by Yvonne Wang
That face . . . . she cannot cover it up. She stands still next to the grave and looks with attachment, suddenly dreaming and suddenly awake. Angela lightly touches that face and feels something is being robbed, being cut raw and being soaked in grief. By the flying waterfall and the echoing valley, she also touched this face this way. Also in the stone cave when they glanced sideways in the drizzling rain . . . .
Fortunately, those brows are open now, calm and pleasant, as if—already at Hangzhou.
The young woman cups another handful of soil, looking longingly and bidding her farewell silently.
Here’s seeing you for the last time, Tianyin. But in this life . . . she will never forget this face. Not in next life either.
Dirt sprinkles over his pale and peaceful face. Soil falls and the face disappears, bit by bit, until it is no longer seen—until the entire person disappears from this world finally. Angela continues to kneel at the head of the grave. Facing the tomb stunned, she is unable to control herself.
Gradually, steps in the distant forest can barely be heard, the horses come closer with the sound of the clicking. Soon, more than a dozen people and horses approach and steer to stop behind the young woman’s back. The tired horses sway their tails. The horsemen and a mixed gang of people are all dirty and exhausted. Alexander sees that thin back of a person and his eyes well up with tears immediately. He pants with his chest rising and falling, his throat as if stuck with a rock, and he yells with all his might, “Angela . . . .”
“Angela—” Finally found you!
The prince lets out all his sorrow and tears tumble forth; he is so choked up that he could not utter one word. He sinks and slips down the horseback. His entire body is exhausted and freezing; despair is all over his face. He limps toward her, his weak shadow on the ground while his slim body trembles with emotion.
Anthony, Marean, Ed, Miechowo, Koneke and others all get off their saddles and quietly watch this sad reunion, moved by this scene.
Angela hears the voice and slowly stretches to stand; but her eyes are still locked on the tomb, having difficulty being fully present.
Alexander stops just inches behind her. Catching a glimpse of the person that he has been thinking about day and night but having been so far away, he reaches his hand out and wants to touch her. “Angela . . . .”
The wind swings and blows, connecting the two. The wind caresses their clothes and the shadows of the trees are lofty. Angela woodenly turns her head before the tomb and looks sideways; her face dirty and joyless, her crystal eyes open wide in shock.
Isn’t . . . . that Alexander?
Still that fair face and hazel and emerald eyes—as if the same person as the one dancing the basic steps on the arched bridge. His blond hair shiny while the river carries their reflections. Ripples blur . . . . only—more sorrow and fatigue are added. Those scenes are already hazy in her memory. Why is all this so unreal like a dream? It seems as if after going through countless crises, she is back at the starting point.
Their eyes face each other and exchange glances of woe that cease after a long time. Alexander cannot control himself any longer. He steps forward and holds the young woman, trembling. His body goes numb and tears make his collar wet and insides nervous. He sobs, “I finally found you—found you . . . .” He finally understands, only the person in his embrace is the most precious.
Angela is paralyzed and stunned; her blue and dark brown eyes rolling with sorrow. Alexander and her separate, his hands still on the young woman’s shoulders and he sadly looks at her up and down. Before he can breathe evenly, his lake-like eyes behold with sincerity and he stutters, “Are . . . . you okay . . . . ?”
Her clear eyes move slowly, strands of hair stuck to her cheek. She seems extremely lost and her thin lips part, she says, “You . . . . how . . . .” Speaking of which, the young man immediately becomes grieved, he lowers his head and sucks in air hatefully then exhales while shaking. He speaks with a heaviness of heart, “I . . . . Poland . . . . Poland . . . .” A mix of hurt and hate makes him knock his teeth together and cannot speak.
After a long while, he says, “Poland has fallen—” Angela frowns her curvy brows and is startled. Are the stone bridge and tiny brook . . . . no longer there? The place where she and Dad lived for 17 years no longer there?
Her eyes thick with anxiety and she lowers her eyelashes. She cannot tolerate this new series of bad news.
“I had disobeyed Father to come find you . . . . but later I learned—” Alexander drops his hands and looks to the side with sad eyes; vengeance seizes his heart and he is suddenly at a loss for words. He then goes on, “They . . . . Mongols . . . . want me to go back and be a puppet king . . . . otherwise they will murder the people of Poland.” He observes the young woman and says with earnestness and emotion, abruptly decisive, “Angela . . . . although . . . . I cannot be the real king . . . . but at the least, the two of us can be together forever—”
His eyes are sincere and he looks at the young distressed woman, his invitation like a promise, “Angela, go back with me, be my queen.”
Wind pushes the rustling leaves to open up the windows. Sunshine lights up his face so that he radiates with a spilling over of bright shimmer. Angela watches him and her clear eyes reveal woe. She slowly turns around, strands of hair on the side of her face block the corners of her brows. She does not say a word.
Walking away a few steps, Angela stands by the lone grave, lowers her head to see that mound with the still fresh black mud. She looks on with longing and memories continue to surface, striking and piercing at her heart. She sadly says to the person behind her, “Unfortunately . . . . I am already—his queen.”
“Who . . . .” Alexander follows his glance and takes a peek of the simple grave. He only sees a large mound of murky soil and on the trunk of the tree above it a white scratch. He stares quietly and does not understand.
Angela closes her eyes and pauses briefly, burying all her suppressed emotions and decisively picks up the long straight sword sleeping on the ground and walks toward her horse. She unties the rein, holds on to the saddle and buries her head. She stops for an extended period of time then looks up. Seeing Alexander in the distance, she says calmly, “Go back . . . . Poland will be fine soon—Mongols . . . . will not come again.”
The young man is confused; his green eyes blurry. He does not understand what she means. He also does not know how to keep her back. Finished with her words, the young woman takes one final view of the prince, then hops onto the horse, urging it to rush off toward the east side of the great earth.
Alexander takes a few steps forward, watching that outline of a person moving farther and farther away. He is filled with sadness and whispers, “Angela . . . .”
The stacked up clouds contain the sun; the wilds all around are gray and bright. Angela lifts up her sword and charges forward. Behind her, he and he, watch silently.
Seven months later, Chenghai.
Sand is floating in the light overhead; smoke is hazy from the lingering river. The daytime hours generate a fierce wind that blows over the mouth of the city. A red sun in the lone wilds shines on the yellow soil, resting in the faraway eastern clouds. Throngs of people come and go in Chenghai. Horses arrive and camels leave. Clay streets cut across, white canopies along the roads. Boots intersect and their steps are numerous; chatter is mixed with noise.
A banner for tea in both Mongolian and Chinese hangs halfway down, curling and flapping. Beneath the canopy are several neatly arranged square tables and stools. Three Mongolian men with braids on the back of their heads drink tea and eat meat, talking indulgently. In the corner of the tea shop, a pair of eyes, left a dark brown and right extremely blue peers out. Angela guides her horse as she bends over. Her moon-like brows are alert and in a frown. She hangs onto the wall and peruses quietly, submerged and waiting uncommunicatively.
Her face is dirty and her hair messy, she beautiful face looks somber, lean and tired. On her back wrapped in cloth is Tianyin’s sword. Kyrigu’s Mongolian outfit that she is wearing is already ragged and gray, ripped and maimed. She stares long and hard at the food on the table, her body as tight as an arrow and her fingertips paler than the wall.
In a short while, the three large Mongolian men finish and mutter a few words at the shop, drop off some money and leave. Nearly at the same time, Angela charges forth and hobbles over to the leftover bun and stuffs it into her mouth like a diehard. She uses her forearm to slide the leftover food and coins into her bag. Dirty sweat all over her face, she is panting fearfully, her heart thumps like a rabbit’s. She lifts her head to check the shop door incessantly and then buries her head to continue to rob. She got so nervous that her hands shook.
“What are you doing . . . . stop!” Unexpectedly, a child’s voice comes from the front, crisp and child-like as if a golden bell.
Angela is alarmed and all of a sudden feels guilty. She leers and sees a three-year-old boy exit the shop. He has his arms on his hips and his finger pointed at her. He is wearing a Chinese overcoat and is less than three feet tall but his face is like a moon, brows like swords and eyes like tiger’s, shining and staring. That pair of pure black eyes like grapes are true and innocent, like the lakes of immortals.
She lets out a breath, swallowing hard and continuing to pack up and brace her bag. She urges the horse to prepare for escape.
“Don’t go—” The boy’s baby-face is bold and stubborn, running over, he grabs her trouser. He purses his tiny mouth and refuses to let go of her with all his might.
Angela is anxious and frustrated, nervously and roughly trying to throw him off. They start to struggle. The boy is not afraid and cannot be moved. He clamps her on the one hand and yells into the building on the other, “Mom—Mom—hurry up and come out, someone is stealing—”
His voice falls and the curtain lifts, out of the tea shop flashes the view of a beautiful woman. She steps out elegantly. Angela suddenly freaks out and feels her body freeze completely, releasing her hands. The boy in a tug of war with her trips backwards and drags down the cloth bag on her back.
The satchel subsides, the slit is open, revealing Tianyin’s shimmering silver sword.
Angela gasps and is about to pick it up when she notices that the woman has already approached her. Her dress is an elegant purple. Her physique lovely and she stands like an orchid; but on the right side of her face crawls a large and horrifying red scar, burnt and swollen, pus flowing from white sores, brown veins surround her neck, ugly to an extreme.
The young woman is horrified, holds her breath and looks, not daring to face that pair of deep and dark eyes.
The woman gives Angela the once over and sees how messy her clothes are, how her hair has filth stuck on it and how her face is waxy and nose ashy; she resembles an wandering beggar. She smiles and her dark eyes glisten; the wrinkles on the swollen scar are rough. She turns her head and says to the boy softly, “It’s okay, Minger, she looks like she really needs to eat.”
Her eyes deep and mysterious, merciful and full of feelings, as steady as pools of water; as if the holy mother herself has descended. Angela is in shock, holding onto a bag of stolen money and food but standing completely at a loss.
“How embarrassing,” the woman nods to Angela, face rotten and torn, her smile is natural and fine, “Minger is still young, he scared you.” As she spoke, she gently bends over to help the young woman pick up her long straight sword. The moment that she leans over, Angela’s eyes opens wide and she is completely dumbfounded!
On the back of her neck is a string of tattoos in Mongolian, which is what Tianyin wrote the other day . . . . on the beach by the flying fall!
. . . . . .
Angela moves slowly. Crouching down right behind him, she holds her breath and hesitates. The girl leers over his shoulder and sees a string of Mongolian words on the mudflat, the vertical writing is new and the strokes are as thick as fingers.
“The day is about to light, it is time to go to sleep.” Tianyin observes the sky, then turns his head to glance at her, abruptly pulling her out of her thoughts.
Angela locks her eyes on his profiled eye and asked softly, “What . . . . does that mean?”
Tianyin casts his eyes toward the ground, his large palm sweeps the Mongolian words, then he says briefly, “Nothing much.”
. . . . . .
All of a sudden memories pour forth, shaking up Angela. Seemingly lost from the looks of her brows, she is hardly conscious from the pain of her sorrow. She ogles directly that tattoo and her head buzzes while her blood pounds.
The same exact Mongolian words . . . what do they mean exactly? Why did Tianyin not want to tell her? Why . . . are they . . . on her?
Could it be that the Mongolian words on the beach . . . . are about her . . . . and Tianyin . . . .
The young woman ponders and becomes sad for no reason. The woman also slowly straightens her back, trembling like lightening hit too as she clutches that long straight sword. She is no longer smiling but shocked. She becomes aged; her eyes are emotional and face pale. She shakes and opens up the cloth bag, looking it over carefully. She lightly rubs the handle of the sword and without realizing it, her eyes are red with tears. She lifts her eyes to look up at Angela.
And Angela also stares at her stunned.
The two lock glances, holding their breaths and staring, confusion is mixed with hurt; thoughts and woe whirl. Beneath the white canopy they swallow their words, not knowing what to say. It is as if everything is a dead silence all around; severe wind comes to a standstill.
Only Minger does not understand. The white of his bright eyes distinct from the dark. He looks at his mother then checks on Angela.
“You are . . . .” Almost at the same time, the two asks each other shakily.
Silence.
The woman’s moist eyes glisten with grief, her breathing is difficult and the uttering of her words delayed and slow. First she responds, “I am Ahling.” Finished, she continues to stare and caress her face with one hand. Her fingers rub and she actually slowly tears off that piece of skin with pus and scars!
The skin beneath the scab is so beautiful it takes Angela’s breath away. The flawless skin of ice is smooth like jade. Her features are exquisite, gorgeous and immaculate. Her graceful white face is bright and the arch of her brows as alluring as the distant mountains. With a tucked in chin and thin lips the color of incomparable roses, her style is magnanimous. She is as pretty as a heavenly maiden.
The young woman stands there dumb, having no awareness of anything.
Ahling . . . . Ahling . . . . This name . . . .
. . . . . .
Tianyin’s dark eyes are bleak and deep. He stands tall and says, “Mandalt also said that she looks like Great Khan. That is enough. When we get close to Karakorum, we will let Ahling imitate and disguise as her. Then she will not have much to do.”
. . . . . .
Hesig presses down on Angela’s shoulder so that she lifts her head in fright, then he says in all seriousness, “West of Karakorum is the city of Chenghai. A woman who is proficient with disguises came from Xijing. She is willing to do anything to resist Mongolia.”
. . . . . .
“On the back of your neck . . . .” Angela’s voice drags.
“A tattoo by the Mongols that means criminal.” She rips off the scar, lowers her head and touches her sword; her beautiful brows in a depressed frown. She asks with a heaviness of heart, “This sword . . . . where did you get it?”
Angela brings her thoughts back and thinks of Tianyin. She cannot speak for a while. Her expression shows her struggle, as she sadly blinks. For a long while she finally said hoarsely and with difficulty, “You . . .
. know this sword?”
“Um.” Ahling responds. Her pretty face bleak and joyless, yet she looks to the little boy lovingly. With a clear voice, she says, “I personally wrapped the sheep kin on the handle of this sword and its owner—is Minger’s Dad.”
Minger’s Dad!
The sound of thunder ablaze shakes her heart. Angela’s blood goes dry and body paralyzed, she is wooden like clay but painful emotions roll and ears close down.
. . . . . .
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.
. . . . . .
She understands everything . . . . she finally understands why.
He is not afraid of their being siblings and not afraid her being the Mongolian princess. He is afraid . . . . to do Ahling wrong.
. . . . . .
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.
. . . . . .
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.
