With the consummation of their marriage, Hulagu seemed for a time fulfilled, but Dounia was left in utter confusion, playing the role of a Mongol Princess and wife to Genghis Khan’s grandson without a sense of belonging. The only moments of respite came when she was riding her horse in the grasslands; the vast prairie surrounding their palace calling her to run away. It was like a living being, a creature of God. How foolish she had been to have left Wiktor, her true knight, cowed by her uncle’s command: By that one act, her destiny had formed in ways totally incomprehensible.
The almost always blue, cloudless Mongolian sky felt like a painted prison ceiling to her. She missed the fog of Europe, the misty weather, the mild temperatures, the grape-shaped flowers of the wisteria trees planted along the stone wall of her uncle’s castle. They were the envy of other European royals when they bloomed in spring. Most of all, she missed Zofia. Homesickness and the rough environment of the Steppes finally got the better of her, and she found herself utterly wretched.
It had barely been three months since the wedding ceremony that united Dounia and Hulagu when she burst into Reyhan’s Palace one afternoon, declaring openly, “Confound this life . . .”
Reyhan quickly looked around to see if there were any chambermaids present. When assured that there were none, she put a hand over Dounia’s mouth and urged her to come into her private chamber. Hulagu had left for the fronts, but if he learned of such an outburst, his own temper could flare.
“Such language,” Reyhan said, “could cost you your life.”
“I miss home,” Dounia uttered before she could stop herself. She told Reyhan of the chess games she used to play with her uncle on days without event—she had not even these at her disposal now. “I don’t dislike Hulagu. He has been kind to me. But now my existence is like the chessboard, and I feel like life has checkmated me. Whichever way I turn, there is a roadblock, an emotional trap, no answer. I can’t live like this Reyhan. How do you bear it? How can you act like nothing has happened? We are virtually enslaved by these Mongols.”
She walked toward the window to look outside, and then abruptly turned, adding, “The other day, I asked Hulagu to accompany him when he travels to Transoxiana to meet the local administrators there. He refused. My opinions don’t count, and my needs do not matter to him. I was too fearful to pursue the matter further, so I let it go.”
Reyhan sighed. “Living with the Mongols is like living on the edge of a cliff,” she said sympathetically. “One never knows when one will become the subject of their wrath. Patience and prudence are the keys to your survival. And isn’t that what life is all about, to face and overcome the challenges of this world?”
“I find the Mongol court insufferable,” Dounia uttered with frustration. “Their customs, their lifestyle, their language and their habits are all anomalies to me.”
“But what exactly do you propose we do? Their destructive forces have been unleashed upon mankind, and there is no escaping for anyone. Persia and Transoxiana are under Mongol control as are the Chinese territories of Jin and Song Dynasties. Life is not easy for the inhabitants of those lands, but at least here we are considered royals. We want for nothing.”
“I miss home, Reyhan, I miss my family. I cannot say that I resent Hulagu in any way, but the idea of living in the confines of Mongol palaces is an agony,” she pleaded.
“And what are you going to do about it?” Reyhan asked.
“I don’t know about you, but I plan to run away. Even nature is unbearable here. Storms rip through the skies, threatening the earth with bolts of lightning; that awful cold wind that blows once in a while freezes your bones, and hail pummels the lands. You saw how the lightning almost killed us when we went for a walk yesterday. And then there is the attitude of superiority of the female courtiers. They pass me by without acknowledging me as if I am inferior to them. I miss home.”
“The world is not the same as before. It is the domain of the Mongols. Their rule stretches across the civilized nations from Korea to Kiev,” Reyhan said.
“Hulagu has been kind and compassionate toward me, but he never is and never will be my soulmate. The best Hulagu could do for me is to treat me like a pet, like a dove kept for the sole entertainment of the master. I was left with no choice but to accept him and before him, Mstislav. Had I not accepted Mstislav and decided instead to marry my first suitor, Wiktor, my uncle would have disowned me.”
Dounia had throughout her young life upheld the Polish court view that commoners are commoners and royals are royals. But it had been different with Wiktor. Wiktor was a friend she had grown up and fallen in love with. He overlooked her shortcomings and ignored her tantrums when she could not deal with matters that contradicted her wishes. Now she had other vexations. The fact that Mongol courtiers considered themselves superior to her annoyed her, as did Hulagu’s constant engagements abroad, fighting one war or another.
Reyhan ordered tea and used soothing words, but Dounia still felt uneasy when she finally departed to return to her quarters. As she walked away from Reyhan’s Palace toward Hulagu’s, she stared at the nearly endless stretch of grassland and the distant hills before her. How it would have felt to run away to the wilderness where no one could find her, to live like the primitive people had lived, and to feed upon the fruits of the earth?
Although the night was soon to cast its dark shadow, she decided to take her horse for a ride. At dusk, Karakorum was almost picturesque. Dounia took note of the candles that were lit upon every alcove and recess in its stone walls. The streets were illuminated in a way that reminded her of Poland. The air was a bit cold, but she didn’t mind. The horses were agitated and kept neighing in distress, a sign that a storm was brewing. She ignored them as if in a trance and walked toward the barn that held her favorite mare, a palomino not unlike the Konik horses of Poland. Mounting it, she felt more powerful, more determined than ever to leave the Steppes.
Dounia still tried to calculate her days according to the Gregorian calendar. The Chinese calendar used by the Mongols, which associated animals with different years, continued to be alien to her. For Dounia, this was another day in September; she didn’t know exactly which one. The tall larch trees planted in Karakorum swayed right and left as the wind swept their branches in one direction or another. She recalled the earlier warning by Mongol shepherds that a violent windstorm was brewing, but she was too depressed to worry about it.
At the bend of the river, when Dounia’s mind was fully absorbed by the ever-flowing motion of the water, her horse stumbled on a small boulder and fell over, toppling its rider to the ground. She knew the moment she fell off the horse that the poor animal had broken a leg. The mare moaned gently and fell unconscious. Her own hair tangled in a thistle bush, one foot under the weight of the horse and her skirt caught in some thorny web, it took her a while to free herself and be able to stand up. She felt for the horse’s pulse; it was still alive. By the time she realized this, the cold winds had begun to blow so fiercely that forward movement became impossible. The cold combined with the fear of the peril she now faced, forced her to start thinking of a way out.
The high chorus of crickets began to grow louder and more ominous as the clouds became denser and darker. In due course, the night also placed its heavy lid of obscurity on the land, quelling all hopes of a rescue. With lagging steps, she threaded the prairie for a while, dazed by what happened. She rested her back against the bulky trunk of a nearby tree in utter misery and dropped to the ground in exhaustion, thinking that she would surely become prey to some wild animal.
Showers of hail began to beat against her body as the skies bombarded the earth with pebble-sized balls of ice. Heavy rainfall followed with its frozen droplets as cold as the earlier downpour. Before succumbing to the shock of the incident and the bone-chilling cold, she heard herself scream, shattering the silence of the night.
Chapter Ten
Black Leec
hes
Baako heard an unearthly cry from the gray plains beyond Karakorum.
“Ogul, wake up, we have to go.” Baako anxiously watched the Turkish man turn over in his sleep.
Ogul, the carpenter that the Mongols had brought with them from Anatolia, shared a small ger with Baako. A large piece of felt cloth kept their two chambers separated. In addition to a pillow and a blanket, they each had a mattress stuffed with sheep’s wool that they treasured. The ger was set up on the outskirts of Karakorum. The carpenter’s family still lived in Anatolia, and he sent them money with the caravans that headed that way, but he seldom talked about them, and never showed any signs that he actually missed them. He kept to himself most of the time and the two ger-mates rarely communicated with each other. On that fateful night, Ogul was deep in sleep.
“I can hear it again. Its a woman’s cry,” Baako said. “Grab a lantern.”
“It sounds like a wounded doe,” Ogul said, reluctant to rise up.
“It’s a woman. I am sure of it. Grab a lantern. We have to hurry before it’s too late and the wolves get to her first.”
After walking about two thousand paces, they located the injured horse, and not far from where the poor animal lay, they found the unconscious woman. By the time they brought her to Reyhan’s quarters, Dounia’s frail body was shaking uncontrollably.
“She must have been trying to escape,” Ogul said, “for no one would go for a ride at night in the midst of a storm.” They had woken up Reyhan and were all gathered in her parlor.
Reyhan gave Ogul a stern, meaningful look. “Not a word of this to anyone. Baako, you spread the news that Dounia has come down with consumption and will remain under my care.”
Although the Mongols had constructed a more sedentary station in Karakorum, their nomadic spirit still yearned for the cozy comfort of gers. Therefore, in addition to palatial structures that could house all, members of the Mongol nobility, including Sorkhokhtani, had their private gers.
Fearing that Dounia might speak of her desire to leave to Hulagu’s servants, Reyhan nursed Dounia in Sorkhokhtani’s ger. Sorkhokhtani was staying in Amgalan Palace and did not mind at all. Her ger held every bit of creature comfort a woman in those days desired. In addition to a large bed, it contained a Chinese black lacquered table with a mirror. On it stood a container of talcum powder and scented oils as well as kohl in a tiny silver jar that could be used as eyeliner. There were several combs and brushes, robes of silk to be worn over cotton nightgowns hung on a rope in a corner, and a number of soft fur-lined house shoes were placed right underneath.
The following evening, Reyhan found Dounia in a fit of high fever. She rushed to the clay pot of water they kept nearby with her handkerchief, soaked and placed it on the patient’s forehead. Dounia spoke incoherently of seeing silhouettes of horses galloping toward Europe, crushing everything under their hooves. She kept asking for her parents, her sister and for the people that she had left behind. Reyhan hugged her fever-stricken head, patting her wet hair that had turned the color of molten gold from excessive sweat. “My dear, my dear Dounia, you cannot leave us now.”
Fearful that her ward might not have long to live, Reyhan rushed out to a nearby ger, alerting the occupants and requesting the court physician. She then returned breathless to her nursing duties.
“It is consumption.” The Chinese physician who had hurried to the ger, still in his house robe, looked grim. “I only have one remedy to try.” He then reached for a jar of leeches in his timeworn medical bag. Dounia looked up at Reyhan with lusterless eyes while the latter stared with horror as the physician placed black leeches on Dounia’s pale skin.
With the nature of Dounia’s illness established, the physician left an herbal potion with Reyhan to bring both the patient’s fever down and allow her to sleep. As he had directed, she mixed the potion with hot water and allowed it to seep for several minutes, then poured the concoction into a glass teacup. The smell of medicinal herbs filled the ger.
Dounia kept tossing and turning every which way in her delirium, but once the fever subsided, Reyhan was able to put a spoon of the brew to her pale lips. Dounia took a sip and said it tasted bitter and sweet at the same time, and she had to force herself to swallow the medicine. Yet, her eyes that remained fixed on Reyhan’s concerned countenance showed her appreciation.
Dounia soon fell asleep, her head resting on soft pillows. Reyhan turned with a sigh to find Sorkhokhtani at the entry to the ger. “We need to speak,” she said. The two women stepped away from the ger and walked a few paces on the stone pathway that led to the Amgalan Palace.
“Dounia will die if she is not reunited with her relatives in Poland,” Reyhan said.
“Why do you say that?” Sorkhokhtani asked.
“Dounia’s constitution is not fit for this environment. Is there any way we can arrange for her safe return to her homeland?” Reyhan pleaded.
“But she is Hulagu’s wife,” Sorkhokhtani objected.
“She will be a wife to no one but the Angel of Death if her illness persists,” Reyhan replied. “They have captured the girl and brought her to this land, little heeding the fact that humans are perishable beings.”
“I am afraid no one can enter the European continent at this time,” Sorkhokhtani said with compassion in her eyes, “for the black plague has spread among the inhabitants. People are dying in droves. Her return to Europe would spell her death as well; no one is immune.”
Reyhan saw no other means but to personally go to the kitchen each day to supervise and ensure the quality and cleanliness of the food being prepared for the invalid. Herbs and vegetables had to be thoroughly washed and meats cooked for hours.
When Reyhan was not fussing about food and tea, she ordered Dounia’s cotton sheets and clothing to be frequently changed. She took time to braid Dounia’s golden tresses after Shura washed her hair. Reyhan’s loving care and tireless efforts were not in vain, for Dounia’s health began to improve within a fortnight. Her pale cheeks turned pink, and the old glimmer returned to her eyes.
Hulagu learned of his wife’s illness and subsequent recovery halfway through his journey back from the fronts. He ordered an assortment of teas from China, honey from Transoxiana, and pistachios and almonds from Persia to be brought to Karakorum via the Silk Road. Under Reyhan’s supervision, the almonds were then double peeled and laid in fresh jasmine flowers for days to absorb the magnificent aroma. Extracts of rosewater, fresh pistachios, and fragrant saffron were then added as ingredients to make dainty Persian cookies. A magnificent tea was thus prepared and carried to Dounia’s chamber.
On warmer days, Reyhan had a chair set up in the garden where she covered Dounia with blankets and told her stories from the “Book of Kings.” Before long Dounia was on horseback again, galloping as she used to do in nearby fields, riding her favorite mare whose leg had healed. With Dounia’s recovery, however, her longing for her homeland returned.
It was a beautiful afternoon in early spring. The fields were covered in an array of purple, blue and yellow wildflowers. Fresh grass had grown where the earth had been frozen before. The sun melted among chunks of clouds. On that morning Dounia sat on her bed, sipping her tea. Reyhan waited with her for Hulagu’s arrival from the fronts.
“I appreciate all you and Hulagu have done for me. Yet, I would be deceiving myself if I said my life had a purpose here. I am aware only of stagnancy.”
Reyhan remained silent, inwardly impressed at Dounia’s philosophizing after what she had been through. She only said, “I understand how you feel.”
“There are those of us who live and those of us who just wait.” Dounia complained, “Wait for opportunities. Wait for change. We go about our daily routines. We try to engage with others. We laugh when others laugh and cry when they do. But we are always waiting, never really living. Some like us are captives. Some enslaved in other ways; by their own souls
, by their own lack of confidence, and by their own fears.”
“Overcoming those fears and facing challenges is our lot as women,” Reyhan replied. And then finding this an opportune moment she added, “Running away or defying the Mongols will not help at this time. Chaka tried the same thing, and it cost her, her life.”
“Who is Chaka?” Dounia asked, her eyes brightening with curiosity.
“She was the first princess to be brought to the Mongol Court through an arranged marriage. She became Genghis’s advisor and remained devoted to him until he killed her with his dagger. One mistake on her part led to her death.”
“What was that mistake?’
“She maintained her ties to her family despite strict orders by Genghis not to do so.”
“How do you know all of this? Did you meet her?”
“There is a secret manuscript which is now in my possession. Chaka recorded the events of her time like a historian and kept it hidden from the Mongols.”
Dounia looked amazed. “Where is this record?”
“I have tried to continue that tradition; not even Sorkhokhtani is aware of this endeavor. The manuscript is to remain hidden until future generations discover it and learn from its lessons.”
“Can I see it?” Dounia asked.
“I am aging Dounia, and the hardships I have endured throughout the years have taken their toll on me. From the moment I stepped foot in Mongolia, I searched for a cause that would give meaning to my life. I did not want to spend my time with fruitless thoughts and reminiscences. When I came across this manuscript, I knew I had found that purpose, that mission. I entrust you with it, and I beg you to do your utmost in its safekeeping. The only person other than myself and now you who is aware of its existence is Baako. He was the one who brought information from the war fronts to me.”
The Sky Worshipers Page 21