One Great Year (29 page)

He would have been safe had he been on foot, but his horse was spooked once the zigzagging winds carried the scent of the large bear to her nostrils. She whinnied in alarm and bolted, catching her youthful rider by surprise. When the horse jerked, he and his loosely held bow were thrown to the ground. As he went down he saw the bear, no longer a lounging restful creature, bounding toward him. His flailing image had been seen as a threat. Chilger hit the ground hard, and the back of his head slammed violently against a rock as he landed. The last thing he saw was his horse sprinting away and the enormity of the black fur mass as it reached him, threatening and snorting. She sent tremors through the tranquil forest. Unseen birds and small prey scattered as her energy surged and warned all creatures away.

When Chilger's horse arrived back at the camp without him, a search party was immediately sent out. It was dusk when he was recovered, and he was unconscious and near death when they found him. The ground beneath him was soaked with blood, and the enormous paw prints that surrounded his body told the story that he could not. The bear had swiped him only once and left a gash across his right cheek, throat, and chest. He had been unconscious by the time she reached him and, though she had obviously moved him around a bit based on the patterns in the dirt, she had not harmed him otherwise. Most of the blood had come from the gash to the back of his head caused by his fall, but the bear had shifted him off the offending stone and onto the mossy ground inches away, which had ultimately saved his life by padding the wound. The bear had likely continued to feed nearby for some time afterward, inadvertently warding off any predators that might have enjoyed a half-dead meal.

Chilger did not wake for many days. A fever set in, and in his delirium his visions were particularly powerful and terrifying. He called out, sharing the disturbing images in his native tongue, but also in languages unknown to his family. Soaked with sweat, the boy yelled and writhed, and the wrinkled, stooped shaman attended him hour after hour, his gravelly voice croaking, chanting, and praying.

Everything about the shaman was weathered and old. He had proven himself a powerful healer and had an uncanny ability as a seer to his people. He drummed the goatskin spirit drum and used a spear called a sulde
²¹
to draw in the spirit of the wind and sun to revive the wind horse of Chilger. His scepter, acting as a drumstick, rattled and pounded, sending messages and vibrations through the clan, through their bodies into the soil and heavens. He called to the living Universe for healing. He prayed to Tengri and to Mother Earth. The steady thump of the drums called to the Great Spirit.

The old shaman wore the long feathers of the golden eagle on his head, and his face was obscured by a protruding, painted ornamental beak. His armor was heavy with leather-strip bands that dangled from his arms and hems like feathers, swinging and swaying dramatically as he moved ceaselessly around his patient. The metal panels on his apron and kaftan rattled and clanged as he moved, a cacophony of voice, drum, bell, and brass. He summoned the spirits to join them and made offerings. He burned juniper branches and berries, always beseeching the fire mother. He called on the Great Bear and nursed the claw wounds with a herbal salve while he did. His low, guttural monotone droned on and on. He listened intently to Chilger's rants and joined him, trembling and wailing. The shaman's eyes rolled back white in his head, the sound of the Great Bear growled forth, and the ger shook with the explosive energy raging within. Mirrors were laid all around the boy and placed on his chest to frighten away the evil spirits that might choose his time of weakened state to possess him.

Chilger had called out about Atitala, the deluge, the earthquakes. He had called to Theron; he saw giants, flying machines, oceans, pyramids; he watched a son die before him, murdered by a spear, and he watched another have revenge. He walked up white steps in white robes, he visited the land above and the land below, and he understood that he was a dot, made of billions of smaller dots, and that the trees, the birds, the people, the mountains, his thoughts, were all the same. Everything came from the first dot. All were connected.

And he saw Borte. Over and over, the little girl from the market returned to him in his fevered state, always when he was closest to Tengri. Always when he thought he might give in and move into the brilliant welcoming glow ahead of him, he would see her face, and she would smile and tell him to come back. “Not yet,” she whispered. “Come back.”

Chilger did come back. His fever broke on the third day, and the exhausted shaman made arrangements with his relieved and fearful parents for him to be trained. His fevered ravings had left them frightened and unnerved, and they were happy to know that he would soon be under the full-time care and guidance of the wise shaman.

“His wind horse is ancient and powerful. Though your family has no history of the gift, he is meant to be a shaman. The Great Bear chose him on this hunt to become a part of the world above and below. I listened, and he told many tales. He has traveled and lived among the spirits. He has lived many lives and it is certainly his destiny.”

Chilger heard the shaman's words, and in his sleepy haze he heard his superstitious, simple father grunt his assent; it would not have occurred to him to do otherwise.

Chilger trained with the old master through his teen years and proved to be a profoundly gifted spiritualist. His Marcus-brain generated wisdom and understanding of heaven and earth. That history, combined with this lifetime, belonging to a people united with the soil and sky all at once, helped him to tap into a profound and powerful psychic energy. He shared that energy and connection with his village. Soon his wise mentor realized that his prodigy would soar beyond him, willing and able to connect with Mother Earth and Father Sky in every possible way.

Chilger constantly heard the whispers of the world around him. He understood and anticipated the animals, the weather, the vegetation, and he helped his people succeed in honoring and reaping their fruits. He would silently lower the bow of a fellow tribe member with a calm gesture, leaving a fat marmot to eat in peace as her young emerged from the brush, joining her. He would understand when the milk of a mare soured, and he would comfort her and sing to her and feed her the grasses to make it right. The birds were drawn to him and he used them as guides and tools.

In his fifteenth year, he rescued a large golden eagle with a wingspan beyond eight feet. Her left wing had been damaged in a particularly difficult battle with a wolf. Chilger had watched the duel and approached the injured bird cautiously, humming, droning. His own eagle feathers not yet earned, he had looked more like the wolf in his bear-fur coat and cap than the bird he would later embody as a full shaman. The eagle struggled and thrashed, her talons and beak like razors, viciously defending herself, grounded and vulnerable.

Chilger called for wisdom, for comfort. He slipped a new, young rabbit from his cache, an intended ritual offering, and he sang his prayer, offering help and healing to the bird in a language known only to the pair. The eagle calmed and hooked the rabbit in her beak, allowing Chilger to help her. He found that her wing was broken, and against all reason and nature, she allowed him to maneuver her.

Chilger tenderly folded her muscular wings into her strong body and she screeched, dropping her meal and pecking his arm, a reminder to be gentle. She had torn through his thick fur jacket and opened a bloody gash. She was not angry but in pain, and she cocked her head at him, confused. Their black eyes met and the great bird understood that he was a friend, and she allowed him to continue, no longer afraid. He stroked the healthy wing and continued to hum and vibrate, unaware of his own injury, undaunted and ecstatic. He wrapped a long silk strip, pulled from his waistband, around both folded wings, preventing attempts at flight and further damage. He then carried the massive bird back to camp. Later, he would not remember much of the experience, but he was used to that. He often lost track of time and place when overcome by the rapture and wisdom of the spirits.

Chilger was a miraculous sight entering the camp. Man and beast trusted one another in complete cooperation and harmony. The giant eagle rested in his thick arms, proud and erect, eyeing the terrified clan members and the recoiling animals as they passed. The eagle slowly rotated her regal head, taking it all in, one with her host.

Generations of Merkits would have spoken of this amazing scene in firedances and tales. They would have sung of this young shaman-to-be, this gifted boy who had walked into camp with a golden eagle for a friend, if they had had the chance. Had the tale not died with them.

Soon after that day, Chilger was preparing to dress in the accessories and kaftan inherited on completing the journey to becoming a shaman. The ancient clothing and trims were all passed down from elder holy men. The first costume layer was symbolic and infused with old power and ancestral energy, and his mentor explained the significance of the passing down of the wardrobe and the importance of each piece as he helped him dress. For the first time, Chilger donned the leather belt hung with mirrors that he would wear daily for the rest of his life. The mirrors would reflect his inner and outer selves and ward off evil spirits.

The sacred ceremony was long and the entire clan attended, bringing gifts and offering sacrifices and gratitude to the gods. Chilger was honored with a headdress, like his teacher's, of three long, thick eagle feathers and a painted beak that hung over his forehead and camouflaged his face, giving him the advantage of observing others unseen.

The wounded eagle had survived her injury. Once healed, Chilger had released her silk bonds, and she had soared joyfully free into the vast open sky. He watched in amazement as she returned to him, seeking his company. She refused to leave him for long and stood like a sentry next to him, pecking and nudging the fabric of his clothing.

She now accompanied him through the village, a thick leather saddle blanket strapped to his left forearm for their mutual comfort. She was a fantastic hunter, and she brought him trophies and gifts as if to say thank you. Though no one else dared touch her, she was no threat in the village. When she was not hunting, she remained a constant companion to Chilger, who treated her with sustained respect and reverence. He never presumed to give her a name.

Marcus was fascinated and awed by his natural instincts and experiences in this lifetime. He enjoyed a profound connection to the Earth that he had never known before, an ability to interact with the natural world around him that happened spontaneously, without thought. It was innate and unteachable, and Marcus was humble and grateful to be so honored.

Chilger had been earmarked by the spirits before birth, and his psychic wind horse was so strong that he frequently had visions and dreams, not only of his Marcus-past but also of the future. He wasn't always sure which was which, and he often did not understand his dreams, but as he grew older and spent more time in contemplation and meditation, his understanding grew.

Lately a dream had been coming to him both night and day. Vivid and gory, he saw and felt thousands dead. Humans slaughtered, dismembered, and left to die on the steppe, plains, and hills of northern Asia. Chilger shared his visions with the old shaman and together they sought clarity, for if the gods were sending the images there must be a reason.

After many days of prayer, song, and meditation, surrounded by pungent aromas and deprived of sleep, an image was conjured in the thick smoke before them. Chilger saw the face of the man who would bring the bloodshed upon the people. He saw a leader with hair like fire and eyes like emeralds, who would wreak havoc and be both celebrated and hated.

Chilger did not know the man whose face appeared before him, nor did his old companion, but the wind horse was familiar. He was clearly a chief, but he was no one that they had encountered in this life. Marcus instantly recognized Helghul's energy. He was not surprised that once again their paths would cross.
But where is Theron?
Marcus wondered, not for the first time, and as always the answer came when the right question was asked.

The face of the little girl from the market immediately popped into his mind—Borte. “Not yet … come back,” she had whispered in his haze when he was near death, fallen off his horse and left to the bear. He had already met her in this lifetime. He had known her, played with her, and watched her be carried away by her stern father. Chilger was overcome with emotion, and the smoky, unfamiliar face of Temujin dispersed into the fire-lit air, returning to darkness and shadows.

Chilger fell to his knees, feeling physically ill and overcome with sadness. Borte was Theron. He knew it now. How would he ever find her? His visions clearly told him that his purpose in this lifetime was to counter the red-haired menace, but he was distracted and torn. He must find Borte. He convinced himself that together they would know what to do; they would be a more powerful force. He did not know that Borte had already met the figure in the smoke, and to her he was much more than simply a red-haired stranger.

Temujin had not come for Borte on his twelfth birthday as was agreed. Nor had he come in years following. Borte's father became concerned that his beautiful, sweet daughter would be left to wilt like a field flower. He had learned that Temujin's family had been cast out after Yesugei Khan's death, but he had heard no more. The agreement was still in place, despite the fact that the suitor was no longer the strategic and valuable alliance he had once seemed; it would be dishonorable to act otherwise. Borte's father could only hope and pray for news that Temujin had been killed. Then he would be free to make a better match for her. They waited, year after year, they waited, but no word came.

It was an evening in midautumn. Borte was in her seventeenth year and had grown muscular and strong, but she maintained the outward appearance of fragile loveliness. Her soft brown skin was red and toughened where it had been exposed to the elements. She had worked ceaselessly all day, using a thick bone needle to stitch seams through dense skins that would aid in the winter comfort and survival of her family. Her father, the chief, was alerted that a rider approached. As the unexpected stranger grew nearer, his red hair and green eyes were unmistakable. Like a spirit from another time, Temujin returned unannounced to claim his bride.