One Great Year (31 page)

Temujin, armored with a thick leather vest, sword, and bow, departed the next day, assuring Borte that he would soon return. He looked at his beautiful wife, her eyes now following him curiously, studying his rugged young face more openly as he prepared to leave. He felt a twinge of pride that she belonged to him, and his manhood stirred in response. He adjusted himself, mounted his horse, and was gone, leading the hunters already gathered on the plain. Borte watched him go and then returned to the ongon
²²
at the north side of the ger. She asked the spirits to bless her with a child and, wrapping herself against the cold, she began her daily chores.

Hoelun watched them from the ger she shared with her daughter, having been displaced by the arrival of her son's new bride. She saw how Temujin looked lustily at Borte, and she recognized the blush of a new wife. She had no generous thoughts and whispered no blessings for her son's wife's fertility.

Temujin had been gone two days, and Borte was busy collecting late blueberries to dry for winter. She had followed the other clanswomen on the long walk from the sheltered mountain location of the winter camp to an abundant field. The temperature and winds were still fair, and Borte was happy to be free of the mountain's shadowy protection and enjoying the warm sun of the open plains. The women whispered all around her, and the young children approached her shyly, giggling and retreating as she playfully smiled and waved to them.

Despite the fact that Borte and Hoelun were originally from the same small tribe, the envious older woman did not draw her in as she should have done, and the others hesitated to act. They were afraid to raise the infamous ire of their matriarch. Borte was patient with them and worked stoically, though she felt sad and alone. She found herself looking forward to Temujin's imminent return.

The blueberry field was abundant and worth the walk, and the women filled sack after sack with the sweet fruit. They ate while they happily worked, rushing to get back before twilight descended. The horizon was violet blue, and for every inch the sun lowered in the sky the temperature dropped significantly. The few remaining summer birds feasted on the bountiful fields as they prepared to migrate, far from the cold and hunger of the punishing northern winter. Borte drank in their song and likened their chirps to the laughter and peals of the purple berry–smudged children around her. Hunched down in front of an abundant bush, expertly plucking and storing without damaging the tender fruit, Borte did not notice the multiple dots on the landscape as they approached.

The other women began to call out and gather together, herding their children, as a horde of more than fifty unknown riders neared. Borte rose, scanning the fields in alarm.

“Merkits,” Hoelun announced fearfully, as the men made their final approach.

The Mongols and the Merkits were not allies, but they were not at war. Borte fell in line behind Hoelun and the others. Though the visitors were unexpected, the women only watched, more curious than afraid. The riders came to a stop at the edge of the blueberry patch.

“Which of you is the wife of Chief Temujin?” the lead rider questioned roughly, his leather face scowling involuntarily as he spoke. He was a stern, weathered man of vaguely familiar dress and colors.

The Mongol mothers drew their children in closer to them and the smallest cried out to run free, too young to know fear. Borte was distressed and did not answer the armed warrior. The heads of the other women immediately turned toward her, and they eyed the recent arrival suspiciously.

“She is,” Hoelun said haughtily, stepping aside and gesturing her left arm toward her new daughter-in-law.

Borte was stung by the woman's indifference. Her black hair whipped against her face as the sun continued to make its descent in the sky and the winds picked up once more. She adjusted her fur cap more snuggly around her cheeks and silently waited for an explanation.

The village women decided it was wise to put as much distance between themselves and Borte as possible and they backed away, abandoning her completely. There was nothing they could do and besides, she was a newcomer, not one of their own, and she would not be missed.

Borte didn't have time to shift before the lead Merkit made his move. Without a word the center rider reached out and, with a broad and easy sweep, lifted her by her coat. She screamed and hung like a sack of rice in the air, her legs dangling uselessly, and he slung her across his horse. The blueberry sack that she had carefully filled flew from her grasp and broke open, spilling its contents carelessly onto the grass. She struggled to right herself, but he used his elbows in the back of her neck and lower spine to push her snug against his mount. Even through her heavy clothing she felt the bruise of his touch immediately, but she continued to resist. She had heard stories like this—kidnappings, war tactics—but she could not believe she was being used so. Her mind raced. She would be given away, a prize to be won or rewarded or used up.

Hoelun watched as her son's wife was scooped onto the lead horse and carried away. She listened to her terrified cries of protest without sympathy. She had been carried away from her Merkit husband by Temujin's Mongol father in much the same way. She knew the alarm and confusion that the girl must be feeling, but she had no empathy. She was incapable of it. She hid her glee behind a phony veil of concern and outrage, which she wore back to camp.

The next day, when Temujin returned, Hoelun informed him that his new bride had been kidnapped by the Merkits, no doubt in retribution for her own kidnapping by Yesugei Khan
²³
so many years before.

The husband raged out of control at learning that his wife had been taken. He looked at his bitter, gloating mother with hatred, easily seeing through her phony facade, wishing the bandits had freed him of her instead. Helghul seethed, and the violent flame within Temujin was fanned. That night he began to plan Borte's rescue.

Chilger's Marcus-brain had become desperate once he realized that Borte, the girl from his childhood, the girl he had been unable to forget, was his Theron. Immediately he had begun a desperate search. He knew only her first name, and it was not a particularly unusual one, so more than once he was directed to an encampment only to have his hopes dashed. He questioned the people of his clan, riding unaccompanied to the neighboring camps, often traveling for days without seeing another human. The nomadic people could be anywhere, and hundreds of miles separated them from one another. He knew that she would be at or near her nineteenth year by now, and the chances of finding her alive, unmarried, and able to join him were slim.

Chilger would not give up; his heightened instincts and his recurring visions indicated that he would find her. She might deny him and send him away, but he must persist. The shaman constantly meditated, seeking signs from the land, from the heavens, from the animals and trees themselves. His companion eagle soared above him, a second pair of eyes, searching for any spiritual indication to help them along, and hunting for both of them when his human-friend was too preoccupied to care about eating at all.

In the evenings, while huddled next to his sacred fire, Chilger sought direction through medicine-altered states and chanting. The visions came and shook him with powerful vibrations and images. Always they were clear: there would be bloodshed, an unprecedented age of bloodshed. Borte and the red conqueror both figured powerfully in his future, but there was someone else—a surreal, majestic, godlike figure that appeared like fog at the edges of the visions and floated, seated, into the forefront. Legs crossed, yogi style, the plump colorful character revealed that he was a king. He reached out to Chilger, urging and beckoning. Chilger felt his face embraced by the bejeweled, fat fingers of the magical father, and then he was gone. Left behind were only whispers. “Seek Shambhala, the land of the reborn.”

At first Chilger's thoughts had been only of Borte, but as he traveled alone, at one with the land around him, he meditated, and he was inundated by visions of war and peril with Temujin at the helm. Always the little girl in the market raced ahead of him, and he chased her frantically, certain that he must find her. His Marcus-brain took a second seat to the animal spirits and symbols overwhelming him. Helghul was to yield a particularly brutal impact in this lifetime. He had seen visions of the life tree, running through the center of the Earth, and it reached to him, calling. “Shambhala” it whispered, over and over. In the air the birds cried out, “Shambhala.” The fire crackled and rose up as visions of the sacred land—shaped like a giant, eight-petal lotus—unfolded like a map before him. Chilger resolved that he and Borte must somehow reach the fabled Shambhala, but first he must find her.

The visions continued to come but there was no sign of Borte, and Chilger knew that he must return to his clan soon before winter set in or he would surely die. He would have to endure the next nine months and search for her when the harsh winter retreated in the spring. He would use the time to contemplate, meditate, and understand and seek the wisdom of the spirit world. Chilger returned sadly to his camp and was greeted by many well wishers and friends. That evening he sought the counsel of his khan.

They sat accompanied by other respected men of the clan as dusk fell, the fire blowing violently side to side in the shifting winds. The hardy men were untroubled by the elements, and they enjoyed their time to laugh, smoke, and sometimes challenge one another physically.

“I trust that your journey brought you the enlightenment that you sought,” the chief said in a low mumbling tone.

Chilger looked at him seriously, his warm fur hat flapping loosely around his face. They passed a pipe slowly around the circle, the bowl protected from the battering wind.

“As you know the gods have sent me in search of the girl named Borte, and I have returned unsuccessful and alone. There is more … I see great change coming for the people of the plains,” Chilger began gravely. “Blood will run like floodwater from the mountains to the steppe and as far as the desert. A red devil seeks to unite the entire world under one tribe, a tribe of his loins, with no room for another's seed,” the wise young shaman prophesied.

An elder tribe member responded, his eyes creased and sagged as if being pulled down by hooks. “The young think everything is bigger and harder than it is,” he taunted, eliciting chuckles of appreciation for the sexual innuendo. “I have lived many years and have learned that even the harshest winter ends eventually and that enemies come and go like the seasons,” he croaked.

Chilger's mentor then spoke up in his defense. “We have never survived a storm like this old father … the eagles fly counterclockwise over the plains chasing away the evil spirits … the world will be turned upside down. The dark spirits will slaughter anyone who stands against them,” the old shaman cautioned.

“Chilger speaks the truth. I have seen only a sliver of what this boy knows. We must listen to him. The gods give us the gift of his great insight. Would you choose to ignore it?”

The men around the fire expressed their concern and support for the young spiritualist with grunts and nods.

A returning party of more than fifty approached in the dusk, diverting their attention. The chief stood and made his way toward the nearing riders, and Chilger watched indifferently.

The clansmen dismounted, except for one small man, who remained seated with his head down. The lone figure had displayed the karmic colors of an Emissary, and before Borte raised her head Marcus knew immediately that it was Theron. A knot gripped Chilger's belly, twisting and tightening like a fist.

“Temujin will soon return from his hunt. Will he prepare for war against us?” one of the riders asked.

“He has no army. He has not the impressive clan of his father before him,” the khan replied.

“But certainly he has allies?” the lead rider supposed.

“In any case, there is little chance that he will try to rescue the girl before the winter sets in … we have used the season to our advantage. We have righted a past wrong. There may be no consequence at all once the months have passed and he has had time to consider our justified retaliation,” the chief suggested.

“Temujin will never let me go. He will come for me,” Borte interrupted defiantly, surprising the men with her fearlessness.

“You are so special?” the chief grunted doubtingly. He looked her over carefully, aware of her beauty even in her disheveled state.

“She is,” Chilger answered as he approached. His robes blew wildly behind him, and his shaman song filled the air as the metal and glass of his costume chimed. “Tell me, is Temujin the dark raven with the red hair that has plagued my dreams?” he asked her, gently taking the head of her mare in his hands. The tired horse nuzzled him affectionately while he waited, dreading the answer that he knew would come.

“I know nothing of your dreams,” she snapped proudly. “My husband has the red hair that you speak of. I do not belong here. The gods will be displeased.”

“Oh ho, and now she speaks for the spirits! You tell a shaman the will of the gods?” the chief chastised, angered by her insolence. “You are in no position to speak. You have been brought here to right a wrong perpetrated by Yesugei Khan before you were born. My father's sister, Hoelun, was stolen from us, and the rape of a good Merkit wife cannot go unpunished.”

“Hoelun?” Borte gulped, thinking of the cold, distant woman she had only just met. “I am here because of Hoelun?”

“You know of her?” the chief asked.

“She is my husband's mother.”

“She still lives?”

“She was made the wife of the khan. She was near me when I was taken.”

“If this Temujin is the threat that he is told to be, he will come to us, and we will deal with him then,” answered the chief.