♘امیرحسین♞
♘ مدیریت انجمن اسب ایران ♞
For the next few hours I drank a lot of tea, and Magtumkuli did a
lot of talking. He may have been incompetent, an urban Iranian playing
at nomadism, but he told wonderful stories. He told me of Jemal-eddin's
bitter defeat by the Mongol Horde; he told me of Timur, club footed
king of Samarkand who'd sacked India for caravans of gold that bridged
horizons; and he told me of the Wind Horse.
"A very long time ago," he said, "before the seasons were here, when
there was no winter and no summer, but only sunshine without wind or
rain, a herd of golden horses lived on the slopes of the Kopetdag
Mountains. These were the finest horses, Akhaltekin horses, and they
were wanted by every king in the world. But the horses were so fast
that only one man could catch them. He was a Turkmen, the greatest
warrior of his people, stronger than all his brothers, but with
footsteps so quiet that his shoes made no sound when he ran across the
land. His name was Jygalli."
He stopped and passed me some dried peas. It was going to be a long
story so I made myself comfortable, leaning back on my elbows and
imperiously throwing peas into my mouth. Magtumkuli cleared his
throat.
"So, every morning this Jygalli would get up before sunrise and make a
rope from the tails of mares he had caught the day before. Their tails
were fine like a baby's hair, and his rope was so soft that the horses
sighed when it fell around their necks. They were pleased to be caught
by Jygalli and he was pleased to catch them. For they were sold to the
greatest kings in the world and he became very rich. But he was not
happy.
It was not that the herd was getting smaller. Each year the Akhaltekin
horses would give birth to more children, and these children would feed
on the fresh grasses of the Kopetdag until their coats became as thick
and golden as their mothers, and their legs as fine and muscled as
their fathers. Then, when they were full-grown, they would give
themselves willingly to Jygalli. But there was one horse that would
not. A horse whose ears were sharp enough to hear his silent footsteps,
and whose feet were quick enough to outrun his flying rope. And this
horse was a stallion, black as night, black as legends. When the moon
shone brightly upon the mountains, Jygalli would lie awake and dream of
catching this horse, and would picture the glory that would be his when
he led him down from the high fields and into the narrow lanes of the
bazaar. His dreams became his only desire until the other horses seemed
no more than ordinary animals, too easy for his skill. And his passion
grew and grew so that in the hours before sunlight, when he sat outside
his tent and made his rope, he could think only of when the stallion
would be his.
But the stallion's nose was so wide and sensitive that he could smell
Jygalli's ambition, and his love of the mountains was so strong that he
would never stop long enough in the tall grass for Jygalli to get
close. Instead he began to move away from the herd and walk higher and
higher into the Kopetdag. And Jygalli moved higher and higher into the
mountains to follow him. Until at last the stallion moved so high that
Jygalli had no time to catch the other horses, so that in the bazaars
the people began to wonder whether his talents were weakening.
"He is too old," the merchants could be heard saying over their
breakfasts. "Another champion must be found". But Jygalli did not hear
their talk, for he now spent all his time in the mountains watching the
stallion that was always ahead of him.
The air was thinner and Jygalli was finding it harder to keep pace with
his prize. For the first time in his life he was falling over rocks,
and his footsteps that had always been so silent were now a loud
warning to the horse. He smelled Jygalli's need and his legs only grew
stronger as he galloped over the high passes. And as he galloped the
air blew harder from his chest and poured down the slopes until it
became a wind that slowed Jygalli even more. Jygalli had never walked
into such a wind, and its strength raised an anger in him so forceful
that he began to shout with his efforts. But the stallion only ran
faster, and Jygalli only shouted louder. For a hundred and twenty days
they chased each other through the mountains. Always upwards, with the
breath blowing stronger and stronger from the stallion's chest, while
the sweat ran quicker and quicker from Jygalli's body.
But then, just when he was about to give up, the mountains ended. The
stallion had nowhere else to run, and Jygalli at last felt he was close
to the end. He could see his prize stop on the edge of a high cliff,
and the stallion could see him getting closer, the soft hair of his
rope swinging behind him, the sweat running from his body, his cries
shouting through the thin air.
But freedom was everything, so the stallion jumped. And the prize was
everything, so Jygalli jumped after him. The hunter and the hunted
flying into open space.
But the chase was over, because the stallion did not fall, he only ran,
and he ran faster, carried on his breath, until he became his breath,
he became the wind, light and fast rushing over the land. Too fast for
the warrior who had chased him for a hundred and twenty days across the
Kopetdag. Too fast for the cries and sweat that hung heavily in the
air. Too fast for Jygalli who was falling like a rock, chasing only
earth through the emptiness of space.
And in the bazaars the merchants felt the stallion's breath blow across
their faces, they heard Jygalli's cries break loudly over their ears,
and they tasted the river of his sweat as it rained down upon their
heads.
In a time that had never known the rush of wind, or the smell of rain,
or the blast of thunder across the valleys, all three came at once. The
seasons had begun."
lot of talking. He may have been incompetent, an urban Iranian playing
at nomadism, but he told wonderful stories. He told me of Jemal-eddin's
bitter defeat by the Mongol Horde; he told me of Timur, club footed
king of Samarkand who'd sacked India for caravans of gold that bridged
horizons; and he told me of the Wind Horse.
"A very long time ago," he said, "before the seasons were here, when
there was no winter and no summer, but only sunshine without wind or
rain, a herd of golden horses lived on the slopes of the Kopetdag
Mountains. These were the finest horses, Akhaltekin horses, and they
were wanted by every king in the world. But the horses were so fast
that only one man could catch them. He was a Turkmen, the greatest
warrior of his people, stronger than all his brothers, but with
footsteps so quiet that his shoes made no sound when he ran across the
land. His name was Jygalli."
He stopped and passed me some dried peas. It was going to be a long
story so I made myself comfortable, leaning back on my elbows and
imperiously throwing peas into my mouth. Magtumkuli cleared his
throat.
"So, every morning this Jygalli would get up before sunrise and make a
rope from the tails of mares he had caught the day before. Their tails
were fine like a baby's hair, and his rope was so soft that the horses
sighed when it fell around their necks. They were pleased to be caught
by Jygalli and he was pleased to catch them. For they were sold to the
greatest kings in the world and he became very rich. But he was not
happy.
It was not that the herd was getting smaller. Each year the Akhaltekin
horses would give birth to more children, and these children would feed
on the fresh grasses of the Kopetdag until their coats became as thick
and golden as their mothers, and their legs as fine and muscled as
their fathers. Then, when they were full-grown, they would give
themselves willingly to Jygalli. But there was one horse that would
not. A horse whose ears were sharp enough to hear his silent footsteps,
and whose feet were quick enough to outrun his flying rope. And this
horse was a stallion, black as night, black as legends. When the moon
shone brightly upon the mountains, Jygalli would lie awake and dream of
catching this horse, and would picture the glory that would be his when
he led him down from the high fields and into the narrow lanes of the
bazaar. His dreams became his only desire until the other horses seemed
no more than ordinary animals, too easy for his skill. And his passion
grew and grew so that in the hours before sunlight, when he sat outside
his tent and made his rope, he could think only of when the stallion
would be his.
But the stallion's nose was so wide and sensitive that he could smell
Jygalli's ambition, and his love of the mountains was so strong that he
would never stop long enough in the tall grass for Jygalli to get
close. Instead he began to move away from the herd and walk higher and
higher into the Kopetdag. And Jygalli moved higher and higher into the
mountains to follow him. Until at last the stallion moved so high that
Jygalli had no time to catch the other horses, so that in the bazaars
the people began to wonder whether his talents were weakening.
"He is too old," the merchants could be heard saying over their
breakfasts. "Another champion must be found". But Jygalli did not hear
their talk, for he now spent all his time in the mountains watching the
stallion that was always ahead of him.
The air was thinner and Jygalli was finding it harder to keep pace with
his prize. For the first time in his life he was falling over rocks,
and his footsteps that had always been so silent were now a loud
warning to the horse. He smelled Jygalli's need and his legs only grew
stronger as he galloped over the high passes. And as he galloped the
air blew harder from his chest and poured down the slopes until it
became a wind that slowed Jygalli even more. Jygalli had never walked
into such a wind, and its strength raised an anger in him so forceful
that he began to shout with his efforts. But the stallion only ran
faster, and Jygalli only shouted louder. For a hundred and twenty days
they chased each other through the mountains. Always upwards, with the
breath blowing stronger and stronger from the stallion's chest, while
the sweat ran quicker and quicker from Jygalli's body.
But then, just when he was about to give up, the mountains ended. The
stallion had nowhere else to run, and Jygalli at last felt he was close
to the end. He could see his prize stop on the edge of a high cliff,
and the stallion could see him getting closer, the soft hair of his
rope swinging behind him, the sweat running from his body, his cries
shouting through the thin air.
But freedom was everything, so the stallion jumped. And the prize was
everything, so Jygalli jumped after him. The hunter and the hunted
flying into open space.
But the chase was over, because the stallion did not fall, he only ran,
and he ran faster, carried on his breath, until he became his breath,
he became the wind, light and fast rushing over the land. Too fast for
the warrior who had chased him for a hundred and twenty days across the
Kopetdag. Too fast for the cries and sweat that hung heavily in the
air. Too fast for Jygalli who was falling like a rock, chasing only
earth through the emptiness of space.
And in the bazaars the merchants felt the stallion's breath blow across
their faces, they heard Jygalli's cries break loudly over their ears,
and they tasted the river of his sweat as it rained down upon their
heads.
In a time that had never known the rush of wind, or the smell of rain,
or the blast of thunder across the valleys, all three came at once. The
seasons had begun."