Peril in the Palace

by Paul McCusker

  Kublai Khan frowned.

  Amaffeo offered the paper to him, but the khan waved his hand. He did not want it.

  “Why doesn’t your God help the Christians?” Kublai Khan asked. “Why doesn’t the Christian God smash your enemies?”

  Niccolò and Amaffeo were silent.

  Patrick and Beth looked at each other. “Someone should say something,” Patrick whispered to her.

  “What did you say?” the khan called out to Patrick. He waved. “Come closer. Speak so I may hear you.”

  Patrick took two steps toward the white throne. His knees were shaking.

  “Will this child answer my question since the adults cannot?” Kublai Khan said. “Speak, boy! Why doesn’t your Christian God destroy your enemies?”

  “He has destroyed our greatest enemy,” Patrick said in a shaky voice.

  “Oh? Which enemy is that?” the khan asked.

  “Jesus Christ destroyed death. He rose from the grave! Those who believe in Him will live forever.”

  “Bah!” Kublai Khan said. “My uncle was a Christian. My mother was a Christian. Both are now dead.”

  “But they’re alive in heaven,” Patrick said. “And you can live there too, if you ask for forgiveness—”

  Patrick was cut off by Kublai Khan’s laughter. He let out a deep roll of gusty hah-hahs.

  Then the khan stopped laughing and stroked his beard. He said, “I want to see what your God can do for me. I want to live in this world forever. And I want an army that will never suffer defeat. I want glory.”

  Patrick opened his mouth to argue, but Niccolò put a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. He leaned his head close to Patrick’s ear.

  “He only understands what he can see,” Niccolò whispered. “He believes he will go to the afterlife as a warrior. The Mongols will bury him with arrows and horses.”

  Kublai Khan snapped his fingers. He motioned toward a group of men at the side of the room. They wore long yellow robes and yellow turbans. The men came forward and circled Kublai Khan’s throne.

  “We will see who has power,” Kublai Khan said. “Your God or the Mongol shamans.”

  The Yellow Lamas

  “Who are those men?” Beth whispered.

  “Those are the yellow lamas,” Niccolò whispered to the cousins. “They are the Mongol religious men. The people also call them shamans.”

  The shamans talked quietly to Kublai Khan. After they were done, the men bowed to him.

  Then Kublai Khan spoke to the Polos and the cousins.

  “The yellow lamas are powerful,” Kublai Khan said. “They have more power than Christians. Watch and see.”

  One of the yellow lamas walked to a nearby table. He pushed it toward the throne.

  The shaman set a metal cup in the center of the table. He placed a large metal pitcher next to the cup.

  Another shaman came to the table. He stood on the other side.

  Another yellow lama took out a small flute. He began to play a strange song.

  Beth didn’t like the music. It sounded off-key and creepy.

  The shamans waved their arms to the music. Their eyes glowed with emotion. The men—as if in a trance—stared at the metal pitcher.

  The Polos and the cousins stepped forward to get a better look.

  The metal pitcher lifted off the table. The pitcher floated in the air. Beth gasped.

  The flute player’s notes rose higher. He played the music faster and faster.

  The shamans moved their arms above the pitcher. Their hands made circle shapes. The metal pitcher now tilted. It poured a red liquid into the cup.

  Marco Polo’s face turned white as salt. His hands shook.

  “Impossible,” Marco whispered. “What is this magic?”

  Patrick watched with an open mouth.

  Beth watched the yellow lamas carefully. Then she leaned toward Patrick. “That’s not magic,” she whispered.

  “Then what is it?” Patrick asked.

  She smiled and said, “It’s magnets.”

  The Floating Pitcher

  Everyone in the room watched the floating pitcher.

  Beth had an idea. She opened Patrick’s wool bag and took out some of the strong nails Mr. Whittaker had given them.

  “What are you doing?” Patrick asked.

  “I’m going to prove the shamans are using magnets,” said Beth.

  Beth realized the Italians and the khan were looking at her. The flute player stopped playing.

  “Child! You are showing disrespect!” Amaffeo said. He was alarmed.

  “Kublai Khan challenged us,” Beth said. “I want to show how those shamans are doing their trick.”

  The khan leaned forward in his throne. “Trick?” he asked. “You say my shamans are doing tricks?”

  Beth faced Kublai Khan. “I think they’re using magnets,” she said.

  The shamans were distracted. They stepped away from the table and turned to Beth. The metal pitcher and cup crashed down. The pitcher hit the floor and bounced sideways. Liquid spilled all over the gold bricks. The shamans glared at her.

  “What are magnets?” Kublai Khan asked.

  “Magnets are special rocks that pull on metal,” she said.

  The khan looked at the shamans. “Do you know what she is saying?”

  The shamans bowed slightly. “No, Great Khan,” one said.

  “Be careful, Beth,” Patrick said softly.

  “The magnets may be hidden in the shamans’ big sleeves,” she whispered.

  “Do not test the shamans!” Kublai Khan said. “They will get angry. They will cast an evil spell on you.”

  “If their spells are like their tricks, then I’m not afraid,” Beth said. She wasn’t afraid of them. But she was afraid of being wrong.

  “Well?” the khan called out. “I will reward the person who uncovers a trick.”

  Beth bowed to the khan. “Ask the shamans to hold out their arms,” she said. “Then I can test their powers.”

  The khan waved a hand at the shamans to obey. They looked worried.

  “But, Great Khan—” one of the shamans said.

  “Hold out your arms!” the khan said.

  The shamans stretched out their arms.

  The large sleeves of their robes faced Beth. “Take some of the nails,” Beth said quickly to Patrick. She gave him a handful.

  “What do you want me to do?” Patrick asked.

  Beth said, “We’ll toss the nails at their sleeves—on the count of three.”

  Patrick nodded.

  “One … two … three,” Beth said.

  They tossed the long nails toward the shamans’ sleeves.

  The nails scattered in the air. Then they seemed to dangle in midair, as if hung from strings.

  Everyone looked amazed. The shamans were afraid. They pulled their arms back behind them.

  The nails suddenly dropped and tinkled to the floor.

  Beth looked at Kublai Khan. She said, “You see?”

  Kublai Khan did not look happy.

  The Chicken

  Kublai Khan stood up. He was a round man. His stomach looked like a beach ball. His white tunic hung like a tent around him.

  He motioned for the lead lama to step forward.

  The lama obeyed.

  “Lift up your sleeves,” Kublai Khan said.

  The lama didn’t move.

  The khan scowled at him.

  The lama slowly lifted his sleeves. Small leather bands were attached to his arms. Each band was covered in magnets.

  “Bring those long, pointed sticks,” the khan said to Patrick and Beth.

  The cousins gathered up the strong nails and brought them forward.

  Kublai Khan took one and held it near the shaman’s magnetic arms.

  “I feel something,” the khan said.

  He let go of the nail. It slammed against one of the magnets.

  “These are mere rocks?” the khan asked.

  “Yes. They have a positive and a nega
tive force,” Beth said. “A person can do fun tricks with magnets and metal.”

  The khan took another nail and peered at it. Then he looked at the bands on the shaman’s arms.

  “We have seen your power,” the khan said to the shaman. His voice was cold. “You may go.”

  The yellow lamas bowed and hurried back to their place. They took the cup and pitcher with them.

  “Are you a Christian shaman?” Kublai Khan asked Beth.

  “I am not a shaman,” Beth said. “It’s science. That’s all.”

  He held up the nail. “And what are these long sticks?”

  “They are just nails, sir,” Beth said. “We brought them as gifts.”

  The khan’s eyes narrowed. He studied a nail carefully. “Do the metal sticks have special powers?” Kublai Khan asked.

  “No,” Beth said, “but they’re very useful. They hold things together—especially wood.”

  “That is why we have notches,” the khan said. He pointed to the ceiling beams above them.

  “Our Chinese craftsmen use notches and brackets,” he said. “The Mongols use rope.”

  Kublai Khan held up the nail again. “What good is this?” he asked.

  Patrick came forward and gave a slight bow. He held the hammer in his hand.

  “Great Khan,” Patrick said, “this long stick makes things stay together. You can build things faster with them.”

  Beth was grateful for his help.

  Patrick said, “You see, the pointed part goes through wood. It holds two pieces of wood together.”

  Patrick took the hammer and a nail to the table. He pounded the nail into the little table. It went straight through the top and into a leg.

  Kublai Khan motioned toward a group of men, who stood against the wall.

  The three men had small silk caps on their heads. They had thin, pointy moustaches and beards. Their eyes were dark in color but bright with interest.

  The three men inspected the table in silence. One by one each shook his head.

  “Bad in earthquake,” one of the smart men said.

  “Bad luck,” said the next.

  The last man scowled as if sucking on a lemon.

  “Blah!” he said. “Not the Chinese way.”

  The Italians looked at the cousins with worried expressions.

  “This isn’t working,” Beth said softly to Patrick. “What other gifts do we have?”

  Patrick shrugged and then dug inside the wool bag again. He found a small package. He showed it to Beth.

  The tag read, “Show this to Kublai Khan.”

  Patrick tore off the wrapping paper.

  Inside was a small white chicken. It had a red comb on its head. It had stiff yellow feet. A little key stuck out of its back.

  A windup toy?

  Patrick and Beth looked at each other.

  What was Mr. Whittaker thinking? Beth wondered.

  But it was the only thing they had.

  “Here is something you might like,” Patrick said. “Watch this!”

  All eyes turned to Patrick. He twisted the knob a few times. Then he set the chicken on the table.

  It made a soft whirring sound. The little feet hopped forward. The little beak moved toward the ground. It hopped and pecked, hopped and pecked. Then it stopped and crowed.

  Cock-a-doodle-doo!

  All of the people around the khan stepped back. The shamans suddenly cried out and ran off.

  The Chinese servants and the khan’s wise men huddled together. They were frightened.

  Even the Mongols looked wide-eyed.

  The Mongol warriors lifted their weapons. Would they attack the chicken?

  Kublai Khan sat down on his throne. His eyes stayed fixed on the chicken.

  “You are shamans indeed,” Kublai Khan said. “You have power over an evil bird spirit.”

  The Mongol Messenger

  “What!” Patrick said. It was almost a shout. He frowned.

  Beth wanted to explain that it wasn’t magic or spirits. It was a mechanical toy. But before she could speak, a trumpet sounded.

  It startled them.

  A Mongol warrior burst through the doors of the throne room.

  Beth and Patrick recognized him. He was the man who had grabbed Beth. He had also said Patrick was evil. It was Koke.

  The warrior stumbled. Something was strange about his clothes.

  Beth gasped.

  Koke’s tunic was soaked in blood. An arrow had been shot through the man’s shoulder.

  “He’s hurt,” Beth said. She turned to the Polos. “Someone help him!”

  Beth started forward, but Amaffeo put a hand on her shoulder. “Wait,” he said. “To help him would make him look weak. Let him speak.”

  The man limped toward the throne. One hand clutched the arrow at his shoulder.

  He fell on the first stair of the platform. He bowed at the feet of Kublai Khan.

  “What is it, Koke?” the khan asked. “Tell me.”

  “Three thousand Arab soldiers march toward Shangdu,” the wounded man said. “Four hundred Mongol rebels lead them on horses.”

  The khan rose to his feet. He said, “They do the bidding of my enemy—Baraq!”

  Koke said, “Even now they ram the gate.”

  A smile crept over Kublai Khan’s face. His whole body seemed to glow. It was as if the threat of war brought him to life.

  He sat down again and rubbed his chin. He waved his hand at the three men with the pointy beards. They rushed forward.

  He said to them, “We must talk.”

  Beth looked at poor Koke still on the floor.

  Then the khan seemed to remember him and said, “You may go, Koke.”

  Not even a “thank you,” Beth thought.

  The khan and the three Chinese men spoke in low voices. Koke struggled to his feet.

  Koke took a few steps. He looked at Beth. Then his eyes rolled upward. He fell to the floor.

  Beth couldn’t stand seeing him hurt.

  “He needs help,” she said. “Somebody do something!”

  Patrick came over to her. He asked, “Do the Chinese have doctors?” he asked.

  The Polos came close too.

  “Where are our medicines?” Marco asked his father and uncle.

  Amaffeo said, “I will send a servant to get our belongings.”

  Beth put her hand on Koke’s forehead. “He’s burning with fever!” she said.

  The warrior slowly opened his eyes. He looked into her face.

  “We’ll help you,” she said.

  Koke’s eyes moved to Patrick’s face. Suddenly the warrior looked fearful. He rose up with the little strength he had.

  “The devil boy!” Koke shouted. “The boy who came from nowhere! He brings this evil.”

  The warrior pointed at Patrick. The man shook all over. Then he fell back in a faint.

  Beth looked at Patrick, who looked worried. She looked at Marco Polo, who frowned. Then they looked over at Kublai Khan. His eyes were on them.

  “Guards,” the khan called. “Take these Christian shamans away. Make sure they can’t escape!”

  Good-bye

  “Is there anything else in that bag?” Beth asked Patrick.

  She hoped Mr. Whittaker had given them an extra gift. She wanted to give one to the guard outside the door. Maybe then he would tell them what was going on.

  “Let me look,” Patrick said.

  While he did that, Beth looked around the room again. She and Patrick were alone in a small room. The walls were brick, held up by thick beams of wood. One small window was set high in the wall. The door was shut. There was no escape.

  Patrick looked inside the bag. “Aha! Here’s one last gift,” he said and pulled out a small package. It was wrapped in bright yellow paper.

  “What does the tag say?” Beth asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s written in a foreign language,” he said. “It looks like Chinese picture words.”

  Patrick squeezed
the package.

  “It feels like another book,” he said. “Should we open it?”

  “Not yet,” said Beth. “Maybe we should show it to the guard—it might be a message to him.”

  There were voices outside of the door.

  “Shh,” Patrick whispered.

  Beth moved to the door. She pressed her ear against it. Then she jumped back as it swung open.

  Niccolò Polo stepped through the door. “I have spoken to Kublai Khan.”

  Beth said, “Will he let us out of here?”

  Niccolò frowned. “No,” he said, “but he has allowed me to come and say good-bye.”

  “Good-bye!” Patrick said. “You’re leaving us here?”

  “We have no choice,” Niccolò said. “Kublai Khan has ordered me, Marco, and Amaffeo to serve as his messengers. We are going to warn the other cities about Baraq.”

  “What about us?” Beth asked. “Why can’t we go with you?”

  “The khan is worried about your powers,” Marco said. “He’s afraid to let you leave. You may use your powers against him.”

  “But we don’t have that kind of power,” Beth said.

  Niccolò shook his head. “Maybe not. But he thinks you do. And so you will be his guests here.”

  The cousins groaned.

  Niccolò placed one hand on each of their shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You will go to school with Kublai Khan’s own grandchildren.”

  Patrick’s expression turned from sadness to panic. “We’ll have to stay in China?” he asked. “And go to school?”

  Beth said, “We can’t stay here! We must help Albert!”

  Niccolò looked at the cousins with curiosity. Then he smiled.

  “You’re strange children,” Niccolò said.

  “May we say good-bye to Marco and Amaffeo?” Beth asked.

  “Kublai Khan will allow you to see them before they leave,” Niccolò said. “But the guard must go with you. He will take I you at the right time.”

  Early the next morning, the cousins and the Polos said their good-byes.

  “I’ll remember you whenever I write in my diary,” Marco said.