The beautiful music that filled them continued, and as they moved on, they, too, placed their right hands on their hearts and nodded respectfully to the thousands who welcomed them.
The grand tunnel opened up into an enormous arching cathedral, and Chilger saw that there were five other caverns that led to this central spot, like the petals of a flower. The flower of life radiated in every direction from this place.
Everything was illuminated and glistened as if liquid, and sunbeams burst from the ceiling high above as if the sun was peeking through and casting spotlights onto its own private menagerie.
All around them the people of Shambhala emerged. Their soul-songs echoed like the deliberate beat of a shaman’s sacred drum, and rainbows of energy and auras floated and danced, happily interconnecting the many as One.
A platform materialized at the center of the spectacular room and on each side of it, seven stairs appeared. The King of Shambhala stood on the platform, patiently waiting for his astounded guests to join him. A large green, sparkling tablet floated in front of him, and Borte stared at it like a child as she easily made her way up the left-side stairway unassisted. Chilger was directed to the other side, and the two stood looking anxiously across the glistening stone at one another. The king rested a tender plump hand on the head of each of them, and his touch buzzed like an electric current that was pleasantly ticklish.
“These good Emissaries come from Atitala, and though to them time seems long and arduous, we know that one cycle, ten cycles, a thousand cycles on Earth are but a flash in space and time and are a tiny part of the larger cycle. The Emissaries are the world’s Light in this time of the Great Darkness, and we have called them here to replenish their energy and recharge their souls.”
The buzz in the room was electric. The king directed Chilger and Borte to place their right hands on their hearts and their left hands on the slab of green atlantium crystal. All around them, white-robed people of every race prayed, sang, and projected their loving support to them.
Immediately, as their hands touched the blessed stone, a warm current surged through them, through every vein, artery, and cell of their bodies. Brilliant, healing white light of the connecting spirit radiated from their eyes, ears, mouths, and noses. They felt a jolt, and then their bodies moved as if in slow motion, at one-quarter normal speed, as their sleeping shells fell softly like discarded garments and rested gently in a heap. They had been left behind, useless in this moment. The glowing soul of Borte’s baby rested, protectively cocooned, within her body below.
Marcus and Theron’s spirits had shed their corporeal forms, and in the pure, bright light they floated, emancipated, above their empty vessels, connected only by thin shimmering threads. They felt no concern, no fear, no sense of loss, only joy, love, and glory, as they joined the larger band of light above them.
Theron’s spirit took on an ethereal, smoky appearance resembling closely the lanky girl that she had once been. All around her she saw images and energy swirling and telling her stories of what had been so long ago. Her vibrant purple aura hugged her, and she luxuriated in it, letting it rain over her like a warm waterfall.
There was no sense of time, or purpose, or urgency, but she felt a pull to open up, and there in front of her she saw Marcus. Marcus was in the pulsing, rushing band of light with her! Her joy was compounded, and in that moment she knew him! Her love, her Marcus … and she remembered being kept from him on the deck of the ship on the night of the exodus, but she felt no pain. She stared at him, glowing purple and silver, his shape dark and muscular and glistening in the light of eternal energy around them. She remembered saying goodbye to her dear friend Plato, her Marcus. He had been her mother, her child, her lover, her friend, and so much more. She remembered that he knew her … he always knew her.
Marcus watched Theron and was overcome by the sight of her discovering herself, her energy so pure and strong. He too felt no sadness, no anxiety, and no bitterness at the wasted years they had lost. He felt the same euphoric recollection and connection that she did, and all of the memories that had lain dormant or muted blossomed, vibrant and alive, and they were each surrounded by a garden of their own making.
Only when Marcus sought to join his spirit with Theron’s and to flow freely with her, through her, did he realize that they could not cross the stone beneath them. An invisible barrier made it impossible for them to touch, but he knew that she knew him, and they watched each other and they joined the Grid, the band of light which flowed with the healing, loving energy, and they were One with each other and with all creation. There was no illusion of separation and they understood the truth. There was no longing, memory, or sadness. They were renewed.
How much time passed? Perhaps it was seconds or days or years, but the moment came when the King of Shambhala called them back to their bodies, as he was meant to do, and they came immediately, changed but the same.
They entered themselves like a thread through the head of a pin, through the crown chakras in the tops of their skulls. Their spirits traveled down, occupying each subsequent chakra, ballooning and becoming full and upright until their feet puffed and filled. Borte’s baby kicked and rolled happily in her belly. Their eyes opened dreamily, they smiled and swayed as if they had ingested a powerfully euphoric drug.
They stood face to face and were led down the left staircase. The people of Shambhala—red, white, black, brown, and yellow, and of all ages—waited to greet them and embrace them. They were human … flesh and bone people who had overcome the limitations of the suits of armor that they had inhabited and reached enlightenment.
Chilger and Borte were taken to a sparse white chamber to rest. There was a wide, soft bed on one wall with fluffy pillows and light silk sheets. On the opposite side of the room there was a small fountain that flowed from the outer wall and continually filled a beautiful crystal bowl with clear, jasmine-scented water. There were glass doors that opened to a wild garden, and every plant thrived and burst with fruit and blooms. It was alive with the sounds of a million thriving creatures. There were no fences or gates or pathways; the entire garden looked as though it had been planted a century before and never groomed.
The smell of the paradise was intoxicating, and Chilger looked forward to exploring. He walked to a nearby pear tree and plucked a golden yellow gem and offered it to Borte. She suddenly realized her hunger and enjoyed its juicy, sweet perfection as its liquid ran down her chin. Chilger, biting his own, reached and brushed the errant juice away, and his hand paused on her jaw.
“To have you recognize me, for you to know our history and our lives, is a gift worth anything to me.”
“How do you bear it? Always having memory?” she asked sympathetically.
“Because sometimes it brings me to you, and when it does, knowing you is worth all the longing that has come before.”
“How is it that you remember everything and I do not?” she asked.
“I took a potion. I didn’t want to forget you,” he admitted.
“Why didn’t I take it?”
“You weren’t given the choice. I have regretted my decision a thousand times. But then every time we meet again, I am so grateful to really know you that it makes it all worthwhile,” he said.
“Temujin is Helghul,” Borte announced suddenly.
“I know,” Chilger replied.
“He’s not so bad, Marcus,” she added.
“He is, and I am here to find out how I can stop him. He will turn the plains red with blood if left unchecked.”
“I need sleep. I don’t think I can stand up much longer,” she said, taking his hand and leading him to bed. They wrapped their bodies around one another and slept easily, exhausted from weeks of punishing travel.
Shambhala was an incredible city, enormous and advanced in every way. It was not only a paradise, it was also a technological marvel. The sky was full of iridescent aircraft that hovered, disappeared, and reappeared as if by magic. It was a place that enjoyed a
perpetual Golden Age of great learning, rest, rejuvenation, purpose, and growth. In this sanctuary, Chilger and Borte soaked in as much of the knowledge and wisdom as they possibly could. They were unsure how much time they had.
In the time to come, Borte studied with the citizens and teachers, and they marveled at her natural ability as a healer. She learned how to channel energy and tune in to the chakras of an individual to help them on their path.
Chilger asked the teachers what he could do to stop the coming of war and darkness to their lands, and the wise citizens joined hands and prayed with him but had no answers. They encouraged him to seek the counsel of the king, but three times he searched and was unable to find the elusive king.
Chilger and Borte were inseparable, empowered by the absolute clarity of their Marcus- and Theron-memories. Time held no place in the soul of the Earth, and as they went to sleep for the fifth time, Borte remarked drowsily to Chilger that she missed the cool night sky of home. He leaned in and placed his forehead to hers. They went to sleep imagining the familiar starry skies that they had both known so well.
CHAPTER 25
BORTE’S SACRIFICE
The Merkits had positioned themselves strategically as Temujin’s warriors and allies attacked. The battlefields were bloody and cruel week after week. As Chilger had toiled in the mountains, lost and desperate and looking for Shambhala, his countrymen had been under siege.
The plains, hills, and marshlands budded with the first scent of spring and reeked with the stench of death. The frigid winds had become cool breezes, and the sun shone high and long in the sky while blood soaked the ground. Some of the dead were retrieved and laid hundred by hundred in ordered rows for cremation, while many others were left to become the food of scavengers and to rot unceremoniously in the dirt.
Temujin, in full war armor, was ready to lead the final assault. As a military strategist he had proven he had no equal, and Jamuka and Toghrul Khan now listened carefully to his innovative plans. Toghrul had helped to conquer the majority of the Merkit territory and had returned to his lands jubilant and enriched, leaving the last stronghold to be conquered by his worthy allies.
“My brother, I find myself grateful that we do battle on the same side,” Jamuka said, lifting his eyes from the map that Temujin had laid out before him. “I have no doubt that you will rise as a great khan someday … perhaps almost as great as me!” he chortled, clapping his blood brother on the back.
Temujin smiled wryly. He knew full well that someday he would surpass Jamuka’s power as khan; they both did. He liked the idea of having such a close ally, a blood bond for life. There were only two people that Temujin could trust: his blood brother, Jamuka and his mother, Hoelun.
“We will strike when the sun is high in the sky, and ride at them with its glare on our side. They will not see the arrows fly, blinded by the brightness,” Temujin declared, and then his voice changed slightly. “Has there been any word of Borte? Is she with any of the women and children that we have taken so far?” he asked.
“No word since the Tatar group two weeks back. We believe she is still traveling with the shaman.”
“We’ll catch up with them today. This is the last of his clan. They will not be far off. I will have her back by nightfall,” Temujin said confidently. If his dreams were correct, which they always were, he expected to rescue Borte in the valley of the giant beasts. He had had the dream repeatedly since she was kidnapped, and when he had interrogated the first group of Merkit captives, they had confirmed the dream’s infallible accuracy: Borte was with a shaman who wore the feathers of an eagle, and Helghul recognized him as Marcus even under the mask of his sacred costume. Once again Marcus had interfered in his relationship with Theron, and Helghul plotted severe retribution for his meddling.
Temujin prepared for combat. He mounted his strong horse, which was heavily armored. He adjusted his battle helmet and shifted the thick nose shield that was cutting his vision. Together he and Jamuka rode out to address their troops. They would lead an attack from the east that day.
Temujin’s Helghul-brain assured him victory ahead. He imagined Borte in his custody by nightfall, and he was excited by the prospect. Against his will, he had been drawn to her more powerfully than to any other person in any other lifetime.
The sun was rising in the sky and the plains were in motion like an active comb of honey bees. Thousands of hooves gently swished through the budding grass, as row upon row of men on horseback and on foot moved through the fields. Straight-faced and prepared to die, they surged forward at the command of their leaders, looking more beast than human in their war skins and masks. The horde stank of coagulated blood, sweat, and murder. The weeks had been long and difficult. The procession stopped and prepared to be addressed by their khan.
“Your day of triumph is here! You have fought hard and well. Today we will crush our enemy once and for all, and tomorrow we will journey home victorious!” Jamuka shouted. He looked to Temujin, who took his cue to speak.
“You have honored your gods, your chief, and your people. This will be the final victorious battle. At the end of this day, you will share in the celebration and the riches that we reap!” Temujin promised, and his words were met with a great cheer. Jamuka looked at him sharply, but he continued undaunted. “Every soldier will return richer. Every man will be rewarded for his loyal service and sacrifice. Now join together, and we will crush our enemy! We will share this victory! Share in the glory!” he roared, full volume, as the air shook with thunderous shouts and the clamor of swords and shields.
In response, Jamuka raised his arm and signaled for the first assault to begin. The warriors bolted and crossed the half-mile distance to the waiting enemy lines.
“Big promises,” Jamuka said angrily, steering his horse past Temujin.
“Mine to honor,” Temujin replied, unperturbed.
“That they are,” Jamuka snapped, whipping his mount and galloping away. With a slash of his arm the Mongol horde surged forward.
The skilled warriors had broken through the last of the Merkit barricades. With a sword in each hand, Temujin was slashing left and right, holding his seat with solid, determined thighs. His leg and arm muscles rippled as his blades tore through flesh and bone. The noise and clatter were deafening. Horses whinnied and warriors attacked: grunting, crying out, and falling to the ground. The stink of sweat, feces, and blood filled the air, carried by a gentle breeze.
Temujin’s face was covered in the thick, sticky blood spray, making it difficult to see. Blood soaked his vest and gloves. His arms ached from brandishing the swords and from the weight of the resisting corpses as they crumpled. His throat was raw and burning from his sustained shouting. His eyes gleamed in anticipation of his victory.
The troops pushed forward, scattering their foe, gory and broken, across the landscape. The final battle was won, and the males of the Merkit clan were virtually annihilated.
As was the custom, the cowering women, female children, and property were collected as the spoils of war, and the leaders claimed them. Temujin honored his promise, and the filthy, haggard troops celebrated their increased wealth and the generosity of their leader, Temujin. Jamuka watched his blood brother with wary interest but gave up none of his own spoils to compete for popularity.
The troops tended their injured and set up camp upwind to the grotesque battlefield. They made offerings of thanks to the gods of Earth and Sky for their victory. Tengri was honored with dance and wine, and the exhausted warriors, husbands, and herders enjoyed the celebration.
Temujin, his face cleaned and wearing a fresh vest and gloves, prepared to set off in search of Borte, who had not been among the women and children captured. He tied a thick fur bag to his mount.
“Jamuka, I am riding into the valley to retrieve Borte. I know the shaman is close by. This is his clan, his people, yet this coward hides and keeps what is rightly mine.”
“I will ride with you, brother, if you wish. Or better yet,
let us send a search party and they can bring her back to you here if she is found,” Jamuka offered, without moving from the comfortable spot where he sat cleaning himself over a carved wooden bowl.
“She is there. I will go,” Temujin assured him, and wordlessly signaled to a small group of his clansmen nearby to join him. They obeyed and fell in behind their chief.
A mile beyond the camp, the mountains rose and the valley narrowed. It was as Temujin knew it would be. The giant, ancient skulls of monsters long dead were posted to ward off enemies—dinosaur remains pitched high to frighten away the superstitious and skittish. Temujin was neither. He knew the animals that had left the bones were long extinct. He had no fear of the valley.
Helghul had thrilled at the brutality and harshness of the day, feeding greedily off the violent energy. He was further exhilarated by the search ahead. He shifted the weighty fur bag awkwardly on his saddle and continued to ride. The warriors at his flank dared to pause, unnerved by the menacing skulls with their massive teeth and horns.
The nearest monster, a large Tarbosaurus fossil, was propped on a rock the height of two men and shrouded in a patchwork of second-rate animal skins. Temujin’s cohorts were visibly troubled; they called under their breath to the great gods and to their personal totems to protect them. Their leader said nothing. He offered them no reassurance or kindness but simply rode on, and they had no choice but to follow.
The sun slipped near the horizon, casting deep reds and oranges across the sky. In the twilight, a single ger and four horses came into view. Two large golden eagles circled clockwise above the dwelling, and Temujin felt a jolt of excitement at the realization of his dream. It was exactly as he had expected. In the sky, the stars opened their blinking eyes. Helghul thrilled with the anticipation of being reunited with Marcus and Theron.
One Great Year Page 27