by Yvonne Wang
Angela sits on the ground as if having lost her soul. Hesig comes to the tree to help her up. The young woman swallows to calm herself. She watches the back of Tianyin and it pains her so as she think of her lies; she immediately becomes gloomy and sheds tears.
. . . . . .
In a daze, Angela soundlessly wakes up and slowly opens up her watery eyes. Like a dream she sees Tianyin nearby like a rock, his male body up close. His sable eyes full of worry and melancholy peer at the sky. Is that really him? He is no longer frigid but his eyes brims over with sorrow and tenderness. He seems so helpless and pitiful that one wants to take care of him.
Suddenly, she catches a glimpse of the Medical Cases in Tianyin’s hands. Shocked, she reaches for it.
Tianyin looks back and is surprised too but he refuses to let go of the book. Like a lost soul he stares at Angela; he tastes a mix of numerous emotions as seen in his deep and ebony eyes.
. . . . . .
Tianyin just holds her in his embrace ever tighter and speaks softly into her ear, “Brother and sister. It is okay.”
Brother and sister! Angela is grieved to hear these words; suddenly dam broke and yet she cannot express her pain. She starts to sob until tears made his chest wet, each drop bitter.
. . . . . .
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 holds Tianyin tighter. She gently touches the old scar on his back and the new wound on his left shoulder. Forbidden memories begin to surface. She holds on to him even tighter.
. . . . . .
Angela warmly and compliantly nods, looking to the riverside and seeing white cotton permeate the sky. An endless field of dandelions carried by the wind are floating high, vastly filling all of space. An immensity flying softly and as white as snow, they dance into the clouds. Tianyin stops moving and is at a standstill by the riverside. His back is tall and upright, standing in a daze in this realm of silver fiber like a painting.
. . . . . .
Tianyin closes his eyes and waits until he finishes tearing. Then he takes a deep breath, clenches his teeth, ferociously and quickly brandishes his sword so silver light flickers. It plunks right into the old man’s chest—blood released from spinning the sword handle and blood splatters. Tianyin’s hands are stained red. Hesig jolts violently and his life ends with a long-lasting slumber.
At that spur of the moment, Angela collapses, crying and wailing so tragically that it shakes the sun, splits the clouds asunder and scares the birds. She is utterly heartbroken. She rushes toward Tianyin, rattling his shoulders madly and blaming him with tears in her eyes, “What did you do!? What did you do—”
Tianyin is stunned and numb; his breathing is plugged and his teeth are chattering. He lets go of his bloody hands and falls down to the ground, speechless.
. . . . . . .
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.
. . . . . .
Tianyin’s face is seeping with blood. He only gets dizzy and faints. Shadows intersect as he bathes in endless pain. He sees in a blur Angela mounting the horse with them. His heart rips open in wrench, grief-stricken; he trembles and crawls, stretching his arm to grab air. He struggles to offer his life and wants to chase after her but he is depleted and crashes again and again.
. . . . . .
Tianyin is tired and rests his eyes, then he wearily opens them slowly. Injuries all over, he is still in a spreading pool of warm blood. He reaches his hand out to hold her hair, his handsome face turbid and red, smiling faintly, “Silly . . . . You . . . . are always Dad’s daughter . . . .” His sable eyes dreamy as he surveys her face, he frowns slightly and continues, “It is just that . . . . you happened to be the Mongolian princess too . . . .”
Angela’s heart quivers listening to these words, touched by his sentiments. Something gets caught in her throat; she cries out.
. . . . . .
She hangs on to the hand by her waist. She sits on the horse, looks up at the sky and howls tragically. The cool mist showers her face so that tears and rain mix. Her despair and hate released, her sobbing chokes and her energy is depleted. Her insides are ruptured and she forgets the existence of herself. Before her is only a smear of white haze. She is empty and she only knows to cry continuously, silently shuddering and heartbroken.
In a matter of moments, she exhausted her lifetime’s worth of tears and ended her lifetime’s worth of sentiments. Her pained cries echo through the forests and prairies; her sorrow enters heaven. On the path in the forest a lone rider stands still. The wind weeps low and the rain sprinkles forlornly. A flurry in a dance, making the green mountains blurry. Bitter clouds cry along with her.
Act Seven
Bridge Across the Land
Act Seven
Dawn hovers over the streets; the morning sun removes darkness. Dense housing asleep next to each other; neither smoke nor flag rises. The streets of Moscow are desolate and empty, only a soft morning light splays softly, glistening on the tiled paths.
The Jityecz Castle soars alone and oddly among all the rest; it quietly preserves the ancient, as if forgetting to whom this city originally belonged and who lives here now.
Wooden wheels turn, rolling over the gravel roads. Wonbayer dressed in his military outfit leads his horse by the rein. Hushed, he leads a troop of people and horses throughout, lonely and somber. Beneath the morning rays, their shadows are snake-like. Boots and hooves are numerous, followed by a cart, on top of which is a corpse covered with a white cloth. It bumps along as the spokes move. The dead person’s cloth boots are loose and large, his black hair is half revealed and blood and mud soak through sporadically.
Wonbayer’s wide face is weary as he lifts his head to look east; he only sees the clouds in the horizon a rosy crimson as if on fire. Traces of glowing clouds depart and split, hiding a glimmer that is dark. In one corner the sun hangs languidly in the distance, decorating the bloody sky and splattering rouge that taints plumes of clouds. The sky canopy is weaved with red and gray, faintly barring sunrise like golden dragons that travel and rise; they stream through like brilliant waves. Heaven and earth are thoroughly and infinitely red. This intense scene is boundless; though it seems to reflect the tragedies of a century and to gather the sighs for thousands of miles around.
Heaven sighs, wondering what has occurred on the other end of the great earth—
He walks over slowly. The horse is next to him and the group of soldier tail him; there is only the light steps of feet in the sleeping Moscow. Wonbayer gazes up at the clouds again, thick brows slightly tighten as he coldly grips his rein; it is as if a rock weighing a thousand tons sits on his heart, it is most unpleasant.
Hope Tianyin and others are still alive . . . . after all . . . . he had promised Kyrigu. Live . . . . to prove the power of just a few people and to prove that Wonbayer himself is wrong. In this world, who are wrong ultimately? Recalling that Mo
ngolian boy in his embrace, those clear eyes that pray for peace while bathing in the light of a wish for prosperity. He said, war is wrong.
And false attachments. Unfortunately, what is false and what is real are ultimately entangled and difficult to understand. Maybe only in the end they will discover that the universe is upside down.
To him, he still wants to leave something real, even if it is something that will cause the world to despise him. Whether it is great love or petty emotions, does it not depend on the moment?
The light of burning flames shine on his face. Wonbayer’s tan skin is slightly ruddy, nose breathes shallowly and sad eyes turn to focus out front; he continues to walk out of the city. Suddenly, he hears a bright voice calling him from behind, “Wait—wait!”
He stops and turns around; he sees Tibetan mastiff team leader Ahrislan rush over, still in his single garment and casually draped over with an emerald green Mongolian robe. He huffs and runs over, one hand pressing his collar, the tail of his shirt flaps with the wind and in a few quick steps he flies toward him.
This lad has a flat face and narrow eyes, a pigtail on the back of his head, a sturdy back, a muscular built and eyebrows that are so faint they are as if nonexistent. He gasps and swallows, peering at the white corpse on the cart; he is shocked and with hands on his waist, he lifts his head and asks, “Are you really going to send a fake corpse back to Baidar? Substituting for Tianyin?”
“Um.” Wonbayer nods. His face firm, his lips serious and his grape-like eyes thick with hardship as he glances at the carcass. He sees Ahrislan open his mouth out of surprise and inquires out of concern. He continues, “Otherwise what are we going to do? Are we going to wait forever if Lacson and others do not come back after all?”
“. . . . This . . . . sigh!” The young man inhales and holds his breath, extremely frustrated. He punches himself in the hand and keeps shaking his head. He says hatefully, “I am anxious now that you mention it. Gee—Lacson had bragged to me that he will definitely come back in six days. He borrowed my soldiers and Tibetan mastiffs. Now . . . . I am trapped here. He lowers his eyes and is caught dismayed. He says to himself, “Missing ten . . . . How am I supposed to report back . . . . this is not a minor crime . . . .”
As he speaks, Ahrislan cannot help but touch the embroidery26 inside his Tibetan robe, that crystal blue crescent moon ornament is exquisitely made and covered with a pair of larks. It is colorful and fine, the tassels are golden and smooth. He fondles his embroidered ornament and his eyes expose a burning sadness. He is confounded, embroiled in emotion.
Wonbayer’s giant figure faces him and sees the embroidery. He opens his mouth and asks straightforwardly, “Tana gave it to you?”
Ahrislan is startled and embarrassed. He lets go of the embroidery and quickly lowers his head, saying “Yeah. When I went back this time we got married.”
He watched Ahrislan get drafted again to leave his family, to shoulder the war and thoughts of loved ones away in the distance. Wonbayer could not help but sigh, his voice low like a rock, “I think a hoard of one hundred light riders plus ten Tibetan mastiff, no matter how strong Tianyin and others are, they cannot possibly escape. Your Tibetan mastiff must be okay . . . . even if they were lost, they would be able to follow the scent and return to you in the end.” His entire body frosty, he pauses slightly. His vision is tired and aged and his words sincere, he says, “So you better count your subordinates and get on the road; otherwise your crime will be greater if you delay military affairs . . . . if you die, your family will be affected too.”
“Um, okay.” Ahrislan nods and consults Wonbayer, saying, “And you? Aren’t you afraid of sending a fake corpse back?”
He is silent. He looks to the side and sees the glitter in the eyes of the horse, his tower-like body stands and he says after a while, “I had talked it over with Lacson. He will cooperate if he goes back . . . . Otherwise . . . . they have died together . . . . I will not have any problems.”
The morning wind is sharp and wet, Ahrislan wraps his emerald Mongolian robe tight, bites his lips and speaks out of concern, “I know Baidar will not check very thoroughly, but . . . . if . . . . if after a long while someone named Tianyin appears in Karakorum, Great Khan . . . .” He does not dare to utter curses falsely, he wipes his mouth and skips it, “Great Khan . . . . then not only you will be executed immediately, Mongolia—is likely to split into pieces. The outcome is unthinkable.” The young man’s eyes are clear and bright; he lowers his eyes and sighs, however, as he thinks of the bigger picture.
“Ha,” Wonbayer tosses his glance upward, a flame like radiant flowers smears the clouds red, smoking the morning haze, boundless and vastly kind. He inhales deeply, then with a sudden insight, feels relieved. He laughs stiffly, “Is that so bad?” His glance over at Ahrislan with his weariness and says, “If that’s the case, you would not have to leave home and do battle, rushing about . . . . I also . . . .” He pauses his words and shortly becomes depressed and oppressed. He lowers his eyes sadly and frigidly. He slowly turns his back to get his horse strap; his voice is mixed with a hardship, each word heavy, “do not have to betray brothers for family . . . .”
Ahrislan understands all of a sudden. He sees Wonbayer’s body like a tower soaking in the red light; the wind blows his hair so it’s a mess and there is only a lonely cool on the ground. Speechless. Other than a heaviness, it is still a heaviness.
“Let’s go.” The tall tower calls him; his tone even and his voice dull, he did not turn back.
“Oh, okay.” The lad is at once awake and answers rigidly.
The immense troop drags the corpse and leaves slowly. The wheel grumbles along and the hooves hit the gravel, Ahrislan dons his robe and watches them travel farther and farther away. The mountains seem to be dripping blood quietly, waves of red and scarlet veil the scenery.
The rain stations in the clouds and the greasy clouds are still present, stacking like raw cotton and floating. Like a watermark seated in the sky, the morning sun embraces light and shines through the clouds as if riding on a fog. Dewdrops hang on green leaves. Mud is loose and the air is wet, spring sprinkle strokes all. The lush forest seems a bit more verdant as it accompanies the flowing Volga River, nourishing a hundred miles. It stretches itself without borders. The plain wind blows like a song that sighs forever, through the world and through sceneries.
Beneath one gray tree that soars into the sky, piles of loose soil are stacked high and graves are dug deep. Angela puts down the long straight sword with dots of mud and slowly picks up Tianyin’s corpse, placing it inside the grave. She sits upright and dumb, her face filthy and white. She is nailed to the side of the hole, tears dry and sentiments pause. She opens her burning mouth in pain and resentfully disappointed her soul that is no longer present, utterly hopeless and stunned. Staring dispiritedly with her wooden eyes, she does not feel herself breathing for quite a while.
Something feels stuck in her heart and yet she cannot let out any cry. There is an emptiness that comes with insight. Her howls continue to echo in her ears, accompanying the sounds of the passing rain. She is in shock; she is utterly grief-stricken.
That broken and red body is stiff and unfeeling. No longer towering. The blood on his clothes are already black, his hands are green and the knife scar on his handsome face is still there in a diagonal line. His eyes tightly shut and his blackish lashes are locked tight over that pair of dark brown eyes. No matter how she stares, he will not move again.
Is this the body that was holding her? It was just familiar but there is no more warmth coming from it. It seems as if just now he was fighting in a bloodbath, still talking softly and still looking afar with his cold eyes and still the sad brows.
This is death, turning a life into a carcass.
Is this face still yours? This cannot be true . . . . but why . . . . is this true . . . . The young woman only feels
a dramatic despair rush to her head, disaster overwhelms her and her heart drips blood. She is seized with a powerlessness and faint-heartedness. She cannot move so she can sit kneeling rigidly. Her face is as indifferent as a lake and her eyes are unfocused like an ice sculpture since her tears for one lifetime have been cried.
The misty sun chases the sky; the wind rustles like an eulogy that is tender, making a mess of her hair. The horse tied down also have tears well forth in its eyes. Its hooves are still and it lowers its head in thought.
A silent funeral; the river of time flows mute. Angela slowly picks up her eyes and looks up at the ancient tree. She takes out her knife, but is suddenly startled. The silver blade carves into the tree trunk then she quits. This scene seems so familiar . . . . it was the time when she buried Dad.
Dad . . . . and Big Brother are united. She is alone in this world. Once again, she is by herself. She grips the knife sheath tight and her palms are sweaty; her shoulders slightly quivering and she lightly carves into the bark. Her eyebrows are heavy and hurt; she is full of sadness like she swallowed sharp blades alive. She is extremely melancholy.
He is her older brother or the imperial son of Great Song? Is Tianyin his real name . . . . Angela’s eyes are blurred as she turns to gaze at that peaceful face, an aloof, lonely and handsome face like ivory. The tip of her knife accidentally strips off a piece of bark. She puts the knife back into her warm sheath.
No engraving can define . . . the him before her. She can only leave an indescribable blank.
She slowly cups some dark soil and sprinkles it over him, one handful at a time until she feels she has lost her will and her fingers have gone cold. She is utterly hopeless and her heart breaks with each handful. As soil falls to the ground, her heart is buried too; dissolution and rupture can be heard.
