Part 19 (1/2)

Everyone seemed to realize that we were living at a historic moment. It had been sixty years since Chinggis Khan began the conquest of China by sacking the northern Chinese capital of Yenjing, which later became Khanbalik. For decades, we Mongols had controlled North China. Now, with the conquest of Kinsay, his grandson Khubilai Khan had unified all of China, north and south, under Mongol rule. A new era was beginning, full of the promise of harmony.

General Abaji rode down the main avenue of the capital in a stately manner. Temur followed him, holding high the Khan's white horse-tail banner. The rest of us followed in formation. The half-grown trees lining the sides of the avenue had been wrapped in silk strips of yellow and white, contrasting with the vivid spring green of the buds on their branches. Banners of red, yellow, blue, and white fluttered from the roof tiles topping the walls that lined the street.

The atmosphere was festive. Men, women, and children, Cathayans, Mongols, and foreigners mingled along the sides of the avenue, watching and pointing, raising their children to their shoulders, cheering and laughing.

”It's Prince Temur!” one boy shouted.

”Temur! Temur!” others echoed in joyful voices. ”Returned from the South!”

Finally, I was entering the city of Khanbalik in a victory parade, but without Suren. No one recognized me or shouted my name. Our triumph at Vochan had not won me celebrity. Instead, they cheered this man who had marched into Kinsay without a fight. After the horrors and losses of battle, I still did not get to enjoy the victory parade that Suren and I had desired so ardently. It felt like an insult to Suren's memory.

I had hoped the Great Khan himself would greet us, but he was on his annual spring hunting trip. Abaji gathered us just inside the palace gate, praised us for our service to the Khan in battle, and instructed us to return to our families for a rest of twenty days.

I dismounted, handed Baatar's reins to a servant, and headed to my parents' courtyard. Everything looked different to me. The great audience halls of the palace seemed larger and grander. But after seeing Nesruddin's smaller, elegant palace by the lake, the Khan's palace seemed ostentatious.

After months on the road, eating simple meals with my companions around open fires, riding with the wind in my face, wearing the same uniform day after day, the everyday luxuries of court life seemed excessive. On the road, we had talked of war and peace and the future of mankind. Here, people talked of minor spats and spread rumors of concubines who flirted with guards. My cheeks had grown ruddy from exposure to the elements, and here women rubbed lotions on their cheeks to keep them smooth.

As I walked toward the back of the Khan's palace, no one greeted or recognized me. A hard spot around my heart began to throb.

When I entered my home, my mother rushed out to greet me. She grabbed both my hands as if I were still a young girl. The top of her head reached no higher than my nose. She leaned back and examined my face, my arms, my body, looking for wounds.

”Were you injured, my daughter?” she asked.

”No, not at all.” I squeezed her hand. ”But...Suren...” Suddenly, I was weeping like a girl with a gaping wound that would never heal. It was the first time I had cried after Suren's death. Here, at home, it was safe to mourn.

Small as she was, my mother embraced me, just above my waist, and laid her head against my shoulder. She hugged me so tightly that my breath came in gasps. Her hair, flattened with a fragrant oil, exuded the flowery scent I remembered from childhood. I, too, hugged her so tight I thought I might squeeze the breath from her.

Drolma seemed happy to see me, but the gulf between us was wider than ever. During my absence, my parents had arranged a marriage for her, with Jebe, son of the general who had dismissed me.

”General Aju said I was exactly the kind of daughter-in-law he wanted,” Drolma told me with pride. I was bursting to tell stories, of the lion I had killed, of the dragon hunt, of the battle. But they didn't want to hear of my adventures. Drolma only wanted to tell me the latest court gossip.

That night, I slept in my old bed with my sister. I retired early, overcome with six months' worth of exhaustion. What had been the point of trying so hard to be a soldier, to fight like a man and keep riding day after day? Here I was, back where I had started, like a maiden who had never left her father's ger ger. I had still been able to smell the pungent wind of the farmlands and the sweat of the army on my outer clothing. But once I'd taken my army clothing off and lain down under my sister's quilt, all I could smell was her perfume. My body felt tired and heavy, yet my mind was swirling. I felt sad, bitter, lost.

The next morning, my mother handed me a square of silver. It was the Tara amulet from my father that I had cast aside nearly a year ago.

”Your father heard about Suren's death. He wanted to make sure you were carrying this, from the G.o.ddess of mercy, to help you in your grieving.”

This time, I accepted the amulet. I needed whatever compa.s.sion was offered.

”He is at the monastery,” Mama said. ”Go talk to him.”

After all I had been through, I was in urgent need of answers, and I no longer felt certain that my father's choices had been wrong. For the first time in my life, I felt a pressing desire to learn from his wisdom.

36 At the Monastery

After resting a few days at home, I made the journey to the Buddhist monastery. It was a half day's ride from Khanbalik, situated on a hillside overlooking the plains.

I was not sure what I wanted to hear from my father. I needed to fill this painful hole inside me, to find some meaning in life after the loss of Suren. I had to decide about my future, about the army and Marco. My father had never provided such wisdom for me before, and I was not sure I could speak honestly to him. But I sensed that he had deeper thoughts than he had ever expressed to me.

As I entered the front gate of the monastery, I breathed in the fresh mountain air, scented with the sweet smell of burning incense. This was one of the oldest Buddhist compounds in this part of Cathay, built almost a thousand years earlier. Each of the temples was s.p.a.cious and imposing, with wise-looking Buddhas-past, present, and future-carved of wood. I wandered through a series of courtyards with twisted pines and cypress trees, stone monuments called stupas, and rock formations. The atmosphere was one of quiet serenity and humble contemplation.

I saw a monk and asked him where to find my father, Prince Dorji. He understood Mongolian but did not speak it. He took me to the Hall of Guanyin, the G.o.ddess of mercy.

There, a nun, with head shaved bald, was kneeling and praying on the stone steps, facing the statue. She was wearing simple gray robes and chanting a stream of foreign words. I guessed they were Tibetan, since the sutras were written in Tibetan. The air was thick with the smell of incense.

The monk cleared his throat and waited. The nun seemed totally absorbed.

Finally, she stopped chanting, paused, stood up, and walked toward me. Her looks surprised me. She was young, with a smooth, broad face, round like a moon. She seemed vaguely familiar, but I had never talked to a nun.

”Yes? How can I help you?” She spoke clear Mongolian. This was odd. I had heard of Chinese and Tibetan nuns, but had never known a Mongolian to become a nun.

Only after the move to Khanbalik, during my childhood, were Mongols introduced to this foreign religion of Buddhism. By tradition, Mongols wors.h.i.+ped Eternal Heaven-Tengri-and Mother Earth. We built ovoos ovoos in sacred spots in nature and circled them, tossing stones onto them to ask for good fortune. Ours was not an organized religion with temples and texts. Some Mongol tribes were Christian, such as that of Khubilai's mother, but few had adopted the Buddhist or Muslim religions. My grandmother Chabi was an exception, a Mongol who had become a devout Buddhist. in sacred spots in nature and circled them, tossing stones onto them to ask for good fortune. Ours was not an organized religion with temples and texts. Some Mongol tribes were Christian, such as that of Khubilai's mother, but few had adopted the Buddhist or Muslim religions. My grandmother Chabi was an exception, a Mongol who had become a devout Buddhist.

When I told the nun my name, she smiled and examined my face carefully. ”Ah, Emmajin! Follow me,” she said. She led me through a gate to another courtyard. At its center was a deep pool, surrounded by mulberry trees just beginning to bloom.

Inside a nearby room, my father was sitting cross-legged on a low bench, looking at some long, thin books laid out on a table. The pages were covered with curly connected letters arranged in neat rows. I could not imagine how they made sense.

Just seeing him, with his heavy-lidded eyes and deep under-eye shadows, brought back my feelings of bitterness. He had left my mother to fend for herself at court and showed no interest in me at all. What wisdom could I expect from him?

My father's eyebrows rose, but he did not stand or approach me. Instead, he pointed to a low bench just opposite him. I sat there with my legs crossed. My father had shaved his head bald, too, and wore a simple monk's maroon robe.

The nun poured some boiled water into a bowl and handed it to me to drink. She sat near the wall, watching like a chaperone.

”I hear you fought in a battle,” my father began. ”I'm glad to see you alive.”

”But Suren,” I began. I choked, unable to continue.

He shook his head in sorrow. I was glad I would not have to explain. ”Such a fine young man. You two were so close.”

I didn't know what to say, and my words tumbled out. ”I just wish I could...The battle wasn't what I expected. Bodies everywhere. Even horses killed! And Suren...I saw...I never thought...I was so angry. I wanted revenge. Once I killed an enemy soldier, I couldn't stop killing.”

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 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.”