The Sky Worshipers

by F. M. Deemyad

  “But I have no means to leave the city and set up business elsewhere,” Majeed said. They had only been married for a year and all he had saved was used up for the wedding and the dwelling they now shared. They would have to devise a plan, a means of escape, and an explanation that would satisfy everyone.

  Hope had earlier crept up in him, like the seedlings shooting out of the earth, that they too would have a bright future at last. Now all their hopes were dashed. He did not want to leave his bedchamber, though he knew they needed to move on.

  Golnaar poured more tea for the two of them. She often ignored reality when things became too complicated and listened as if she was hearing a bedtime tale.

  Majeed felt a degree of relief after having unburdened himself and noticing that Golnaar was not about to walk out on him, continued with a greater degree of ease. “Later, I sought shelter among a group of highwaymen who took pity on me, and seeing that I had nothing they could steal, they helped me find my way back home to Persia. Here I began a new life, married you and settled down. I thought I had put all that behind me.”

  “So, what happened the day before yesterday that has distressed you so?” Golnaar asked.

  “The other day, while working in the shop, I saw that same wicked man with the sinister smile. It had been five years since the last time I laid eyes on him. The expression on his face told me that he would betray me the first chance he gets. Like an apparition out of my worst nightmares, he stood before me. Now I dare not step outside and face the fate that might be awaiting me there. And neither should you.”

  Days passed and Majeed did not leave his house. “Why me Allah?” he lamented, raising his tearful eyes toward the low ceiling of their small house that badly needed fresh paint. He knew he was the talk of the town and waited for something to fall from the sky, to either put an end to his miserable life or change the subject of conversation in the neighborhood. Unbeknown to them, something had indeed happened. The Mongols had raided the village, wiping out the inhabitants.

  Like many families in those days, Majeed and his wife used to place a pot on top of mud bricks laid outdoors and made fire underneath for cooking. But now there was little to cook with, so the poor wife had not attempted to light a fire outdoors for days. Instead, Golnaar brought bits of dried bread out of a copper bin he had made for her as a wedding gift, upon which they munched to keep themselves going day after day.

  Thus, their house bearing no sign of life did not attract the attention of the invaders and kept the coppersmith and his wife unaware of the mayhem. Being situated rather far from the arena of battle, and absorbed in their own troubles, they never heard the rhythmic sound of the Mongol army drums that shattered nerves and foretold the imminent death of so many residents. Neither did they hear the screams that were eventually silenced as the hooves of horses trampled bodies.

  A week passed. Golnaar finally wrapped herself in her floral print chador, determined to go fetch some food before they starved to death. By then, the Mongols had left to invade other towns and villages.

  As she walked out, she noticed the stench in the air and the eerie silence. She could not even hear birds, cats or dogs. And then . . . she saw it, the first corpse. Is there a murderer on the loose? She swallowed hard. And then there were others. An injured man who looked more dead than alive began dragging himself toward her.

  “Help me,” he begged. She shrieked back.

  “What happened?” she asked, gasping.

  “We were under attack by enemy invaders. They spared no one. How come you weren’t hurt?”

  “I can’t explain it,” she said, inwardly thanking God for having been out of danger. “Stay here. I will get some help.”

  Shocked at the scenes of horror, Golnaar returned pale-faced and shivering to the house. She informed her husband that they were no longer the talk of the village. The village no longer existed. Then the idea slowly took shape in her mind that the wicked man who was probably killed by the Mongols may have inadvertently saved their lives.

  Chapter Eleven

  The War

  The war drama that unfolded far surpassed Reyhan’s descriptions. In Persia as in China, Genghis resorted to every atrocity imaginable. He threw living prisoners of war into moats to build human bridges for his army and used them as shields of flesh and bone against enemy attacks.

  Upon reaching Bukhara, the Mongols cut down the trees near the city to build siege engines and heavy war equipment. Under the light of torches, Chinese engineers and carpenters taken captive by the Mongols supervised the process overnight. A newfound tool called the trebuchet as well as mangonels threw giant boulders to break down the barriers. Within hours, Mongol horsemen entered the metropolis as the long reaching fiery arrows of their archers, standing high atop the city walls, bombarded the defenders of Bukhara.

  Despite a heavy downpour that ensued, the Mongols in their rain-saturated outfits with their horses soaked to their very hooves started to plunder. People ran for their lives to escape the horror raining upon them. Swords slashed skins and limbs, beheading some and disemboweling others. Blood formed small rivers and soon there was a sea of dread and destruction, but no one cried. The pale skins of amputated limbs and headless bodies left an eerie scene that contrasted with the tranquil beauty and the fresh breeze of early spring as if body parts had bloomed in the land in lieu of flowers.

  Some defenders like Jalaluddin, the son of Khwarazm Shah, fought gallantly, but others submitted without resistance. No fortifications remained immune for long as the determined Steppe warriors climbed, dug tunnels, and used every means at their disposal to seek and kill their foes. Bukhara crumbled almost overnight and Samarkand fared no better.

  Khwarazmshah’s magnificent war elephants became the first casualties of war. The Mongol warriors, who had never seen such giant creatures before, targeted the hefty legs of the animals with their arrows, sending them, half-crazed with fear into enemy lines. The elephants ended up trampling the Persians rather than destroying their foes. Seeing the extent of Mongol brutality, the Shah fled toward the Caspian Sea.

  Entry by Reyhan:

  The Birth of Hope

  The city of Neyshabur took pride in its magnificent orchards, shady woods and green hilltops. Its meadows, filled with corn poppies in spring and its rivers and fountains added further charm to the land. Its mines of turquoise gemstones attracted merchants from China and other parts of Asia. Its temperatures remained quite mild in the summer, and spring always appeared everlasting there for it lingered longer in Neyshabur than any other part of the known world. But the greener the land, the lusher its fields and orchards, the more swiftly the Mongols were attracted to it.

  Shereen, the young wife of Nauder, had ventured out early in the morning to buy fresh-baked bread. The cool air that still had bits of winter in it embraced her. She felt like screaming with joy. She felt so full of love, of life; a child, a miracle growing within her would be in her arms in just a few days. She could hardly wait.

  The aroma of the blossoms had mingled with the scent of wet earth. Months ago, scents of any kind would make Shereen nauseous, but not today. Almost nine months into her pregnancy, she was completely over that part.

  Hassan, the baker, busy preparing his dough, boasted that he was always the first at his job, never neglecting his duty as the main source of nourishment for the inhabitants. A bee buzzed around his white apron but his hands being submerged in the concoction had become too sticky to be used for shooing off the insect. Shereen watched and laughed inwardly at the spectacle.

  An unusual sound of drums could be heard in the distance. It appeared to be from out of town. It aroused little curiosity though, for at times groups of entertainers came to town from nearby villages to gain a few coins off their tiny circus of odd acts.

  Shereen purchased her bread and after walking a short distance, rested on a large boulder near her house. She
did so every time she returned from the baker, breaking a piece of her Barbary bread into tiny morsels for the doves. She wrapped her white shawl twice around her belly to keep it warm in the chilly morning air. The birds walked around the hem of her long skirt as they always did, but something erratic in their behavior left her puzzled. They took quick bites and flew away. She wondered if there was going to be a thunderstorm and got up from the rock to hurry home.

  A watermelon vendor with his horse cart carrying a load of large melons passed her by. The vendor had drawn out his knife, ready to cut up the melon and prove the sweetness of his produce upon demand. With one hand already tied up with the large piece of bread, Shereen reluctantly decided to forgo the treat.

  Tumbling down the road like a duckling, she finally reached her home. Nauder, her husband of three years, protested as soon as he opened the door. “Why did you do that? I would have gone for the bread. You shouldn’t be out there in such condition.”

  Shereen laid her tired body on the piles of cushions that served as furnishings and allowed her shawl to roll off her rounded frame. She stared lovingly at her husband with her large brown eyes. Nauder placed his hand on her belly. The baby kicked. They both laughed.

  Shereen, like her name which meant ‘sweet,’ was a kind-hearted woman who belonged to the higher echelons of Zoroastrian families. Nauder felt lucky to have wed her. His own family consisted of farmers whose income barely sustained them. Nauder had inherited a small apple orchard, and they lived off the sale of its produce.

  “It’s going to be a boy,” he said, proudly. “He is already pushing me aside.”

  “We should call him Farhod,” he suggested.

  “I hate that name,” she said, making a funny face. “Farhod is the folkloric hero always struggling to win the heart of his beloved. It’s such a sad name for our first child.”

  “Let’s call him Roestam then,” Nauder suggested, smiling.

  She laughed again, “What if he is a puny little child? His name would sound ludicrous.”

  “Wait, I hear something. It feels like the ocean is moving toward our home.”

  The voice of the town caller echoed in the street. The couple ended their conversation and rushed toward an open window. He was screaming, “Moghoal, Moghoal!”

  They both rose to look out the window. No ocean, just horses; thousands of them.

  “Chie shodeh? Chie shodeh?” People in the streets were asking what happened.

  “We are under Mongolian attack. Hide. Hide wherever you can,” the caller urged.

  Shereen wanted Nauder to investigate the matter further but a glass of water set on the table that had begun to tremble told them there was no time to lose. “Come, come, come, come, come, come,” he began shouting, his eyes searching for a different place to hide each time he repeated the word.

  They ran into a spandrel under the staircase in the basement. It barely had enough room for the two of them. It had a door visible from the outside and could not be considered a safe hiding place, but no other option remained. Nauder pushed his way to the farthest corner of the interior, sweeping nails and bits of wood with his hands. He pulled Shereen in front of him and closed the door. This gave her more room to breathe. She hoped that this would be a short episode and soon pass.

  Shereen could not see the horrors, she could only imagine them. Blood mingled with soil and the skies thundered in anger and shed tears of rain, as the city of Neyshabur succumbed to the barbarians. The pulse of nature skipped a beat, and the heavens gasped in horror. The angels held their heads down in shame at man’s atrocity against man and his violation of the sacred life on earth.

  Shereen heard screams, some were her own, some coming from people being slaughtered above. She could not distinguish one from the other. Tears came rolling down her cheeks. The labor pains were coming rather quickly.

  A gap between the hinge leaves of the door to the spandrel allowed Nauder a peek into the basement. He noticed the presence of a young warrior searching the house. Nauder had placed his hand firmly on Shereen’s mouth, silencing her cries, his own heart beating with fear for her and their unborn child. Shereen’s tears, mingled with sweat, rolled down his fingers and his heart ached with pity. He could hear the door to the house being yanked open. Moments passed excruciatingly slow. The soldier turned toward the door of the spandrel. Nauder could see his rough looking boot. But then the voice of an enemy fighter in the street, uttering cries in an unfamiliar language got the soldier’s attention. He ran out in an attempt to help his comrade but never returned. When the sounds outside dimmed to an earie silence, Nauder moved slowly from behind Shereen and opened the door. He gently pulled her out of the tight enclosure, allowing the baby to be born with greater ease. His mother who lived in the south had taught him how to act as a midwife if one could not make it there in time for the baby’s birth. The tiny underweight baby girl could not be called Roestam, but he was thankful that they were alive.

  When she finally settled with the baby, Nauder walked out of the house, closing the door behind him. The extent of the devastation was unbearable to see. Human remains—an arm here a leg there—could be seen everywhere. Nauder felt the crushing weight of guilt upon his shoulders. He had not been there to help his fellow townsfolk. He could not even bury them. Drained and numbed by the awful experience, he walked towards a neatly stacked pile that appeared to be a mound of cannon balls, newly introduced items in the arena of war. Upon closer examination, however, he realized he was looking at a mound of severed heads.

  Nauder returned, too stunned to speak. The Mongolian whirlwind had come and gone, razing their land, killing their people. Only a few had survived. He looked at Shereen whose face showed no sign of the pain, fear, and horror they had just experienced. The little miracle she held in her arms opened her eyes.

  “What shall we call it?” she asked, looking at Nauder.

  “Call what?”

  “Our baby, what shall we call her?” she asked again.

  “I . . . I don’t know. I can’t think,” he said, “We seem to be among the few who were left alive.”

  “We have to think. We must live. I haven’t been outside, but I can imagine the devastation. We know what happened to Bukhara when they attacked.”

  “We have nothing. No city, no inhabitants,” he replied, shaking with fatigue and fear.

  “We should call her Oameed (Hope) then. Hope is all that we have left.”

  Oameed’s cry shattered the eerie silence of the city in the early hours of the morning, a week after the Mongol tsunami wiped away the inhabitants of Neyshabur. The sky shed tears of rain for days and since there were no undertakers for the enormous task of burying the dead, merciful earth gave the city a helping hand. Mud formed and piled high on roads, as nature supplied a morgue.

  When the sun came up after a fortnight of downpour and dried the accumulated mud, it was as if the earth had swallowed the inhabitants, for no sign of them remained. Men and women, young and old, suckling babies, horses, and goats all lay beneath newly formed earth. Soon grass would grow, tulips would bloom and when their baby girl would turn into a lady, all would be forgotten.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Ebony Prison

  Despite Reyhan’s repeated attempts at befriending the Mongol chatelaines, they shied away from conversing with her and limited their communication to a polite smile or a word or two, usually just complementing her good taste in clothing. She even tried to strike a conversation with Borte. But the latter kept to her ger and spoke little with anyone, let alone Reyhan who by now knew only the basics of the Mongolian language.

  The one time they did speak as friends was when Reyhan found Borte teary-eyed after a conversation she had with Genghis. Reyhan felt sorry for the wrinkled-faced woman. “What bothers you so, pray tell me,” she pleaded. Borte, who seemed reluctant at first, confided that Genghis planned to wage war again
st the Tangut nation again. “I told him that he had punished them enough. Plus, I fear for his life,” she added and began sobbing uncontrollably. As Reyhan tried to console Borte, she recalled the fire she had seen in Genghis’s eyes long ago on the night of the ger celebration. The destruction of Khwarazm territories did not satiate his thirst for revenge.

  Days later, a messenger from the fronts informed them that Genghis Khan had died. When the news reached Reyhan, she recalled Baako’s words about the Mongol leader. As if the connection between Chaka and her homeland in China could not be forgiven. He must have considered the people of Tangut as the ones who ultimately played a role in her demise. Against all rationality upon which rules of strategy are devised, and against the recommendations of his advisors and his own sense of logic, Genghis had decided to make the annexation of Tangut territories his last conquest.

  Reyhan later learned that an old Tangut palace guard who had long prepared for such an opportune moment, aimed with his spear at the very heart of the one he had detested all his life. An arrow flew, sealing the Khan’s fate and piercing his heart that had shown no mercy. Genghis, the most powerful man to ever set foot upon the earth, rolled off his horse and fell to his death. Despite the summer heat, his followers carried his body back to Mongolia and buried the fallen conquerer near his place of birth. The Mongol warriors decimated Tangut territories as he had ordered right before his death, thus fulfilling his last wish.

  With the ascension of Ogodei to power, he proclaimed his desire to construct buildings in Karakorum, a tent city and center of Mongol power, and turn it into a permanent capital. To the nomads, the grasslands that stretched from the Khangai Mountains to the Orkhon River appeared ideally situated for the purpose, but the location was far from the resources needed to sustain their livelihood. Despite this, the regal city thus founded had features that Reyhan considered impressive.