Mystery and Magic on the Steppe by Arthur Porges

Tugai Bey and his nephew, Burlai Khan, scouting well ahead of the Horde as ordered, found one small farm in a sheltered valley among the foothills, a rather rare configuration on the vast, level steppes. It was the first human habitation in many versts of featureless plain.

They dismounted from their shaggy little ponies, and horn reflex bows in hand, stalked the area, two dark men, short and muscular, wary and savage as any two wild animals. It was a poor enough place: a few patches of spindly wheat, one bony cow, a few chickens, and a sod hut for the family of three.

The Tartars cautiously skirted the farm on all sides, found no neighbors to worry about, and made their plans accordingly, being experienced scouts. The farmer, a burly Slav, was working in the field with a boy of perhaps twelve, no doubt his son. They were unarmed except for their crude hoes; obviously, this region had known peace of late. Certainly, no Horde had come this way for some years.

The woman, gaunt and juiceless, was plucking a scrawny hen while her baby, still too young to walk, played in the dirt at her feet, softly prattling.

The two barbarians exchanged several cryptic grunts. As expert raiders they had developed a simple, effective routine, requiring only a few basic signals. They fitted arrows to their short but immensely powerful bows, and struck. Neither the farmer nor his son, the only possible fighters in the family, could have been aware of what was happening to them. At that short range, from solid ground instead of galloping ponies, the two Tartars could have split wands. The whistling arrows drove deep into the victims’ bodies, and they died where they stood, uncomprehending and almost instantaneously. With uncouth cries of exultation, the scouts moved in on the terrified woman, frozen in place.

They were well aware that they must not burden themselves with captives, no matter how desirable as slaves: mobility and distance covered were the watchwords of this operation. Tugai Bey dashed the baby’s brains out against a rock; his nephew, grinning savagely at this welcome opportunity to indulge himself, strangled the mother, too traumatized by the fate of her infant to struggle, or, perhaps, even to care.

After that, they butchered the cow and gorged on burnt gobbets of meat, for they had long subsisted on grain, supplemented by a few ounces of warm blood from the veins of their mounts. Burlai Khan would have torched the wheat, but his uncle, wiser in war, restrained him. Why alert other settlers farther away by making a lot of smoke? The leaders of the Horde couldn’t object to their scouts’ enjoyment of a brief, murderous diversion here but would strongly resent their warning the whole countryside that the barbarians were on the move. There was thought to be a sizable walled town ahead, replete with gold and women; it would be a fine place to invest and plunder. So let the grain stand for now.

It was late in the afternoon before they found a second farm. This one was even smaller and less prosperous than the first, since it was a one-man operation. There were only a few square yards under cultivation and no livestock; and the hut was a tiny, rickety lean-to. Their reconnoitering revealed only one inhabitant, a feeble old man, pulling up weeds with twisted, arthritic fingers. His posture, skinny rear towards the barbarians, was very inviting, suggesting the brutal sort of practical joke that delighted them. Tugai Bey, grinning and nodding towards his nephew, had already drawn an arrow to its head, intending to feather it squarely in the farmer’s backside, when the younger man gave a little gasp and clutched his uncle’s shoulder. Irritably Tugai Bey gently relaxed the bowstring and, weapon dangling from one chunky hand, peered in the direction his nephew indicated. He, too, sucked in his breath at the sight. A large snow leopard, one of the rarest of the big cats, the gorgeous fur of which was highly prized, was stalking the old man. It was seldom that these solitary predators came down from the mountains; only in times of famine, when game was scarce, were they found under a height of ten thousand fee.

They watched it with profound interest and anticipation, wondering about its presence here, in the flatlands. But in any case, whatever the reason, this promised to be far more fun than transfixing the farmer with a barbed shaft. And after the old man was torn apart, their arrows would skewer the leopard. The magnificent pelt of silver grey with brown rosettes, apparently in prime condition, thick and fluffy, would be a splendid trophy.

They could hear the farmer muttering to himself as he worked, occasionally chanting in a cracked voice, oblivious to the dangerous animal behind him. The two Tartars crouched, full of malicious glee, as the bushy-tailed cat, stretched full length on the brown soil, glided nearer to its intended prey. They saw it pause, gather its powerful hind legs under its body, and prepare to pounce, every flat, sinuous muscle tense. The dark claws worked in the white sheaths of its big paws as if anticipating the rending to come.

Then, to their amazement, the farmer whirled, showed yellow, broken teeth in a grin, and waved one hand in mock reproof. The snow leopard, seeming oddly abashed, relaxed, rolled upon its back, and purred so loudly they could hear it even from their position many yards away. The old man went to the cat, rubbed its belly, tugged playfully at the fluffy tail, and returned to his weeding.

Completely awed, the scouts stared at each other. Surely this was magic. Never in all their wanderings had they seen anything like it. There were ponies with the Horde, of course, the product of many generations of association, and a few dogs, but who ever heard of a snow leopard subservient to a man? Yes, this old man must be a mighty wizard, perhaps his true shape that of a fearsome goblin. Tugai Bey shuddered as he thought of the shaft he had almost loosed at this sorcerer, and was glad that his nephew had intervened in time. Why, by now the pseudo-farmer in his wrath might have turned them both into rocks or even lumps of horse dung. To nomads that was a dreadful fate, since it meant, other matters aside, an end to the mobility they cherished.

But now his nephew gave a little grunt of surprise. It was incredible enough that the old man had tamed and enslaved a ferocious predator, but what was this? Around the lean-to came a small dog, a black, shaggy mongrel with intelligent, humorous eyes. It ran up to the leopard, barked brightly, and crouched, tail wagging, obviously unafraid of the big cat.

The farmer looked at them, and when the leopard seemed reluctant to respond, said, “Very well, my dear children — play. But you, Winter, be very careful. I know you love Blackberry, and would never wish to hurt him, but you have been careless lately, and those paws of yours are strong. So be extra gentle or I may have to stop the game. Now you may romp,” and he pointed one authoritative finger at the odd pair.

The concealed Tartars, familiar with many Slavic dialects, understood the gist of his words, and their wonder grew. The sorcerer talked to the beasts; they seemed to know what his commands were, and obeyed them. Obviously, the leopard had waited for permission before daring to play with the little dog. A natural predator, fierce and untamable, taking orders from a frail old man; this was magic of a high sort, and undoubtedly the farmer was not what he seemed but a powerful demon in disguise — but why the feeble body, unless it was to trap observers into rush action which could be met with terrible consequences for the sorcerer’s amusement?

Right now the two animals were frolicking like puppies. The mongrel would charge the leopard, barking in mock ferocity; the big cat, back humped, whiskers bristling, spat and snarled as if actually intimidated. Then one broad paw, its claws carefully retracted, shot out in a streaking motion too fast for most of its prey to counter. The little dog was gently flattened into helplessness. For a moment the snow leopard pressed its captive against the ground, unable to move; then Blackberry whimpered his submission and rather reluctantly was freed. Immediately the game began again, with variations.

The scouts continued to watch, their astonishment growing. It was well known to all that a leopard’s favorite food was dog. Many of the camp’s mongrels had been taken whenever the Horde passed near the higher ranges. Yet here were mortal enemies playing together; only sorcery could account for it, and their fear of the pseudo-farmer increased.

Meanwhile the old man, weary and aching, retreated to the shade of the lean-to and sat down, his back against the side of the structure. He watched his two pets with a benevolent, almost foolish, expression. His rheumy eyelids drooped, and he drooled a little.

It was time, the Tartars felt, either to withdraw or reveal themselves. Surely the magician was aware of their presence; no concealment could deceive such a master. If they lingered, without doing him honor, he might well blast them; his kind were touchy. So, after a hasty whispered exchange, they decided to go forward and do him homage.

As they approached the old man, their belief in this power grew, for instead of fear and flight, the normal reaction of civilians to their appearance, he just sat there, waiting for them, and the naive smile on his wrinkled face deepened.

“Welcome, brothers,” he greeted them in a cracked, wavering voice. “I have little to offer visitors, but there are wheatcakes in the hut, some fermented milk.” The pair, still gorged on beef from the ravaged farm, were not interested in such poor fare. Instead Tugai Bey pointed to the animals, which, after pausing briefly to appraise the strangers, were again frolicking.

“You must be a mighty sorcerer,” the scout said in his vile but comprehensible Slavic, “to converse with such a beast as the leopard and give it orders so that it sports with its natural prey instead of devouring it.”

The old farmer smiled. “It is the simplest magic of all,” he said. “Anybody can practice it, but alas, few do, preferring hate and conflict. The magic of love. I love them, and they love each other. Nothing more is needed.”

Baffled, the scouts eyed him, expecting some elaboration of that bizarre statement.

“I do not understand that,” Tugai Bey grunted. “Love is not sorcery. A man may love his father, his brother, maybe his chief, or perhaps, for a time, a woman, but that is natural, not magic.”

“Yes, it is,” the old man persisted. “Because of it you see a ferocious beast, a born blood-drinker, playing joyously, in all innocence, with a small, helpless thing he could smash with a single blow and eat with relish. Love is the sorcerer here, not I. Even when I am dead — which will soon be the case, since I am very old and tired, these two would be as brothers from the same litter. Some day,” he added, “this same magic will make all men live together in peace and harmony.” He was silent then, recalling muzzily the tiny leopard cub he had found years ago and reared with the black pup.

“I fear, nephew,” Tugai Bey whispered, “that this old sorcerer is unwilling to share any of his knowledge with us. Instead he speaks in riddles, and shows his contempt. Well, since he is not mortal, and holds great power, there is nothing we can do about it; it would be very dangerous to offend him.” He spoke in their own guttural tongue, and the farmer, still lost in the past, let his eyelids sag once more.

“Surely an arrow through the heart can kill even a magician,” Burlai Khan said.

“You speak like a fool. It would glance off. Or even if it pierced him, he would just pluck it out, laughing, and visit a dreadful revenge upon us. And in his true, fearsome shape.” He glanced at the sun and said, “We have wasted enough time here. You wait, without annoying him I warn you, while I climb that hill to see what lies ahead.” And he strode off with the choppy, awkward steps of a horseman to mount his pony.

Burlai Khan idly watched the two animals, now lying down several yards apart, then addressed the farmer. He had to raise his voice before the sorcerer’s eyes opened. It seemed to the young, vigorous barbarian that this magician was indeed terribly old and weak. Maybe he should follow his uncle now. What if this strange being desired his strong young body and took it over, leaving him trapped in that worn-out husk — or as a forlorn wraith with no physical presence? He felt a surge of panic at the thought.

“Great One,” he murmured, “be not angry with me for asking, but is it true that if I drove an arrow through your heart, you would not die like a normal man but only pluck it out?”

The old man looked up, filmy eyes open now, but said nothing. The sweet, fatuous smile touched his lips, but that was the only response.

“Would you show me how it’s done? That would be something to tell around the evening fires. Say yes, I beg of you.” He was unused to asking instead of taking, and the plea almost choked him.

The farmer looked vaguely bewildered, but aware of some request. His eyes clouded still more, but at last he spoke, replying with a sort of query, however. “Yes, what? Yes, young man, whatever you wish. My home is yours. We are brothers, as all men are, or will be some day.”

To Burlai Khan this was permission enough. What a tale to tell! That he had sent an arrow through the heart of a great sorcerer, and seen him yank it out, grinning, as the wound healed instantly.

The old man’s eyes were completely closed now, so he didn’t see the short, heavy arrow locked. The scout moved back a dozen feet, drew the shaft to its cruelly barbed head, and cried, “I’m ready, master. You still permit?”

The old man said softly, eyes still shut, “Do as you like, brother...”

On the word the bowstring twanged, and the arrow nailed the farmer’s slight body, shrunken by the years, to the wall of the hut.

The young Tartar, anxious to observe the miracle at closer range, ran forward. There was very little blood, but that was only to be expected; the arrow’s shaft tended to block the free flow. But the sorcerer’s eyes remained closed, and he neither moved nor spoke when the scout gingerly tapped his shoulder.

“Take out the arrow now,” the Tartar urged him. “Now, o great sorcerer. Pull it out and return to life as you promised me.” But the old man didn’t stir, and a feeling of panic overwhelmed the youth. The magician must be angry after all and wasn’t going to oblige. Instead, he obviously meant to remain a corpse until it pleased him to live again. What had Burlai Khan done wrong? Something, it seemed, and even now the old man might be plotting some horrific act of reprisal. With a choked cry, the scout ran to his pony, scrambled into the saddle, and galloped off to find his uncle.

As he rode away, the black mongrel trotted up to his master, stood whimpering at his feet, then climbed into the farmer’s lap. His pink tongue caressed the still face, frozen in a smile. Then he jumped down and ran about, barking shrilly.

For a moment the leopard stood there, scrutinizing the frantic dog; then it moved in on padded feet to sniff curiously at the farmer’s wound, its yellow, opalescent eyes aglow. Blackberry ran up to it, whining, seeming to beg for consolation.

Briefly the great cat studied the frantic mongrel. Then, with a single oblique stare at the corpse, he thrust out a tentative paw, claws sheathed, and pinned the dog to the earth. The captive whined in protest, unwilling to play in this hour of loss. He squirmed vainly against the pressure, crying more loudly.

Then, very slowly, with gloating relish, the snow leopard brought its keen, bluish talons out, and the little dog yelped in agony as they drew blood. Putting its other forepaw on the black head, the big cat casually eviscerated its long-time playmate. It dipped its rough tongue into the crimson pool, lapping greedily. A low, grating sound came from its throat. It was purring.

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