Entry by Reyhan:
His Green Eyes
Alexandria, whose customers knew her by the name Shura, was a stout forty-year-old woman who had spent nearly half of her life focused on one thing, her family-owned eatery. The family consisted of herself and her aging husband who didn’t play much of a role in the main scheme of her life. Shura’s strong arms had carried dish-trays, polished the wide planks of wood that covered the floors, served customers, cooked food, and at times when no help had been available, her hardworking hands had chopped into pieces the freshly slaughtered carcasses of cows and pigs.
They lived in the Principality of Ryazan, near the Oka River. Close to the river, the land descended sharply, creating a protective barrier to the west of Ryazan. Walls were erected in all other directions with broken shards of colored glass inserted in the coping stone like blooming flowers. Brick towers placed at intervals allowed guards to monitor incursions by outsiders. The wooden buildings of the Principality resembled dollhouses, giving a particular charm to the land.
The eatery was located in a corner of the main street. It had gradually become the gathering place of the men in the neighborhood. Smoke from their pipes filled the barely-ventilated enclosure. When the cold wind blew upon the bleached blanket that covered the earth, a big pot of borscht would be boiling in Shura’s warm kitchen, smelling of freshly plucked root vegetables. Most of Shura’s customers were from among the smerdy, or the peasants. The Rus respected the smerdy as citizens and treated them as equals. Therefore, they would willingly lay down their lives for the protection of the principality.
Shura’s small but popular eatery, full of grease and smoke and the laughter of men, was cozy and warm and inviting. At no other time did her place seem more alluring, than in the early days of December. Large particles of snow came down, plucked from the sky like the feathers of ten thousand birds. It settled more than a foot deep on the land, making the roads impassable.
On that cold day in December, the snow had piled up on rooftops, and a thick layer of ice had brought the rippling movement of reflection pools to a halt. Icicles clung to windowsills like curious lads. Snow covered the eyelashes of pedestrians and the mustaches of working men. Water fountains had frozen amid their swirling dance. The cold air penetrated the skin, flesh, and bones of those who dared to leave their homes. But the hot belly of Shura’s samovar kept whistling indoors, as the cold wind did so outdoors.
Shura was busy searching the large pot of steaming borscht with her ladle, fishing out at least one piece of stew meat for each man while trying to keep her babushka on her large curly mane. The news of war had made her mundane life appear richer and more cherished now that they faced imminent peril.
Shura often wondered at her life; the fact that she had always lived among men with no women ever for company. Shura’s customers had gradually become like an extended family to her. In a sense, she had become a mother to them all. There was Alyosha the farmer, Yakov the zhaleika player, Dmitri the rancher and two men who worked for him, and there was Bronislav the philosopher who didn’t have much of an education but liked to philosophize a lot.
Thirty-year-old Alyosha complained loudly that the other principalities were not helping them, and that the Kievan Rus army commanders did not even give them proper weapons. “I’ve to fight the murder’us heathens with me scythe,” he said.
“Word is,” said Bronislav, “that the Mongolian warlord has written a letter to the Prince of Ryazan, demanding a tenth of the treasury and a portion of the citizens to enslave. The Prince has responded by sending a carefully worded diplomatic note, telling the barbarian to eat shi--,” laughter prevented him from finishing his sentence.
“The Mongols are out of their minds,” Yakov exclaimed. “Who would want to go to war in this cursed weather? Even the dog is curled up in a warm corner and not chasing the cat.”
“Tis ain’t happen’d that a foorin army atiks us in the dead o’ winter,” Dimity the old grave-digger interjected while keeping his head down and surveying the chunks of cabbage swirling in his borscht.
“No one dares to atik these parts in Dicembr, ‘cept o’ course those who seen worse cold and snow in their own lands,” a farmer with a gold tooth proclaimed from the other side of the thick wooden table, carved with the initials of bored customers.
“I have heard the ruffians have crossed the frozen Oka River to get here. How on earth did they do that?” Shura asked, pushing her knuckles into her back, relieved that she had served the last bowl of borscht. Shura’s palms were sweaty, and she felt a great sense of trepidation in her heart. They all knew Ryazan didn’t have what it took to take on a foreign army and had no way of convincing the other Rus principalities, particularly the powerful men in Kiev, to spare them and find others to fight this war.
“The Mongols skated,” Yakov replied, casually.
“Skated?” she almost shouted.
“A merchant friend of mine who travels a lot told me that the Mongolians are famous for scraping bones, rounding their edges and tying them to their shoes. They skate all winter long on the Onon River, and Oka is no different. They are currently almost at our doorsteps,” Yakov continued.
The rest of the meal was consumed quietly. Shura cleared the dishes, inwardly thanking God that they had no son to be sent to the war front. When she began pouring hot tea out of her oversized samovar, her husband whom everyone called Uncle Rodion—though he was no one’s uncle in particular—began to speak.
Much respected for being the owner of the best borscht place in town, despite the fact that he never lifted a finger to help around the place, Uncle Rodion lit his pipe pensively and said, “The Grand Prince of Kiev ordered the beheading of the Mongol envoy for he found his message extremely offensive. Now that Kiev itself is being threatened, he has decided to send a regiment to Ryazan to keep the enemies engaged here rather than allowing them a quick advance toward Kiev. He should have dispatched the entire army to confront the invaders if you ask me.”
“They cannot rely on locals like us with no military experience to ward off the devils until help arrives,” Bronislav said.
Uncle Rodion appeared to be measuring his words for he added encouragingly, “Of course I have no doubt that we can hold off the Mongols until then.”
The fact that he liked expressing his views but never helped in the kitchen had annoyed Shura in her younger days, but in her more mature age, his remarks had become her secret source of pleasure.
Dimity the grave-digger, who was assumed to be the most educated among the group when it came to death and dying, asked meditatively, “Do de ‘ave any idea of their numbeh? What if tay’re in the tousands?” As he said this, he carefully poured some of the contents of his glass of tea into its saucer and holding a sugar cube between his teeth, carried the small saucer to his lips with his fat fingers.
Uncle Rodion cleared his throat and answered, “An informant from the palace in Kiev was at our veche (the local assembly) meeting yesterday. He told us that the inhabitants of the Steppes in their entirety are no greater than the population of one small town in these parts. They are so scattered and divided that the locals should easily overcome them in no time at all. Plus, the palace has reassured us that enforcement is on its way.” He blew the smoke out, staring with his large green eyes at the ceiling.
“I wish they allowed women in the veche. I would have had a thing or two to say to that informant,” Shura said. Talk of war in recent days made her cling to the sweet memories of the past which floated away like sawdust. Shura reached for the wooden shelves on the wall and pretended to rearrange the ornamental objects displayed there. Among them was a Matryoshka doll, a relic of her childhood. She rubbed its shiny belly with her thumb. “We have no choice,” she thought, “we just have no choice.”
Several days passed before the well-armed forces from Kiev reached Ryazan. During those days of sporadic attacks by the
Mongols, a number of people in Ryazan lost their lives. The volunteer army, made up mostly of local farmers who unsuccessfully turned their farm equipment into weapons of war, was ill-prepared for combat. Having to fight knee deep in slush and snow, they were outwitted by the mounted enemy archers who attacked them with far-reaching arrows. Outnumbered and outsmarted by the Mongols, they did not last long, although they showed unprecedented bravery.
The search began with no hope of finding survivors. Many of the bodies were left supine, eyes open, as if mocking their foes in death. The gruesome task of identifying the dead had left Shura in a state of half-consciousness. How else could she roam in this field of doom, searching for those green eyes? At last, she found him, the smell of pipe still fresh on his stifled breath.
Rodion had not been much help around the eatery, but for her, he was a warm and kind companion and a source of comfort at the end of a long day. Shura tried not to think as she and the grave-digger, ironically being among the few men to survive the short-lived conflict, helped the remaining locals to carry and drop the dead, one by one into a small ravine, using it as one large grave.
Chapter Two
The Female Warrior
In the Mongol encampment, located in the outskirts of Ryazan, Batu Khan, son of Jochi, addressed the battalion commanders. He would not share strategic details with the rest of the warriors but spoke to the commanders of each unit of one thousand fighters.
“We wiped out the locals just by sending a rag-tag bunch of our lowest classes of combatants,” he announced. “However, the army from Kiev is soon to arrive. Again we will dispatch the same rag-tag bunch and even dress, in old Mongol costumes, some prisoners of war that we have brought with us. The confused enemy will likely attack them, thinking that they are Mongol warriors.” Laughter echoed in the large ger. “Victory in Kievan Rus will pave the way for our incursions into Europe,” he added, raising his voice.
Soon the Rus regiment from Kiev arrived, setting the stage for a major confrontation. Local men garbed in knee-length tops and colorful trousers stood in awe of the military personnel that had just arrived wearing full armor. Not far from where Batu had addressed his men, the Rus regiment with organized lines prepared for battle. An elderly man in a pointed cap and an embroidered cassock, who looked like a priest among the crowd, welcomed the cavalrymen from Kiev.
The defending army confronted the invaders in a field outside of Ryazan. The few locals who had survived the earlier onslaught stayed behind the impressive-looking Rus officers who held elaborately-designed shields shaped like teardrops. The locals felt more like spectators, admiring the scene. One man spoke out loud saying, “Who can overcome such a graceful display of Rus military grandeur? The Mongols are nothing but a bunch of poorly clad barbarians, their numbers barely reaching one hundred in all. The invaders look defeated already.” Those around him nodded in agreement.
The emblem on the yellow flags of Kievan Rus moved with the wind and the metal shields and body armor of the well-equipped Rus fighters, as well as the ornate barding on their horses, reflected the light of the sun. To the defenders of Ryazan, the Mongols appeared terrified, for they fled as soon as the first organized line of Rus cavalrymen advanced. The Mongols even left some military gear and a few unmanned horses on the battlefield.
The heavy snowfall of the previous night had turned the familiar terrain into an alien landscape. In their retreat, the rag-tag unit of Mongols galloped toward nearby hills, crossing the frozen heath with the ease of those riding through fresh green grass. Unsheathing glistening swords, the Kievan Rus regiment charged forward triumphantly, tasting the sweet sensation of victory as they sprinted toward the higher elevations. When they finally caught up with the fleeing Mongols, they realized to their horror that they had merely rushed into a trap set by the invaders.
Atop nearby hills, initially invisible, a superior army fresh and ready for battle awaited the exhausted Rus fighters who had wasted their breath chasing the smaller Mongol unit. The Mongol army stationed on hilltops looked quite different from the small wild-looking unit dispatched earlier to the front to mislead them. These warriors numbering in the thousands had fur-lined leather attire embellished with gold, a match for the heavy armor of Rus cavalrymen.
One hundred Mongol standard-bearers mounted on horses began a fantastic show of flag-waving, as their drum beaters commenced a rhythmic call for death. The Rus were stunned by the grandeur; the harmony and the order among the so-called barbarians. Well-rested, proficient and determined, the invaders began their onslaught.
The Mongol archers took position as the first among enemy ranks to initiate the battle. Stationed strategically above ground, they could target their enemies with ease. With every Mongol drumbeat, a larger number of Rus fighters fell.
One Rus officer braved the arrows raining down on him to reach a Mongol warrior on horseback who had shown great alacrity in combat. When he came close, the helmet of the warrior who had moved quickly to avoid being targeted fell, exposing the long black braids of a woman. Shocked at what he was witnessing, the Rus officer hesitated for a moment or two, giving the female warrior the chance to shoot her arrow first.
“Charge,” the Rus Commander shouted, as he saw the officer fall. Reluctantly at first and then with great zeal, they began ferociously attacking the Mongols who were descending upon them in a dark avalanche. With their backs to the Oka River, the Rus fighters had no venue for retreat. The field turned into a slaughterhouse.
Kievan Rus, like many parts of the world in those days, anticipated a Mongol invasion, but never one of such devastating magnitude. Snow turned to slush and slush mixed with blood, leaving the earth a crimson color. The horse-mounted aristocrats of Kievan Rus, watching their men perish against the Mongols’ relentless attacks, attempted to flee the scene. Their heavy armor prevented a speedy flight, and they soon succumbed to their agile foes.
Chapter Three
Poland
1240 C.E.
There are moments in early spring when the clouds above reach out to the earth like a translucent fog, enrich the air with moisture in blissful ecstasy, and give the world the glad tiding that renewal is near. At such moments, even those harboring the greatest pains in their hearts over a recent calamity would feel the weight of despair being lifted off their shoulders if only they step outdoors.
For Princess Krisztina, blessed with more good fortunes than she could count, the sense of renewal felt almost unbearable. She had never had so much joy in her entire life; her veins pulsed with exhilaration as if she was about to burst out of the shell that formed her body. Lounging upon a settee in a room with a balcony facing the garden in the royal castle of Silesia, Krisztina at seventeen believed she had the demeanor and beauty that could make any fairytale come to life.
Still wearing the silk gown she had worn during the welcome ceremony for the Grand Duke of Kiev’s cousin, she got up and walked toward the balcony to take in the fresh air. Krisztina was the niece of Henry II known as Henry the Pious, the High Duke of Poland and Silesia. The Duke’s brother had died some years ago, leaving Krisztina and her younger sister, Zofia, under his care.
Krisztina playfully twirled on her toes, reaching for the skies with her arms. The hem of her long pink dress swirled around her feet. A gentle spring zephyr, full of nothing but goodness embraced her. She inhaled the soft breeze and smiled. Her fingers combed away unruly strands at both temples. Even the horses sounded rather cheerful to her ears. She could hear them whinnying, as they carried away the tired guests of the castle, most importantly the cousin of the Grand Duke of Kiev, one Mstislav.
The birdlike sound of a whistle had lured her away from the reception to the balcony overlooking the garden. Agile as a dove, she tiptoed her way to the edge and peered over the balcony. The garden was lit by a bright moon that night. She looked around to see where he was hiding this time. “He,” was Wiktor, the son of the castle woo
dworker who had grown to be an officer in the army but with little prospect of advancement.
Wiktor, now eighteen, had lived with his family on the castle grounds and had been a playmate of Krisztina since childhood. One sunny day last Michaelmas, he had told her that he loved her as they stood gazing through the window of an apothecary shop after their morning stroll. Her positive reaction to his declaration had surprised him, but she had been expecting it.
Krisztina recalled the scene, one of many encounters, when they had felt as one soul in two bodies. Both being too young and inexperienced, they had allowed rumors to follow them wherever they went.
As children, they had roamed freely on the rolling grasslands that surrounded the main castle. Their childish admiration of one another was seen as training for Krisztina, for thus she would grow to appreciate those beneath her. But years had passed, and they never outgrew one another. Quite the contrary, their attachment rose beyond their own expectations, as they experienced the prime of youth together. They were repeatedly forbidden by her uncle from meeting again, threatened at times and admonished at others. Yet, they disobeyed. When the royals engaged in entertaining dignitaries or meeting with public officials, Krisztina would sneak out of the castle to find Wiktor in the yard by the wisteria trees.
Leaves of a nearby branch covered Wiktor’s face in the highest boughs of a tree where he had perched, waiting for Krisztina. The air had become chilly. As soon as he saw her, he tried to pull himself closer to the balcony, but before reaching for the balusters, he slipped and fell with a thud on the moist soil. Krisztina’s golden locks got in the way as she bent down to reach for him. It was a futile gesture, for there was no way to save him from the fall. Laughter surged through her lungs as she struggled to swallow the overpowering sensation, fearing that someone might hear her. The look of satisfaction on her face must have annoyed Wiktor who looked embarrassed.
The Sky Worshipers Page 17