Temujin remembered her powerful wind horse from their first meeting, her psychic pull, and as she had aged it had obviously grown exponentially. She had overwhelmed and filled him in every way, and she continued to do so. He knew that she was special, and over the years, with the help of his ancient ancestors—his Helghul-brain—whispering to him constantly, he had come to understand that she was Theron. He sent his energy out to greet her and, like a desperate thirst finally quenched, he drank her in and realized that he had missed her and that he longed for her. Somehow, in her presence he felt whole and balanced.
“I hope your eyes are bright and clear, and your songs are strong and true.” Temujin said respectfully, presenting her with the thick sable fur that he had been holding.
Borte was startled, having assumed that the gift was for her father, and she took the luxurious prize gratefully in her hands. It was the loveliest thing that she had ever felt or seen, and she wrapped it around herself, expressing her simple gratitude as she held it out to her family so that they could feel its softness. It was an extravagant and valuable token, and she was honored.
“You will have many beautiful things when I am a great khan,” Temujin said matter-of-factly, immensely pleased by her obvious pleasure at his offering.
“I am grateful,” she said, searching his face and meeting his eyes. “I need only to live a simple life and to be of use to others, if it pleases the gods,” she added.
Temujin’s chemistry exploded as their eyes met, and his entire body boiled under her gaze. Every hair follicle and cell was electrified and tingling. Borte also stirred; she felt the air of something she didn’t understand swirling like wind around them.
“I have asked great Tengri and Mother Earth for many years to bring me back here,” Temujin explained, as he was ushered in to sit. He took his place of honor on the floor, surrounded by warm furs and carefully woven carpets and blankets.
He reluctantly shared the story of his family’s downfall, starting with the assassination of his father Yesugei Khan but leaving out the most gruesome and murderous details of their life abandoned on the plains. He explained that he now led a tribe of his own, comprising his siblings and their families and others from the old clan that had been glad to join him. He said he had come to honor his promise to Borte and to the gods, if she would still have him. He intentionally mentioned the spirits with a reverent nod to heaven and earth and to the ancestral vessel that sat before him, subtly manipulating her to accept him.
His Helghul-brain was in full motion; it whirred and ticked calculatingly. She belonged with him. He would harness her energy and use it to his benefit. He would use it to lure and control others. She would bear him sons who would become great warriors and generals, and together they would rise up and, as intended, they would unfold the map of their destinies together.
Upon listening to his tale, and surrounded by the expectation of her family, Borte felt absolutely bound to honor her accord with Temujin. It never occurred to her to do otherwise. She was profoundly spiritual and had been brought up to respect commitments and family. She had grown up praying many times a day over her work, her home, and her food. She followed their customs carefully to ensure the best of luck. She thanked Mother Earth for the berries that she collected, she thanked the great birch spirits for the branches she would burn, she sent blessings to the animals that gave their lives to feed and clothe them. She felt absolutely certain that it would please the gods to accept Temujin. She was drawn to him and, in his presence, felt a familiarity and connection that was well beyond their affiliation.
There was no reason to wait. They had waited long enough. The lush oranges and reds of autumn would soon be replaced by the frigid whites and grays of winter. Though Temujin was nearly a stranger to her, Borte prepared to leave her family and join his clan.
Within days the couple were married with ritual offerings. Borte heard the bells, smelled the smoke, and saw the glowing fire that sealed their sacred path onward as one. Still, a nagging, unexplained feeling of angst took seed inside her and tugged at her heart.
Borte took her place as Temujin’s wife, and the couple set off to join his tribe. After three days of being jostled on horseback and diverted by tales of his grand plans for the future, they arrived in his camp.
Temujin’s mother, Hoelun, was the first to greet her, and Borte was quiet and composed, as a daughter-in-law should be. She graciously accepted her gifts and well wishes, and Temujin watched proudly as her glow washed over his people. He was certain they all felt the mysterious attraction and euphoria that sprang from her, and he was aware that his once notoriously beautiful mother was resentful. He would have to watch her carefully. He knew that, if permitted, she would make life difficult for his new wife.
The settlement was larger than Borte had anticipated. There were ten gers in all and a good assortment of sheep, goats, and yaks, all herded in for the night to protect them from wolves and other predators. She remained quiet, however, unable to shake the sadness that she felt at leaving her family. Despite her melancholy, her beauty was unparalleled, and curious clan members offered gifts and congratulations to please their chief and to get a glimpse of her.
Temujin’s ger was near the outer, northern tip of the nomad camp. He had welcomed Borte to her new home, and she settled into the eastern quarter, making it her own.
On the first morning, Borte took her place among the other village women. Her duties included: collecting berries, roots, and fuel; curing and drying skins; and preparing the daily meal. The terracotta grasses blew in waves as a warmly bundled Borte helped to tend the sheep that were being led out to graze. They had been gated tightly together in their pen of birch branches to preserve their body heat through the cold night, and they sang to her a myriad of pleased and annoyed bleats as they enjoyed the thawed water she offered them.
Borte scanned the horizon and took in the beauty of the snowcapped mountains, purple and blue around her and farther in the distance. There were stories about the great mountains, legends of a magical mythical place hidden within and the extraordinary people who resided there.
Temujin had not touched her since their marriage, but he spoke clearly of his plans to build their family and extend his clan. She knew that it was only a matter of time until he would come to her in the night as a husband, and she was both nervous and curious. She had heard whispers of what it meant, old ladies crudely poking and pinching, but she didn’t know what to expect. She knew that sometimes her father had joined with her mother, and that it seemed to make them both happy and sleep well. She knew that it was the way that babies were implanted if the gods wished it, and she longed for a child of her own to adore. Her mother had briefly warned her that it might hurt and that there might be blood as there was on her moon cycle, but she had smiled and soothed her when Borte had become concerned.
On their fourth night in the ger, Temujin announced that the first snowfall would soon come and before then he would leave on a hunt. It was on that night that he first took his husband-place beside Borte. She heard him moving and breathing in the dim light, and he silently lay down next to her. He was not rough—he moved carefully and said nothing as he slowly peeled away the layers of her clothing and exposed her naked body.
She was soft and round and more enticing than he had imagined. He studied the curves of her breasts in the firelight and her cold, erect nipples fascinated him. His rough, calloused hands explored her, and she sucked in her breath as he moved his hand from one hip bone to the other. Gooseflesh erupted over her body.
At the sound of her gasp, his arousal heightened and his breath quickened in response. He ran his hand from her hips to between her thighs, and he felt a warm place there—a soft, wooly patch that guided his way.
Borte realized how rigidly she was holding herself and she tried to relax under his hand, swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat. Her thighs opened slightly and he sought the deeper, warmer place within her. Her eyes remained tightl
y closed. He was not harsh or rushed, but after a few minutes of discovery and temptation he shed his lower coverings and moved overtop of her. She didn’t see his naked flesh but she felt it, hard and urgent, pushing against her. She felt confused and slightly nauseated.
Temujin, now on top of her, breathed loudly in her ear, flesh to flesh. She let herself be maneuvered as he opened her legs to him. He entered her, more urgently now, and she let out an involuntary cry of pain. She felt a warm trickle as her hymen was ruptured, and she was uncertain what to do and was afraid to move. The pain did not last long, and Temujin quickly became more rigid between her thighs and then, grunting, he arched and rolled away. He was done and Borte had a new understanding of the business of men and women.
Borte covered herself and rolled over to sleep, crying silently in the darkness, though she was not sure why. She felt embarrassed by the wet stickiness between her legs and, for the first time in her life, felt disconnected from her own body. Temujin was unable to sleep and, having heard her weeping, he restlessly resisted the desire to mount her again for the remainder of the night.
Temujin, armored with a thick leather vest, sword, and bow, departed the next day, assuring Borte that he would soon return. He looked at his beautiful wife, her eyes now following him curiously, studying his rugged young face more openly as he prepared to leave. He felt a twinge of pride that she belonged to him, and his manhood stirred in response. He adjusted himself, mounted his horse, and was gone, leading the hunters already gathered on the plain. Borte watched him go and then returned to the ongon22 at the north side of the ger. She asked the spirits to bless her with a child and, wrapping herself against the cold, she began her daily chores.
Hoelun watched them from the ger she shared with her daughter, having been displaced by the arrival of her son’s new bride. She saw how Temujin looked lustily at Borte, and she recognized the blush of a new wife. She had no generous thoughts and whispered no blessings for her son’s wife’s fertility.
Temujin had been gone two days, and Borte was busy collecting late blueberries to dry for winter. She had followed the other clanswomen on the long walk from the sheltered mountain location of the winter camp to an abundant field. The temperature and winds were still fair, and Borte was happy to be free of the mountain’s shadowy protection and enjoying the warm sun of the open plains. The women whispered all around her, and the young children approached her shyly, giggling and retreating as she playfully smiled and waved to them.
Despite the fact that Borte and Hoelun were originally from the same small tribe, the envious older woman did not draw her in as she should have done, and the others hesitated to act. They were afraid to raise the infamous ire of their matriarch. Borte was patient with them and worked stoically, though she felt sad and alone. She found herself looking forward to Temujin’s imminent return.
The blueberry field was abundant and worth the walk, and the women filled sack after sack with the sweet fruit. They ate while they happily worked, rushing to get back before twilight descended. The horizon was violet blue, and for every inch the sun lowered in the sky the temperature dropped significantly. The few remaining summer birds feasted on the bountiful fields as they prepared to migrate, far from the cold and hunger of the punishing northern winter. Borte drank in their song and likened their chirps to the laughter and peals of the purple berry–smudged children around her. Hunched down in front of an abundant bush, expertly plucking and storing without damaging the tender fruit, Borte did not notice the multiple dots on the landscape as they approached.
The other women began to call out and gather together, herding their children, as a horde of more than fifty unknown riders neared. Borte rose, scanning the fields in alarm.
“Merkits,” Hoelun announced fearfully, as the men made their final approach.
The Mongols and the Merkits were not allies, but they were not at war. Borte fell in line behind Hoelun and the others. Though the visitors were unexpected, the women only watched, more curious than afraid. The riders came to a stop at the edge of the blueberry patch.
“Which of you is the wife of Chief Temujin?” the lead rider questioned roughly, his leather face scowling involuntarily as he spoke. He was a stern, weathered man of vaguely familiar dress and colors.
The Mongol mothers drew their children in closer to them and the smallest cried out to run free, too young to know fear. Borte was distressed and did not answer the armed warrior. The heads of the other women immediately turned toward her, and they eyed the recent arrival suspiciously.
“She is,” Hoelun said haughtily, stepping aside and gesturing her left arm toward her new daughter-in-law.
Borte was stung by the woman’s indifference. Her black hair whipped against her face as the sun continued to make its descent in the sky and the winds picked up once more. She adjusted her fur cap more snuggly around her cheeks and silently waited for an explanation.
The village women decided it was wise to put as much distance between themselves and Borte as possible and they backed away, abandoning her completely. There was nothing they could do and besides, she was a newcomer, not one of their own, and she would not be missed.
Borte didn’t have time to shift before the lead Merkit made his move. Without a word the center rider reached out and, with a broad and easy sweep, lifted her by her coat. She screamed and hung like a sack of rice in the air, her legs dangling uselessly, and he slung her across his horse. The blueberry sack that she had carefully filled flew from her grasp and broke open, spilling its contents carelessly onto the grass. She struggled to right herself, but he used his elbows in the back of her neck and lower spine to push her snug against his mount. Even through her heavy clothing she felt the bruise of his touch immediately, but she continued to resist. She had heard stories like this—kidnappings, war tactics—but she could not believe she was being used so. Her mind raced. She would be given away, a prize to be won or rewarded or used up.
Hoelun watched as her son’s wife was scooped onto the lead horse and carried away. She listened to her terrified cries of protest without sympathy. She had been carried away from her Merkit husband by Temujin’s Mongol father in much the same way. She knew the alarm and confusion that the girl must be feeling, but she had no empathy. She was incapable of it. She hid her glee behind a phony veil of concern and outrage, which she wore back to camp.
The next day, when Temujin returned, Hoelun informed him that his new bride had been kidnapped by the Merkits, no doubt in retribution for her own kidnapping by Yesugei Khan23 so many years before.
The husband raged out of control at learning that his wife had been taken. He looked at his bitter, gloating mother with hatred, easily seeing through her phony facade, wishing the bandits had freed him of her instead. Helghul seethed, and the violent flame within Temujin was fanned. That night he began to plan Borte’s rescue.
CHAPTER 23
A GIFT
Chilger’s Marcus-brain had become desperate once he realized that Borte, the girl from his childhood, the girl he had been unable to forget, was his Theron. Immediately he had begun a desperate search. He knew only her first name, and it was not a particularly unusual one, so more than once he was directed to an encampment only to have his hopes dashed. He questioned the people of his clan, riding unaccompanied to the neighboring camps, often traveling for days without seeing another human. The nomadic people could be anywhere, and hundreds of miles separated them from one another. He knew that she would be at or near her nineteenth year by now, and the chances of finding her alive, unmarried, and able to join him were slim.
Chilger would not give up; his heightened instincts and his recurring visions indicated that he would find her. She might deny him and send him away, but he must persist. The shaman constantly meditated, seeking signs from the land, from the heavens, from the animals and trees themselves. His companion eagle soared above him, a second pair of eyes, searching for any spiritual indication to help them along, and hunting for both of the
m when his human-friend was too preoccupied to care about eating at all.
In the evenings, while huddled next to his sacred fire, Chilger sought direction through medicine-altered states and chanting. The visions came and shook him with powerful vibrations and images. Always they were clear: there would be bloodshed, an unprecedented age of bloodshed. Borte and the red conqueror both figured powerfully in his future, but there was someone else—a surreal, majestic, godlike figure that appeared like fog at the edges of the visions and floated, seated, into the forefront. Legs crossed, yogi style, the plump colorful character revealed that he was a king. He reached out to Chilger, urging and beckoning. Chilger felt his face embraced by the bejeweled, fat fingers of the magical father, and then he was gone. Left behind were only whispers. “Seek Shambhala, the land of the reborn.”
At first Chilger’s thoughts had been only of Borte, but as he traveled alone, at one with the land around him, he meditated, and he was inundated by visions of war and peril with Temujin at the helm. Always the little girl in the market raced ahead of him, and he chased her frantically, certain that he must find her. His Marcus-brain took a second seat to the animal spirits and symbols overwhelming him. Helghul was to yield a particularly brutal impact in this lifetime. He had seen visions of the life tree, running through the center of the Earth, and it reached to him, calling. “Shambhala” it whispered, over and over. In the air the birds cried out, “Shambhala.” The fire crackled and rose up as visions of the sacred land—shaped like a giant, eight-petal lotus—unfolded like a map before him. Chilger resolved that he and Borte must somehow reach the fabled Shambhala, but first he must find her.
One Great Year Page 23