The Sky Worshipers

by F. M. Deemyad

  Armineh reached for the door, but Yahya’s firm hand grabbed hers. “You leave this place, Mother, and God is my witness, I will not let anyone from this household come to rescue you. I hear the shrieks of horror out there, and I know the place has turned into a slaughterhouse.”

  She was surprised to see such strength in her eldest son. But he did not know what length a mother would go to in order to save her child.

  Armineh found Ida in the front yard, entry gate wide open. An alien soldier stood right in front of her. She was staring with wonder at the apparition before her. Ida had never seen a warrior before. This huge man with heavy armor, dismounting a horse must have amazed her. She probably wondered if this was Roestam, the epic warrior of her nighttime stories.

  The foreign warrior pulled out his sword, shining, beautiful. He raised it. Ida stared, as if awe-stricken by the gleaming object coming toward her face. Armineh stretched out her arms, her child beyond her reach, her speech silenced by fear, her heart cried out. “Is there anyone out there who can help me?” A mirage, an apparition, approached on horseback. More of them came, with faces covered, like phantoms out of a midnight dream they converged before her. “Who are these men? Angels of heaven or demons out of perdition? Are they the mourners of Ashoura?” But they would not be riding on horses, she realized. She could hear their breathing. Someone pulled Ida’s shirt from behind. A head rolled. Not that of her daughter. A sword had beheaded the enemy warrior. Armineh saw the severed head rolling away like a ball. “It is all a game. War is a game!” rang in her thoughts.

  Ida ran toward her. “Is this a dream?” Both sobbing now. Two other Mongols who were also at the scene fled. The monsters were gone.

  A black-clad man who seemed to be the leader of the horsemen rolled down the bandana that was covering his face. His smile exposed rows of white teeth that contrasted with his sun-darkened skin. Armineh asked tearfully, “To whom do I owe my life and that of my child?”

  “Name’s Jamsheed, they call me the Jackal. The country is under Mongol invasion. We have formed our own vigilante group. Helping whom we can and warning those that we can’t.”

  “Then you must be the famous thief?”

  “Well . . . I have sort of given up the profession . . . for a while now and . . . I am fighting for a cause,” replied the smiling former robber, obviously encouraged by the look of approval on Armineh’s face.

  “I thought the army of the king was pursuing you. Where is the army? Why aren’t we being protected?”

  “The king’s army is in disarray. The Mongols are conquering city after city. The bastards do not fight their wars conventionally. They attack from every corner and every side. The soldiers are panic-stricken.”

  “And where is the king?”

  “The king fled the capital like a terrified hare. The last we heard, our mighty monarch sought refuge in a faraway island of the Caspian Sea. His son, the braver soul among the two, is attempting to regroup the army and fight back. But the news is that they would not last long.”

  “What brought you here?”

  “I heard about the raid in a nearby caravansary.”

  “I am so glad you did.”

  “The large group of Mongols that slaughtered your neighbors had already left after receiving a message that the governor of Yazd had laid down his arms. Only a few enemies remained when we arrived here and saw your daughter. I suggest you hide somewhere for now.”

  As Armineh uttered a prayer, saying softly, “May God bless you, and may the angels protect you,” the Jackal and his men vanished as swiftly as they had appeared. She held the crying child tightly, protecting her eyes from the horrors of the scene, as they made their way to the cellar. Lifeless bodies, some clumped on top of the others, lay all over the field. Much loving was needed to placate the poor child.

  Before knocking on the cellar door, she noticed the pot of rice pudding still warm on the stove, traces of a hand visible on its crust.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Mongol Princess

  Reyhan felt extremely grateful for the new palace, built for her by Persian artisans. Her chambermaids rejoiced when they saw it. They went out of their way on that day to serve Reyhan, placing vases full of flowers in every room. For a fleeting moment, Reyhan felt as if she had returned to Persia. Persian architects, unlike their Mongol counterparts, did not see their work as merely propping up walls to shelter people from natural elements, but as works of art that could lift spirits. Glass and mirrored tiles, each minuscule in size, covered vast areas in colorful designs such that closing one’s eyes on them took a certain degree of willpower, and melancholy could not survive when so many pieces glimmered and winked.

  Although some flowering shrubs and trees were planted in Karakorum and kept alive through the painstaking care given them by captive gardeners, the area surrounding the oasis could not be described as anything more than a stretch of grassland. Despite the location, the new palace suited Reyhan, and she felt at home. Albeit, it seemed to her that her career as a teacher had come to an end until praise for her accomplishments came from an unexpected quarter.

  “I have come here with important news that pertains to my lady directly,” Baako said one evening when Reyhan permitted him to enter her chamber. Cushioned benches covered in crimson fabric with bits of golden spangle embroidered on them were set up around the circular chamber. Caramel-colored tiles that covered the walls and concave ceiling allowed the rug and furnishings to take center stage. Baako sat on a bench that was nearest to Reyhan and added, “Princess Sorkhokhtani, wife of Tolui Khan is coming over.”

  Reyhan had met her sister-in-law at her wedding before they left to reside in Inner Mongolia, but that encounter was short, and she could not get to know her better. She had a vague memory of what the Mongol Princess looked like and certainly had no idea of what kind of a person she might be.

  “Lady Sorkhokhtani is an incredibly wise woman,” Baako continued. “Although illiterate, she looks at knowledge like a miser looks at gold coins. She has heard about your abilities in teaching Kadan and is very much impressed. She hopes that her sons could also benefit from such instructions. They are arriving at Karakorum tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Reyhan asked, quite taken by surprise and not knowing what to expect from the newcomers. “I would like to know more about her before we meet.”

  “Lady Sorkhokhtani is a Nestorian Christian to whom nature has granted the double blessing of beauty and wisdom,” Baako said. “She is free of all religious biases. All houses of worship, regardless of their ways, gain equally from her charitable donations. She has realized early on that knowledge is the key to might and fortune. She currently runs the affairs of the lands controlled by Tolui Khan, in the absence of her husband, who is frequently leading Mongol armies into new terrains.”

  The thought of meeting such a fascinating person revived Reyhan’s spirit. As he prepared to leave, Baako added, “Do be careful with the lion cubs, my lady, sometimes they bite off the hand that nourishes them. They are not just children, but future emperors.”

  She gave him a reassuring smile, as she always did when they were parting, to put his mind at ease.

  Early the next morning, as she awaited the arrival of her guests, Reyhan reached for the bejeweled brooch which conjured home for her: the warm embrace of her mother, the stern look on her father’s face that she actually admired and considered manly, the sweet scent of smoke rising from dried rue seeds in the incense-burner, and the first moments when she met Ogodei for she was wearing it when he kidnapped her.

  Being kidnapped by a handsome prince had seemed romantic at first, but living as a captive in a foreign land had become her curse. She tried not to give in to despair. This was not the time to face the reality of her situation. She had to swim to the surface from its depths and breathe the revitalizing air of optimism. “Not all that you wish for will ever come t
rue, such is the way of the world,” her father used to say.

  Reyhan opened her bedroom window and looked out at the courtyard. An earlier rainstorm had brought a sense of freshness to the air. A pink glow on the horizon announced the arrival of the sun. Soon its amber rays penetrated the pale blue-gray morning sky, shedding light upon the brown mass of leafless branches. The land enjoyed a few moments of peace after the violent storms of the previous evening. Few clouds still lingered. The same clouds must have passed through the skies of Samarkand, she thought.

  Reyhan remembered the sunshine of Samarkand. How the earth sparkled, how the world gleamed. How snow began to melt when tiny green buds appeared upon the branches of trees, foretelling nature’s annual renovation. Would she ever see Samarkand again? Would she ever be there among family and friends?

  She took a deep breath, and as she did so, she heard the sound of bells, bringing the glad tiding of the approaching royal caravan. But there are no bells for palaces, no knocking on the door. No keys ever lock or unlock the entrance. There are guards outside in uniform, fully armed. There is a receiving line of chambermaids and housekeepers ready to welcome guests anytime they arrive. Reyhan could hear footsteps upon the cobblestone walkway that led to the palace entry and the sweet voices of children downstairs, chirping like newly hatched baby birds.

  Enthusiasm surged through her veins. She wanted to run downstairs and greet them. She had done so in the old palace in Samarkand when she was but a child. Her father reprimanded her, “You need to always observe propriety,” he told her. He even assigned a maid with the task of walking her up and down the stairs elegantly so that she would observe decorum. Wearing a turquoise-colored damask outfit that signified her Persian taste and contrasted beautifully with her honey-colored eyes, she got ready to welcome her guests.

  After the chambermaid announced the arrival of the Mongol Princess, Reyhan slowly descended the marble staircase that led to the palace parlor, weightless as a cloud. By the time she reached the parlor, the maids had removed the fur-lined overcoats of three children, exposing identical glossy brown masses of hair on each head.

  Lady Sorkhokhtani greeted Reyhan with the warmest smile. The Mongol Princess had a taller stature than most of her countrymen. Wisdom, maturity, and determination shone upon Sorkhokhtani’s beautiful face. Her countenance was fairer than most Mongols, and her features were delicate. She carried herself with the grace of an empress and seemed quite perceptive of her surroundings. The tiny mirrored tiles of the parlor reflected the colors of their clothing.

  Sorkhokhtani wore a two-piece yellow garment topped with an elaborately embroidered purple deel. A black cap tied with ribbons under her chin held a tall rimless red hat. A row of tiny strings of pearls covered her forehead like strands of hair. Long tresses of a lighter brown color than most Mongols reached the tightly bound sash of her deel. Her gaze conveyed sincerity and she wore a look of approval as she perused Reyhan’s parlor.

  Sorkhokhtani introduced her children. Kublai, a stout boy of about eight years of age stood next to Ariq Boke, his youngest brother, who didn’t seem to have put more than four springs behind him. He was rather thin by Mongol standards. Hulagu, only a year older, had his mother’s features. The little lad reached out and grabbed the Persian Princess’s skirt playfully with a big mischievous smile on his face. A burst of naughty laughter followed that made everyone laugh as well. The boy won Reyhan’s heart from that moment.

  Sorkhokhtani looked admiringly at Reyhan when she bent over the child, gently caressing his soft hair. Hulagu is going to grow up to be a handsome lad, Reyhan thought and smiled.

  When they got settled in the parlor of the palace, Princess Sorkhokhtani looked around the large enclosure designed in Persian style. Her gaze moved from tall columns covered in tiny tiles to the ceiling of colored glass from which a rainbow of colors, warmed by the sun, showered their hues upon the marble floor. Miniature drawings of Persian gardens and gilded pieces of calligraphy ornamented the walls. Despite the assortment of colors used in the décor, there was such harmony and congruence in the whole structure that the entire palace looked like one grand piece of art.

  Reyhan had added a few drops of rose water to her teapot and the scent filled the air as she offered a glass to Sorkhokhtani. Fresh dates with their pits removed and filled with bits of walnuts were placed on a golden tray. Tiny gold-rimmed glasses that easily fit in the palm of one hand, each supported by a small gold base with handle, served as teacups.

  Sorkhokhtani complimented Reyhan’s taste and said, “Some of your countrymen work for us now, including this historian by the name of Ata Malek Juvayni that I am sure you will get to meet.”

  “I have met him already and found him to be quite a learned man. I have even borrowed a book from him about Persian history.”

  Sorkhokhtani smiled approvingly at Reyhan, who seemed to have noticed the attentive gaze of her guest.

  “This palace is Ogodei’s gift to me,” Reyhan said.

  “He must love you very much,” Sorkhokhtani commented.

  Reyhan frowned. “There is a difference between a gift of love and a gesture of appeasement.”

  Geraniums of orange and pink color planted in clay pots stood near the large windows of the parlor, and a stream of sunlight warmed their petals as it illuminated the bowl of fruit set on an intricately carved wooden table. It made the grapes displayed in the bowl appear translucent. A bejeweled hookah, among the items looted by the Mongols, stood on a corner table.

  “Do you smoke that?” Sorkhokhtani asked.

  “Oh, no,” Reyhan replied with a laugh. “It serves as decoration for that dark corner of the parlor.”

  “Have you still retained your attachment to Persia, or do you consider yourself a Mongol Princess now?” was the shrewd mother’s next question.

  Reyhan, who seemed to be weighing her answer replied, “I must admit that I am still struggling with the notion,” and quickly added with a smile, “but I do love Mongol children.”

  Sorkhokhtani appreciated Reyhan’s honesty and integrity but realizing that their positive impression of one another could easily become sullied by this line of conversation, she expressed her admiration for all that Reyhan had done for Kadan and said, “My sons will live in your palace so that they can benefit from your instructions. It is my hope that each of my children learns a different foreign tongue. Hulagu will learn Persian and Ariq Boke, Turkish, for I know you are proficient in both languages. I would like Kublai to receive instructions from the Chinese masters as well. I want him to become a scholar in Confucianism, for the Great Khan wanted Kublai to rule Chinese territories one day, and I myself find the idea rather intriguing. My intention is that they become intelligent noblemen, rather than dim-witted warriors.”

  Being older than Reyhan and a Mongol gave Sorkhokhtani superiority to Reyhan according to the customs under which they lived. “I like the tranquility of this palace and hope to visit often, both to see the children and learn about their progress. I also see it as an opportunity to engage in conversation with such a learned lady.”

  Reyhan thanked Sorkhokhtani but kept her eyes on Hulagu for she seemed worried that the naughty boy would touch the hot pot of tea or knock over the tea glasses set on her table.

  Before leaving for Ogodei’s Palace, Sorkhokhtani asked Reyhan to spend a considerable amount of time each day with her children. She intimated her desire for them to become the next great Khans of the Mongols; for them to become literate, although she herself was not; for them to learn statesmanship and administrative skills that the other Mongols lacked. When Reyhan agreed to assume her duties as a tutor, Sorkhokhtani rejoiced in the idea, and with a warm smile and a kind countenance, conveyed to Reyhan that they could both set formalities aside and just be friends.

  Reyhan later met Jochi’s son, Batu, a handsome lad of sixteen with black hair and straight, slightly upward slanted eyebrows. He
had accompanied the boys. However, he said he would not stay in Karakorum for long. Neither would Mongke, the eldest son of Sorkhokhtani, who was a tall lad of fourteen. The two had arrived separately and were staying at Amgalan Palace. Ogodei had decided to put both Mongke and Batu through intensive training, readying them to take part in military expeditions. The educational plans for the younger children, however, were left mostly to Reyhan.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A Playmate and Teacher

  After Sorkhokhtani’s departure, educating the boys became Reyhan’s main occupation. She felt like a second mother to them, and although she found Kublai to be quite intelligent and Ariq Boke lovingly tame, her strongest attachment remained with Hulagu.

  Kublai received most of his instructions from Chinese scholars, but Reyhan advised him occasionally on rules of good governance. He must have taken after his mother, for he had a gentle nature and absorbed every word that she taught. However, it didn’t take long for Reyhan to realize that he craved food as much as he craved knowledge.

  Reyhan taught him the importance of adapting one’s ways to the culture of the land one ruled. “In honoring men of religion,” Reyhan said on one occasion, addressing Kublai alone although all three children were present, “one must distinguish between the pious and the hypocrites. The way to distinguish the two is by knowing that hypocrites are those who are greedy. Religion can be a great tool for those who crave worldly possessions. They will go to any length to present themselves as pious, when in fact they are wolves in the garb of sheep.”

  In such manner, Reyhan’s lessons to Kublai began with Hulagu and Ariq Boke playing with their wooden toys. Occasionally, Hulagu would look up in wonder at the terminology Reyhan was using. He would then mouth the complicated words jestingly to Ariq Boke to the loud giggles of his younger brother.