One Great Year (33 page)

Chilger knew that Temujin would come, but he also knew that Temujin would have brought war upon the Merkits and all of the clans of the north in this Iron Age regardless of whether Borte had been taken or not. He had seen it in the fire. It was destined that Helghul's brutal way would be forged. It was the peak of power for the Darkness as the Great Year realized its ultimate descent. Temujin's Helghul-brain would have known Theron, and he would seek Borte until he found her or died searching.

What little sleep Chilger got was riddled with dreams and premonitions. Always bloody, awful battles, and the cherubic king of Shambhala beckoning to him, demanding that he and Borte seek the sacred place. Legend promised that in Shambhala, the land of the reborn, Theron would know him. Borte would have full recall of her past lives and he longed for that possibility. But there was more. There was a duty that they would perform. Would they be able to prevent the mass bloodshed and carnage that filled Chilger's dreams night after night? The fat king called to them; there was no doubt that they must set out. Everything would be revealed to them in time.

Winter had battered the Merkit camp for three long months, when Borte anxiously revealed to Chilger that her moon cycles had stopped and she believed that she was with child. He was initially overjoyed, but the realization of what a profound complication a pregnancy was in their situation worried him. They had a difficult journey ahead.

Borte never voiced her fear that the child might be Temujin's and be born with a head of wild crimson hair. Or worse yet, Temujin might steal her back and murder any child that did not obviously resemble him. She was sick with pregnancy and worry, and she spent the next few months retching and green, sipping bark remedies and praying for her unborn child.

Soon Borte's belly protruded sharply where it had once lain flat and smooth. The clanspeople smiled and nodded, happy for their young shaman and his mate. At first she had been nervous, always scanning the white horizon for riders and staying very close to the ger. But as time passed—weeks, and then months—she began to relax and believe that Temujin might never come.

Chilger was never so naively optimistic. He knew that it was only a matter of time before Temujin sought them out. Helghul would search for Theron, their destinies in this lifetime once more cruelly tied together. He would never rest until he reclaimed Borte and annexed the Merkits completely.

What Chilger didn't know was that Temujin had, months earlier, appealed to his blood brother and childhood friend, the Khan of Jadoran,
²⁴
for assistance.

“Jamuka, we can use this to our advantage. The Merkits have taken Borte—it is a reason to bring war upon them and take them over. Blood brother, I ask for your assistance in retrieving what is rightly mine. There is great benefit in it for both of us,” Temujin reasoned, pacing beside the evening fire, his horse tended and settled for the night. It had only been days since Borte's disappearance, and Temujin and his clansmen had ridden hard and long to reach Jamuka as quickly as possible.

“My brother, your father started this when he kidnapped Hoelun, but I agree we can use it to our advantage. It is not only us with an interest here … Toghrul Khan of Kerait should be brought in … you come with too few warriors … he has a vast army of more than twenty thousand men.”
²⁵

“You are right, brother, I will go to my godfather. We will form a great alliance and crush the Merkits,” Temujin said.

Jamuka rose from the log on which he was seated, and the blood brothers embraced and smiled widely to one another. Just as it was when they were boys, their clinch became a competition, and soon the men were laughing and grunting as they wrestled. Heads down, shoulder to shoulder, they pushed back and forth, side to side, struggling to unfoot one another.

The spectators cheered and hooted as the men grappled in the frigid dust. Then, in one quick motion, Temujin was down, flat on his back, his chest heaving, with his friend's body pressed hard against him. For the first time ever Jamuka had bested him. After a moment of still triumph, the khan, pleased and beaming, stepped off and held a hand out, helping up a surly, sour-faced Temujin. It was not until later that night that Jamuka found himself wondering if Temujin had let him win to curry favor. The suspicion significantly soured his feelings of victory.

It took eight months to prepare the armies and to wait for the ideal season to arrive. Temujin offered a valuable sable fur as a gift, the same fur he had once given to his bride. Toghrul was a smart khan and he easily understood the strategic and financial benefit of a Merkit defeat, but he wisely insisted that they wait until Tsagaan Sar: the celebration that heralded the coming of spring and meant travel and warfare were possible.
²⁶
Toghrul had no reason to rush. Temujin had to wait, but Helghul was used to waiting, and he used the time to plot his rise to power.

A week before the celebration of Tsagaan Sar, a bedraggled Merkit rider returned to the camp and informed the chief that a vast multitude of warriors was amassing two days' ride away. The men of the tribe immediately mobilized. The arrows and bows they had been crafting were being bundled and readied, and the clan planned to move to a more strategic location in preparation for war.

Borte requested and was granted an audience with the Merkit khan. He greeted her outside his ger, both of them heavily bundled against the burning winds.

“May your wives bear many healthy, fat sons, good khan,” she said.

“Kind words. I hope you bear a son with the wind horse and wisdom as great as Tengri himself,” he said sincerely. “Now you must be quick. The seasons change and there is much to do, since it appears we will soon be at war.”

“Great khan, you must send me back!” she exclaimed, shocking the leader.

“I do not understand. Is Chilger not your mate now?” the Khan asked, confused and surprised.

“I am only one person, a woman, not even Merkit. For me to cause the loss of even one life is too many. I do not wish you to battle on my behalf. Please send me back and let there be peace,” she pleaded.

“I do not remember asking your permission when you were taken … and what of that Merkit child in your belly? Am I not responsible for the care and safety of all of my tribe? Be sensible, woman, they would cast you out … or worse!” he warned, trying to scare her.

“I am not afraid. It is the right thing to do,” she retorted bravely, but the chief was unmoved. She appealed to him again, but he shook his head and walked away. Borte desperately dropped to her knees on the icy ground and beseeched him, “You can prevent this bloodshed and death by sending me back. Please, good khan, I beg you,” she called after him.

The chief stopped and, feeling both compassion and annoyance, faced her. “Pick yourself up. I will not be commanded by you. You were brought here to right a wrong. Chilger has warned that this war will come regardless. It is a threat that cannot be avoided. If this clash comes, it will be they who provoked it, not us. But worry not, for we can fight if we have to and we will rise victorious.”

The khan was finished talking to the emotional woman and he simply walked away, leaving her kneeling, as Chilger ran to her side in concern.

“What is it? What has happened?” he asked.

Borte raised herself up awkwardly, her belly heavy in front of her. Her distress was plain in her mottled face. “I must go tonight. I must go before anything starts. I will find Temujin; he can still stop this,” she resolved determinedly, pushing past him toward their ger.

He strode after her. “Temujin will not be thwarted, Borte! You cannot go to him! He will wage war no matter what you do; it is his role in the world!” Chilger said.

She stopped walking and turned on him, her eyes wild with fear and guilt. “And my role, Chilger? Is it to do nothing? I am a part of this, I must at least try!” she growled indomitably. She rushed the rest of the way to their ger, surprisingly agile and swift considering her growing girth.

Chilger followed her inside, grateful for the privacy and warmth. “Your role is to be my mate. To bear my children,” he said, pulling her resistant body into his arms, knowing that his words were false. He placed his fur-covered hand on her thickly covered belly. “I have chased your spirit lifetime after lifetime, and always like smoke you slip through my fingers. I have loved you forever and I have finally found you,” Chilger said, choking on his words. “We have been called to Shambhala, Borte. We will set out on the long dark night, Bituun, the last night of winter, when there is no moon to betray or mislead us. We will be led only by our spirit guides. We will not be idle and do nothing to help this world, we will go where we have been called and our path will be revealed. It is our only chance to stop this war and save our people.”

Borte raised her dark eyes to his, and they were so warm and deep that he was consumed. He swam in the depths of her compassion and self-sacrifice, and he tasted her goodness. He was overwhelmed in every way and he bent to kiss her. She returned his kiss but soon pulled away.

“I will go with you,” she said, finally convinced, and together they began to prepare.

Chilger was relieved that she had given up the idea of finding Temujin, but he found it difficult to answer her questions about where they were going. No one knew where Shambhala was located. There were legends, but they were surreal and unclear, and he had only his dreams to direct them.

The Merkits readied themselves. The nomads packed up their gers, their families, and their livestock and made for more strategic positions. Most of the warriors set out toward the amassing enemy horde, while some accompanied the tribe. Families said their goodbys, in most cases, forever.

Chilger and Borte loaded their belongings, their ger, and their supplies onto the backs of two sturdy horses, and each rode as well. The great golden eagle rested on Chilger's arm and he spoke gently to her, respectfully requesting her assistance on their quest. Their journey would be long and arduous, and the shaman was counting on the assistance of the great sky and earth to assist them. They would have to be wary—the spirits were in balance, good and evil, and there would be trials and obstacles in their way. So few ever reached Shambhala. One must be called and guided and prove oneself worthy.

Bituun had come, and, as darkness fell, Chilger and Borte began their pilgrimage.

“We must travel through the night,” he told her. “This long, moonless trail will unfold before us as it should and we must trust our instincts. If we listen to our souls' songs we will come to the right place; it is our eyes that deceive us. This realm that we inhabit is an illusion, Borte, a trick of our senses. We are blind to the truth of the spirit world alive all around us. In the darkness we can listen to the air and take the hands of the animal and nature spirits that reach out to each of us.”

“I trust you. There is so much that I do not understand. I will follow where you lead,” she replied fearlessly.

“It is I who will follow. My guides tell me that it is you who is called to Shambhala, Borte. My role is to make certain that you get there.”

“Me? It is you who hears the call, and have the memory of the spirit side. I feel like I am a child playing along in a time of real peril.”

“Our ‘play,' as you call it, is our destiny. We must follow the road and see where it leads. I have prayed for a spirit guide to help us on our path,” he answered.

“I am afraid,” she said.

“We all fear the unknown. Once there was a great king. He ruled his people well and was a merciful master. Many times he was forced to defend his lands against invasion, and always he was successful because he was righteous. He would ask his prisoners, his enemies, to choose their fate. Would it be the first cave that led to certain death by sword, or would it be the second that led to an unknown outcome? Most men chose certain death by sword, more afraid of the unknown than of death,” Chilger told her.

“What was in the other cave?” Borte asked.

“Freedom,” Chilger answered, and they continued to ride through the frigid, punishing darkness without talking. Borte contemplated the story and was resolved to overcome her fear of the unknown.

It was unusual to travel at night—the evil spirits were so much more likely to interfere—and it was odd and unnerving for Borte. Chilger chanted loudly as they moved, and their horses and garments jingled lyrically with bells and mirrors, scaring away the evil that would do them harm.

The stars were bright in the sky and offered a road map to the young shaman who followed them. Shambhala was real, he was sure of it. They had only to be worthy and seek it. Legend told that one had to be invited to Shambhala—many had perished searching for it, and many had just disappeared.

Though the first day of spring had come and gone, the weather continued to be cold and unkind and brutally battered the pair as they rode. The winds whipped and punished them, blowing the icy snow off the plains all around them and pelting them with the hardened crystals. There was little need or opportunity for conversation, and they rode in the direction of the Great Desert. Chilger chanted and prayed to the spirits of land and sky until he was hoarse. He called to the animal totems for guidance, and he followed his companion eagle as she protectively guided from above. On the second day she was joined by a male golden eagle, more vast and imposing than she, and together they soared majestically overhead.

In the evenings Chilger and Borte would stop and construct their shelter, to protect them from the biting cold that hindered their progress forward. They never failed to honor the gods with offerings of food and incense, and they prayed as they gratefully lit their sacred fire. Borte was in the last months of her pregnancy and dropped, exhausted, into a heavy sleep as soon as she could. The distended girl was finding it more difficult to be comfortable, but she never complained. Chilger noticed that she shifted her body often, and he longed to ease her discomfort. They were indebted to their hearty ponies, for though Borte was used to walking great distances, the journey would have been well beyond her at this stage.