Bridge Across the Land

by Yvonne Wang

  At the shore of the Sajo River, Hungary is an agitated battlefield. The day’s light is swimming behind faint clouds like gold fish behind a dark veil, orange rays appear vaguely. In front of the stone castle, the Hungary King Béla IV leads his remaining soldiers and generals to retreat into defeat, mad and panicking as if on fire. His gray hair on the temples drips with perspiration. He peers over at the several tens of thousands of Mongolian soldiers behind them; attacking en masse and rushing like tigers, they are all-powerful as they charge and holler furiously.

  The Hungarian military horses are like black shuttles, noisily squeezing each other in an attempt to escape. They enter the castle in large throngs, smashing the bridge in the midst of constant roaring. The large Mongolian army releases their reins and speed forward like mad; bold and mighty like irritated waves that move closer and closer as arrows are released from their ready bows.

  That stone castle’s narrow steeple and wide abdomen have thick boulders as bricks. It is mighty and solid in the color of gray. The drawbridge creaks and rises while the remaining Hungarian soldiers crawl, slide, jump and fight to be swallowed by the castle door. The rains of arrows are swift and sharp. Those who are hanging on to the edge of the bridge with their body in midair finally fall into the moat that guards the castle. The machine to the ropes turns hurry. The suspension bridge gradually rises, so by the time the Mongols arrive at the mouth of the castle, the bridge is a barricade.

  Béla leads the generals along the way, whipping their horses so that they can quickly put away their reins in the stomach of the castle. His armor is heavy and his breathing hurry; his eyes are tired and he slips off the horse. Then a subordinate in consternation comes to inquire, “Your Highness, how did the battle go? What do we do next?”

  “Cunning Mongols—roll into hell!” Béla takes off his helmet and throws it on the ground while clangs of drumming on metal sheets sound; he says hatefully, “We were about to win, but who knew that behind them thirty thousand soldiers in ambush came out! . . . . Guard the castle door well, release arrows from the rampart, do not let them invade their way in for sure!”

  “Yes!”

  The Mongolian great army stops before the stone castle. The Commander-in-Chief Batu steers his horse majestically. His lukewarm eyes survey the surroundings. He gestures with his hand to a rider next to him. The envoy soldiers immediately take off running on their horses, raising selected flags they exclaim to the mass of tens of thousands, “Mount crossbows—catapault—attack the city—” The colors of the flags bright and their sounds echo and ripple.

  So the heroic legions change battle formations and work in teams. They unload mechanisms from their horsebacks and assemble them skillfully. In the blink of an eye, one hundred mounted crossbows and one hundred cannons appear out of thin air. They push and pull to move them into place, evidently pointing at the castle.

  “Ready—fire!” The commanding flag whirl and whoosh against the wind. Swiftly, the cannon shafts stand on their ends, the rocks in the leather pouch are thrown fiercely and consecutively, booming and flying. They smash the stone castle so earth shakes and mud slings from seven feet and down. The mounted crossbows are filled and as the bowstrings are flicked, thousands of arrows are released in a row; a dense rain of ferocious arrows.

  The bows of the Hungarian marksmen on the rampart cannot shoot as far. And as long as they show their head, they are shot in the heart with a rain of arrows, living corpses fall bloodily from the castle wall. The tower falters and the windows to the stone castle shatter; a chaos of people and soldiers.

  “Ready—Fire!” The commanding flag waves again, shaking and shiny against the wind. All of a sudden, the invading soldiers release their hands, throwing ferociously. Bombs and oil jars fly, whizzing by and crashing into the city; they explode with a bang and flames soar into the clouds. The mounted crossbows synchronize as their triggers are clicked, instantaneously releasing ignited arrowheads forcefully, inflaming anywhere that they fall. A mass of shrieking inside the castle occurs as Hungarian marksmen all retreat inside. Thousands are on a blind rampage, fearful of fire and frightened of the Devil.

  “Ready—Fire!” The flag waves again in the air, dancing and circling to the rules. Suddenly a hundred cannons move across, exchanging spots. They carry gas bombs that are released simultaneously with force. Thrown fiercely into the castle, they ruthlessly fall to the ground; the choking smoke strangles lives.

  Batu sits on his saddle satisfied, stroking his mustache and waiting for victory. Shortly, he sees a lone rider from the north, riding and leaping fast. It gradually closes-in. He can tell that that’s Baidar’s messenger with an object at hand as he crosses the battlefield.

  That man drops to ground in front of Batu’s horse, half kneeling and head buried. He lifts his cloth bag high and says, “Commander-in-Chief, the right wing of the army is completely victorious in Poland. The enemies all died in the war. This is the head of Henry II. The General is now leading his battalion southward to meet with the Commander-in-Chief to add to the aid!

  Batu’s mouth curves slightly upward while he nods to say, “Great! Baidar did well indeed.” He orders someone to take over the skull, lifting up the cloth to look. He sees Duke Silesia’s features horrified, red eyes filled with grievance. The Commander-in-Chief acknowledges it then sees the stone castle on fire, flames scorching the sky. He smiles at the soldiers beneath the horse, saying, “Lad, you came at just the right time. You may witness Mongols defeat over Hungary!”

  Inside the castle, pieces of the walls are missing and the pathway collapses; poisonous flames seem to be mixed with evil while people swarm like ants. King Béla is surrounded by the royal guards and cannot advance or retreat, move to the right or left. Suddenly, someone screams, “There is an opening in the west! Someone escaped!”

  The news spread and soldiers and generals pass in a surge. Béla also rushes to the west of the castle and sees a small opening in the corner of the castle door. Scanning the prairie outside through the door, it is a view of green fields. The Mongols on the east did not seem to dispatch any infantry to guard. In short order, waves of people fight to escape first. Béla and his bodyguards also leap on their horses and go through the door, quickly withdrawing from the castle.

  Not too far out, however, his eyes open wide with horror and fright and his entire body goes soft—on the two sides of the stone castle suddenly appear two units of Mongolian light riders in ambush, speeding like lightning and rolling like the sea. Their moves are agile and fast as they follow the chaotic and haphazard Hungarians in two wide parallel lanes, circling them to form an alley of death. They pace back and forth, shooting constantly with their bows at hand, knitting a dense rain of arrows . . . . at once the sky dims, blood forms a river.

  Together with Baidar’s envoy, Batu lets his stallion stroll over so he may study the scene and monitor the battle. He teases pleasantly, “See, they came out.”

  April 1241 A.D., the battle of Mohi ended. Sixty-thousand in the Hungarian army died at war. King Béla escaped south to the Adriatic Sea under the protection of the royal guards. Hungary is lost.

  The dusk is clear and the stars are faint, the eastern brume is a white haze. An oppressive gray pervades the wilds while a mass of fog washes the mountains. The valleys and wall cliffs create a wide gulf. Rocky peaks soar high on two sides, blocks of coarse boulders stack up in layers. Looking up at the forest above and the bushes and moss below, there is a river on the top of the valley that falls straight down like silver ribbon; upon meeting cliffs, it creates flying waterfalls. Water from heaven splashes onto the ground, crystal flowers disperse and flow away following the ravine, rippling continuously. The bottom of the valley is a wide beach with granulated pebbles, clammy waves and sticky drips. The muddy paths on the north side nourish grass, two horses stand sleeping there. The south end is a river extension that alternates back and forth along the c
liffs.

  Beneath the narrow waterfall are stacks of boulders that create a stone cave. The water curtain half blocks the cave opening. Tianyin in his thin white shirt sits on the ground alone. His one leg is bent horizontally while the other bent vertically. He consults the scenery quietly. Angela uses a parcel for a pillow, sleeping inside the cave.

  Tianyin looks up and sees that the sky is ashy and dull, it is just about the time when day and night exchange places. The morning halo is smeared wide but the stars and the moon are still present; paradoxically together shine. His elongated eyes, depressed and lonesome, look to the left and check. The view consists of a clear and ringing waterfall and a cool fog that brushes the face. Tianyin extends his palm to catch it. The heavy flow smacks his hand, snowy and refreshing as it rushes nonstop through his fingers.

  Uncle He . . . . if you were here, would you still believe Angela? And in the end would she choose to save her real father Ögedei? She is just Dad’s stepdaughter but . . . . aren’t I just a stepson? The most important thing for people is to take care of themselves so that people around them are at peace. . . . A weak country must be defeated; the powerful one is king . . . .

  Every time Wonbayer’s words echo in his head, he feels a chill up his spine, as if he is floating above a deep well, not knowing where to place his feet. Kyrigu, Uncle He and himself, have they really become the chess pieces in the attempt to save Song? Can people not be imprisoned by heritage?

  Also, people around him . . . .

  Angela wakes up blurry-eyed in a drowsy state after a nap and sees no one around other than a black robe spilling over like a lotus petal on a lone rock. She sits up slowly, her blue and dark brown eyes glittering. There she finds a solitary shadow, Tianyin with his back to her. His black hair drapes over him and his clothes are loosely tied. His hand touches the fall and he retracts tardily. The hazy light outside the cave creates a silhouette of frustration and hardship.

  Angela moves slowly. Crouching down right behind him, she holds her breath and hesitates. The girl leers over his shoulder and sees a string of Mongolian words on the mudflat, the vertical writing is new and the strokes are as thick as fingers.

  “The day is about to light, it is time to go to sleep.” Tianyin observes the sky, then turns his head to glance at her, abruptly pulling her out of her thoughts.

  Angela locks her eyes on his profiled eye and asked softly, “What . . . . does that mean?”

  Tianyin casts his eyes toward the ground, his large palm sweeps the Mongolian words, then he says briefly, “Nothing much.”

  The two do not speak. The young woman drops her head and sits on her knees, frowning and grieving, she lowers her voice to say, “I want . . . . to ask . . . . you something . . . .”

  “Go ahead.” Tianyin’s ebony eyes look to the distance. The messes of uneven rocks on the opposite hill wall are decorated with fern.

  “When we get to the city of Chenghai . . . . after we separate . . . . you are going to assassinate Great Khan of Mongolia . . . . then—” Angela immediately raise her glance with worry and says sadly, “You will die, is it?”

  “Um.” He grunts indifferently.

  “Is there no other means?” Angela is anxious and leans herself against the ground to ask sincerely, then sits back down sorrowfully, speaking slowly, “If you poison him, you have time to escape.”

  Tianyin’s pitchy eyes sweep back, his neck is affixed halfway and he faintly says, “Ögedei has the best physicians there. I cannot poison him . . . . I can only be relieved after he swallows his last breath.” His dark eyelashes blink languidly and scan around, voice as lonely as a magnet, “When I get to Chenghai, I will give you the horse and money and you can go south and return to Song. Go open up a clinic, or an herb shop, pass on Dad’s Medical Cases.”

  Angela’s eyes lose their color and she gets melancholy and remains silent. After a long time, she gasps to say, “Do you . . . . have to die?”

  Tianyin removes his glance from the narrow waterfall and says forlornly but kindly, “My death is but as light as feather; to exchange it for Ögedei’s life and cause internal chaos in Mongolia . . . it worth it.”

  “No, not as light as feather!” Angela argues emotionally, jaws shivering and head shaking. One hand on his shoulder, she says with tender pain, “You die and the royal family of Great Song loses its only offspring by blood forever . . . . and besides . . . . besides, I will also be . . . . also . . . .”

  Angela sees Tianyin turn from his waist and face her directly. She does not dare to focus directly at him for the time being; she only feels her cheeks warm and her heartbeat race. “Also . . . .”

  She wants to say something but swallows it, finally giving up what she really wants to say. After a few short breaths, she disconsolately and hurtfully utters, “Be very sad . . . .”

  Tianyin is silent hearing those words. Ink seems to glisten in his dark eyes as he focused on the young woman for a prolonged period of time. He turns away again to face the waterfall which is like a jade curtain. He lets the soft hand on his shoulder fall and says glumly, “There is nothing to be dismal about.” He pauses, swallowing and inhaling, “. . . . Like Uncle He says, everyone has to die, it is just a matter of time.”

  “But . . . .” Angela cheerlessly watches the shoulders and back of the person in the white shirt. Angela’s breathless voice is intermittent while she argues grievously, “When Uncle He passed away . . . . were you not also . . . . very sad?”

  “I was not sad.” Tianyin responds stiffly; his words crisp and fast. His iron face beholds the waterfall upward. After a delay he says, “Once we are on this path we have to prepare to sacrifice ourselves; this is a road that he had to travel.” Finished, he suddenly props himself up, turns and kneels halfway down and gets ready to return to the cave then lie down. He says coldly, “There is no use thinking about things in the past, we still have a ways to go. Rest, we head out in the afternoon.”

  He hardens his face and moves his knees, unexpectedly—Angela presses his wrist. The young woman’s firm eyes are moist and glistening, her fingers clutch him tight and she stares hard into his eyes. She trembles and says bitterly, “Stop pretending . . . .”

  Tianyin feels a pang to his heart and looks at her watery eyes, he kneels there frozen.

  “Since passing that brook, you have been pretending the whole time . . . .” Angela’s throat is sore and dry, her eyes wet and red as if wanting to see through him. Pain and resentment are written all over her face. She slowly switches her hand in clutching his wrist. Her right finger on his pulse and she lowers her eyes with sorrowful brows. While diagnosing, she is slightly severe. Choked up, she says, “Depression blocks energy flow and sadness invades the heart—keep suppressing it and you will hurt yourself . . . .”

  Finished, those stubborn blue and black eyes force a determined and sincere look at him. Tianyin attends to her and suddenly, a dam in his heart seems to have broken, warmth and pain intersecting. The layers of sorrow in his dark eyes gradually lose their determination, flashing blades melt into a gentleness, vaguely revealing hurt. He slowly kneels to sit and barely breathing, casting his clear and rolling eyes down; he rapidly yanks his hand back and focuses elsewhere.

  Angela is slightly stunned that her hand is all of a sudden empty. Heartsick, she again sees suffering in those well-like eyes. Her throat shivering, she encourages him, “If you want to cry . . . . then let it all out . . . .”

  Tianyin returns the gaze; thin lips slightly parted and brows sad, all at once he gazes into that pair of double-colored watery eyes. He sees the sincerity as she lifts her eyes, red eyes with tears. With the volume of a mosquito she says, ‘I know . . . .”

  He feels a painful shame that moves him deeply. His bones light and he feels his insides exposed; warmth and cool seize him simultaneously. He watches her, speechless. His ebony eyes depressed and so
re; his heart aches. His chest is barely taking in breath as he stiffens his entire body.

  Angela sits facing him and sees the red marks still on his wrist and an unbearable despondency on his handsome face. Struggling and desperate, he is frosty from head to toe. She cannot help but pity him, regarding him with endearment while her heart is in pain.

  What is this feeling? A powerful love.

  Perhaps the amount of time the two of them will be together in this lifetime is just this brief.

  She beams for a long time with her teary eyes, suddenly her emotions burst forth and she grabs that cool body, hugging him deeply with both of her arms. She leans on his shoulder and sticks close to his chest. She wishes that she could transmit all her warmth to him, as long as he feels better . . . . she also hates the fact that she cannot possess this body for herself so that he stays by her side forever.

  Tianyin . . . .

  Crystal tears drip onto his plain shirt. Her white fingers stroke the patterns in the clothes and she sobs miserably. Before her, his dark hair fall over his neck, black locks and tan skin; his scent and breath are all so familiar in such proximity. Angela weeps and selfishly—secretly pecks him on the lower neck.

  Suddenly, she only feels Tianyin holds her tight too. There is warmth behind her ear and his soft lips peck her lightly. Angela is dumbfounded, the lake of her heart is forthwith overwhelmed with lapping waves and her cheeks are burning hot. The two part slowly and their noses only inches apart; they can hear each other’s breath. But she only sees Tianyin’s eyes deep like sunshine, revealing all suppressed emotions. Both of his hands still linger on her shoulders; his eyes seem tempted but he is reserved and sympathetic.

  “Didn’t you want me to cry . . . .” He looks over dolorously and whispers kindly. His fingers wiping away the young woman’s tears, he says quietly, “How come you are crying . . . .”