Bridge Across the Land

by Yvonne Wang

  He screeches to a pause, getting lost in memory then speaking again, “In the meeting yesterday, Granduncle Henry planned and insinuated to have Father yield the throne to him after the war; only then is he willing to dispatch soldiers to accompany Wenceslas in taking back Poland’s lost land. Otherwise, he will just guard the dukedom to the west and designate himself King of Poland. People are beasts. I never imagined Granduncle Henry to be so evil . . . Father agreed. I don’t know whether it’s real or not; but perhaps before the Mongols come, I am already not a prince . . .”

  He does not know whether he should protect the country or secure the position. Once the country ceases to be, the position collapses; but how is the country meaningful to him if the position is lost?

  “Along the way, I saw my people displaced and yet I did nothing. Torturing the soul in this way may be punishment for my inability . . . I heard Catherine is incredibly fat and ugly, just the king’s adopted daughter. Since the Holy Roman Empire already knows that Poland is on the decline, why would they have the real princess marry me? Lord, can I only rescue Poland with this doomed marriage?” Alexander is overcome with grief and powerlessness invades his heart. Surviving the dangers and changes these days, he is filled with much suppressed melancholy. Even his breath becomes melancholic. He prays for the blessings and aid of the Lord, blessing himself and blessing Poland.

  Boom, boom, unfamiliar steps sound behind him and echo throughout the large hall. Alexander turns around and sees a father whom has never met. His eyes are kind and still; his black robes elegant and the chain of cross on him glistened. He smiles as he approaches.

  “You are . . .” The young man has never seen him before so he gets up with alarm.”

  “Hi young man, I’m Father Louise here. I was taking a nap just now and dreamed of St. Mary. She said there is a pensive person praying here and told me to deliver a few words.” The priest bends at the waist to greet him with frankness, apparently unaware of his identity.

  The prince is shocked. Being watched over by the spirit at once, he opens his mouth half in doubt, “What words?”

  “Ah, she said that Poland will definitely be able to survive this crisis; but you, play a critical role.” Father’s hands lower and clasp together. He inhales and says, “She said that you must leave immediately and go east to find someone who is meant to rescue Poland. You will find and bring the person back to resolve Poland’s entire crisis.”

  Alexander is dumbfounded as he rakes his brain. His green pupils are hollow and still, “Really?”

  “Yes, but you have to start soon.”

  A torrential rain is pouring, exploding with noise. Waters from heaven splash in waves in the night. Surges of clouds roll in and silvery lightening clip the sky.

  Alexander has on a raincoat. With wet hair stuck to his face, he bolts into the stables, pulling on his harness vigorously and locking down the saddle. Anthony is red in the face with a sense of urgency behind him, waving his hands and lunging forward. He screams faintly and chases after him, panicking in the midst of noise.

  “Your Highness—”

  Alexander steps onto the stirrup and is ready to jump onto the seat when he sees Anthony run out grasping his straps.

  “Your Royal Highness, think carefully. That priest is not believable.” Anthony is full of fear out of loyalty.

  Alexander’s convex brows drip water, sitting high up on the saddle he sneers, “Either you get away or go with me! I know who St. Mary is talking about. Angela is the one who is destined to save Poland. I know that if I can bring her back to be queen then the Mongols are family. Is that not better than marrying Catherine?”

  He presses the horse to speed up but is again dragged back by his attendant. Anthony swallows and pleads “Your Highness! Your Royal Highness, at least discuss this with His Majesty.”

  “Discuss?! In his eyes, I am just a political chess piece. Do you think he will believe me and let me go?” Alexander is frustrated and hardened of heart. Water continues to drip like streams on his pale skin. Lone desperation all over his achromatic face, he swears to never turn back, “I do not want to be under his control. The prince of Poland should personally shoulder the responsibility of saving Poland!” Finished, he hollers, raises his whip and slaps Anthony’s hand, so painfully that Anthony jerks back. The prince then gallops off into the torrent, splattering all along the way.

  Anthony is panic-stricken. He hurriedly and nervously pulls out a horse and chases after the prince frantically, yelling, “Your Highness—wait for me—”

  In the study of Duke Silesia, Henry IV, thick rolls of writing are in sequential piles, cashmere carpets and the walls are luxurious.

  Father Louise visits. Henry sticks the quill pen in his hand into the ink bottle, and then stands up as Louise hisses into his ear. The priest covers his mouth while his lips move to report. The Duke keeps nodding and broadening his smile. When he abruptly hears someone getting close outside the door, Henry waves his hand as a gesture and Louise instantly evades through a side door.

  Bang, the door flies open. Emanating hateful violence, King of Poland Boleslav bursts in with his cape. His finger pointing overbearingly, he grills, “Henry! What trick did you use? Where is Alexander?”

  Henry leans against the table and crosses his arms, laughing sinisterly, “What? Your son disappears and you come and get angry at me the uncle?” He feigns innocence, “The guards in my castle said Alexander ran away on his own last night, saying that he went east to marry the princess of Mongolia. He threatened with his sword and pressed for his release—” The Duke’s insidious face gets close, and with glee he says, “Could not stop him.”

  Mighty fury rises in Boleslav. He shoves Henry aside, gritting his teeth and saying, “Henry, I promised to let you be the king. I will not go back on my word! Why did you have to play this trick?! In the east right now are all Mongolian enemy army, aren’t you sending him off to die?!”

  “Didn’t I say that he wanted to go himself. I could not help it.” The Duke picks up a glass of red wine next to the sheep skin. He sips slowly and taps on the table top by his hip with the knuckles of his lanky fingers. With eyes of a snake, he announces, “Military affairs are dire, the nation best find a backup leader . . . Never mind, let Uncle help you and make my only grandson Andrew your adopted son. Don’t wear that expression. We can still exchange when Alexander gets back in the future . . . .”

  “Will he still come back!” The King is indignant to the extreme. Fury explodes and pierces his lungs with unbearably painful asthma, “You unscrupulous beast! You are utterly devoid of conscience!” Blood boils so that he cannot breath. Suddenly his legs go weak and he collapses against the wall.

  Henry lightheartedly snaps his fingers and calls over the servants, ordering them, “His Majesty is not feeling well. Help him down to nurse him back to health.”

  Act Three

  Bridge Across the Land

  Act Three

  Mongolian army’s major camp, outside of the city of Wroclaw, Silesia Dukedom, Poland.

  Twilight at dusk is a thick orange, the tents are staked down all over. Warhorses rest in rows; arrows and weapons are ready.

  Inside the main tent, a cooking fire is lit. Fragrance drips from the sizzling meat while the flame licks the fat; an enticing smoke wafts about. Kaidu takes down a leg of lamb from the rack. Looking at how crisp and tender the yellow skin is, he leers with delight and sucks in the smell. He opens wide his mouth and chomps a huge bite of meat with his sharp teeth. Greasy lipped, he chews and mutters, “Polish lamb . . . is not as chewy as Mongolian ones, not tasty.”

  Baidar sits in front of the table with his legs crossed and takes a small knife to tear the lamb chop before him. Mustache stained with meat sauce, all his fingers are slippery. He says, “Polish lamb is not good? Wait until we take down Silesia and later invade the Holy Roman Emp
ire, you can taste theirs.”

  Just then, Lacson lifts the tent opening and reports, “General, Wonbayer’s wound is already bandaged!”

  “Yeah, have him come in.”

  In a moment, Wonbayer enters the tent with a bare upper torso. He looks weary and his face is dirty. His strong body is reduced and his chest and back are wrapped in layers of white bandages. He takes long strides and bows down with a whoosh. He looks up earnestly and eagerly says, “Tianyin and them want to go and assassinate Great Khan!”

  Baidar’s jaw muscles twitch and he sips on warm goat milk. His eyes deep and concerned, saying, “Something did go wrong?”

  He hangs his fingers on the table, waiting while propping himself up with his arms. His wide face calm, he says, “Go ahead.”

  “Yes.” Wonbayer half kneels in the tent. While leaning into the ground he describes at length the entire story, “After we rescued the princess, Tianyin and others kept heading east to find a woman called Ahling to be disguised as the princess, then murder the princess. Next have Ahling assassinate Great Khan when Father and Daughter reunite! They . . . . have been planning this for a long time.” Perspiring dust-like beads of sweat, he breathes and utters nervously, “Tianyin’s father is the rebel criminal Hanyuan Wang that the Grand Founder executed on the westward invasion. For more than a decade, he has been looking for an opportunity to seek revenge. Hesig was a military general in Southern Song, but was forced to abandon Song and devote himself to Mongolia because his family was enslaved. Now that his wife has passed away and his children have returned to Song, he has been wanting to kill Great Khan. Kyrigu’s father was a genius marksman under Temüge . . .”

  “What about you?” Baidar looks at him for a prolonged length of time with eyes clear and schemes like the sea, his copper eyes roll and he interrupts him to ask.

  Kaidu spits out the remains of the lamb, knitting his eyebrows and stops chewing. He grips the drum and stares.

  “I . . .” Wonbayer stutters anxiously as he exerts weight on his knee and leans forward. He says cordially and openly, “To be frank, General, I used to be the offspring of the country Jin’s royalty. Initially they fooled me too and escaped with the princess, but things became clear to me as I thought about it later. What Song, Jin or Mongolian—it is nothing but the title of a nation. Great Kahn governs diligently and should not have life end. To me, I can be appreciated in the military; there is a great future in Mongolia. I should not have to lose my life over a stupid dream.” He puts his palm on his heart and buries his head to say, “General, I am willing to be a Mongolian warrior from now on. Even if you wish to charge me, Wonbayer will have no complaints.”

  Baidar rests his dark eyes for a moment, melancholy chained to his thick brows. He pushes plates of mutton to the side of the table and looks at his face thoroughly, saying, “Um. The strong wolves on the prairie can eat more while the weak wolves will eventually die of starvation. This is a universal law—to reverse it forcefully is merely to oppose Eternal Heaven15.” He nods and opens his palms, “Wonbayer, you understand the times and you are very honest. Of course this kind of individual can be a Mongolian warrior.”

  “Thank you General!” Wonbayer bows down agreeably again and says, “I tried to bring the princess back with me earlier but did not succeed. Please forgive me, General. Now we need to quickly send people to stop Tianyin as soon as possible.”

  “Oh, let me and Kaidu think over this matter on the princess and Great Khan.” Baidar brandishes his knife and slices the mutton again. He feigns sluggishness, “Go and rest first. Draw a map of the road they will travel.”

  “. . . Yes.” Wonbayer nods, bents at the waist then leaves.

  Kaidu watches the back of him and steps forward with the bone in his hand. His eyes glows anxiously. He tells Baidar, “Unimaginable that Tianyin has been in hiding for such a long time. Were he to return to Mongolia, no one would question him . . . before we set off, Great Khan even specifically ordered us to find Princess. Now if they were to send her back, Great Khan will definitely not suspect—really . . . must we send a message pigeon to inform Great Khan that someone will be presenting an undercover princess to kill him and we had dispatched this individual? Gee, how did we get tripped up here?”

  Baidar places his knife on the table, grabs a towel to wipe his hands and speaks steadily like a seasoned pro, “Don’t rush. We have patrols and outposts in Kievan Rus, especially the shores of Volga River where there are natural barriers. Were the princess to know their scheme, she may scream and yell there . . . at the most, she will be killed on the spot. Tianyin and others cannot escape.”

  “Even so, we must send soldiers to chase after them. There can be no accidents.” Kaidu’s leopard-like eyes sparkle.

  “Of course.” Baidar snorts and criticizes disdainfully. Vicious thoughts become sharp and complex like a deep well of death. His teeth lock and lips tight, he decides, “I want to send 200 light riders to assassinate Tianyin and others, and rescue the princess. Have Lacson be the leader for this assignment. Also, designate Wonbayer as the Centurion16. Have him go with Lacson.” He narrows eyes and rubs his mustache as he calculates all aspects in detail, “That we will see whether he really wants to be a Mongolian warrior.”

  “Two-hundred light riders?” Kaidu is shocked and wonders out loud in a strange holler, “Are you crazy? It takes so many people to kill one Tianyin? Are we still invading the city of Wroclaw?”

  Baidar’s eyes are fierce from having experienced so much trauma. He stares at him mightily, “Not Wroclaw, but Legnica. Before Henry II’s reinforcements arrive, let’s entice him into combat.” He turns his head and squints, lowering his voice he scolds Kaidu, “Two-hundred light riders are considered many!? Do not look down at the power of those few individuals. You know the situation in Mongolia too—if . . . what results is not the typical uproar . . .”

  The starry night a jeweled indigo in color; the Milky Way glistens and decorates the universe, winking throughout the sky. The trees are sparse in the prairie, two or three serve as companions. Bathing beneath the bright wheel of moon, shadows of branches and leaves are clear. For some reason though, the north wind seems particularly harsh tonight, whizzing with a fierceness, as if piercing the bone. In addition, wild grass shrouding the earth for hundreds of miles cannot block the wilds from being lonesome and chilly. Huffing like a zither, traces of the wind’s rustling seep into the heart so that myriad things hibernate.

  The tents and bedding were all lost when Wonbayer escaped, so this troupe could only sleep on the ground. Kyrigu is sitting cross-legged on the south side, curled up in his clothes, his back is bent and hunched over. His bright eyes are humble, warm and sleepy. His young face sincere, he mumbles a few lines to Hesig who is lying on the north side. The old man laughs heartily, turns around and tells Angela, “Little doctor, Kyrigu says thank you. He is feeling much better.”

  “Ah . . . You’re welcome.” She sits up straightening her shirt and skirt, flattening and covering. She arranges a bag of dry goods as a pillow. A chilly wind invades and she cannot help but shiver. Her skin is numb as she watches the other two lie down like nothing. Frustrated, she sighs and looks at the unending night, the translucent night like a glacial sea.

  Just at that moment, a black overcoat falls from the sky, thick and familiar, dropping precisely on her knees to cover them warmly.

  Angela is shocked, she sees that it is Tianyin, who has just come back from tying down the horse. Standing sideways, his handsome face reflects the moon, profiling his forbidden eyes and his belt in hand. He is only left with a white shirt tainted by blood, which flutters as the wind blows.

  She dumbly hangs on to the corner of the robe and wishes to speak. She lowers her eyes and frowns. Upset, she hears him say evenly, “Use it as a blanket, it’s severe at night.”

  “But you . . . .”

  “I do not want
another patient on the road.”

  Before she can respond, Tianyin steps to one side, picks a clean and soft spot and lies down holding his sword.

  Her blue eye sentimental and sad, her dark brown eye stubborn and tender, Angela watches silently and bewildered for a long time, then blames herself despairingly; the guilt and regret is impossible to bear. Finally, she resolutely stomps her feet to get up and slips out of the overcoat. She tiptoes next to Tianyin.

  He feels a movement and sits up to face her and again bumps into her staunch but careful, reserved but adamant eyes of a physician. Angela crouches down and braces her knees, she rebelliously orders, “You must be the patient. You have not changed medicine today. Take off your shirt.”

  Tianyin is overcome with emotion for a time. Slightly ashy in the lips and warm in the face, a resentment is mixed with anger as he tightly shuts his mouth and gazes elsewhere. He is usually icy and stable, but his heart is moved and actually thumps like a rabbit this time. He can only suppress it by breathing deeply. Angela opens her bag. Her pretty lashes are like fans. She buries her head and is busy minding herself, saying, “Only animal bone powder is left. I know it hurts a lot, but there is no other way . . . .” She holds the medicine in a graceful manner. Seeing that he still has not moved, she raises her eyes and urges him, “What, take it off.”

  Tianyin suddenly gets choked up and holds his breath; he rolls back his pupils, forcing down his blood and energy. He coldly refuses, “My wound is already healed.” In his bright eyes hide a sliver of hesitant shyness and embarrassment.

  “It is not healed.” Angela’s words are succinct, truthful and thorough, “I am the doctor, I know.” She examines Tianyin and notices a bit of shyness and concern, so she lowers her head to think, then peruses him and explains in a peaceful whisper, “We still have a drawn out road ahead, you cannot drag your lesion around all the time . . . . Maybe tomorrow you will wake up and there will be an uphill battle. How will you cope?” The concern on her face, the caring words and furthermore her head lowered in shame, “Had I not repeatedly you caused you to rip your wound, you would have been well by now—I will not be at peace if you don’t let me treat you.”