Dounia began to notice a series of slight changes that increasingly became impossible for her to bear. Ladies of the court would not show their disapproval outright, but instead paid no attention to her. Their expressions were not blunt enough for one to realize the reason for their disapproval or how it could be rectified, leaving their victim out of balance at all times. What troubled her most was their lack of reaction; ignoring her as she addressed them; the tilt of the head, the eyes that rolled in another direction and delicate gestures like a barely noticeable mouth grimace. Such attitudes worked as daggers that destroyed her character and social standing.
Dounia knew of detractors among them, but she also understood that confronting them would be of no avail, for she would only end up hurting her reputation further. The very people that she considered inferior and looked down upon, she now longed to befriend. But even Shura avoided her company, although for an entirely different reason. The birth of the stillborn child affected her deeply, giving her nightmares, and Dounia was a constant reminder of that tragedy.
With the scourge of loneliness being combined with dejection, the spider of unhealthy thoughts began to chew away at Dounia’s mind. A different kind of fire from the one burning in the hearth began to simmer within her, a slow-burning fire that consumed her soul. A pain no longer acute, but mild and malignant, progressively devoured her livelihood.
Lack of human interaction began to take its effect. Her mind started to play tricks on her. She feared the shadows on the walls when the maids lit the candles at night. Her nights were restless, her days dreary. The slightest sound alarmed her, and a sense of foreboding constantly haunted her. Images of devastation in her homeland became vivid before her eyes, images of death and destruction everywhere.
Days began to lay heavy on her mind, and it took hours for minutes to pass. Seasons became excruciatingly long. Spring brought with it reminders of the happy days that no longer existed. In the summer, she felt dreadfully lonely. Fall lacked the colorful leaves and the intoxicating scents she used to enjoy in her homeland, like the scent of potpourri and birch wood burning in the fireplace. By winter she knew her soul could no longer endure it.
The final blow did not come in a subtle form. She was not invited to the Annual Feast, an important occasion that in the past would have meant being cast out by the tribe. And although she did not anticipate such a dramatic outcome, Dounia was deeply hurt. She felt abandoned by the world, like the sole survivor of a shipwreck washed off on an empty shore, carried by a giant wave to utter desolation; an orphan with no hope of being restored to her family.
That evening an idea began to take shape in her mind.
Twilight brought with it an unbearable sense of loneliness. A profound sense of despair overtook her. It felt as if her burden of sorrows became heavier by the minute; love, laughter, and happiness washed out of her life in the torrential rains of gloom. She felt defeated. How could she overcome so many calamities; a husband who never returned from the war, a friend who perished in despair, and a child stillborn were just too much for her to shoulder.
That night when spring appeared years away, she wrapped a knitted shawl around her thin frame and filled the pockets of her dress with stones; a dress once covered in embroidered red blossoms that now looked faded like dirty flakes of snow.
She walked aimlessly and hopelessly toward the very river by which she had contemplated escape many years ago. Walking on the embankment, she stared with lifeless eyes at the rhythmic flow of water. Tranquility had left her life long ago, and in its stead, constant rapture and turbulence in a harsh environment had taken hold of her. Sweet childhood memories rolled before her eyes, the voice of her mother singing lullabies in her ears, her father reading her a bedtime story. She remembered her uncle who most probably was dead by now as were her other family members. War and pestilence left little hope in the hearts of those who witnessed Europe’s deteriorating circumstances from afar.
She waited till the moon rose, casting its light like a lasso around the neck of the river. Dark was the night, dark as the soul of an unremorseful criminal. She could see her image in the water, and it looked shattered like an image reflected in a broken mirror. She felt powerless as the strong hands of fate crumbled the story of her life to toss it among the burnt ashes of history. She would be forgotten as if she never existed. The air felt cold, and she felt colder inside, shuddering when she thought of all that she had lost. She had come from afar, from the land of springtime daffodils, summertime orchards, colorful harvests of autumn and snowy winters. How she had withered away in this harsh environment. The stones she had filled her pockets with, weighed down her gown.
Dounia stared at the moonlight’s broken traces upon the black waters of the river. She had an urge to join it, to drown herself in its cold embrace, for her body to disappear within its black folds and for life to be drained out of her by its breathless waves. And thus, to free herself from pain, from the chains that held her still to Mongol lands. She sat by the bank of the river, allowing the soles of her feet to touch the surface of the water.
Droplets of rain began to fall, mixing with her tears. She lifted her face toward the dark sky and closed her eyes, allowing the cold drizzle to wash her face. It had a numbing effect on her and the longer she remained in that position, the more hopeful she became that the rain would put out the burning fire within her. She placed her hands on the cold slabs of stone that formed the embankment. There she felt the delicate foliage of a sprouting seedling that had broken through the rough surface.
Dounia lifted herself off the embankment with what little energy she retained, determined to survive. If a seedling could do it, so could she. Her chamber that she had earlier deserted with disgust, she saw as a caravansary, a temporary place to stay till she got her thoughts together. Determination and the yearning to survive gave her a new surge of energy. She wrote a letter to Kublai Khan begging him to allow her to return to Poland now that her husband no longer lived.
Kublai Khan agreed, and arrangements were made for her safe journey. Although when she returned to her homeland, she could hardly recognize Poland, so much destruction had taken place. The castle of her uncle lay in ruin. Through an old guard who still lived on the premises, she sought information about Wiktor. He informed her that her uncle was killed in the Battle of Legnica, and every member of the royal family had also perished. But Wiktor, her once dear Wiktor, was alive, injured in battle, broken in spirit with a missing leg.
She left her suitcases with the guard and ran toward the small cottage where he still lived. He was temperamental and lived like a hermit. But Krisztina brought with her memories of far better days. Wiktor liked her new name and kept calling her My Dounia.
They married without ceremony, and she nursed and cared for him until the day he died. It had been a decade of dedicated, dutiful commitment by Dounia, and she was grateful for the chance. Dounia continued to live in her country of birth for a few years after Wiktor’s death, receiving a government stipend as a former member of the royal family. She did visit Karakorum one last time, and there she added a note about the wars and about herself to the manuscript she had shared with Reyhan and Chaka. She then hid the writings behind the stone slab.
Last entry by Krisztina:
I am writing the final segment of this manuscript on a visit in my old age to Karakorum. I had to visit it one last time before my days in this world ended. My palace looks abandoned, and no curious eyes watched me as I removed the manuscript hidden beneath a slab of stone. Well, the truth is that I have so many memories in this place. There are only a few chambers that are still usable in my palace, and I am actually sitting in my old bedroom as I write this.
My return to Europe, I can describe as mostly uneventful and rather depressing, considering that I had lost most of my family members. I did meet Wiktor, however, as broken as we both had become, and we agreed to live together in the suburbs of Sile
sia. He had never married and had always retained the hope that I would one day return to him. Our shared memories of the past kept us entertained while he was alive. He had lost a leg in the war and appreciated my caring presence near him in his old age.
The Mongol wars eventually took an unanticipated turn. After Kublai’s army was defeated in 1260 by the Egyptian Mamluk, the second severe blow to the Mongols came a decade later when a storm at sea sank the Mongol flotilla near the coast of Japan. Wave upon wave crashed their ships, and the Mongol armada sank to the bottom of the sea in what the Japanese attributed to Divine Vengeance. I must add that the Mongol rule, however, brought with it unprecedented exchanges among civilizations. Europe is undergoing a transformation not seen in a long time. Greater compassion is being shown toward people of other faiths, and greater opportunities will be given to women. Exposure to other civilizations has had its impact. I end this writing in hopes that one day someone, maybe a woman in my own situation, will discover this manuscript and act upon it.
Book IV
The Mirror
Chapter One
The Hakeem
1398 C.E. (100 Years Later)
In Samarkand, the capital of King Shahrokh, son of Tamerlane, summer had settled down as if intending to stay for a long time. The sun’s warmth crept under the earth’s skin. Its iridescent footprint pirouetted on the grassy meadows surrounding the castle grounds, and the velvet green earth cover sparkled in its rays. Ponds looked like desert mirages as light reflected off their surfaces. Colors of flowers and clothing alike had come to life. Eyes were cast down though, and at times a parasol, a book, or a mere hand protected the eyes of passersby from the glare.
The old street beggar, panhandling with the meticulous promptness of a bank clerk, being there each day at the same spot from dawn to dusk, smiled cheerfully, jeopardizing his trade, for only by looking sad he could gain a coin or two from sympathetic bystanders. The birds sang their gratitude for the glorious morning, ululating. Two tomcats that had been fighting all night over a female feline dosed off like old friends next to each other on a street corner.
The fortification that formed the body of the castle built by Tamerlane prior to his departure from this world and ascension to power of his son, Shahrokh, stretched to the skies like a mountain. A sloping track of steps encircled it with numerous minarets topped with golden domes serving as guard posts for the sentries. The warm weather had enticed the flowering trees planted along this cascading mansion to bloom before their time.
Rays of the sun like divine bliss nourished the spirit of earth-dwellers below. Smiles grew spontaneously upon lips. Joy was inevitable on such a beautiful day. But the sun’s glow did not reach the dark chamber of the queen who was quite unhappy.
After returning from Karakorum, she had the manuscript they found there translated. For several days now she had been reading the writings of Chaka, Reyhan, and Krisztina. The brutalities committed by the Mongols made her feel as if her limbs could no longer carry her frail body. Listless, she dragged herself to bed. All the carnages she read about in the hand-written manuscript were now her inheritance through a dynasty into which she had married, her name drenched in the bloodshed of the Mongols. Days of restlessness and nights of feverish hallucinations ensued when she finished reading the manuscript.
Members of the court, as well as King Shahrokh, who had just returned from a journey to the coastal towns of the Persian Gulf, became alarmed. Her utterances were heard at times by chambermaids who related them to the king.
“She calls herself a hypocrite,” an older maid reported.
“She cries all night,” said another, “even in her sleep that looks more like a fainting spell.”
“She barely eats,” a young maid said shyly, encouraged by the words of the other two. “Sometimes I do not see her eat a morsel for two days in a row. She looks so frail.”
Of course, that fact was so ostensible that few had failed to notice.
“Shall I send for the Hakeem?” the first one asked.
“Yes. I am afraid that will be necessary,” the king replied.
The Hakeem’s apothecary shop stood in the farthest corner of the Grand Bazaar of Samarkand, now an old structure that still retained some of the charms of its early days. The evening was fast approaching, and the Hakeem had to hurry before the bazaar closed. He measured some powders to make a healing concoction for a patient and looked up to find a woman of no more than five and twenty staring at him pleadingly.
“What ails you, Madam?” he asked.
“It is not me who is ill, but one of the finest ladies ever borne in this land,” she replied.
“Who are you speaking of?”
The woman brought her head slightly closer to the Hakeem. Holding her pink floral chador in a way that no one could read her lips even from a distance, she whispered, “Her Majesty, the queen.”
The Hakeem, whose profession extended beyond that of running an apothecary shop and included functioning as a physician, shrugged his shoulders. “I have never treated members of the royalty before,” he said. “You might want to seek the help of a physician more proficient than I.”
“There are none, sir, or I would not have come hither. People speak of miracles that you have performed and dying patients that you have saved,” the girl said, demurely.
“Well, one should never rely on rumors. There is hardly ever anything truthful in them.”
“I beseech you, honorable physician, for I have nowhere else to go. You see,” she lowered her voice even further, “my lady’s ailment is not of the kind that affects the body. It is her spirit and mind that is ailing.”
The Hakeem’s curiosity piqued. He set aside his spectacles as if the aid they provided to his vision impeded his hearing, and listened with greater attention to the girl’s comments.
“Before reading this manuscript that the royals found in the ruins of Karakorum, she used to be as happy as a nightingale sitting upon a rosebush,” the pretty girl who had introduced herself somewhere in the middle of her conversation as Raana, lady-in-waiting to the queen, added, “but now my lady is melancholy all the time. She cries for no reason at all. Her husband, the king, is a loving man and cares for her like no other. He is concerned that she might die of sadness.”
“Why is it that he has sent you rather than one of his guards or an advisor?” the physician asked.
“I am my lady’s trusted chambermaid, and His Majesty has found it necessary to keep this entire matter secret. I beseech you to visit my lady and use all your proficiency to find her a cure.”
“Does she realize she is ill?” he asked.
“I am afraid not, sir. She just asks to be left alone, shedding tears over this manuscript. Day in and day out she reads its pages and cries.”
“Do you know what is written in it?”
“She told me it was written by women who lived during the reign of Genghis Khan and his progeny and chronicled the wars.”
“Well, the matter could be quite distressing to her.”
“It is more than that, sir. The manuscript has triggered something within her. It is that she feels guilty for all that was done; not only of the massacre of so many people by the Mongols but what her own father-in-law, Tamerlane, as the last Mongol conqueror committed, cutting down large populations in order to expand his territories.”
“Well, Tamerlane took pride in the fact that he was a Mongol ruler although many dispute that claim.” The Hakeem said, and added as if thinking out loud, “He was one of the most brutal conquerors ever to rule this land.”
The girl glanced over her shoulder to her right and to her left and said, “I beg of you, sir, not to use such language in reference to the late king.”
“Well, nothing that happened was the queen’s . . . Lady Goharshad’s fault,” the Hakeem said.
“Yes, but my lady has taken it all u
pon herself. She has confided in me that she feels as if the guilt of all that others had done is now firmly placed on her frail shoulders. She has lost her appetite. She barely eats anything and stays up most of the night.”
“I shall see what I can do. When shall I see her?”
“Directly sir! Pray, follow me.”
The Hakeem put away the last ingredient of his concoction and packed his instruments of healing, then followed the girl to the castle.
“My dear daughter,” the physician, being a sagacious man, kept stressing as he followed the girl through the length of the bazaar, in an attempt to convey to the shoppers and passersby that his intentions were entirely paternal toward that beautiful creature. For those who knew him and had never seen him walk with a young woman before would otherwise get the wrong idea.
They walked out of the bazaar together, but no carriage or guards waited to take them to the castle.
“We shall walk, sir, if you don’t mind. It is less conspicuous this way,” Raana said, apologetically.
Unused to exertions even as mild as walking, the stout Hakeem was quite out of breath by the time they reached the gates of the castle, two thousand paces from the bazaar. The girl then led him to the queen’s chamber.
“You do not seem impressed by the majesty of the castle,” the girl said.
“These marble floors, the ornate walls, and the fantastic ceiling make me wonder about the impact this ornamented cage has on the soul of a young woman. Does the empress ever travel . . . outside of this city?” he asked.
“Yes sir, my lady travels quite a bit . . . with her husband,” Raana replied and left as soon as the physician was let into the chamber of the queen.
In the middle of a chamber lit by a candelabrum, stood the empress dressed in such a deep shade of ultramarine that the beholder wondered if a piece of the night sky had fallen to cloak her. Embroideries in gold mimicked the tiara she had upon her head. A veil of fine violet silk cloth covered her dark tresses, except for a few strands that had curled unintended onto her forehead. Her long lashes accentuated a face that appeared cut out of pure white marble. Black eyebrows shaded deep brown irises too large for her delicate features, making her look both beautiful and majestic.
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