Bridge Across the Land

by Yvonne Wang

  Anxious and breathing unevenly, Angela is upset. She says, “But . . .”

  “Um—I’m sorry Angela,” the young man smiles dashingly and interrupts her. With hands in his pockets, he says earnestly, “I have to go.”

  Angela frowns and seems to wake up from a stupor, as if she has been soaking in chilled water. With her rosy mouth agape, she is disappointed and frustrated.

  “The prince will be attending a meeting today, as an attendant I must accompany him.” Alexander drapes his arm around her shoulder and coaxes her softly.

  Angela turns about and immediately becomes alert and determined. Eyes wide, she follows up, “Another meeting? Is it because of the Mongol army?”

  “Yes.” Alexander expresses sadness and worry. Brows furrowed in serious consideration, he bites his lip dolefully, “The Mongols have already occupied the South Kievan Rus’ steppe, next will be us. The Hungarian King Béla has already declared a state of emergency.”

  “Alexander,” Angela and him hug. She sighs in disappointment and tells him, “Go, don’t just take care of the prince, you have to take care of yourself too.”

  “Okay, I will. Goodbye, Go home.” He kisses her cheek.

  “Goodbye!” Angela smiles with difficulty, untucking her skirt and glancing back every step she takes as she disappears around the corner.

  The attendant who has been hiding across the street the entire time slips out and walks over to Alexander. Seeing that he is stilling looking and reminiscing, humbly says, “Your Royal Highness, it’s time to go.”

  “Anthony, she is very special, isn’t she?” Alexander stands straight and stunned at the foot of the bridge, staring longingly, “You saw her eyes? One of them is black . . . like a piece of art made by God. Unfortunately—” He suddenly becomes sad and powerless, “Given her status, I will never marry her.”

  Golden lights filter through the large windows and shine into the luxurious conference room. Carvings are on the murals and crystal chandeliers hang darkly while intricate oil paintings decorate the walls. Ornate vases dot the room, opulent curtains caress the floor, soft chairs and long tables, cotton blankets and crystal glasses further make the room exquisite and royal. The royal leaders of Poland’s four dukedoms sat together.1

  “Okay, Miechowo, you and others may go first,” King Boleslav waves and commands, sinking into the soft leather seat with elaborate engravings. A large sheet of sheep skin map and movable tags cover the platform. Servants and attendants are stationed on both sides; the atmosphere is tense and oppressive.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” The over 50-year-old butler has a round belly, drooping cheeks and an elegant and smooth voice. He leads the servants and they file out.

  The King watches them leave then sighs to the other three individuals, “Mongolian troops are devils, they have killed nearly 300,000 people in Moscow. King Béla also contacted Bohemia, Austria, as well as the Knights Templar. If we cannot help Béla keep the Mongols out of Hungary, then Polish territory will also be scourged by those devils.” Boleslav puts down the letter delivered by the Hungarian envoy. His expression grave and he sighs bitterly as he leans into his forehead, “Oh, why . . . . did God connect Asia and Europe?”

  Duke Henry of Silesia stands up angrily and looks out the window proudly, “How are the Mongols scary? Our military strength is not slight. I will immediately write my brother-in-law Wenceslaus.2 Have him send troops expeditiously to help. Our knights, armors and shields are not defeated easily.”

  “So, what is your plan?” Conrad asks.

  “Boleslav sends an army to help Béla. I will build strength to preserve Poland.”

  Conrad gives his beard a lilt and says in an odd voice, “Why aren’t you the one going?”

  Henry chokes back his words to diffuse the quietly spreading smoke. The King is just about to open his mouth when an attendant comes to report, “His Royal Highness the Prince is here.”

  A minute later, Alexander greets the elders. The king is dissatisfied, “Alexander, you are late.”

  “I’m sorry, please forgive me.” Alexander bows gracefully.

  “Did you slip out again in civilian clothes?” His father snaps, wrinkling his forehead and shooting rage with his green eyes.

  “. . . No, no.” Alexander shakes his head to deny vigorously at the same time remains composed. He respectfully lowers his head to say, “Master Ed taught me new sword techniques, I went to a desolate location to practice. Little did I know that I would forget the time . . . I am extremely sorry.” He smiles and quickly changes the subject saying, “Oh yes, Father, just received news from an intelligence agent, the Mongolian army has already divided its soldiers into three, of which the northern division has already reached East Prussia. I am afraid . . . they are headed for Poland!”

  His words shocked the four elders. As potential danger escalates rapidly, terror is heightening too; they cannot help but feel their hair are standing on end. Boleslav is bathing in the sunlight but a drop of cold sweat quietly drips down his temple, “Aren’t, aren’t they against Hungary only? Then . . . . Who is the leader of the northern division? Also, East Prussia . . . aren’t the Teutonic Knights able to block them?”

  Anthony pulls out a cushioned seat. The prince bows and sits down worriedly and sadly, replying immediately, “It seems to be Baidar.3 Since the Teutonic Knights have been invited down south to help King Béla in Hungary, Lithuania has almost no defense.”

  “Oh my God.” Conrad shakes in fear. Touching that old sheep skin map, he pushes a wooden block to East Prussia, “There is not much more distance. The Mongolian army can charge into Krakow in merely a blink of an eye.”

  Henry hangs on to the table and asks: “Alexander, how many people do they have?”

  The frustrated Prince: “I don’t know.”

  Five people gather in front of the map, exchanging glances and together looking over at the river-land divide. The territory occupied by the Mongols goes from the east coast and crosses the Asian continent. Along the way, they leave hardly any survivors. Forcing their way through with sharp swords, they seem poised to swallow Europe. The heart of Poland is only a thin veil away from the Devil. They are so close that the demon can be heard; they are at the edge of a deep abyss.

  A starry night. The Mongolia army camp east of the Lublin region, Poland.

  Inside the tent, lanterns are just lit. Reflections of light sway in the helmets and the blades. Baidar sits cross-legged before the low table, reading a roll of military orders and writing vertically. His eyes steady and his penmanship bold. After he finishes writing, he rolls the scrolls up and hands them to Kaidu next to him. “Kaidu4 then turns to a messenger. The messenger genuflects to receive the command, then leaps onto a horse at a lightning speed, riding afar in the wind.

  Kaidu is young and agile. In a flash he steps back and sits down. Baidar drops his voice and says, “Okay, once the North Wing takes down Lithuania, we will have no more worries. They continue to move toward Pomerania and should be able to enter northern Poland from there and join forces with our main army.”

  “Do the Poles think the North Wing division is our main force?” Scrunching his eyes, Kaidu asks.

  Baidar reveals a slight sneer, “The real main force is in Hungary. Even if they were to find us here, it will be useless for them. Spring is coming, we must fight and end it quickly. We might even be able to get back and help General Subutai.5” He focuses and considers it for a brief moment then looks at his nephew, “We will start invading from the territory east of Conrad; getting on the road tomorrow, how is that?”

  “Of course it’s not too late,” Kaidu answers casually. Then he leans over to ask, “But what about the princess? Before the major army attacks Krakow, we have to send people to find her.”

  “Rest assured. Since we have discovered the princess, I will send people with the
best martial skills to bring her back to Mongolia.” As he finishes speaking, Baidar rises to reach the tent opening, ordering a soldier to send for Tianyin.

  “Tianyin?” Kaidu is puzzled, “That Han6 Chinese with no last name? Is that Okay?”

  Baidar laughed heartily, “Ha ha, do not worry, he is absolutely loyal and reliable. He almost died in escaping a famine when young and was saved by the Mongols and grew up with Mongolian children. For the last decade and more, he has been victorious on numerous occasions and the Han style kungfu he knows can evade and close-in, which is much more practical than the cavalry in bringing back the princess.”

  In a short while, Tianyin breezes right in and gets down on his knees. He is approximately 27 or 28. Dressed casually, he wears a hair bun and a belt. With his head bent and eyes lowered, he speaks while kneeling on one knee, “Reconnaissance cavalry7 Tianyin bows to the General and the Vice General.”

  Kaidu looks at this man in detail. His brows are like swords and his eyes are bright. He is handsome and seemingly talented. Though he does seem a bit aloof with emotions restrained like a well. He seems as old and steady as someone who has crossed a sea of frost. His movements are swift and strong; his bone structure is solid and muscular and as he hits the ground, his balance is powerful but deft. He really does look like he has a few set of martial skills.

  Baidar indicates for him to rise, stroking his beard he says, “Tianyin, here is an important task assigned to you.” He paces back and forth slowly while explaining, “Eighteen years ago when the Great Khan followed the Grand Founder on a westward expedition8 he had favored a blue-eyed woman. Later she stole Great Khan’s switchblade, headed west and disappeared. Earlier, Cavalry Scout Kazakh reported that they found a girl with this knife in Krakow. And from the look of her eyes, she has the blood of Great Khan.”

  Tianyin stands listening intently, still and quiet, breathing deep and long. His consciousness seems empty like a stone statue. The candlelight casts shadows of his elegant features; his icy eyes are deep and clear. Kaidu purses his lips tight and lifts the heated brass pot on the stove, pours a cup of mare’s milk to nourish his throat. He is too lazy to look at him again.

  “So if you see a girl with one blue eye and one dark brown eye with that dagger carved with Great Khan’s name in Mongolian, you know she’s the princess. The day after tomorrow, our army will start barraging Conrad’s territory from east to west, charging into Krakow.” Baidar stands before Tianyin, gets close to him and lowers his voice, “You must bring out Princess before we siege the city. Select a few cavalry scouts to go with you. Careful not to arouse any suspicion. Any problems?”

  Tianyin nods, “I see. To where should we take the princess?”

  Baidar grinds his boots and returns to his seat, “If you come back early, bring her back to me of course, but if our army has already begun the attack or later by the time you leave the city . . .”

  Kaidu gulps down the milk, permeating with a pungent smell, he lays down his cup and interrupts, “I say he might as well see Princess directly back to Karakorum9 and personally deliver her to Grandfather. Otherwise it will be inconvenient for her to accompany the army for a year or so.”

  “Ah.” Baidar moves his charcoal eyes and thought for a moment. Inwardly he feels this move is inadequate so he lifts his head and says, “I am afraid that the journey is difficult with just a few people guarding the princess back to the city. Tianyin, try your best to bring her over so that we may check and confirm too. Unless our entire army is defeated or under some special set of circumstances, then you will go directly back to Karakorum.”

  “Yes!” Tianyin accepts the order and as he lowers his head, a flash of concern crosses his eyes.

  The giant bell in the stone tower swings, dang, dang, dang; its timekeeping sounds soar clearly into the clouds, frightening the birds into flight. By midday, the soil is warm and the day is balmy, sunshine filters into the Bender Bakery kitchen, pots and cutting boards, cured meat and bread gradually rise in temperature. Things are messy and foggy in an oily space, saturated with the smells of onions and butter from the last meal. Angela quietly chops the carrots for lunch, changing directions left and right, wrist and arm rising and falling rapidly with swift moves of the knife.

  On the other side of the kitchen, 43-year-old Vicat and 29-year-old Galina are waving a large kitchen cutter together, hollering and hacking the raw ribs. However, meat and bones twist into knots; the tendons are tough, the muscles are thick and the skin is sticky with blood. Despite such force, the beef ribs remain unharmed.

  They look at each other, then looked over at the back of Angela. Vicat approaches and cries hoarsely, “Hey, Angela, let us borrow your knife!”

  Her hands do not stop and her head does not turn. Ghastly, Angela refuses, “My saber is not for cutting meat.”

  Vicat keeps wiping her fat hands on her apron. Wrinkling her brows, she adjusts the tone of voice to that of hateful exhortation, “Angela, never mind that you are usually arrogant and stingy, but Valerie bought this beef for Ivan to give him nutrition. Don’t you want him to have any?”

  Angela’s eyes are stern and deep, glistening in blue and black. She sets aside her work at hand temporarily and articulates to Vicat each word and each line, “It’s my knife. Mine. I tell you it’s not for slicing meat!”

  Vicat’s face twitch and mouth goes crooked. She flares her nose and stands akimbo. All of a sudden she hears Galina’s strange tone of voice waft over, “Hey, Angela, what’s yours? Everyone knows that your mom left you that cutlass. Maybe it belongs to your father by blood!”

  With a wave of her hand, Angela stabs the knife into the cutting board, twirls around and glares sharply at Galina.

  “Well, is that impossible? Could that be your name that’s carved on there?”

  Angela stares bitterly and leaves in a huff, her rage creeping upward. She grits her teeth saying, “I am me. I have a-b-s-o-l-u-t-e-l-y n-o-t-h-i-n-g t-o d-o w-i-t-h m-y p-a-r-e-n-t-s!” Suddenly she pulls out that dagger tied to her girdle with all her might and without a second word, she targets the symbols on the sheath and scrapes them vigorously with a knife, back and forth with determination.

  Metals clang sonorously as they slash vertically and horizontally, each filing crisp and clean. Angela is staunchly stubborn. Despite trembling, she has not one trace of regret or attachment. All of a sudden, the face of the sheath is beyond recognition, rough scars replace that ancient string of vertical words. She then stuffs her bayonet back, casts a sharp glance at the two of them and continues to chop carrots.

  The two women cannot help but be stunned. Dumbfounded for a protracted time, the kitchen is left with only the sound of vegetables being chopped.

  “Ha,” Vicat came to, squinting and showing all her teeth. She is most resentful. She utters from the side, “Even if you file it off, it’s useless. Facts cannot be changed. I heard that the man raped your mother, that’s how you came to be. Why should you protect his knife?”

  “Enough!!” Angela was outraged by these words and screamed all of a sudden. Like a mad woman, she slowly turns around and gawk harshly at the other two. Her pretty face is green as she approaches them irately. She hatefully spits out one line, “Is this just for cutting beef?”

  Galina is somewhat scared, shaking, she said, “Yeah . . . .”

  With the fall of those words, Angela takes two or three steps toward the beef ribs, suddenly infuriated and domineering. Galina gets so scared that she hurriedly slips behind Vicat. They only see her touch the cutting board; her ruddy skin touches blood while her five fingers grip from above and five fingers pinch from below. After she gets into a steady standing pose, she raises her brows and swells her face; with the might of her entire body—“Ya—” violence swirls and she is unstoppable. Angela seems to want to do a life or death battle with the beef. Her fingers pale and her arms shaking, finally,
a crack! She rips two ribs and the meat on top into two raw halves!

  Angela inhales deeply and exhales slowly; retracting her bloody hands, savagery gradually disappears from her blue and blacks pupils. She looks back at the two of them while cupping her palms. As she closes-in with each step, her face is like snow and frost.

  Galina and Vicat scatter after holding on to each other. Vicat is pale and sweaty, “What . . . . do you want? I’m gonna call the boss.”

  “I am telling you to be more polite with our words. Don’t think I am easy to bully.” Sweetly pungent blood drip from her hands. Angela stands still and stare angrily, uttering slowly this warning, “I have survived for such a long time on my own. Provoke me and I dare do anything!”

  The two women swallow hard and are in a daze when all of a sudden a man calls out loudly from the store, “Angela Cherreh! Come out!”

  Angela arrives at the bakery reception area and sees a team of officers squeezed together at the door with armors on the body and cuffs in hand. Little Ivan’s Father Peter is leading the team in all seriousness in his black gown and a cross by his chest. Boss Valerie is standing by the staircase and holding little Ivan; she gasps when she sees Angela’s bloody hands. Everyone in the store is watching attentively as they stand all around.

  “Arrest her!” Father orders.

  Angela is handcuffed and tied at the arms for no known reason. She roars, “Why?!”

  The priest examines closely and carefully. His knitted brows and wicked eyes glance at her two strange pupils as well as ten bright red fingers. He murmurs, “A witch indeed . . . .” He immediately shakes open the arrest warrant and announces, “Angela Cherreh, you treated Ivan with witchcraft the other day. You are arrested and to be convicted in court under the suspect of being a witch!”

  “On what basis?!” Before she can explain, Angela is pressed down and tied at the wrists with craggy ropes.

  The priest’s fat cheeks jitter as he proclaims by the power of the holy, “Only the power of the Lord can cure diseases. You must have borrowed the magic of diabolical spirits and want to absorb Ivan’s essence while treating him. You cannot stay for long!”