by Yvonne Wang
Angela chokes up and peruses, her eyes well up with tears. She feels a sweet joy that she has not known for a long time. She touches the tip of his nose with hers and sees those burning ebony eyes. The two understand and gaze at each other and pause to breath then lock lips. They close their eyes and in a slumber forget about the rest of the world; bounded by love and enchanted sentimentally, their arms wrap around each other.
The wide valley is green and verdant. The heavenly fall is like a jade dragon, whooshing down like music. The two horses’ ears stand on end, large eyes flash and leer.
His shirt falls to the ground. With Tianyin’s upper body naked, they continue to kiss. He releases Angela from her clothing. As the shy girl’s cheek turns pink, she hugs him with her jade-like arm. She gently touches the old scar on his back and the new wound that she pierced on his left shoulder. Memories cannot help but begin to surface. She holds on to him even tighter.
Looking at Angela’s soft bare breasts and creamy shoulder, Tianyin sets her on the ground, leans against the rock surface to look at her, panting with thirst. She reclines and beholds his dashing face, staring quietly into his eyes and touching his cheek.
However, the face suddenly turns somber and astringent. His bright burning eyes gradually cool. Tianyin studies Angela with sorrow. He breaths softly and looks sadly; his breathing gradually evens and suddenly pauses. With anxiety in his inky eyes, he appears apologetic and depressed.
Just then, he moves to the side to sit up. His lips half-open; his body trembles involuntarily as he explores the outside of the cave. His limbs stiff.
Angela is shocked. She slowly sits up, pulling her clothes up to cover her breasts. Brows furrowed and with a look of disappointment, she could feel the despair and sadness. She tries to say something but no word comes out. The only thing she sees is Tianyin staring into the horizon painfully. With a string of hair in his mouth, he resembles a lost soul.
She is just about to speak when she sees Tianyin suddenly hop up, rush beneath the waterfall and kneel down. The heavy fall hits his head and cold water crashes over him; he remains silent despite the hits. In a blink of an eye, he is completely wet, drenched pants next to his skin and dark hair drowned in water. Crystal sparks splatter and he is immobile like a statue.
Why? Tianyin . . . .
Angela stays in the stone cave alone, chilled and ruminating dolefully. Is it because he is afraid of having kids? Is it because they are siblings? Or is it because . . . . she is the Mongolian princess?
The heavenly stream is heartless and pours forth violently and nonstop. Tianyin kneels beneath the pool and quenches all desire tumbling in his icy body. His eyes open and he looks sideways—that string of Mongolian words on the sand is still visible, smudged by the splashing water so that they are wet and sticky and hard to read. He fixes his gaze on those Mongolian words enduringly in utter guilt and hatred.
This scene confuses Angela. She only sees Tianyin with his lone back to her. Drenched and devastated as his eyes glare at those Mongolian words.
Weeds surround the trees and the ferns; the craggy boulders are majestic. The eastern dawn is about to break and the morning fog disperses. The quiet valley has no frequent guests, only the sound of the plummeting fall.
“Fortunately you met me halfway; if you go through too much hardship, this Hualin powder will activate ahead of time.” Lacson’s face and jaws thin and sharp, he watches from the side while straddling his horse, sounding pleased.
Silence in the still birch forest, thousands of trees shoot directly into the air like white columns that surround. Chirps can vaguely be heard. The branches grow new leaves and tender shoots block the sun, filtering the light so that it is spotty. Wonbayer bares his chest and cuts open the slightly healed skin surface with his knife; once there is blood, he spreads the medicine on the wound, pressing it with his palm, gritting his teeth and grunting.
The light riders of both parties stand in throngs and stare at each other. Lacson’s dear horse swings its tail and moves its hooves. He controls the rein to steady the horse. He crook hips lips, saying with a smile, “Ha, originally I wanted to bring the soldiers over to the mouth of the Volga River and ask if there are any news by the bridge; but seeing the way you appear . . . .” He squints to look afar and says pleasantly, “Tianyin must be in the south, right?”
Wonbayer presses on the medicine and pants, he does not want to bother responding to him.
“Fine, fine, fine. If you don’t want to tell, then don’t tell.” Lacson teases and snorts. With his thumb on his mustache, he says, “But the way you appear, you should rest a bit . . . . how is this? I will chase after Tianyin and the princess and you help me out, find someone who has the similar physique as Tianyin, how is that?”
“What are you going to do?” Wonbayer is displeased and questions him harshly.
“I am afraid that I cannot catch Tianyin by then, so plan to prepare a replacement and report back.” Lacson urges his horse to move close and to bend over to whisper, evil exposed in his sharp eyes, “You don’t want to be punished by martial law, do you? Um? Better prepared than not.”
Wonbayer raises his brows and sneers, “Aren’t you afraid of being discovered?”
“What am I afraid of?” He laughs heartily and straightens his back proudly, “They won’t look so close and will not remember afterwards. More than a decade ago, before I came up the ranks, I was ordered to take down a Chinese colluding military physician . . . . I forgot his name.” Lacson recalls happily and smiles broadly, “He escaped. Later I found someone who was very much shaped like him, defaced him and reported it . . . . It’s been so many years and isn’t it so that no one remembers?”
“Huh, no wonder you are so favored now.” Wonbayer says with disdain.
The clouds block the bright sun and the birch forests suddenly go dark. He immediately sees behind Lacson’s cavalry several giant mastiffs as large as calves. They have wide foreheads and stocky backs. Their lion-like heads have thick manes and their lips are heavy with compressed jaws. Each is wild with stubby claws, fiercely sharp eyes, majestic and sensitive with hearing.
“Those are . . . .”
Lacson follows his glance and scans, pleased and proud, he says joyfully, “Mongolia sent a new pack of Tibetan mastiffs to Moscow to support the western expedition. I borrowed several to catch Tianyin.” He turns to Wonbayer and stretches his hand out, saying, “Yeah, I have to borrow the arrow that wounded you.”
He gets the arrow from one of Wonbayer’s riders, passing it to the soldier training the mastiffs. The Tibetan mastiffs sniff the stem of the arrow and roar silently, rushing southward but stopped by the whistle. They stand temporarily to wait for people.
“Ha, it appears that he really is in the south, right?” Lacson peers at Wonbayer, mustache pitching upward.
The silent night is vast and lightless, the evening curtain is dipped in indigo. A mirror-like moon turns round and round. The timber ranges are like black dragons, crouching down and stretching; a plume of fire is in its embrace, orange and red colors jump and hide. Next to a pyre by the forest, Anthony, Koneke, Marean and others sleep around it. All are raggedy and dirty, exhausted and snoring. The Mongolian horses are tied to a stake. The shadows of trees from all around oppress their surroundings; branches and leaves carve out a piece of heaven above their heads. A massive number of glittering stars decorate as if they were at the bottom of a well.
“Atishoo!” Anthony rubs his itchy nose; smacks his dry lips, he pulls tight on his collar in a daze. Hunchbacked, he curls up like a ball. Suddenly he senses something heavy over his body, he is covered with clothes so that his hands and feet are instantly warm. Immediately after that he hears the sounds of wood chopping being banged into his ears; an ax falls and crashes nonstop.
He rubs his eyes and yawns with his teeth shown. His rough fingers massage his b
ody and abruptly, he notices that he is blanketed by his own overcoat. If he recalls correctly, before he went to sleep, he had clearly placed the overcoat over the fatigued prince.
Anthony with his hunchback roll up vigorously and sees branches and leaves across the floor. Before the pyre, Alexander is whipping his sword at the trees, huffing and puffing to throw logs into the fire. Finished, he walks back and chops again. The lit flames receive an offering from the firewood; the pyre dances with joy; Warm waves push continuously, reflecting how half of the prince’s body is smoked yellow.
Anthony clutches his overcoat and stands with his back bent. Emotions tumble. His Royal Highness really has changed a lot . . . . in the past, he would never dare to think that the prince will cover an attendant with an overcoat to keep him warm . . . . And the prince will only wake up servants to do hard labor like chopping wood.
Alexander wipes off his sweat, stands akimbo to watch the flame. The orange light on his young handsome face flickers and his eyes like green lakes are filled with melancholy.
“Your Highness,” Anthony drapes the overcoat on the prince’s shoulders from the back and whispers, “Thank you . . . . You use this overcoat . . . . Oh, go to sleep. Let me watch the fire.”
The prince turns his head and sighs softly, dropping the overcoat to return it. He furrows his brows and shakes his head, “No, I cannot fall asleep . . . .”
“Why?” Anthony asks in astonishment.
“I . . . . dreamed of Angela just now.” Alexander backs up a few steps and sits next to the fire. His two palms together and his eyes empty, he says dreamily, “I dreamed that I locked her in Poland’s basement prison, so the Mongols dare not invade the city. She asked me if I love her and why I was treating her that way . . . Why did I not let her go back to Mongolia . . . . Finally . . . .” His sad eyes lose all colors, he lowers his voice and in misery he says, “Angela raised her knife and wanted to kill me. Valentin suddenly showed up and kills her. I was just complaining about him and he righteously asked me why I don’t believe him . . . . then, he pulled his knife and committed suicide . . . .”
At the point, Alexander stares at his thumb, dejected and upset. He chokes up and says, “Ridiculous, right?” He worries about so many things that they are like threads in knots, perplexing indeed. Anthony pouts and winks; ignorant, he does not know what to say. He only hears the fire chewing up the logs, crackling along.
“Anthony,” The young man purses his lips, thinks deeply and says hesitantly, “Sometimes, I feel I really am not eligible to be a prince . . . . cowardly, vain, selfish, indecisive . . . . I am all that . . . . Angela as a princess and the Mongolian prince Batu are all stronger than I am . . . .” He scans everyone asleep in the blackish night and in the vague silence, he whispers a sigh, “Seeing Angela become the precious princess of the enemy country, I only go back and forth . . . . I want to capture her and yet I am afraid to hurt her. I want to release her but I am afraid that I will never see her again . . . . Things I say are always so righteous and I always appear to be so noble . . . . but for my country, I have not been able to do anything . . . .”
“No, you . . . . Your Highness, you are very outstanding too . . . . sigh,” Anthony takes one step forward and half kneels by the prince’s side. He hangs onto his clothes, saying anxiously, “Your Royal Highness, I have not had much education, but I know that the hardship that you have been enduring for the last month is for Poland . . . . Aren’t you going to continue your search for Angela? I believe that when it comes time, no matter how unwilling she is or how dangerous it is, you will consider Poland as a top priority for sure and will not be entangled by relationships from the past. You will not disappoint everyone . . . . In the future you will certainly become an outstanding king.” He pants and swallows, speaking openly and sincerely.
Alexander listens and his eyes well up with tears. Grief-stricken, he gapes hard at the dancing flame, struggling to say, “But . . . . I really, really like Angela very much—” Speaking from his heart, he sobs and shakes. In despair, he holds his knees and buries his head there; his shoulders quiver and he whimpers in pain.
Anthony feels for him in worry and is moved. He extends his hand to comfort him but does not dare to touch. He only knows to apologize guiltily, “Sorry . . . . I said the wrong thing . . . . I meant, she will definitely like you very much as well and will go back to Poland with you willingly . . . .”
The prince inhales and lifts his head, tears glistening trail down his face. His fists tight, he speaks tardily, “Actually, that priest only pointed to a direction, but it was me who interpreted that to mean Angela . . . . It is just that I want to see her . . . . I don’t want to marry Catherine. I was not willing to sacrifice maybe even a marriage for Poland . . . . so I found a fine reason, abandoned a country and came out to find the person I love . . . . How am I qualified to say that I will save Poland . . . .”
Anthony sees that he is ashamed, hateful and sad, words heavy and eyes ashy. The servant quickly says, “Why . . . . I, I think it makes real good sense to say that Angela can save Poland—she is that savior. When we find her, everything will be okay . . . . Beside . . . .” The attendant drops his round head and with his back hunched in a smooth curve he mutters, “I feel . . . . there is nothing wrong in coming out to find the one you love . . . .”
Alexander looks up overhead and the trees are full of branches, creating frames of the obscure sky. The stars in the Milky Way are brilliant and pearly, blinking nonstop. He sighs and nervously contradicts himself, “But . . . . what if in the end I can only choose one between Poland and Angela, what should I do then?”
“I, I don’t know either . . . .” Anthony also stares at the stars but finds no clue. He can only retract his glance and dumbly focuses on the ground, “But I feel that the love you have for Poland is love and the love you have for Angela is love too, neither is wrong . . . .”
“Neither is wrong . . . . ? . . . .” The prince repeats. He cups his jaw and thinks; his green eyes filled with thick melancholy.
The clouds and stars in the morning turn to flow westward, shadows of the moon are vague in the sky and the mountain ranges are still dark as the horizon gradually lightens into the color of fish belly. The shaded trees turn green and play with a thin mist. The bonfire withers, hanging on to the remaining remnants and shrinking into a week plume that is breathing its final breaths quietly. Smoke floats straight up and the sky is an ashy blue. Nearly ten people are sleeping on their arms next to the old fire, breathing long and sweet.
“Um . . . .” Alexander loiters and frowns, convulsing instantaneously. Again entangled by a dream, he closes his eyes and appears miserable. He shakes his head and moves his arms, panting and sweating. He feels as if everything blacks out before him in a blur and he vaguely hears someone calling him in the distance—
“Your Highness—Prince Your Royal Highness—”
He switches around and curls up, struggling while hanging on to his head. He tries to escape this blurry call, for each line hurts like the prick of a needle. However, that indistinct call continues, “Your Highness—Prince Your Royal Highness—”
Someone pushes him abruptly. In a voice nearly explosive and extremely panicked, “Your Highness, wake up! Look!”
He kneads his back and instantaneously returns to the world, as if having been boiled in hot water. He sits straight up and sees Marean’s apricot-colored hair and narrow nose. Marean crouches next to Alexander and stupefied, points to the forest in the distance. His brown eyes are startled and he focuses straight ahead with eyes wide open.
The prince turns around in a whoosh, propping himself up and looking as he gulps. Through the thin campfire flames is a view of the valley. Sounds of two horses with a quick gait close in. Two people, one old and one young in eastern European attire whip their horses along vigorously and wave their arms yelling, “Your Highness—Prince Your Ro
yal Highness—” Their voices shoot through the distance full of cordiality.
Around the bonfire, Anthony, Koneke and others all wake up; they stand up and watch to get a better view of the people approaching.
“They are . . . .” Alexander has to hold himself up. Standing with his clean and stunned face, his eyes extended and lips apart, he is extremely shocked.
“Butler Miechowo and Master Ed!”
In a blink of an eye, the two arrive. The old man’s forehead is square and body rotund, the fat of his cheeks hang down. The young man is tall with a gangling face, blond hair that reaches the shoulders; he wears a sword on his tight clothing. “Prince! It really is you!” They glimpse at the youth and at once shake with emotion; they run straight for Alexander, dismount then plop, kneel by his boots. They weep out loud as they hang on to his legs. Sobbing and whining bitterly, tears drop onto Alexander’s boots without stop.
“This, this . . . . What is the matter?” Alexander is shocked, leaning over to see the crying bodies before his feet, he sees both bury their heads and weep dismally, not being able to make any coherent sound.
The butler of the royal castle and his swords teacher Ed . . . . should they not be in the city of Legnica with his Father resisting the Mongols? Why are they here?
“Your Royal Highness . . . Your Royal Highness . . .” Miechowo lifts his head and looks up, tugging at the prince’s trousers. Tears all over his face, he sobs, “Oh—Poland . . . . Poland has fallen! Mongols, Mongols occupy the city of Legnica!”
Ed also lifts his head, tears sliding down his pointy cheeks, “You are now the final lifeblood of the Polish royal family . . . . Thank God . . . . you are still alive. . . .”
A clap of thunder bolts from the clouds. Alexander is immediately stunned into utter confusion, as if a nightmare is still occurring. His ears ring and his breath stops; Stepping back half a step, he mutters, “You . . . . what do you mean? What do you mean by . . . . final lifeblood?”
