Daughter of Xanadu (30 page)

A flash of pain surged across my father’s face, but he waited for me to finish.

“It all seems so pointless now,” I continued. “How can I go on without Suren?”

I had thought he might be angry or say
I told you so
, but he seemed sad. “Suffering is a part of life. I am sorry you had to learn this so young.”

He began to speak in a calm, flowing voice. He told me that he had been a soldier, too, when he was my age. I had not known this. My father had joined the army at the age of sixteen, as the eldest son of Khubilai, who was then a minor prince of the Golden Family. In the army, he had come down with a terrible disease. He could not move and could barely breathe. Many others died of this disease, but he recovered. He had had to learn to use his arms and legs again, which was why he limped.

As he spoke, the tension in my shoulders began to ease. “I was told you fell from a horse,” I said. Such a fall is the ultimate shame for a Mongol.

His lips formed a grim line. “I did, later. I tried to ride too soon, before my legs had regained full strength. That fall made it harder to learn to walk again.”

My heart filled with sympathy.

“For years, I hunted for answers. I wanted to know why I had suffered from this disease. Why I could not lead a normal life like my younger brothers. My mother, the Empress Chabi, was the only one who seemed to understand.”

My mother, in a moment of bitterness, had once blamed the Empress for taking my father away from her. Now I knew why. My father would never have become a Buddhist if
not for his mother. But she had helped him in a moment of turmoil.

“And what of the family you left behind?” I asked him.

“I knew you would be well cared for at court.”

I looked away. It was not a sufficient answer. Growing up, I had felt fatherless. Suren’s father, Prince Chimkin, was always nearby, but he did not take my father’s place.

My father continued. “I tried to quiet my heart, to put aside the difficulties at court. But I see now that I also lost much joy. The joy of watching you grow up.”

My heart lurched. The sorrow in his face had deepened.

“You lost Suren,” he said. “I lost you.”

I watched as his eyes teared up. His loss, unlike mine, had been by choice. We sat in silence a few moments. My bitterness softened.

“So Buddhism does not have all the answers,” I said at last.

He tilted his head, giving my comment serious consideration. “No one has all the answers. But it’s important to keep searching. There is much wisdom in these sutras. Back when I was at court, my heart was in distress. I did not see the world the way other men did. Fighting wars cannot make the world a better place.”

He stopped to check my eyes, as if to see whether I was truly listening. I nodded.

“Every life is worthwhile. Every sentient being, including animals. Even those of the enemy soldiers you killed on the battlefield.”

I looked away, remembering. Some of the dead horses had had frozen expressions of fear. Some of those Burmese
faces had looked like Little Li. At the time, I had hated them all. Did any of them have cousins, like me, who were mourning their deaths?

“The Burmese attacked us,” I said, only half convinced. “They sent a huge army, with elephants, over the border. This battle was their fault.”

He shook his head. “Someone always gives a good reason for war. Sometimes it even has a positive outcome. I would not want to be the Great Khan, making such decisions.”

I could see his point. I had wished so hard that I had been born a boy, the eldest grandson, possible heir to the throne. To have men kowtow to me! I had never understood how my father could give up that honor. Now I was glad I would not inherit such responsibility.

“The Great Khan,” I began. “He has talked of sending an army to invade Christendom.” I wondered if my father had heard about Marco Polo.

“The Khan knows that Tengri, Eternal Heaven, has commanded him to complete the conquest of the world,” said my father. “He senses his grandfather, Chinggis Khan, looking over his shoulder, expecting him to finish the work begun by our ancestors. But the Khan has begun to change his emphasis. He is spending more of his time finding ways to wisely rule the lands we already control.”

“Do you think he could be convinced not to invade Christendom?”

My father looked as if he was trying to figure out my motives. “Christendom? Why Christendom?”

I did not have the courage, or the right words, to explain about Marco. “I don’t want to fight in any more battles. I wish I could stop them somehow.”

He laughed gently. “You don’t sound like a soldier in the Great Khan’s army.”

I shook my head. “I am not sure what to do next. I don’t want to stay in the army. But I do not want to get married. Please.”

My father’s eyes glowed softly. “There is another path. You could become a nun, like my sister here, Miaoyan.” He indicated the young nun sitting by the wall.

I looked at her in surprise. I had not recognized her as one of my father’s many younger sisters. I did not know her well, and without her braids, she looked different.

“Aunt Miaoyan Beki,” I said to her, bowing my head in respect.

She smiled and nodded.

“Miaoyan came to me, about a year ago, just as you have come today. She asked many questions. She became a nun just five months ago.”

I felt as if two walls were closing in on me, one on each side. I had not come here to enter a nunnery.

My father reacted to my look of consternation. “I will not force you. This choice must come from your heart.”

Miaoyan spoke up in a soft voice. “Emmajin Beki. This life is right for me, I know that with certainty. But living here has many restrictions. You should take your time before deciding if it’s right for you.”

Their suggestion jarred me, since it was so at odds with the way I had lived my life. But in my despair, it seemed tempting to retreat to this peaceful place. I would miss Marco, but we had no future together. Perhaps I could say good-bye to him, then enter the nunnery with my heart at peace.

I promised my father I would think about it. Miaoyan
said I could stay that night with her, at the nunnery nearby. It was too late to return home that day, anyway.

After leaving my father, I went, alone, to the Temple of Guanyin. As I entered the temple, my eyes went straight to the large, central statue of the goddess of mercy. In this Chinese manifestation, as Guanyin, she had a look of gentleness but seemed remote. On an altar in front of her were an incense burner, several plates of dried fruit, and some metal religious objects.

Guanyin was not really a goddess; my father had told me that. She was a bodhisattva: an ordinary woman who had meditated and studied Buddhism deeply enough to enter Nirvana, the highest state of enlightenment. But instead of entering Nirvana, she had returned to earth, to help the rest of us become more enlightened. That sacrifice was the ultimate in compassion.

Butter candles burned steadily in the quiet.

As my eyes adjusted to the semidarkness, I began walking around the temple, trying to think clearly after the conversation. On a side wall in one nook was a brightly painted mural. Clearly, it had been added recently, to give a lively Mongolian flavor to what was otherwise a serious Chinese temple. At first the colors seemed too bright. But then I looked at the detail.

With a start, I realized that I was face to face with Tara, the Mongolian version of Guanyin. I pulled the silver amulet out of my sash; yes, the images were almost the same. But on the mural, nearly life-sized, Tara seemed alive.

This Tara looked young, with a plump face of smooth jade-white skin, arched eyebrows, a slim and graceful figure. Adorned with jewelry on her ears and neck and wrists, she
sat on an open lotus, holding a blue flower on a long stem. Her expression was sweet and consoling.

Tara had an extra eye, set sideways, in her forehead, and also an eye on the palm of each hand and the sole of each foot. Each one was a thick black line, but nonetheless recognizable as an eye. Seven eyes altogether. Ever vigilant, she could see all suffering in the world. Her eyes were gentle, not judging. Yet she could see right through my rough exterior, past my bold name of Emmajin and my status as a soldier, into my soul.

As her eyes locked onto mine, I felt my turmoil melt like butter in hot sun. Her compassion flowed into me, through my eyes, down my throat, into the deepest parts of my body. The amulet glowed warm in my palm.

A beam of clear thinking shone into my mind. I could not flee from the world and become a nun. It was not in my nature. I needed to go back out into the world and do whatever I could to save Christendom and Marco. To make future battles unnecessary. To build a bridge between our people, the Mongols, and those from faraway lands.

I knew this suddenly, standing before the image of Tara, born of tears, whose compassion for living beings was stronger than a mother’s love for her children. She had come back into the world to help people like me. She was in my father; she was in Princess Miaoyan. She was, from that moment, in me.

Breathing deeply, I lost track of time. In that place, I was not a warrior—not even a granddaughter of the Khan—or a princess who loved Marco Polo. The boundaries between me and the world around me faded. I was becoming something new, something I could not quite figure out, yet it filled me with calm.

T
he next morning, I took leave of my father. I explained that I needed time to figure out what I would do, but I doubted I could become a nun. He blessed me and sent me back into the world. The tension between us had melted away.

As I was leaving, I noticed a short, wide woman dressed in elegant silks—my grandmother Chabi. Although her moon-shaped face was not beautiful, she emanated regal dignity.

“Honored grandmother,” I said, falling to my knees to kowtow.

“No need,” she said. “You are returning to Khanbalik today? Ride with me.”

Like all the grandchildren, I was a little afraid of my grandmother. She was the highest ranking of Khubilai Khan’s four wives. She seldom spent time with us or her daughters-in-law, who also feared her. She seemed stern, and I expected a lecture from her.
Become a nun. It’s your only
choice
, I imagined her telling me. As far as I knew, Chabi had never stepped out of the role expected of her as Empress.

To my surprise, my grandmother insisted on riding her own horse. Other royal women rode in closed carriages, suspended from poles carried on porters’ shoulders.

Chabi sat erect and confident in her wooden saddle, which was covered with gold and silver medallions. She gestured for me to ride just behind her, near the front of her traveling party, which included armed guards. I didn’t want to discuss my decision and was relieved when she kept silent as we rode together single file down the hillside.

Once we reached the flat land, the Empress gestured for me to ride next to her. “Do you see, girl, the contrast in greens?” she said. “That fresh, light green of the new leaves on the broadleaf trees against the darker color of the evergreens?”

Startled, I didn’t know what to say. She had an accent from her native tribe, the Naimans, who were once our enemies. Her marriage had sealed our alliance with them.

“Notice the dappled shadows on the road, so clear in this bright sunlight. And do you see? The blue of the sky is deeper back there, above the hills, than it is overhead. Look at the red-brown of the earth. These are the natural colors of our world.”

It was not what I had expected her to say. I examined my surroundings. True, this early-spring day was achingly beautiful. The sun warmed my arms. Each color grew more vivid after she mentioned it.

“The sun rises each day, even after we have lost a loved one,” she said.

So she knew of my suffering. I looked away. Suren had been her grandson, but she could not possibly feel his loss as
deeply as I did. Still, I appreciated her compassion. We rode on in silence.

“In a few days,” she said after a while, “the young emperor of China will arrive in Khanbalik, with his mother and grandmother.”

“Will they be executed immediately?”

The Empress gazed into the blue sky. “That decision is up to the Great Khan. I have spoken to him about this matter. I hope he will change his mind and not kill them.”

I couldn’t believe her words. “But they resisted our troops for so many years. Thousands of our soldiers died. Won’t the Khan need to punish them?”

“The boy emperor had no part in these decisions. His grandmother, the Empress Dowager, chose to spare the lives of her people by surrendering without a fight.”

“But … won’t our people insist on an execution, to celebrate our victory?”

Chabi sighed. “One day, our dynasty, too, will come to an end. How would you want our descendants to be treated?”

It had never occurred to me that our dynasty would come to an end. We Mongols, the strongest and the best, ruled the world because Tengri had decreed we should. The Khan’s destiny was to complete this conquest. How could his empress even imagine the day when Mongol rule would end?