Eye of Flame (27 page)

“I thought,” she said, “that this food was for the tiger.”

“It’s for us as well. That tiger would come even without the meat I set out. It isn’t a tiger, you see.”

“What is it?”

“A ghost. Bughu should have seen that for himself from the start, when Daritai’s dogs wouldn’t fight it.”

Khokakhchin made a sign. “Why did you bring me here? What good can I do you? I swore that I would never meddle in magic again after what I brought upon my people.”

“You have power I can use, Old Woman Khokakhchin. But that isn’t the only reason you’re here. My dream told me that the tiger is seeking you.”

She forced herself to eat the piece of lamb, nearly choking on the food. “You aren’t a shaman yet,” she said. “You’re still learning how to be one. How do you know—”

“Be quiet, old woman. The tiger is not far away.”

She listened, but heard nothing. Jali-gulug was staring at the entrance. He had not even brought a small drum to beat upon, to aid him in calling upon the spirits. She wondered how many chants he had mastered, how many spells he had learned to cast.

The smokeholes of Tengri glittered in the night sky. The plain outside glowed blue; there were no clouds to hide the full moon. Jali-gulug set his weapons at his side; he had brought along his bow, a quiver of arrows, and a sword, for all the good they would do him. No man would willingly hunt a tiger. Everyone knew how dangerous the creatures were. This boy was setting her out to lure the cat just as he had done with the meat.

Jali-gulug tensed. A pale blue creature was slinking across the snow toward them. Khokakhchin squinted, thinking the light might be playing tricks on her, and then the form became that of a tiger.

“The ghost knows you’re here,” Jali-gulug said softly. “We must go outside to meet it.”

She was an old woman. She had lived her life and there had been times when she had longed for death. If this tiger was to carry death to her, she would meet it bravely and hope that the creature tore out her throat quickly without making her suffer too long. Khokakhchin got to her feet and felt her knees tremble; her breath came in short, sharp gasps.

Jali-gulug ducked through the entrance; she crouched down and followed him outside. The horses, still tied to the cart, had their ears flat against their heads and their nostrils distended in fear, but made no sound. The meat had been set out several paces from the cart. The tiger crept toward the food, lowered its head, and began to feed.

“Aaaah,” Jali-gulug cried. His arms were suddenly flailing about him like whips; he threw himself to the ground, writhing and twisting.

Why did the boy have to fall into one of his fits now? Khokakhchin watched his thrashings helplessly, afraid to move, expecting the tiger to leap upon him at any moment. The tiger lifted its head from the meat and stared directly at her. She wondered if she would have enough time to go for the weapons inside the yurt.

Jali-gulug let out a wail, then stiffened. At that moment, the tiger howled, then fell to the ground as if dead. Khokakhchin stepped back, terrified, as Jali-gulug sat up slowly, his face twisted into a grimace.

“Khokakhchin,” he said in a voice much deeper than his own, a voice she had never thought to hear again in this life. “Khokakhchin, am I to have no rest? Am I to roam in this world, hearing the blood of our son cry out for vengeance?”

“Bujur,” she whispered, making a sign, “my dear lost husband. I still ache for you and our children. I’ve never forgiven myself for what I did. Are you here to punish me for daring to call down the lightning?”

“You have suffered enough for that already,” her husband said from Jali-gulug’s mouth. “You endured the loss of all those you loved and suffered a hard life among our murderers. The spirits must have ended your captivity and brought you to live among these people for a reason. I cannot see their intentions clearly, but it may be that the power you possess will be used for good. It may be that I and all the ghosts of your people will have the revenge we seek.”

“My power is useless.” Khokakhchin covered her eyes briefly, afraid she would weep and that the tears would freeze on her face. “I swore never to call upon it again.”

“Listen to me. I have wandered the steppe in the body of a wolf, searching for you. I came down from the mountains as a tiger, waiting for you to see me and know what I was. You swore not to use your power, but that does not mean refusing to let others draw upon it.”

“Are you telling me that Jali-gulug—”

The boy let out a shriek. His body was writhing again, and then he leaped to his feet. The tiger was watching him. She sensed that the ghost of her husband had fled, that the cat housed only a tiger’s spirit now. She wondered which of them the cat would go for first.

“Khokakhchin.” Jali-gulug was now speaking in his own voice, but so softly that she could barely hear him. “Fetch my bow and one arrow. Move very slowly, and keep facing the tiger as you move. It’s under my spell now, but I don’t know how much longer I can hold it.”

She backed toward the tent as slowly as she could. The weapons should be just inside the entrance. She bent low and backed inside, still keeping her eyes on the cat. The tiger snarled and got to its feet. She knelt and moved her hand over the ground; her fingers brushed against the sword, then touched the quiver. She drew out an arrow and found the bow.

Holding the bow and arrow close at her side, she crept outside. One arrow, she thought. Would he shoot that accurately, even at close range? It did not matter. He would not get a second chance.

The tiger snarled again, showing its sharp teeth, then went into a crouch. She thrust the bow and arrow into Jali-gulug’s hands. He fitted the shaft, drew the bow, and slowly took aim.

The tiger leaped toward them. Khokakhchin stumbled back, throwing up her arms. Jali-gulug’s arrow flew from his bow, but the great cat struck the young man, knocking him onto his back. Khokakhchin reached under her coat, found her knife, and pulled it from her belt, even while knowing that her weapon would be useless against this creature.

The tiger was very still. Then the beast moved, but she saw that Jali-gulug was pushing the cat from himself. He sat up, his hand still around his bow.

“It’s dead,” she murmured.

“Help me up.” She pulled him to his feet, then peered at the carcass. The arrow had pierced the roof of the tiger’s mouth. A lucky shot, she thought; not many men could have made it. Perhaps the spirits had guided his aim. Jali-gulug stared at the animal that had carried Bujur’s ghost to them, then knelt and cut its throat, spilling blood over the silvery snow.

Khokakhchin took down the yurt, hitched her horse to the cart, and rode with Jali-gulug back to the camp. The dead cat lay in the back of her cart. Jali-gulug’s horse had been too skittish to carry it, whinnying and pawing at the ground as if still fearing that the cat harbored a ghost.

The sky was still dark, but growing gray in the east, as they approached the camp. Three men were on guard near the two fires to the north of Yesugei’s circle of yurts and wagons. Jali-gulug dismounted and walked between the fires, followed by Khokakhchin. One of the sentries spotted the tiger; the others moved toward the cart to stare at the body of the white cat.

Jali-gulug did not speak. She saw how the men looked at him, eyes wide with awe and a little fear.

“Is that the tiger that was killing our sheep?” one man said at last.

“It is,” Khokakhchin replied.

The guard gaped at her, then turned to order one of the others to ride to Yesugei’s tent with the news.

3

In a day, the story of Jali-gulug and the white tiger had flown to the farthest circles of Yesugei’s camp. The young man had spoken to a ghost, driven it from the tiger, and killed the beast with one arrow. The ghost, it was said, had been someone known to Hoelun Ujin’s servant Old Woman Khokakhchin, but that spirit was at peace now and would trouble them no more.

Yesugei gave Jali-gulug a man’s bow made by old Baghaji, the best bowmaker in the camp, and also one of his prized white mares. He was careful to reward Bughu for his spell with three soft-wooled black-headed sheep and a jade goblet. Khokakhchin was given a long tunic of green silk, despite her protests that such a garment was much too fine for her.

Jali-gulug spoke of his deed only once, when reporting it to Yesugei. Khokakhchin told the story to Hoelun and Sochigil, then to other women in the camp. By the end of winter, the tale had grown in the telling until many believed that Jali-gulug had vanquished the ghost and killed the great cat only after several nights of battling evil spirits. Khokakhchin soon disappeared from the story, and by spring people had nearly forgotten that Jali-gulug had taken her with him to meet the tiger.

This was just as well with her. The white tiger pelt Jali-gulug wore over his coat was a constant reminder of his deed; she had occasionally glimpsed the envy and hatred in Bughu’s eyes when he glanced at his apprentice. Bughu would be thinking of the rewards he might lose to Jali-gulug, of the influence he might no longer have. Khokakhchin was content not to have any of his hatred and resentment directed at her.

In spring, they moved north, toward the Onon River, and made camp within sight of the Kentei massif and the mountain of Burkhan Khaldun. The mountain harbored a powerful spirit, and Yesugei was soon riding there with his shaman and his close comrades to make an offering and to pray.

They returned to the camp without Jali-gulug. Some said that the spirit of the mountain had kept him there, even that the young man had been given the power to ride to Heaven from Burkhan Khaldun. Others, noting Bughu’s easier mood during the absence of his apprentice, whispered that Bughu had told Jali-gulug to remain there in the hope that the spirits, or the rigors of spending days alone on the tree-covered slopes, would send the lad to dwell among the dead for good.

Hoelun heard the whispers, and repeated her suspicions to Khokakhchin while preparing to join the other women for the spring sacrifice to the ancestors. “Bughu thinks only of himself,” Hoelun murmured as she adjusted a square birch headdress adorned with feathers on her head, then pushed her thick black braids under its cap. “He knows that Jali-gulug might someday be a great shaman, perhaps even one who could strike fear into my husband’s enemies. He should have stayed with the lad on the mountain to guide him.”

“Bughu had to return to set the time for the sacrifice,” Khokakhchin reminded her mistress.

“He could have done that before he left.” Hoelun stamped her booted feet and smoothed her long pleated tunic down over her trousers. “Instead of training Jali-gulug, he avoids him whenever he can. Instead of using his magic to help us, he curries favor with Orbey Khatun in case her grandson ever decides to challenge my husband.”

Her mistress, Khokakhchin realized, was irritated not only by the shaman, but also by the prospect of spending the day with the old Khatun. Orbey and Sokhatai, as the widows of Ambaghai Khan and the oldest women in Yesugei’s camp, always presided over the spring sacrifice. They would be picking at Hoelun as they dined on their sacrificed sheep, trying to affront her while being careful not to openly insult her, resenting her because she was Yesugei’s wife.

“When Jali-gulug knows more magic,” Hoelun went on, “I’ll advise Yesugei to consult him more often. Maybe by then—” She fell silent. Sochigil was calling to her from outside. Hoelun tightened the sash around her waist, secured her knife, slipped on a coat, then left the tent.

Khachigun crawled to her over the carpet. Khokakhchin picked up Hoelun’s youngest son and went outside. Blue and white flowers dotted the land; women were riding toward the yurt Orbey had raised beyond the camp. The wives of Yesugei’s brothers and his close comrades would honor the ancestors today, and Hoelun would no doubt be hoping that the two old Taychiut Khatuns would soon join those forebears.

Temujin and Bekter were watching the sheep. The scowls on their faces as they glanced at each other told Khokakhchin that the two half-brothers were working themselves up to a fight. Khasar and Belgutei stood to one side, their eyes on the two older boys.

“Bekter!” Khokakhchin shouted as she approached. “You and Belgutei will go to your mother’s tent, fetch baskets, and gather argal for the hearth. Make sure you bring only the driest of the dung back. Temujin, you and I will look out for the sheep. Khasar, you’ll watch Khachigun.”

Bekter glared at her with eyes as black as kara stones. “Why do I have to—”

“Silence!” Khokakhchin raised a hand. “Temujin and Khasar will gather fuel later, while you watch the sheep. Any more from you, and I’ll tell your father you’ve been disobedient and deserve a good beating.”

Bekter hurried off with his brother. Khokakhchin moved toward the sheep. Yesugei’s camping circle was near the Onon, and a few sheep had wandered toward the river to drink. One black-headed ewe would drop her lamb soon, perhaps today. They would need many lambs to replace the ones lost over the winter.

“Khokakhchin,” Temujin called out. He was gazing northwest, toward Burkhan Khaldun. She turned and saw the tiny form of a man on horseback riding over the snow-strewn land below the massif. Jali-gulug was returning from the mountain. Her eyes were still sharp; even at this distance, she saw that he was slumped over his horse, barely staying in his saddle. She was suddenly afraid.