Bridge Across the Land

by Yvonne Wang

  The captive who revealed military secrets to Father the other day now dons Mongolian attire. Those unacquainted eyes are sharp as he raises his chest high and says, “Poland’s fugitive, the Mongol have now saved you today. Our Commander-in-Chief says to let you go back to camp with us. You can help to build fires and clean up. We will not mistreat you.”

  Batu waves his hand and a soldier walks over, delivering a sheet of oily bread to Alexander’s nose, the fragrance entices and causes salivation. The prince chokes with upset seeing the object; he holds back the shooting resentment and his jaws twitch with shame. He then throws a glance at Valentin and says firmly, “You know who I am. I would rather die . . . . than to undergo this kind of humiliation.”

  Worry overflows the other person’s eyes. He leans forward and sneaks a peak at Batu, then changing his voice so that it is tender all of a sudden, he whispers and encourages, “Prince Your Highness, I do not have time to explain this to you now. First take this piece of bread and agree to return to camp and save your noble life first. Otherwise, Batu will kill you on the spot, with what will you save Poland?”

  His words flit and his eyes transmit countless meanings. He then returns to his proud stance of an erect body holding on to one wrist and pretends to be severe and orders, “Hurry up and eat!”

  Alexander is dumbfounded. He looks at the oily pancake; his lips quiver but he cannot decide. Distress seizes his heart, his nose turns red and his eyes are overflowing with moisture. Anthony sees his sorrow and kneels before him and rush to say, “Let me eat it . . . .”

  However, the Mongolian soldier only tears off one-half of it for Anthony and forces the other half before Alexander. Batu impatiently mutters blame. Valentin goes up to relieve him with an explanation. The prince hears the foreign language and sees the crisp yellow cake. He is pumping in breaths with ears ring and face pale.

  Finally, His Highness lowers his head in shame and takes the oily pancake with his dirty hands; he stuffs it into his mouth all at once, swallowing and chewing like mad. As it gets caught in the throat, he chokes and coughs—at the same time a strand of tears slide down his cheeks and fall on the ground.

  On a hill in the Russian prairies, three horses swing their tails and overlook the remnants of one row of village. The burnt yellow roots are reflected in the clouds, earth is parched and bricks are singed. Houses have toppled and walls are missing parts. Smoked carcasses splay horizontally or hang all about a field of macabre silence; an air of decay and death pervade. The crazy grass grows wild in the unattended pasture, surrounding this lone ruin.

  Angela and Kyrigu ride one horse and proceed behind others. She clasps her fist at her chest and glances to the right and left; each step is a horror scene that shocks, such as rotten corpses with maggots crawling out of eye sockets. Through the broken windows, wind unfolds a stench. Tianyin, who is in the lead, suddenly kicks some shattered containers and the clang frightens her into a cold sweat. Hesig sees her and rushes his horse forward to be by her side. He turns his head and says, “This village underwent slaughter by the Mongols. There is much more along the way.”

  Angela nods and her blue and dark brown eyes turn disconsolately, looking to Tianyin. All of them followed this Mongolian army to Poland from Southern Kievan Rus’. She wonders if he was among the perpetrators of this massacre.

  As Tianyin walks along he scans the residences and combs everything with his sooty eyes. He is careful and stern. All of a sudden, he stops the horse and turns back to speak in Mongolian, “There are some useful things here still, let me and Kyrigu get them.”

  “Oh.” Kyrigu responds quickly. He stuffs the rein into Angela’s hands. With knee tendons as bouncy as springs, he facilely hops off and follows Tianyin into the door. Stepping over corpses, they begin to search around the house for goods. The young woman only feels the air of his shirt brushes her hair on the side and the person behind her has already fled. Panicked, she hugs the harness but does not know how to steer the horse; As she is at a loss, a large and strong hand reaches over, grabbing the rein and leading the two horses so they stand side by side. “Come, we will stand here. They went to pick up some stuff.”

  Hesig helps her control the horse so that it clops to its place, then gathers in Tianyin’s horse too. Finally Angela relaxes and straightens her back, sitting alongside the old man.

  Hesig takes in the full view of the wounded walls as his snowy beard bristles. Looking at the back of Tianyin in the distance, he sighs. He pivots his head and warns, “Do not be alone with Tianyin in the next few days, understand? We are getting close to Volga River . . . he probably still wants to eliminate you.”

  The young woman with her brows frozen in place does not respond. She twists the mane and keeps her eyes on the horse ears, suppressing her worries and sadness, utterly timid. Hesig thinks he may have scared the little girl and immediately changes his tune; pleasant and smiling, he chuckles, “Ha, ha, don’t be nervous. As long as you are with me you will be okay. No problem. I am considered half an adoptive father and half a master to him, he will not refuse me.”

  Angela’s longish eyelashes blink pessimistically; her watery eyes are without sparkle. She somberly turns her head to look at him, speaking words of truth, “You cannot defeat him.”

  “Uh . . . . ha ha . . .” Hesig laughs out of embarrassment, “True, but, I can at least block him . . . .” He inhales and holds his breath, comforting further, “Tianyin—he is not a bad person. It’s just that he is not willing to believe that you are his sister yet. Someday he will know. Now he is deceiving himself and others because he is afraid that he cannot do what is needed at the critical juncture in time.”

  The old man consoles and smiles, gazing with eyes alert, “Actually from what I can tell, his other self in him already acknowledges you. Otherwise he would not have stopped because of my one slap that other night.”

  Angela is concerned while feeling lost. She peeks at the battered house. Tianyin’s tall figure looms between the walls and she could not help but feel a sweet intoxication and happiness arise in her heart. But in a flash, she returns to feeling grilled with melancholy and being bombarded with a flurry of worries. Yes, he will know someday . . . at the outpost of Volga River; if they were to encounter Mongolian guards there should she call for help or not? She cannot bear to disappoint Hesig and does not want to hurt Kyrigu and Tianyin. But if she were to miss this opportunity, in the end she would probably be killed . . . .

  She thought it over and cannot decide, she heaves a sigh of grief. Seeing the horse shake its ears, she shakes her head and spoke out of pity, “What is the use of having secretly accepted me—even if he believes it, he can still do it.” Here thoughts are steady and analytical while her eyes reveal ample pain.

  “Ha ha . . . .” the old man strokes the horse’s head lovingly and teases laughingly, “He is born with that stinking face, rejecting others as if he is heartless. Don’t judge too soon. After a while, you will know that he is definitely not like this by nature.”

  The little girl does not believe him and continues to worry, “Just reassurances . . . . I can tell that he is somebody who will not soften his heart.”

  “Sigh, you do not understand. The reason that he wraps himself up in ice is because he roamed about alone and was frequently bullied by Mongolian children. He had to be fierce to survive. He does not believe anybody—in the end he is left with this joyless and vicious temper. But when it is time, he is different.” Hesig smiles with his wrinkly skin, describing and explaining, “I am not deducing based on nothing. When I first reached Mongolia and met him for the first time. He was just over ten. A group of kids called him a chink and beat him altogether. He actually won in the end with a little martial arts skill and pressed the son of a noble family on the ground, beating him up. Unfortunately the adults of that family came out and raised a horsewhip to thrash him. I did not know that he was Brother
Hanyuan’s son then. I only saw how the child was thinly-clad and bleeding, quite sad; so I went up to prevent the adults of that family . . . .”

  Angela never imagined that Tianyin has this bit of history. Her moist eyes stare and she temporarily place her skepticism aside, surprised and empathetic at what she hears.

  The old man bents over and leans to the side and further says, “Later those adults and kids all left. I wanted to pick him up, guess what he said? Ha, he threw off my hand and yelled at me, telling me to stop pretending to be kind while he got up and ran away. Wouldn’t you say that he is hateful? Later I discovered that he did not have a place to live so he curled up every night next to some yurt or slept inside a horse stable. Soon enough, the wound from the whip on his back became inflamed. I passed by one day and discovered that he passed out in the stable from a fever, so I brought him to get treated. When he woke up, he was actually sensible. He only said that he will pay me for the cost of the housing and medicine; he stayed put and did not run away again. When he finally believed that I really meant no harm, he stopped being so stubborn in front of me. But to other people, he is still like a porcupine . . . .”

  Hesig flattens the mane and laughs, persuading, “So one day, he will change with you too. Believe me, no one understands him better than I do. If you still do not believe what I say, you must have seen that whip wound on his back?”

  “Um.” The scene of cleaning his wound on the shore of the river surfaces again. The old wound spanned his backside. As Angela recalls and thinks more, her fear gradually eases. Kyrigu and Hesig all say that Tianyin is icy on the outside and warm on the inside. Perhaps . . . . this is true. She hopes in the end that he will spare her life. She glances again at that large man in black. Thinking of his past, she cannot help but feel bursts of pity. Thinking back at what they have in common and knowing his difficult past, she only feels that ring of unfamiliarity disappear and the warmth lights up her heart.

  “Hey—” Suddenly, Kyrigu rushes back enthusiastically, his shirt tail carries a few eggs. He shows them to Hesig, head high and pupils bright, he says, “Look, look! I found five eggs!”

  “Oh, great, that’s great.” Hesig compliments him with his joyous eyes. He flips to dismount, admiring and analyzing each as if squeezing pearls, “This kind of thing is hard to bring along, that’s why the Mongols left them. Perfect presents for us.”

  “Yeah. And I have never had any. Big Brother Tianyin said for you to think of a way to cook them since there is not a lack of logs for fire here. Otherwise they break easily if we take them with us.” The young man’s crisp voice is round and smart as he communicates. He hands each egg to the old man then runs off happily and in reverse, waving, “I am going again!”

  “Yeah, don’t worry.” Hesig giggles, seeing him off with kind eyes.

  Kyrigu rushes back to the collapsed ruin fifty paces away. This house is mostly destroyed, the rooms are split asunder and the roof is missing, the wall is only shoulder high and things are spread about. Scary skeletons are outside the door while sitting corpses inside the house stare wildly. He steps through the broken door and clicks his tongue as he checks. He sees Tianyin has his back to him and is scraping some white powder on a platform into a jar. Kyrigu sticks his head that way and asks curiously, “I gave the eggs to him—what is this?”

  “Salt.” Brief and succinct. No more detail.

  The young man pouts and stands to one side, “Oh.” He braces his arms and looks again, examining all the rotten skeletons on the ground. He sighs, “Gee, I wonder what we will be like . . . . after we die, will we like them?”

  Tianyin is expressionless. He shoves that jar of salt into Kyrigu’s hand, “Do not bother with what is after death.” His short boots stride away like wind. He sees a lone female cadaver in the corner and prostrated over a metal box. He kicks her aside viciously, opening the box and searching with his eyes.

  Kyrigu is stunned when he cradles the jar, then he realizes that he is to pick up the fallen salt. The dilapidated house is left with only the sound of scraping.

  After an extended period of silence, Kyrigu clever eyes turn into ones with worry. His white teeth biting his lips, he cautiously inquires, “Big Brother Tianyin, I hear Hesig say . . . . little princess is your younger sister?” He sees the iceberg magnificent and harsh, staring back with his iron face, Kyrigu cannot help but be regretful and nervous, he quickly droops his head and adds, “I am saying . . . . didn’t we capture the wrong person . . . .”

  “Ha,” Tianyin steps onto the box in a lunge. With one hand holding the lid, his voice is as frozen over as snow, “She may be able to deceive Hesig, but she cannot deceive me.”

  The young man half believes and is half suspicious, he extends his neck and looks at his serious face. With a wry smile he says, “That’s true too, ha . . . . whether you share the same blood or not you should be able to feel it best.” He set the salt aside and ponders, “Then . . . . she really is Ögedei Khan’s daughter? Could she be someone else?”

  The metal box bangs shut, frightening Kyrigu and makes him jump. Tianyin’s mood turns glacial and his face becomes rigorous and frigid. He holds a hooded cloak that he fished out, slapping off the dust and says unhappily, “At the latest after the city of Chenghai, she will have to die and never see us again. What is the use of knowing who she is?”

  Finished, he turns and reaches the door, throwing down these words, “Move faster, we have to get on the road.”

  “Oh.” Kyrigu is surprised at his cool viciousness and decisiveness, sticking out his tongue lightly. All his sadness and troubles are relieved and he is relaxed. He sees how heavy the large cloak is, seemingly useless, so he wonders, “Why are you taking that?”

  “It’s chilly at night.” Tianyin holds the cape tight, austere and tense in the face; he walks away, each step large.

  “. . . . Huh?” Kyrigu stands with his mouth agape and dumbfounded; he is at a loss looking at the back of him. The only person afraid of the cold at night is the little princess—at once he did not know to laugh or cry. Feeling bad and laughing awkwardly, he forces himself to shut up and only gasp and sigh soundlessly.

  Southeast of Poland, the eastern shore of the San River. It is the latter half of the afternoon, the sun sets to the side, the riverside is muddy and the grass is green. Lacson and Wonbayer lead two hundred light riders across turbulent waves, continuing to chase beyond the other side of the river. The massive squad arrives quickly while the wind whips their eardrums. Suddenly they meet a fork in the road and the two of them have to restrain their horses and slow down.

  They see trees as sparse as islands. The mud path is like a water channel that curves and divides into two. Their widths are similar, the ends of them cannot be seen. At the fork in the north is a pool of ash and deadwood, the remains of the logs collapse into concentric circles pointing into the center. This should be an abandoned fire. Lacson’s mustache, as fine as an eyebrow, decorates his lips. He points to it with the handle of his whip, “Ha, look, Tianyin and others must have gone that way.”

  Wonbayer shakes his head and intentionally resists, “No, whenever Tianyin encounters a fork in the road, he will leave marks to deceive soldiers chasing after them. Since he left the fire on the north side, he must have headed south.”

  “Hey,” Lacson fumes. He turns around to peruse his bodyguards, pressing on the mane and leaning back, he says, “I am thinking this is no longer the path you walked together? How can you be sure?”

  “If I don’t know the route, General would not have sent me.” Wonbayer’s words are like flying beads; he glims stubbornly at Lacson.

  “You wanted to be a Centurion so bad you had to come?” Lacson looks askance and deviously.

  At that time, a gray hawk flies across the sky, extending its feathered wings in flight. The brown shadow in the blue sky elegantly heads for the northern skies. Lacson
’s eyes light up and says cheerfully, “The heroic eagle is pointing the way, see? That is instructions from the Eternal Heaven! We will chase northward.”

  Wonbayer is angry at how stupid and small-minded Lacson is, so he says, “I am very clear that they head south. Go ahead yourself if you want to chase after the eagle!”

  “Wonbayer, you don’t even take serious instructions from the Eternal Heaven and you claim that you want to be a Mongolian warrior?” Lacson sneers; his rudeness prickly and sharp, “General must have read you wrong . . . . then I will go after the eagle and you head south. Let’s see who catches Tianyin first.” He pulls his rein and rides away. One hundred light riders follow him and proceeds smoothly up the road north.

  The corner of Wonbayer’s mouth tightens and his thick brows furrow into a knot. He leads the rest of the soldiers southward. The army splits into two upstream; the sounds of the hooves roar as they cut into the ocean of forests from two directions.

  In a while, both sides gradually grow apart and trees block each other’s line of vision. Lacson waves to indicate stop. His bean-like eyes burn with a torch and his lips hide pleasure. He swirls around while sitting on his saddle, ordering his subordinates, “Change paths, follow him stealthily—I want to see if he really is sincerely interested in serving Mongolia.”

  The light has shortened and dusk is red, fog hovers mountain ranges in the west and earth reflects the yellow sky. The yurts’ fan-like shadows are cast on the ground while Mongolian horses chew on wild grass. Batu’s huge military camp occupies a circular piece of land. There are numerous battalions and rows of soldiers walk in neat lines; their combat power is more than sufficient.

  Rubbing its skin against the direction of its hair growth, the horse evades and whines in pain. The Mongol before Alexander is as huge as a tower and his copper muscles are thick and powerful. He takes a look and curses angrily; with one kick, he knocks Alexander down to the ground. The bucket splashes and overturns. The prince’s shirt and pants are half soaked and his horse brush leaves his hand. His lower jaw hits the ground and his arms and back swell with pain. Startled as he witnesses the giant, Alexander massages the injured muscles and timidly crawls over to pick up the horse brush. He bears the tears and shoulders the humiliation, fetching water after falling and crashing.