Kasar was jealous of him, as was Jamuga Sechen, for at times it appeared to them that Temujin loved Subodai more than themselves. But at other times Temujin was uneasy with Subodai, and seemed impatient, and would avoid him. These were the times, commented Kurelen, when Temujin’s actions would not conspicuously bear the light of day.
For the rest, Subodai was a flutist of marvellous accomplishment, and when he played it seemed to many that it was not a silver instrument he held in his lips, but that it was the very voice of his spirit that they heard. Through the medium of his flute Subodai’s heart was made manifest, so poignant and thrilling in every note that solemn tears would rise to the eyes of those who heard.
When Subodai was amused, he did not laugh outright like the hearty Mongols, who loved laughter almost as much as they loved hunting and raiding. But his entire face, from his eyes down to his lips, became illuminated, and at once he seemed the very soul of mirth and lightness.
It was significant, thought Kurelen, as the young men rode so gallantly into the tent village, that they had assumed the appropriate places about Temujin, who rode in the center of his followers. On his right hand was his anda, Jamuga Sechen, on his left, Subodai, the chivalrous. Behind him trotted the simple and faithful Kasar. Cavorting wildly back and forth, making forays, falling behind, galloping up and circling, with shouts, came the gay adventurer Chepe Noyon. But always, like a lodestone, Temujin drew about him, magnetically and irresistibly, the bodies and hearts of his followers. This vehement and tempestuous youth, with the angry gray eyes and the violent profile, had a mysterious and nameless power which none could oppose.
The spoils of the hunt having been distributed, the spirits of the young men were still high. The moon had risen now, and the distant hills had turned as black as polished ebony under its argent light, their rounded tops plated with bright silver. The long grasses of the steppes had become luminously gray, rolling like a spectral sea before the wind. The limitless sky was flooded with a milky radiance, and the air, sharp and clear as crystal, had an exciting quality in it.
The young men raced, shouting and screaming, over the steppes, cracking their whips furiously, standing up in their stirrups, their belted coats floating stiffly behind them. The dogs scampered after them, barking wildly, nipping at the heels of the galloping and rearing horses. The old men came to the doors of their yurts, and grinning, watched the race, their faded eyes bright with envy. The maidens clapped and laughed, the children shrieked. The women beside the orange campfires stirred the pots and smiled with excitement. The camels screamed thinly, tugging at their ropes; the other horses, mad with jealousy, neighed and reared. Even the cattle and the sheep lowed and bleated. When the young men finally returned to the ordu, their horses were white with foam.
Temujin and his followers gathered around Kurelen’s fire, ably tended by the mute and devoted Chassa. It was not only love that brought them. They had long ago learned that in Kurelen’s pot could be found the choicest meat and the richest gravy. In some way, he always contrived to have Turkish and Chinese sweetmeats in his silver boxes. His leather bags were always bursting with wine and kumiss. If milk were short in the ordu, it could always be found about Kurelen’s fire. Then, after dining to the point of bursting, the young men usually could persuade him to sing them the strangest songs, which stirred their blood and filled them with mysterious longing. Here they could laugh and joke and box and wrestle freely, confident of sympathy and friendship. They knew that Kurelen loved youth, however wry his tongue, and that he admired them profoundly for their beauty, strength and fearlessness. Kurelen had no dogs, for he detested them. Temujin, who had never rid himself of his terror of them, could come here and not be forced to conceal that terror from the eyes of his followers. When the young men boasted, Kurelen did not eye them with the quizzical jocoseness and acid smiles of the old men, who hated them, and envied them. Rather, he listened, one eyebrow streaking up towards his long black hair, a smile of mingled affection, interest and amusement on his long lean face. Even when he spoke venomously, they could laugh, knowing that it was mostly venom directed against himself, or at the worst, it was good-natured.
Temujin ate with a monster appetite this night. Some inner fire and excitement seemed to devour him. He drank until Kurelen, was obliged to take the sacks away from him, with a ribald and pointed remark. He insisted that each of his followers wrestle with him, and even when he threw them, one after another, the flame that consumed him did not seem quenched or lessened. His eyes glittered in the mingled firelight and moonlight. His breath was hard and audible and quick. He could not sit down, but stood near the fire, his legs straddled, his hands on his hips, his mouth stretched in panting laughter. Despite the coldness of the air, he had opened his coat and his wool robe, and his bronzed chest was damp and glistening with hot sweat.
“Sing us a song!” he cried to his uncle, and stirred up the fire to a roaring blaze.
So Kurelen sang, and those about all the near and distant campfires became quiet, as that supernal voice floated strongly and sweetly to the stars. He first sang one of Temujin’s favorite songs:
“I shall die in the saddle all booted and spurred,
I shall die with my sword in my hand.
Though oft have I faltered and oft have I erred,
As the great and the small in the land—
This be my story, wheree’er man hath trod:
He died in the saddle, he died like a god!”
“Yes, yes!” shouted Temujin, panting. “I shall die in the saddle! I shall die like a god! But not before I am Emperor of all men, the Perfect Warrior, the Mighty Ruler!”
His followers screamed with laughter at this grandiloquent statement. Chepe Noyon cried: “Khan of forty thousand tents! It is a brave empire!”
Temujin thrust out with his leg, and Chepe Noyon rolled out of his way. Then Temujin, the laughter gone from his face, glared about at his surprised friends, his dark face wrinkling and grimacing with tempestuous fury, his eyes flaming. Kurelen, about to rebuke him, suddenly was silent. He narrowed his own eyes, and thoughtfully bit his lip.
“Who is the camel who wisheth to laugh now?” cried Temujin.
Jamuga Sechen said quietly, with distaste: “Sit down, Temujin. Thou hast too much kumiss in thy belly.”
Temujin swung on him with rage. “It is said of thee, Jamuga, that thy liver is yellow, and that it spews bile into thy blood.”
Jamuga said nothing, but all at once his pale and rigid face became like bleached stone. He lifted his eyes quietly, and fixed them with a steadfast and piercing look upon the face of his anda. All the others were suddenly silent.
Temujin’s eyes were caught and held by Jamuga’s, and then his cheek flushed with shame and confusion. Kurelen thought it time to interfere.
“For a ‘Perfect Warrior’ thou hast the tongue of a windbreaking old woman, Temujin. Thou art as swollen as an overfilled bladder. Go quietly and relieve thyself, and we will wait for thee.”
The young men grinned. Temujin, panting again, his face the color of congested blood, glared at them. But Jamuga was not smiling. He had averted his head. His eyes, fixed upon the distant hills, were cold and inscrutable.
As if the words came from him without his will, and tempestuously, Temujin exclaimed: “Forgive me, Jamuga.”
Jamuga, without turning to him, without moving his eyes from the hills, said quietly: “I have already forgiven thee.”
Temujin, with an amazing drop of his spirits, sat down. He looked at his friends. Chepe Noyon was laughing a little. Kasar was glancing about, fiercely, ready to defend his brother from any ridicule, now that he was chastened. But Subodai was regarding him gravely and in silence, his beautiful face calm. It was that look that struck most sorely on Temujin’s heart, and he vowed again, as he had vowed a thousand times before, that he must better control his unruly tongue, which was like a sword that wounded his friends. He resolved that tomorrow he would give Jamuga his most cherished poss
ession, a Chinese dagger whose silver hilt was rough with turquoises. But he reflected miserably that Jamuga’s feelings were not quickly soothed and healed. It would be several days before confidence would be restored between them. In the meantime, he, Temujin. would suffer intensely. It was during times like these that he realized how deep was his love for his anda. He loathed himself.
Subodai had asked Kurelen for his own favorite song, and now Kurelen’s voice rose again, passionate and melancholy, and again the distant campfires listened, and even the herds were silent.
“And unto me a radiant angel came,
With wings of light within a silver rain,
And in his hands, as shining as the moon,
He held the brimming wine of goblets twain.
In tones like sweetest flute he gently spake:
‘Of these two goblets thou a choice must make.
And never more, though endless suns will roll,
Canst thou recant, and of its mate partake.
In this bright cup, I hold within this hand,
Is joy eternal, in a crystal land,
Where love and life, like two immortal flames,
Burn high together from a single brand.
Thyself shalt live, where mirth alone abides,
Untouched, unchanged, while all the tides
Of change and ruin and death turn earth to dust,
And lonely in the heavens the dark sun rides.
But in this nether cup is only peace,
And only darkness and the pale release
That follows on the grave. Here is no pain,
But endless silence when thy heart doth cease.
No joy is here, no ecstasy sublime,
No sweet awareness of a scented clime.
No love, no laughter, only marble eyes
And marble lips forever mute in time,’
And troubled did I raise my glances up,
And said unto the angel, ‘I shall sup
Without regret, but with a weary sigh,
Of that pale wine within the nether cup.’”
Only the loveliness of his voice held the interest of the listeners, save for Jamuga, Subodai and Temujin. For no one understood, but these three, and then with curious and various understanding. Subodai’s beautiful face became more sad and grave; a wan restlessness moved like the shadow of rippling water over Jamuga’s eyes. But Temujin’s face darkened and tightened, as though he felt some secret contempt. He said: “That is the song of old men.”
He stood up. He looked about him with an eye that was suddenly wild and dark. And then he lifted his head and gazed piercingly at the sky. The firelight illuminated with a red glow the lower part of his face. But over this red shadow his eyes were in shadow, yet strangely, more potent because of this.
No one saw Bektor moving silently near by. No one saw him pause, nor saw his features assume an expression of black bitterness and gloomy hatred.
Chapter 13
Yesukai called his son, Temujin, to him. He sat in his yurt, with the Shaman at his side, and two old men. Temujin, impatient, stood before his father, while Yesukai surveyed him thoroughly from head to foot.
“Thou art old enough to be betrothed, my son,” he said at last. “I have it in my mind to take thee to the tents of the Olhonod, where they have fair maidens with good dowries. Make thyself ready. For, as thou dost know, thou wilt remain with the parents of thy betrothed. Thou mayest take with thee two friends who will remain with thee for a time, to comfort thee so that thou wilt not regret thy home.”
His lined brown face softened for a moment, as he gazed at his son. Surely no man had a more comely. But Temujin was scowling with dismay.
“Am I to go now, my father?”
“This hour. Make haste, Temujin. Our horses are already saddled.”
Temujin went to the yurt of his mother. Being a practical woman, she would hear no complaints from him. “Thou art old enough to be betrothed,” she said, repeating Yesukai. “But when thou art married, thou wilt return to the ordu of thy father, and when he hath died, thou wilt be the khan.”
She gave him a little silver box of perfumed ointment for his bride. She smiled at him, her gray eyes bright with indulgent affection. “Give me many grandsons, my child,” she said. She put her long palms against his cheeks in a swift embrace. It pleased her and aroused her pride that he was so tall and handsome. “No man liveth to himself alone. At the appointed hour he must take up the sword of duty. He who shirks must die. It hath always been so.”
Kurelen listened to Temujin’s angry plaint philosophically. The crippled man thrust his finger with a ribald gesture into the other’s breast. “What! Art thou not a man? If thou art not, return to thy father, and plead for more time.”
Temujin flushed with fury. He looked at Kurelen’s grinning face, and for the first time in his life he was seized with a desire to strike it. While he struggled with the impulse, Kurelen, still laughing, opened one of his chests and withdrew from it two wide bracelets of silver, cunningly cut. The silver seemed spun of cobwebs, so fine was it, so delicately fashioned. The design was of a climbing and flowering vine, and the petals were made of turquoises and dark red stones. Kurelen hung them lovingly on his fingers, and forgetting his brief rage, Temujin squatted on his haunches and admired the trinkets.
“Ah,” said Kurelen, softly, and dropped them off his fingers into Temujin’s eager hands. His eyes narrowed a little with regret, but he smiled. Then he put his hand into the chest again, and brought out a wide and heavy necklace to match. Temujin could not repress a cry of pleasure as the necklace tinkled and clashed over his fingers.
“May she be sufficiently fair to add luster to these baubles,” said Kurelen. “And may her virtue be as precious. It is said she who weareth these will never lack for sons.”
He added, while Temujin thrust the bracelets over his fingers to study the effect: “May thy wife love thee above all other things. Our people scorn the love of women as a worthless thing. We ask only they be pleasant in our beds and bear us many children. But that is because we are barbarians. Know that, in truth, Temujin, nothing is more precious than the love of the woman we desire, and that that love is water in a desert, a horse among enemies, a sword in battle, and a warm hearth. It is a fortress and a refuge. He who hath such a woman hath a jewel above all price, and all heaven with it.”
Temujin was surprised. He looked up, expecting to see a quizzical smile on his uncle’s face. But Kurelen’s expression was somber and weary.
“Hast thou ever loved, Kurelen?” he asked, astonished. He looked about him. Chassa sat near by, weaving hair into a rope. But she answered Temujin’s glance with a strange smile, and bent her head.
“Yes,” answered Kurelen, tranquilly. His face was as bland as new milk, and as without expression. “But, go thou: thy father is calling thee.”
When Temujin had gone, Kurelen sat in deep silence for a long time, his hands hanging limply between his knees. Finally he looked up, and caught Chassa regarding him with an aspect of sorrowful yearning. He reached out and took her hand, and as he did so, a scarlet flood ran over her face.
“I should have given thee to a virile man a long time ago, Chassa,” he said, gently.
She burst into tears. She laid her head on his knees. “Nay, master! Nay, master,” She kissed his feet in a frenzy of humble passion and grief.
He laid his hand gently on her head, and a look of wonder and gratitude brightened in his eyes. Love is not to be despised, he thought, almost with humility, even when it is made manifest in a poor creature like this, or even in a dog. It is wine of priceless vintage, and becometh no less intoxicating in an earthen cup than in a golden one.
Temujin chose Subodai and Chepe Noyon and Jamuga Sechen to accompany him and his father to the ordu of his betrothed. After their first dismay, the youths became hilarious and eager for adventure. Even Jamuga laughed more than usual. Temujin teased him because he was not betrothed, and Jamuga vowed that he would be marr
ied before him. But Subodai only smiled, and rode a little faster, his eyes fixed ahead.
They rode towards the sunset, their hoods pulled over their heads, for the air was rapidly cooling. They had long ago left the fertile meadows, and were now riding slowly over the broken floor of the desert, which was flooded with the blood-red light of the dying sun. Here were tossed huge boulders, black as ebony, crusted with prophyritic sparks. Two great smooth pillars of stone stood before them, like the ruined, gateways of a temple. In the distance reared shattered ramparts with ribbed and flattened tops and sides, black against the consuming heavens. The Mongols encountered no other living creatures in this awful universe of red fire and black boulders and sparkling crimson earth and frightful loneliness. Soon they were overcome with awe, their eyes glancing, appalled, at the limitless flaming sky and the limitless ruined earth, which were imbued with the supernatural light of hell, and the unshaking silence of death. Their horses felt their apprehension, and shied when their hooves struck with a ringing sound on some smaller rock, and shattered it into fragments. The whites of their eyes caught the red radiance, and blazed, rolling.
And then, as they rose upon a shallow terrace, an unearthly scene met their eyes at the left. A great misty lake, shadowy blue and violet, lay in a sunken valley, its vague shores strewn with dark purple pyramids of stone. There it floated, cool and lost, catching no red light from the red heavens, its outlines nebulous and pale, its waters as fixed as shadow-filled glass. There was something terrible in the aspect of this remote and motionless water, which had the appearance of a dream in the fiery twilight. Immobile yet drifting, it seemed almost at hand, and then again, a hundred leagues away, deepening and paling in its hues of dim turquoise and amethyst. Its margins mingled with and faded into the red desert, without vegetation.