Now that he’s mounted, Aibek seems more childlike. I watch him take off after Uncle. I can almost forget the scene of him slapping his sister last night. Instead, boy and monk play at chasing each other. Maybe they are indeed old friends, so old in fact that the one can periodically ignore the other, the casualness of their meeting as if to say, Ah, you again?

  Both Aibek and his horse are wearing their finest clothes, the two of them ready to impress at today’s event. As he gallops about, Aibek’s eagle stays solidly perched on the bajah in which Aibek rests his arm, the bajah Y-shaped and attached to the saddle so that one can travel great distances with a six-kilo bird resting on one’s forearm.

  I search among our party, but Chala is not present. I wonder if she is to stay behind with the grandmother, the two of them left to look after the animals and do the milking, the animals with their animal demands rigid as any clock. But halfway to the festival site I spot a figure on a distant hill. From her horse she looks down on us, a huntress and her bird. Then Chala rides down out of the hills, and falls in place behind her brother.

  A Hunger Turns On in Their Blood

  We come around a bend and the landscape opens up. Down on the dusty plain hundreds of people are already gathered, a large rectangular area marked off and the spectators clustered around the edges. People coming from all over Bayan-Olgii Province, from as far north as the Siberian border, from places a two-day drive away or even a week on foot. This is their chance to show off their birds and to gather tips and pointers, to see friends old and new. On Chala’s arm her eagle unfolds its wings and gives a shriek as if to announce its arrival.

  We ride into the thick of things. I can feel the eaglers eyeing each other. Despite the fact that almost two hundred square kilometers are represented, most of the challengers know one another. Chala’s older brother Kirill rides beside Uncle, filling him in on the details of each competitor. He points out a man resplendent in regalia lined with the silver fur of a wolf, the man sparkling in the sunlight. Kirill mentions that the man wins last year’s competition and is favored to win this year as well. I can see that the hood his bird wears contains coral and silver embedded in the black leather. It makes the bird look like a warrior, like something out of the age of warlords and Khaans.

  Kirill says there is grumbling among the eaglers about the way the man in the silver fur treats his bird. Though no one can say for sure, allegedly the bird the man flies is with him for more than ten years, some saying as many as fifteen. Tradition dictates that when a man partners with a bird for ten years, he must kill a sheep and lay the carcass on a mountainside as an offering of thanks. Then he must untie the strings attached to the eagle’s feet, unhood the creature one last time, and let her go. Each eagle must be given the chance to live her own life, start her own family. Because the birds are often taken as fledglings, at ten years of age the females, which are the ones trained due to their larger size, begin to grow restless. A hunger turns on in their blood. Despite this call of nature, Kirill says there are stories of eagles returning to their handlers after being released. One famous story says that during one winter’s killing zud, which left half the area’s livestock dead, as one family teeters on the brink of starvation, from time to time they wake to find a dead rabbit or fox outside their door, each body with the telltale talon marks at the back of the neck.

  The fact that this man in the silver fur hunts with the same eagle for so many years gives him an unfair advantage, says Kirill. Raising a new bird is time consuming. As we ride by, Aibek shoots the man a look of such disdain, as if the man is his inferior, that for a moment I imagine Aibek riding in a palanquin through the streets of Lhasa, a regent on his way to see his king.

  Karim runs her fingers through the fur of her son’s coat, smoothing the hair. It’s hot, and standing in the sun in a landscape with few trees, I don’t envy him. He holds still and lets his mother fawn over him. At one point she licks a finger and wipes his face, though I cannot see any dirt. Chala doesn’t wear any of the traditional clothes of the eagle hunter. All she wears is the special leather glove. Despite its thickness, the bird can still crush her wrist, exerting almost three thousand kilopascals with its talons.

  There Is No Animosity Between Us

  This is a one-day competition. The Golden Eagle Festival for which the area is famed is actually held in October before the start of the hunting season. Now that we are in the peak of summer, this festival is much smaller and only started up in the last few years for the benefit of foreign tourists, many of whom are in the country to see Naadam. Often younger trainers participate in this festival as well as the more seasoned eaglers, men with years of experience who are looking to put their birds through their paces, birds that perhaps are young or out of shape, some lethargic and fat, as there is no true hunting in the summer, only training in the long pale summer nights.

  Though the people here are Kazakhs, several come over to shake Uncle’s hand. Already word is spreading that a Buddhist lama is traveling in the area. Despite the fact that most of the people in this province are Muslim, there is no animosity between us the way there is in some countries in other parts of Asia, countries where Muslims and Buddhists are at war with each other, which Uncle says distresses His Holiness to no end.

  Someone gives a sharp whistle. The contestants begin massing on horseback. Together they make for a nearby hill and momentarily disappear behind it. A man begins to play the Mongolian national anthem through the speakers of his car. As the music plays, the eaglers reappear from the shadow of the hill and stream into the clearing behind someone carrying the flag of Mongolia. Among the riders Aibek adjusts his hat. I look at Chala. She is smiling, her cheeks pink and dewy with sweat. She turns her horse toward where the others are now lining up and rides off, the bird a good head taller than she is. She is the only girl among the riders, but I only know because I know. If you don’t look for it, you would never see a difference between her and the others. If there is any difference, it is that she carries herself like a true horse lord.

  Happiness Is Infectious

  The first event is essentially a beauty contest. One by one the contestants trot by the judges’ table. The contestants show off not only their riding skills but also the magnificence of their birds. Despite the high heat of summer, last year’s winner glitters like mica in his silvery wolf fur. His horse is also robed in white, ribbons plaited through its mane, its tail braided and shining. The man in the wolfskin looks as if he rides straight out of the days of Chinggis Khaan, his bearing regal, his bird equally haughty.

  There is no order. Older trainers mix with the younger ones, who appear to be teenagers. Aibek and Chala are the youngest.

  When his turn comes, Aibek rides out, his clothes made from the skins of multiple animals—rabbits and foxes, a wolf as well. Aibek doesn’t smile. He rides as if he owns the world. One judge gives him a nine, perhaps because of the family he hails from, but most others give him fives or sixes. Technically there is nothing he does wrong. Perhaps there is something about the way he carries himself that makes one want to remind him he is only a child.

  When Chala’s moment comes, she takes a deep breath and spurs her horse on. In many ways, she rides too quickly, which doesn’t give the judges time to admire the bird, but in her case, it’s not important. The rapport she has with her eagle is apparent. Her happiness is infectious. She gathers a few nines, but mostly eights. The audience claps as she rides out, the women clapping the hardest, though several of the older men do not hide their disapproval.

  Savor the Moment All Year Long

  In between events, the spectators play games for fun. As we wait for the contestants to prepare themselves for the next portion of the competition, we watch as an animal skin is tossed among a group of riders. Two men at a time vie to wrestle the skin out of each other’s hands while staying on horseback. It is comical to watch. The men sit astride their horses, each man with a hand on the pelt. The two ride around among the others, who cluster about until one of the two men is vanquished, then the others simultaneously try to land a hand on the fur in order to have their shot at it.

  Because the eaglers are not yet in place, a different game breaks out when the first one ends. In this, men gallop around on horseback trying to throw the headless body of a goat into a basket. The men ride hard against one another. At one point, two horses collide and go down, but no one is hurt. The game lasts only a few minutes. In that time, no one scores.

  Later, toward the end of the day, several of the women get a chance to mount and show their skills. In this game, a man rides out after his wife who has a head start, and tries to capture the scarf wrapped around her neck. The two ride around a cone. On their way back to the starting line, they reverse positions. Instead, the woman tries to land a few blows with a small whip as she chases her husband.

  When Chala’s parents take their turn, I can see where Chala gets her riding skills from. Karim outrides Makhmud the whole way; he never comes within an arm’s length of her. After racing around the cone, she whips him several times, her blows so hard I can hear each one. Something in her face tells me this feels good, that she savors this moment all year long until the next competition.

  I wonder what would happen if I play this game with my twin, who would whip whom, how satisfying it would feel to make physical the struggle between us. I look over and see Mun staring at me. When he nods at me, I realize the thought I am thinking is his.

  Disaster!

  Everyone is in position. For this event, a helper looses the bird from the top of a nearby outcrop. Each animal is timed to see how long it takes the creature to land on the arm of its trainer far below on the dusty plain. The first bird is let go; the stopwatch starts. The bird comes swooping down from the rocks, its wingspan almost three meters, its shadow gliding along the earth like a cloud, and in one perfect move it lands on its trainer’s arm. The crowd claps. The judge calls out a time. Nine point three seconds. Excellent. Anything under ten seconds is good.

  The next bird is released. I hold my breath. Disaster! The bird goes sailing over its trainer’s head and keeps going, banking back toward where it comes from and away over the ridge. The man hangs his head. People clap all the same though there is also laughter.

  For the next hour it is like this. Some birds making straight for their trainers, other taking side trips, others going where they will. Aibek takes his position on the plain. From the outcrop Kirill lets the eagle go. Quickly the bird flutters into a craggy nook nestled in the shade. Aibek calls out in rage, but the bird does not budge. One of the judges comes forward with a dead animal tied on a string and hands it to Aibek. Aibek takes the lure and walks back and forth on horseback, running the carcass along the ground. Eventually the bird takes off and flies down, swooping onto the desiccated corpse. Aibek scoops up his bird and rides off the field.

  Chala’s bird also has a mind of its own. It doesn’t come immediately to her arm, but flies overhead circling on the wind. For a moment it seems to stall, hanging in the air before diving like a hammer and harrowing one of the smaller horses tethered by the side of the field, the animal’s coloring gray and silvery, much like a wolf’s. The eagle persists until someone drives it off with a stick. The spectators remain silent. After it menaces the horse, the eagle flies to Chala and perches on the bajah. The little girl rubs her face in its feathers. Coolly the eagle rearranges its wings.

  Perfection!

  The last event is a simulated hunt. We watch as once again each eagler climbs the ridge on horseback, then releases his bird into the air. Down below, someone scurries along the ground dragging the body of a fox tied on a rope. Kirill explains that this is how young birds are trained. Some eaglers tie their birds to poles so that each time they attempt to fly away, they get thwarted after just a few meters, the rope tethering them to the earth. Then, when the birds learn not to flee, the men untie them from the pole, though their feet are always kept bound, and when they are ready, they lengthen the rope little by little and release the bird, letting it land on the carcass that the handler drags along the ground.

  When his turn comes, Aibek’s eagle performs well. Within seconds, she comes thundering out of the sky, her powerful talons squeezing the lure. People clap. She won’t let go. Nobody can get her off the corpse. It is only after Aibek rides down the ridge and takes her up on his arm that she loosens her grip.

  Only Chala remains standing on the outcrop with the bird on her arm. She cuts a forlorn figure, silhouetted against the sky. One of the judges resignedly raises his arm to give the signal. The lure is positioned. A few mothers with small children pull their children closer.

  The eagle comes screaming out of the air. Perfection! She lands on the lure, tearing it with her feet. Quickly Chala rides down from the butte. Nobody approaches the bird to remove the lure from its talons until this young girl does it herself as if taking a toy from a naughty child.

  As This Is the Century of Women

  The man in the silver wolfskin places second. Perhaps the rumors about the age of his bird are just too much. The bird’s performance is perfect, as if it spends whole lifetimes wafting on the currents back to the arm of its trainer. Maybe in another life, the two are king and commoner, master and servant. Instead, first place goes to a seventeen-year-old boy whose eagle performs well.

  There is no reason for anyone in our contingent to hang their head over Aibek’s or Chala’s performance. Makhmud is in good spirits. Even Chala’s eagle’s terrorizing the small horse doesn’t seem to foul his thoughts. For the first time all day I see him smile as other eaglers congratulate him.

  Because there are things he would like to discuss, Makhmud and his family remain chatting with the other eaglers. There are questions about the government in Kazakhstan’s latest offer, the government there eager to bring the Kazakh diaspora home to the motherland. This time they are offering land and business prospects. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, fifty thousand Mongolian Kazakhs head west to Kazakhstan, but ten years later when Kazakhstan doesn’t prove to be the land where flowers rain from the sky, twenty thousand of them come back.

  Many of the other eaglers travel from far enough away that they intend to camp out on the dusty plain for the night. In celebration there is to be music and singing and food and drink. Toward the end of the night there may also be fighting. Chala offers to take us back while her family discusses politics. We ride slowly as Little Bat is on foot, carefully picking our way over the butte from which the eaglers launch their birds. There are other buttes beyond this, each one tall and thin, a piece of flint set on edge. It should take us an hour to reach home.

  Too bad Aibek’s not with us, says Mun. Now would be the perfect time to question him.

  Would it, murmurs Uncle. The sack he is carrying rattles lightly. I feel a breeze caress my shoulder. A ripple radiates through the muscles of the horse I am riding. And just like that, I realize the mistake clouding our thinking. The way my twin and I make certain assumptions when the facts point elsewhere. This is the power of what the Buddha calls “misknowledge,” how it blinds us to truth.

  Little Aibek is not the candidate. Last year His Holiness the Dalai Lama says that as this is the century of women, maybe He Himself might choose to reincarnate as such. Chala is just up the path. Yesterday when we arrive here in the westernmost region of Mongolia, I believe it is to evaluate her brother, as that is what seems most logical. But now I realize that consciousness knows no boundaries as it migrates from vessel to vessel.

  Uncle rides toward Chala. When the chance arises, he leads her off the path and dismounts in an auspicious place. In time he pulls out the three items he carries with him. He lays them on the ground and listens to what she has to say.

  This Is Not for Show

  The cat comes out of nowhere. A mountain lynx. It jumps up on a rock. My horse whinnies and bucks, but I manage to stay on. Mun is not so lucky. We are at the rear of our group. The cat is right in front of him. His horse goes up on two legs. In a flash Mun tumbles off. I feel an immense pain in my wrist. Instantly I know it is broken. That is the least of our worries. Two small tawny heads appear in a crevice on the other side of the path. Her cubs. She is ready to kill anything in her way, and right now, Mun is in her way.

  The lynx shifts her weight to her back haunches, prepares to pounce. This is not for show, a demonstration meant to make the other creature turn back. This is an attack to protect her offspring. Mun cradles his arm. I can feel his heart pounding. I stir my horse into action, putting it in between the cat and Mun, the whole time my wrist also throbbing, my mind seeing everything at once.

  Then the hammer falls. The lynx is startled. She twists and swats, clawing. The eagle is on her back, the bird riding the lynx the way a man rides a maddened yak. Uncle is thundering straight for Mun. He scoops him up onto his mount smooth as any horseman. I turn my horse and ride to be far away on the other side of the lynx and her babies.

  Farther up the path we regroup. Chala stands on a ridge and gives a sharp whistle. The eagle releases the lynx and rises up into the air, a small cloud dark and furious. The cat is not seriously hurt, though there are scars to come from the attack. Blood is lost, but life is not taken. The lynx flattens herself to the earth and slinks across the path toward her cubs.