shoulder. "And now, scram. I must still mow and mow . . ."
    He spat on his hands and picked up the scythe.
    The boy ran home along the same path, and again past his stones. This was no time to play with stones. A schoolbag was a serious thing.
    The boy was fond of talking to himself. This time, however, he spoke not to himself but to the schoolbag: "Don't believe him, my grandpa isn't like that at all. It's only that he isn't sly, and that's why people make fun of him. Because he's not the least bit sly. He'll take us to school. But you don't even know where the school is. It's not so far, I'll show you. We'll look at it through the binoculars from Outlook Mountain. I'll show you my white ship, too. But first let's go into the barn—that's where I hide my binoculars. I really should be watching the calf, but I always run off to look at the white ship. Our calf's big now, you can't hold him when he pulls. But he's gotten into the habit of suckling the cow. And the cow is his mother, she doesn't grudge him the milk. You understand? Mothers never grudge their children anything. That's what Guldzhamal says, she has her own little girl. . . . They'll milk the cow soon, and we'll take the calf out to pasture. Then we'll climb up Outlook Mountain and see the white ship. I talk like this with the binoculars too, sometimes. Now we'll be three—you, me, and the binoculars."
    The boy spoke to his schoolbag as he was returning home. He enjoyed talking to it. He intended to continue the conversation, to tell it more about himself—things it didn't know yet. But he was interrupted. There was a clatter of hooves from the side. A rider on a gray horse emerged from behind the trees. It was Orozkul, who was also going home. The gray stallion, Alabash, whom no one else was allowed to ride, was saddled with the special holiday saddle, with copper stirrups and a leather strap across his chest, with tinkling silver rings.
    Orozkul's hat had slipped to the back of his head, exposing a red, low forehead. The heat had made him sleepy, and lie dozed on his horse. His velvet coat, poorly tailored but made to resemble those worn by the district leaders, was unbuttoned from top to bottom. His white shirt had come out from under his belt. He was full of food and quite drunk. Just a short while ago he had been sitting with friends, drinking koumyss [note: fermented mare’s milk] and gorging himself on meat.
    When shepherds and horseherds from the surrounding areas came to the mountain pastures for the summer, they often invited Orozkul to