by Yvonne Wang
The evening radiance is as if drunk; the sun has dipped into the western mountains. Angela’s arms are tired and powerless, while rocking she also collapses onto the ground. The halo around the glowing clouds is a thick yellow. Beneath the green pine, two lonely shadows intersect, guarding Hesig’s corpse; they are nailed in place as a golden light bathes them.
Soon, a flame cremates the remains; red sparks rattle and dance, a roaring smoke climbs up into the sky. Later the fire ceases and the embers sleep. His ash dispersed along with the wind, setting off the two horses as their tailends gradually move afar.
Act Five
Bridge Across the Land
Act Five
The midday sun is slightly overcast. Thick clouds are overhead and the fertile wilds are gray and bright. A tiny brook meanders and trickles; along its shores, tips of grass mix with the brook, forming intersecting patterns of ripples. Clean pebbles lie down and the babbles of the brook echo in the chill. Ten steps away, a rabbit is on a fire rack. Angela is crouched down, the saltpeter in her hands bump and clash and no fire ever came forth. She bites her lips, sweat drips down her temples and her finger tips are red; but she keeps on trying.
An indistinct shadow casts over her and the young woman looks up and sees Tianyin quietly take over the saltpeter and click, sparks drop in arc formations and into the pyre—soon, the campfire begins to burn increasingly. Angela watches the dance of red flames; smoke rises in the midst of crackles. She cannot help but recall the moment when Hesig was cremated. She is stupefied and beholds Tianyin, the blaze in his eyes are still as he gazes in stunned silence.
Tianyin stands for a while then moves to brookside. He crouches down to cup the waves and sees the bloodstains on his hands melt in the ripples; those shades of maroon become slippery and wet. He rubs a few times and instantly, crimson ripples circle back. Traces travel into the distance; thick rouge turns into a fresh red that blinds the eyes as it floats away. His dark eyes are cheerless as he watches the brook half-consciously.
He had scoured and washed the red stains of blood off his hands so many times before, but not once . . . . this nervous. He wipes his skin harshly and cleans it again and again; but still he sees a slight tinge wrapping his hands. The stains in his two pink palms refuse to leave and his hands seem tainted forever.
Perhaps . . . . it is just that he abraded them too forcefully . . . .
He stands up and looks at the reflection on the surface of the brook, tired and freezing, grief is written on his face; he seems so unfamiliar.
Tianyin, this is not the way you should appear now. How will you continue like this?
Angela peeks at him from afar and frowns out of concern. She watches as he stands by the brook side in all seriousness. His body is upright and his back is straight; all of a sudden though, he collapses, falters, drops to his knees and sticks his head into the cold water, holding his breath and submerging himself. She quickly gets up and sees his hands leaning into the shore and his black hair waving; but his face is not seen.
Yeah, what reason did she have to hate him yesterday . . . . He should be in even more pain with regard to Uncle He’s death . . . . even more hurtful . . . . he is the only one left out of his group of four . . . . furthermore that Mongolian princess who is meant to save the Great Song has now become his sister . . . . all such cruel facts.
The young woman watches quietly from behind; her brown hair flutters in the wind and she is mournful. He is just Dad’s stepson just as she is Dad’s stepdaughter. The two could have opened up themselves with each other . . . . but one is the prince of Great Song and the other the princess of Mongolia. Identities like these are like chains for the two of them; they cannot be released.
Angela comes over and sees Tianyin still has his head in the water; he has not moved an inch. The waves go by his head and there are no bubbles next to him.
After a while, she cannot help but get worried, approaching lightly, she call out, “Tian . . . . yin?”
He does not answer.
Angela is suddenly pained in the heart, her palms sweaty. She is just about to tap him on the shoulder when she sees Tianyin come up from the water with a whoosh, splashing droplets all over. He breathes in fresh air and stands up straight. His hair is wet, his eyebrows dabbed with sparkles and his collar is drenched.
“Tianyin?” Angela feels that he is born again. His clean face handsome but icy, his eyes hard and the air about him is ruthless—like . . . . the first day she saw him.
That pair of purely sable eyes.
Tianyin twists his head and with his usual severity and determination, “Don’t stand here like a fool, go check on the fire.”
Soon, the sun glitter through the cracks among the clouds. The two horses lowered their heads to feed on the grass while the two individuals sat facing each other across the fire.
Tianyin’s face is steely while his gait is calm and at ease. He splits the rabbit meat skillfully then roasts its internal organs. His dark eyes glances at the young woman and says, “We have to be like this from now on, traveling full speed ahead in the afternoon and at night, then sleep in the morning. First it will be more difficult for the Mongols’ investigative eagles to find us. Second, it is safer to build a fire in the afternoon than at night. Any problems?”
Angela shakes her head and takes the rabbit meat handed to her. She is suddenly puzzled seeing the reassurance in the corners of his mouth, calm at his brows and smart caution in his eyes. He does not speak or smile readily, calculating long-term strategies. It is as if nothing had happened and he has returned to the expedition’s starting point. The tears he shed yesterday . . . . were as if her dream.
Tianyin senses her gaze and says sternly, “Hurry up and eat, when you are done I will teach you horse riding.”
Angela sniffs the char and is startled for a moment without understanding, “. . . . Huh?”
Somber, his elbows against his knees and he says with a look of harshness, “You will have to be on your own sooner or later, right?”
When they get to the city of Chenghai . . . . Probably. Angela feels a searing at her heart as if she would be losing something. Her crystal eyes are filled with sorrow. She looks at him and a thousand words are stuck in her throat; she cannot make a sound no matter how she tries. Therefore the two stop talking and eat the crude catch joylessly and only to fill their stomachs; they chew without words.
April of 1241, Batu’s military camp, on the eastern shore of the Sajo River, Hungary23 The glistening sunrise is carved into the sky; stretched wisps of smoke encircle the sun. Hundreds of yurts are empty and ten thousand armies line up squarely. A platform five feet high in front of the camp is surrounded by yellow ribbons. In each of the four corners is a companion flag, in the center stands a thirteen feet tall banner, called Sulede24, pointing at the sky powerfully. Its spear has a double blade and its tassel is made with the manes of eighty-one red male stallions. The handle is wrapped in yellow ribbon with a thousand buttons that symbolize eyes of wisdom. The warriors are all dark-haired and tan; gathered below the platform, they look serious and orderly.
The horns sound and Batu takes long strides in his leather boots with everyone watching; one step, one imprint, he steps onto the platform heroically. His armor shimmers, his might awesome and his eyes sharp. With a cup of mare milk wine in his hand, he crisply proclaims, “Warriors—tomorrow, we will conquer Hungary and turn this piece of land into our ranch too! We Mongols always win and always defeat the enemy—today, in the face of Sulede, let us once again plea that Eternal Heaven grant us power and bless us with invincibility. May we seize victory at once!”
Finished, he sprinkles the mare milk wine on the ground and speaks first, “May Tengri25 grant us power!”
The Mongolian soldiers in unison, “May Tengri grant us power!”
Batu turns to face the sun, a holy light shines
on his face. He takes off his hat and hangs it on his wrist; with one hand stroking his chest, he kneels down and bows. All the soldiers and generals follow suit. They face the sun, rise and bow, rise and bow again, altogether kneeling nine times and head on the ground nine times. Divine lights illuminate the wilds. Echoes shake the earth.
Finished, Batu pivots his head and speaks in a voice as clear as bell, “Today, we do not have a sacrificial lamb, but Eternal Heaven has long sent the sacrificial offering to us. He is the prince of Poland—an ally of Hungary. We will prove with his blood that Mongols are meant to swallow Europe and strive ahead forever!”
Morale heightens with these decisive words; tens of thousands of soldiers’ blood boil. Who would have known that just as Batu is speaking, a general unexpectedly gets on stage, huffing and puffing, he nervously reports, “Commander-in-Chief—that Polish prince disappeared! All the horses . . . . have dysentery and cannot run . . . also . . . .”
“What else?!” Batu thunders furiously. He turns his head and sees a fire licking the yurts in the distance, flames flying and smoke quivering. Suddenly outraged, he stomps down the platform while decisively waves his arm, ordering those to his right and left, “Dariahchi, Yilede, Jirentai, Munch, Tuwuleburi and Bayan, you bring people to extinguish the fire, save the feed first. Hadachaorig, Ahsigeng and Huqitu, you bring people to try the horses and find me one that can run. Gonbilege, Eridun, Aerqi and Huhehaburi, come with me with your bows and arrows, we are going after them!”
On the other side, Alexander, Anthony, Koneke, Marean and others ride those few fast horses that have not taken any diuretic and run like mad into the diminutive forests on the edge of the Mohi Plains. The prince squeezes the rein and palpitates intensely; his messy blond hair is flapping and he pants and breaks out in a cold sweat as he speeds along. He glances back and sees Valentin riding behind them. The military camp is already several thousand feet away.
The prince dares not believe that while he was squinting at the sun in despair, Valentin really descended from heaven, secretly attacking the two guards and resolutely pushing Alexander onto a horse. His lotus root-like eyes are completely sincere and hopeful. Burning fire, sprinting hooves, whizzing of the wind . . . . Valentin pushes Alexander out of the Devil’s hideout, faithfully and with not a trace of pretense. Alexander really is Valentin’s prince and Valentin really is . . . . a citizen of Poland.
A thousand feet outside the camp, Huqitu rushes over and genuflects in shame, “Commander-in-Chief, all of them have been checked. Not one horse can run!”
Batu’s iron expression tense and green. He stands straddled and twitches his face. He sees a number horses escape that appear like sesames in the horizon. He is so incensed that he sets up his bow, with an arrow on his knuckles, he releases with a buzz—the truculent arrow breaks through the wind and flies, precise and ferocious.
It was about to hit Alexander. Valentin gasps, pulls on his rein and changes direction, blocking the back of the prince. In a second, the sharp arrow pierces through his stomach. Valentin’s flesh is in pieces and blood splatters; his pain tumbles and roars. His slim body falls like a piece of paper.
Alexander hears this and is shocked. He turns around to look and loses all pallor. His head buzzes and his ears shut, his blood pounds and he is in utter alarm.
Valentine . . . . dies.
To save himself, Valentine dies . . . .
The prince is sniffling while the biting wind blinds the eyes. His eyes well up with tears as he recalls his past doubts and worries. He feels most guilty. Valentin is so loyal and just, but Alexander did not believe him over and over again . . . . is he fit to be a prince? Grief-stricken and regretful, his abomination cannot be expressed in words.
Whistles for the Mongolian cavalry can still be heard. Hence the stallion beneath Alexander’s saddle hesitates and slows down. Alexander panics and ferociously lashes the rear of his buck with his whip; the horse is seared with pain as it races and crashes into the stubby forest.
Batu wants to shoot again but does not see the horses. He cannot help but be wrathful and frustrated. He leads a few people with bows on foot to retrieve the Mongolian horse. He notices that Valentin has not stopped breathing yet; The man is lying on the ground holding on his stomach, hate filled his red eyes.
Batu’s face is icy and hellish; he steps forward in his valuable boots, pulling out a saber in waves of violent rage. Before Batu lunges forward, Valentin draws the saber and inserts it into himself with one strike, committing suicide in a bath of blood. His palm cracks and his shirt is tainted, his white teeth is soaked red and he whimpers in tragic pain.
This move surprises Batu so he pauses momentarily, frowning and standing in silence. He watches him die slowly.
“Do not . . . . not think about clearing out Europe . . . .” Valentin grits his teeth and says in Mongolian, his sharp eyes fierce and determined, loyal and steel-like. He stares with animus. His breath terminates instantaneously. He has not even had a chance to close his eyes.
Batu is stern, his lips pursed tight and eyes deep.
Three days fly by.
At Tuvalu Village in Kievan Rus’, households are scattered and built near farmlands. Spring grass is boundless and fresh buds shoot out of the branches; the fine sun is directly overhead. In a barn with white walls on the periphery of the village, a low cow shed is on its west and a tall mill tower stands on its east. The walls and windows are clean; the chimney is red and the roof tiles are black.
Inside the barn, smoke curls upward in the kitchen. A round woman with blue eyes and lemon-colored hair wears a square ribbon around her head and an apron around her waist. She brings a bowl of cream mushroom soup to her husband. She sticks her neck out and sniffs it. After grabbing a handful of bread crumbs and sprinkling them on top of the soup she places it on the dining table made with brambly logs. The husband, with bumpy eyes and nose, red hair and a mustache, grasps a round ladle and is just about to spoon the soup into his mouth—bang! A strange sound occurs and unfamiliar voices raise outside the house, frightening him into shaking and spilling the soup. His mustache carries a plume of white liquid, hot and sticky.
“Ouch!” He yells angrily and throws the ladle back into the bowl.
The woman immediately walks over to the window and surveys to the left and right. She sees a young lady in a Mongolian outfit standing in front of the opening to their family vegetable cellar. The young woman looks back in the distance with horror, her brown hair a mess and she cannot catch her breath. Instantly she is dragged into the vegetable cellar with an outstretched hand. As she turns, the wife sees a rosy face and blue and dark brown eyes.
“Clara, what is the matter?” The husband asks from the table.
“I don’t know, dear.” The farm woman twirls around and wipes her hands on her apron, saying, “Two people sneaked into our vegetable cellar, I cannot tell if they are Mongols . . . .”
The husband snorts and teases, “Mongols? Mongols only come to draft men and grain for them to keep fighting, why would they sneak into our vegetable cellar?”
“Um—I believe so too.” The woman rubs her short fingers and rolls her eyes to think, “The girl I saw really does not resemble a Mongol, she looks exactly like my older cousin Galina.”
“You mean Galina·Cherreh? The one the Mongols kidnapped 18 years ago? Ha, no way. If she were alive, she would be close to 40 . . . .”
Clara yanks her skirt and walks over to the pot of soup. Suddenly she sees two horses at the window. She screams, “Hey—Oleg! Don’t we just have a cow? When did we tie two more horses here?
“God, something must have happened.” Oleg removes his napkin, wiping his mouth and throwing it on the table. He stands there full of strength, “Let me go check the vegetable cellar—” He picks up the shovel, the door creaks open and out of the blue, he is flabbergasted. A cavalry is moving-in lik
e clouds, sweeping through the village and searching house by house. They wear elongated robes and yellow faces, felt hats with tassels on top, arrows on their backs and bows slung over—A crowd of a hundred people or so. A riot seems to be breaking out at Tuvalu Village as children cry and things are a mess. Oleg quickly retreats and shuts the door, lowering his voice he nervously says, “It really is the Mongols!”
Inside the underground vegetable cellar is pitch-black and a mixture of smells rush forth. Angela and Tianyin crouch down on the steps beneath the wooden door, packs hanging from their elbows and saddles in their bosoms. The two have not yet calmed their breaths, but they are already listening for any movement.
Unlit and blurry, the young woman’s eyes are as if blind upon first entering the underground cellar, like being covered with a dark screen that prevents one from seeing a thing despite wide open eyes. Nervous and scared, her heart pounds and she guiltily says, “What do we do? I think the woman in the house saw me just now.”
Tianyin does not say anything. His clothing grind. He stretches his hand to find her in the sunless cave and discovers her hand by following the length of her arm. As he holds it tight, Angela is stunned to find a palm full of thin calluses, though warm, thick and tough; it extends affection. Although she still cannot see him, she feel somewhat reassured suddenly.
“No problem, walk inside with me.” Tianyin lowers his voice and leads Angela straight into the earth, moving carefully and slowly.
The two stop at the final tier, stretching their arms and searching for a path. To the left is a small cell, they can feel a roomful of vegetables and stored grains.
“This is radish, there is cabbage over there too. Grab more if you can. I will go over there to see if there is any meat.
