by Harold Lamb
“The food shall be brought, Cossack, if it is still your wish. Yet it would be well to say otherwise.”
Receiving no response from Khlit, the man turned and disappeared into the darkness. Khlit turned to the girl roughly, for he knew that he had earned an enemy.
“Sit in my tent, Kerula,” he said shortly. “The wind is cold. After you have eaten, roll yourself in my woolen robe. I shall sleep with my horse.”
The next day saw Kerula mounted on her lame donkey riding behind Khlit and Mir Turek. The latter said nothing concerning the appearance of the girl, and Khlit thought that he had spoken with Fogan Ultai. The difficulty of the way grew, and cold gripped the riders. The Turkoman horses, wrapped in their felt layers, with their high-peaked wooden saddles, seemed indifferent to the change in climate, but the donkeys shivered, and Mir Turek wrapped himself in a costly fur robe. Khlit saw to it that the girl had a sheepskin cloak that had been carried in the baggage.
The moon which had been bright at the start of the journey had vanished to a circlet of silver, when the riders, under guidance of one of the Turkomans, passed the blue waters of the mountain lakes, Issyuk Kul and Son Kul, and reached the passes of the Thian Shan Hills. Here the Turkoman guide gave up the leadership, but Fogan Ultai declared that he could find his way among the passes with the aid of the merchantman's maps and the stars.
Khlit, who saw everything as he rode, noted that Mir Turek had fallen silent, and that the merchant spent much time in talk with Fogan Ultai in the yurtas in the evenings. So far, however, the master of the slaves had been content to keep out of Khlit's way. The Cossack paid no further attention to Fogan Ultai, other than to see to the loading and priming of the brace of Turkish pistols he carried in his belt. These were the only firearms of the expedition.
Mir Turek broke his silence, one day when the sunlight lay on the rock slopes of the mountains without warming the faces of the riders, to speak of Genghis Khan. It was through these passes, said the merchant, that the slaves of the Mighty Manslayer carried the wealth that had been taken from the cities of Damascus and Herat to Karakorum.
The Fever burned in the man's eyes as he spoke. The wealth of Genghis Khan had been so great that his minister had never counted it. From the four corners of Asia slaves brought it to the Master of the Earth. Genghis Khan had kept a hoard of gold, the book Of Chakar Noyon said, at his palace. One minister had given away jewels to his wives, until Genghis Khan had learned of it, when the minister had cut his own throat to avoid the wrath of the conqueror.
Khlit listened while Mir Turek told of the campaigns of Genghis Khan, and how victories had come to the standard of the Horde, the standard of yaks' tails that had traveled from Karakorum to Herat.
The merchant halted his words as the advance rider of the party came to them. The Turkoman, who had been some hundred paces in front of Khlit and Mir Turek, brought with him a slender man in a long robe who carried a pack. The man, Khlit saw, was clean-shaven, with the hair of his forehead cut to the skin.
The stranger spoke with Mir Turek, who shook his head to show that he did not understand. At the merchant's gesture Fo-gan Ultai rode up and addressed the newcomer. The two fell back among the attendants where Kerula was. But Mir Turek did not resume his conversation. He seemed impatient to halt, when before he had been eager to push on. As his reason, he gave the rising wind which seemed to promise snow. The star Ortu, said Mir Turek, was no longer above them, and they could not count on its protection.
Khlit accordingly called a halt. The felt tents were pitched, the yurta formed. Kerula was accustomed to see to the erecting of the Cossack's shelter, which was beside her own, and Khlit rode into the twilight to see to the posting of the sentries. Before he returned he saw a strange sight. For the Turkomans on watch had kneeled to the ground and laid their ears against the path.
Khlit brought the men to their feet with a hearty imprecation. The Turkomans were sullen, saying that they listened for signs of approaching danger. What this danger was, they would not say. But one, the less sullen of the two, muttered that danger might be met along the path that could be heard, and could not be seen.
Impatient of the men's superstition, Khlit returned to his tent where Kerula sat with his evening meal. Around the fire which blazed very brightly, the others of the party were gathered. And Khlit frowned as he watched. The stranger they had met that day stood in front of the fire, throwing grease from a pot upon it.
As the man with the shaven head did this, he read aloud from a small book he held. The words meant nothing to Khlit, but Mir Turek and Fogan Ultai listened intently. Truly, Khlit thought, Mir Turek was a man of double meanings. For the merchant had declared that the newcomer was a beggar. Khlit had never known a beggar who could read. As he turned this over in his mind, Kerula, who had crept near him spoke.
“Khlit, lord,” she whispered, her eyes bright in the firelight, and all save her eyes covered by the fur cloak for the cold, “last night I dreamed a strange dream. It was that a falcon flew down on my wrist, and it held the sun and a star in its talons. The falcon had flown far, and was weary, but it held the sun. And I was glad.”
“You have many dreams, little sparrow,” smiled Khlit.
When he smiled, the bitterness faded from his hard face. Kerula loved to see him smile. More often of late she had coaxed him to do so.
“Am I a conjuror, to tell you what they mean?”
“Nay, Khlit, lord,” she chattered, “you are too tall and big for a conjuror. See, the man who is reading prayers by the fire is such a one. I heard Fogan Ultai say he was a gylong, servant of the great lamas, and a man of wisdom.”
Fogan Ultai had called the stranger a man of wisdom. Mir Turek had said he was a beggar. One had lied, and Khlit suspected it was Mir Turek.
“Did Fogan Ultai say more than that, Kerula?” he asked carelessly, watching the group by the fire.
“Aye, Khlit, lord. I heard him say to Mir Turek the man was a conjuror. Then he said to the man with the long robe that he was clever, he could conjure the two pistols away from you, and he—Fogan Ultai—would give him a donkey and some gold.”
“Hey, little Kerula, he would have to be a very wise man to do that,” chuckled Khlit. “Are you sure you did not dream that, too?”
“Nay, Khlit, lord,” the girl looked at him strangely, “but I dreamed that we met an evil, two-headed snake, and that you buried it. After that, the snake was no longer evil.”
Khlit said no more, but long after Kerula had crept into her tent, and the group around the fire had scattered, he sat in thought, his curved sword across his knees. What had prompted the Turkomans to turn sullen and lay their ears to the ground? Why had Mir Turek, who trusted him, lied that evening about the gylong? And why did Fogan Ultai desire his pistols?
IV
In a dream the beast Kotwan, with the head of a horse and a horn in its forehead, that speaks all languages, came to Genghis Khan, the Mighty Manslayer. The beast Kotwan spoke as follows:
“It is time for the Master to return to his own land." Whereupon Genghis Khan turned homeward. And when he reached his home he died.
From the Book of Chakar Noyon
Concerning the events that came to pass when the party of Mir Turek crossed the desert of Gobi, Khlit is the only one who will tell. It is true that the narrative of the Hang-Hi chronicler mentions the sights and sounds which Khlit and Kerula heard in the night. But the Chinese historian ascribes the sounds to wind in the sand and the imagination of the Tatar travelers whose minds were filled with stories of Genghis Khan. Fools, said the Chinaman, walk unreflecting. Yet Khlit was not the man to be led astray by sounds that he imagined.
As for Kerula, Khlit found that the girl's tongue was eager to repeat stories of Genghis Khan that she heard from Mir Turek. The child had listened while the scholar read from his books. The books were all she knew, and so she supposed that Genghis Khan and his Tatar Horde were still alive, and might be met with on the sands of the Great Desert.
Khlit humored her in her fancies, and smiled at the dreams she repeated. He knew that the “dreams” of Kerula were her way of telling things that she thought he might not believe. The Cossack did not laugh at the girl for her fancies, because he was always ready to hear more of Genghis Khan, a conqueror more powerful than any Khlit had known. Even Tal Taulai Khan seemed a mirza beside the figure of the man who was called the Mighty Manslayer.
Mir Turek had ceased to talk with Khlit concerning their journey and the tomb in the forest of Khantai Khan. The merchant and Fogan Ultai rode with the gylong. Neither interfered with his leadership, which was all Khlit asked. He was aware that since the coming of the gylong, a change had taken place in the party. The Turkomans became more sullen and had to be driven forward. And Mir Turek grew silent, seemingly waiting for something. Khlit took care to keep Kerula with him as much as possible. He had heard the Turkomans talking about her.
“Fogan Ultai says,” he had heard them say, “that the girl Kerula has the ears of a skunk and the eyes of an ermine.”
When the party descended the slope of the Thian Shan Hills and entered the desert, the Turkomans murmured further. This was natural, however, in face of the difficulties in front of them.
The desert, the first that Khlit had seen, was an ocean of sand, with wind ridges and gullies. In order to keep to a straight course by the sun, it was necessary to cut across the ridges, which varied from eight to some twenty feet in height. There were few springs to be met with, and the party was forced to keep an outlook for the coming of wind, which meant a halt and hurried preparation against sandstorms.
Although the country was new to Khlit, he did not give up his leadership of the party. On the advice of the gylong, Khlit exchanged their donkeys at a village on the edge of the desert for a smaller number of camels. He kept his own horse, but the others gave up theirs. Thus the gylong gained a camel for his donkey.
After a rest at the village, Khlit ordered an advance into the desert, when the moon was again full. Mir Turek was content, as the star he regarded as his protection was now high in the heavens. Khlit rode at the rear of the little caravan where he could watch the Turkomans and where there was no one at his back.
The party had gone far into the desert and the Thian Shan summits had vanished on the horizon when the first of the strange events came to pass.
Khlit had been sleeping soundly in his felt tent when he was awakened by Kerula crawling through the flap in early daylight. The girl's hair hung loose around her face, and Khlit saw that her eyes were wide and fixed. He had grasped his sword when the flaps of the tent moved, but now he released it, and sat up, wide awake on the instant. The girl crept close to him, shivering, yet it was not from cold of the night.
“I am frightened, Khlit, lord,” she whispered. “For I have had a dream in the night. It was that an animal crawled around my tent, crying my name. I heard it sniffing, and clawing at the tent. How could an animal call my name? I am afraid.”
“A dream will not hurt you, little sparrow,” answered Khlit cheerfully. “And the sun has come up to chase it away.”
The girl however, did not smile.
“When I came from my tent,” she said softly, “I saw the marks of the beast. It had gone away. But how could it speak? I heard it calling, calling 'Kerula.' Animals cannot speak, can they, unless—”
Khlit, to distract her, bade her gruffly prepare his morning meal. Later, however, when he left his shelter he took care to look at the ground around Kerula's tent, which was beside his. He saw that there were actually marks on the ground.
Carefully, Khlit scanned them. They were marks of hoofs, and ran completely around the tent, clearly visible in the sand. When he tried to follow them away from the place he lost them in the tracks of the party. The hoof-marks, he saw, were smaller than those of a horse. He had heard that there were antelopes in the desert. Yet the tracks were larger than antelope hoofs. He said nothing of what he had seen to the girl.
The day's journey was short, and Mir Turek halted early, fearing a sandstorm, for the sun had gone behind clouds. The Turkomans gathered about the fire at dusk, and Khlit was obliged to drive one from the yurta to watch from a sand ridge. For his own satisfaction he placed a pointed stake firmly in the ground by his tent, indicating the direction they were to take in the morning. He had learned by experience that the ridges were often changed in appearance overnight.
As he sat over his evening meal with Kerula pensive beside him, the figure of Fogan Ultai detached itself from the group by the fire and approached him.
“Health to you, Khlit,” said the master of the slaves with a bow. “The Turkomans have asked that I come as spokesman. It is not well to force a man to do what his habits forbid. They are murmuring against standing sentry during the night. The Turkomans have heard stories of the desert in the village we left. They think evil things may come to the sentries. You and I are wise— we know they are fools. Still, it is best to let a man do as he is accustomed.”
“Does a sheep hide his head when the tiger hunts, Fogan Ultai?” said Khlit. “Shall the camp be blind during the night when there may be danger? Nay, a beast came last night and passed around Kerula's shelter.”
Fogan Ultai shook his head, smiling.
“There are no beasts in the desert, Khlit. The evils the Turkomans fear are not to be seen. Let them sleep in their tents. It is not well,” the man's voice dropped, “to tie the knot of hatred.” “Then, Fogan Ultai, you and I are wise. We do not fear the stories of evil. We two will watch, each taking half the night.” For a long moment Fogan Ultai's slant eyes gleamed into Khlit's. Then he turned away indifferently.
“Let the Turkomans stand watch. They are low-born.”
Yet the Turkomans could not have watched well that night. Before dawn Kerula burst into Khlit's shelter and clung to him sobbing. The same animal, she said, had come close to her tent. She had not been asleep this time, and she had heard its claws on the felt. Its breath had smelled of musk, so strong that it sickened her.
When the beast had been on the other side of the tent, the girl had slipped out on the side nearest Khlit and had dashed into his shelter. She was shaken with sobs, pressing her hands against her face.
“It is the beast, Kotwan,” she sobbed. “He has come to take me with him. Oh, do not let him take me, Khlit, lord. I am afraid of Kotwan, who smells of musk. He called my name and he wants me to follow him to the shades of the Teneri, up into the air over the desert.”
Khlit tried to quiet the girl, saying that he heard nothing, but when he made a move to leave the shelter, she clung to him tearfully. It was long before she dropped off to sleep, wrapped in some of his furs. Khlit listened, without moving for fear of disturbing her, and heard nothing more. Yet he fancied that an odor of musk filled the shelter.
V
The next day the girl had recovered somewhat from her fright. She refused to leave Khlit's side during the march over the shifting sands. Sleep overtook her at times on the camel, and she swayed in cords that kept her in place. Each time this happened, she awoke with a start, and cried out for Khlit.
The Cossack did not like the look in the girl's face. She was pale and the lack of sleep added to the fatigue of the journey was beginning to tell on her. Khlit did not mention her experience of the night, for he found that she believed the strange beast Kotwan had come to her tent. The girl's brain was filled with idle fancies. His heart was heavy, however, at the look of dread in her eyes, for Kerula had endeared herself to him, as much as another person could win the affection of a man who counted his enemies by the thousand, and thirsted for fighting.
That night Kerula begged to be allowed to sleep in his tent, but the Cossack sternly ordered her to her own, and she went reluctantly. Contrary to his custom, he did not post a sentry, but retired early to his shelter, and his snores soon kept accompaniment to the monotonous reading of the gylong by the fire.
Before midnight, however, when the camp was quiet, K
hlit's snores ceased. The flap of his tent was lifted cautiously and the Cossack crawled out on all fours. Noiselessly he made his way from his tent to the edge of the camp.
The yurta had been placed in a gully. Khlit, surveying his surroundings in the starlight, saw that the camels and the Turkoman shelters were some paces distant from the tents of the leaders.
Crawling down the gully, Khlit sought a depression where he could see the tent of Kerula against the skyline, within bowshot. He scooped out a seat for himself in the sand, with his back against the wind. Drawing his sheepskin svitza close about him, for the night was cold, he settled himself to watch, denying himself the comfort of a pipe. If an animal visited the tents between then and dawn, he was determined to have a look at it.
Khlit did not attach significance to the fears of the girl about the mythical animal she called Kotwan. He had seen, however, the tracks around the tent which were too large for an antelope, and he had caught the scent of musk, which Kerula declared came from the visitant of the night. No animal that Khlit knew smelled of musk, and had sharp hoofs. As far as he knew Fogan Ultai was right when he said there were no beasts in the desert, for the party had not met any since leaving the foothills of the Thian Shan. Wherefore Khlit was curious.
The Cossack was accustomed to watching, and he did not nod as he sat in the sand depression, with his scrutiny fixed on the horizon near the tents. The stars gleamed at him, and an occasional puff of wind stirred the sand about him. He must have watched for some hours, and the stars were not paler when he sat erect, gazing closely at the tents.
Something had moved near Kerula's shelter. The light was indistinct and Khlit could not make it out. He had heard nothing. Presently he felt that the thing was moving away from the tent and nearer him.
Khlit softly removed one of the pistols from his belt and got to his knees. Crouching low over the sand he could make out a dark object passing across the stars moving down the gully toward him. For the first time he heard a sound, a low hiss that he could not place. Then Khlit stiffened alertly. The wind had brought him the odor of musk. The scent clung to his nostrils and ascended to his brain. He felt the hair at the back of his neck stir, and a chill puff of wind sent tingles down his spine.