“Perhaps we misjudged you,” Orbey said.
“I beg to depart now.” Hoelun stood up and bowed. Orbey Khatun waved a hand, dismissing her.
She left the yurt. The two widows had reminded her again of how fragile the ties between the Taychiuts and their Kiyat kinsmen were.
Yesugei was still. Hoelun thought he was asleep, and then he stirred and moved closer to her. “You spoke to Ambaghai's widows today,” he muttered. “You haven't told me what was said.”
“I would have, in time.”
His fingers dug into her arm. “I'll decide what I have to know and when. Orbey Khatun wanted to rule through her son. I won't let her use you against me.”
“The Khatuns want their husband avenged,” Hoelun said. “I told them you could bring that about.”
“Orbey wants one of her grandsons in my place—Targhutai or Todogen might listen to her. I won't.”
“Let the Khatuns think that you might. When you've won your victories, you'll be strong enough to keep the loyalty of the Taychiuts. Until then, you don't want those women as enemies.”
“They are my enemies now,” he said. “I know what they've said about you.”
She tensed, suddenly afraid, and whispered, “I thought you didn't care about women's idle talk.”
“A man was foolish enough to tell the story in my hearing. Luckily for him, he also said he didn't believe it, so I forgave him, and told him only that I would kill him if I ever heard it again.”
“And you said nothing to me?”
Yesugei sat up. “There was no need. I'm certain I can trust you.” His pale eyes glittered in the dim light of the fire. “If I ever found you with another man, I'd kill him, whether he's a brother of mine or not.”
“Of course you would.”
“I'd kill you, too.”
“I know.” Hoelun closed her eyes for a moment, thankful for his trust. “You won't hear such stories again. The Khatuns know that they misjudged me.”
“Don't misjudge them, Hoelun.”
The men rode out at dawn and moved east, towards the flatter land beyond the valley. The boys and men left behind to guard the camp galloped after them, shouting farewells; children on horseback shrieked and waved at the departing soldiers.
Hoelun's feet pushed against her stirrups as she urged her horse on. A cool wind slapped her face and burned her cheeks. Yesugei had been impatient to be gone, his greenish-brown eyes aglow with the prospect of war.
She galloped ahead of a group of boys. Sunlight glittered from the metal ornaments on the men's helmets and breastplates; strings of horses led by soldiers whinnied as she passed. They were an army now, following Yesugei's standard, a weapon aimed at the Tatars. On the horizon, a mountain thrust towards Heaven, its pines green spears.
Nekun-taisi held Yesugei's standard aloft; the tugh's nine tails were stiffened by the wind. Men shook their leather shields at Hoelun. A wing of the army was fanning out to the south.
“Yesugei!” she cried as she spotted her husband's bay gelding. Yesugei's helmeted head turned in her direction. She suddenly wanted to be riding with him. His men would bring him victory. For this brief moment, she could imagine that she loved him.
7
“The sheep,” Hoelun said to Munglik. Three lambs were straying from the others; the boy moved towards them on his short, bowed legs. Charakha's son often found reasons to be near her. The child stared at her dreamily and beamed whenever she praised him for his help.
The sheep had been led further from the camp to graze, having nibbled the land by the tents nearly bare. The camp would have to be moved again soon.
“Look there,” a woman called out. Hoelun lifted her head. Against the eastern sky, the tiny black forms of riders flickered. Munglik ran to her side. The sheep milled and bleated as women pushed their way through the flock.
Hoelun squinted, then spotted the nine-tailed standard of Yesugei. Behind the riders, a dark mass of men on horseback was moving towards her from the east. Yesugei had sent no messengers ahead to tell them of the battle. Hoelun had thought the bulges on the backs of several horses were sacks of loot; now, even at this distance, she saw that they were the bodies of men.
Daritai, galloping ahead of the others, was the first to reach them. He reined in his horse; his face was sallow and drawn with fatigue.
“Yesugei,” Hoelun said; the women near her were silent.
“He's alive,” Daritai said; his brown eyes stared past her. A few women and children were running towards the approaching men. The dead would have to be buried; they could not be carried into the camp.
“What happened?” Hoelun whispered.
Daritai slumped forward in his saddle. “They met us at Lake Buyur. When our advance force attacked, they retreated, and then more struck at us from the rear. We had to retreat then, with little cover and Tatars hitting us from both sides. Their scouts are better than I thought, or ours are worse. We didn't expect to meet so many there.”
Hoelun's hands fluttered. “I must speak to my husband.”
“Don't.” The Odchigin gazed at her sternly, then rode towards the camp.
The dead were laid to rest on the side of a mountain that jutted to the east of the camp. Carts carrying small yurts in which the fallen men would be buried were driven between two fires to be purified. Two shamans, their faces hidden by wooden masks, swayed and chanted as the graves were dug.
Hoelun stood with the women. One young widow swayed at the edge of her husband's grave before another woman caught her. Weapons and offerings of food and drink were placed beside each body; the air stank of the blood of sacrificed horses.
Yesugei did not speak, and kept his eyes lowered as the small yurts were set over the graves. In time, the dwellings marking the graves would vanish. New trees would spring up on this spot; there would be nothing to mark the place.
Hoelun had seen death before. These men had died fighting, and their bodies had found rest here instead of falling into the hands of enemies; it was a better death than some. Bones would be burned for them, and another horse sacrificed to feed the spirits and the mourners. The widows would become part of other households, wives of their husband's surviving brothers or charges of grown sons.
Her own husband lived, yet his spirit seemed as far from his people as those of the dead. She knew what some were thinking. Heaven had turned against Yesugei; their young leader had failed them.
A cold autumn wind rose, lashing the people as they moved down the slope. Hoelun lifted her head and saw the dark, accusing glance of Orbey Khatun.
8
Hoelun was feeding the fire of her hearth when Yesugei entered. He had left the camp three days ago, alone with his falcon; even his brothers had not dared to follow him. He hung up his weapons, grabbed a jug of kumiss, then sat down by the bed.
She let him drink in silence for a while, then moved towards him. “You might have sent someone to tell me you were back,” she said. “Did you find any game?” He did not reply. She knelt next to him and sat back on her heels. “Winter will come soon. You have to lead the hunt and take us to new grazing grounds.”
“Will you be silent?”
“You've lost one battle, Yesugei. There will be others.”
He reached for another jug. His moustaches dripped with kumiss. “You should speak to the men tomorrow,” Hoelun said. “You're a Bahadur—act like one.”
He backhanded her to the ground. “I told you to be quiet,” he muttered.
She struggled to sit up. “You're not mourning your comrades,” she whispered. “You're sorrowing for yourself. Learn from your mistakes, or these people will turn to another leader. Is that what you want? Will you give up now, and leave your sons with nothing?”
He jumped up, reached under her scarf, and grabbed her by one loose braid, jerking her painfully to her feet. “Do you carry my child now?” he asked. “You should know if you are—we were gone for nearly a month. Are you carrying a son?”
She already
regretted her words. She wanted to tell him that she was pregnant, but could not be certain. Her monthly bleeding had been late before.
“I don't know,” she replied.
He pulled her hair, hurting her. “What do you mean, you don't know?”
“I'm not sure.”
“Useless woman.” He struck her hard in the face; she cried out and covered her head with her arms. “You're worthless, you and your brave words.” His fists hit her in the chest, jolting her. The toe of one thick-soled boot caught her under a knee; she toppled forward.
Her mouth was filled with blood. She kept her eyes on his feet, afraid he would kick her again.
He stepped back. “I'm going to Sochigil,” he said at last.
She did not move until he was gone, then crawled towards the hearth. Her mouth was raw, but he had not loosened any teeth; her bruises were deep, but she felt no broken bones. He had not beaten her so badly after all. She lay by the hearth and let the fire warm her face.
Sochigil gathered fuel for Hoelun and sat with her while she sewed. “The first time he beat me,” the other wife said, “I couldn't move from my bed all morning.”
Hoelun said, “I didn’t deserve this.”
Sochigil sighed. “Maybe you said something that angered him.”
“I spoke the truth. He beat me because he didn't want to hear it.”
Yesugei went to Sochigil again that night. Hoelun slept uneasily as the wind howled through the camp. Her husband had spoken to the other men; they would break camp tomorrow. He had taken her advice, however angry he still was. She let her rage fill her, then waited for it to subside. He would have beaten her sooner or later. It was part of a woman's life, and for some it came more often.
Hoelun rose before dawn, and was about to sip some meat broth when a wave of dizziness caught her, then passed. She would say nothing, not until she was certain. She placed one hand on her belly, hoping.
By mid-morning, the women had taken down their yurts and piled the felt panels in the wagons that held their household goods. Yesugei led most of the men in search of game; the women followed in rows of carts lashed to oxen, trailed by the men and boys with the herds. The sound of barking rose above the creaks of wooden wheels as dogs circled the flocks of bleating sheep and goats.
They stopped at sunset. The abandoned camp-site was still barely visible on the northern horizon, a wide patch of barren land marked by the black spots of ashes and flattened places where tents had stood. The women made fires, milked the sheep and cattle, boiled the milk, then climbed into the covered wagons to sleep. The men slept outside with their horses.
Hoelun woke during the night and crawled to the back of her wagon. The Golden Stake, the star that always pointed north, flickered among Heaven's camp-fires in a sky blacker than felt. To the south, shadows crouched near patches of flame; the men were awake.
The hunters would be on the move before dawn. They would fan out in two wide wings to encircle their prey, then close in around the game, trapping the animals inside a circle. Milling deer and panicked gazelles, surrounded by hunters, would fall under a shower of arrows. The hunt would hearten her husband. Yesugei would track and encircle his enemies another season; the fire would burn inside him once more. Hoelun's safety and that of her children lay in the warmth of that fire.
Sixteen days after the hunt began, the women came to a flat, frost-covered steppe littered with the bodies of deer and smaller game. The hunters were still butchering carcasses; women left the herds with the older children and went to the men to help.
Hoelun was kneeling by one small deer, her knife out, when a wave of nausea caught her; she leaned over to retch. A hand suddenly gripped her arm. “It will pass,” she heard Sochigil murmur. “Let me do this.”
Yesugei trotted towards them. “What is it?” he called out as he reined in his horse.
“Can't you see?” Sochigil sounded strong for once. “Her sickness is upon her now.” Yesugei's eyes widened; he leaned forward in his saddle. “Hoelun's with child,” Sochigil continued. “I suspected it days ago.”
Their husband smiled. “Get back to your work,” he muttered before he rode away.
They made camp where the animals had fallen. The herds would graze here until they moved to their winter grounds. The wooden lattices of tents amid circles of wagons sprang up to the south of Yesugei's camping circle and were cloaked in dark panels of felt.
Yesugei came to Hoelun's yurt after it was raised, ate his evening meal in silence, then took her to the bed. He was gentle with her, rousing her with his hands before entering her; perhaps that was as close as he would get to an apology.
He was silent for a while after he finished, then said, “How long have you known?”
“Since we broke camp.”
“You should have told me then, before the hunt.”
“I had to be certain. I didn't want to be beaten again if I were wrong.”
He raised himself on one elbow. “It will be a son—I feel it.” She closed her eyes. He would make her the first wife then. She drifted into sleep, content.
9
The sun was a red shield. Spearpoints of light glittered in the Onon's waters. The plain, its tall grass burned brown, stretched to the east beyond the hill called Deligun. Hoelun glimpsed a distant shape that shimmered in the heat.
That rider might have news of her husband. This time, Yesugei had decided to strike in summer, when his enemies would not expect it. A successful raid would hearten his men and wound the Tatars; he could build on that small victory.
The women gathering plants along the river-bank straightened as the rider came nearer. Hoelun moved heavily, barely able to see past her large belly to find roots. She no longer recalled what it was like to move easily, to leap on to a horse or stoop quickly to pick up a bucket. The burden of the child she carried made the heat seem even more oppressive. She poked at the ground with her juniper stick; her hand tightened around the wood as her abdomen cramped.
The pains were coming more frequently. It would be over soon. She would know if the child who had beaten against her insides during the past months was a son.
Sochigil passed her, shooing a stray lamb towards the camp. Hoelun gasped; the other woman looked towards her. “Is it time?” Sochigil asked.
“Soon,” Hoelun said, suddenly frightened. Her grandmother had died in childbirth, but she had been old then, with other children who were grown.
Sochigil rested her hand against her own swollen belly; the dark-eyed woman was expecting her second child in the autumn. The rider moving towards them shouted at the boys standing guard out on the plain, and Hoelun recognized Todogen. The Taychiut swerved to avoid the cattle grazing downriver and galloped towards the women.
For a moment, Hoelun pitied the Tatars. Children would weep with terror as their fathers and brothers lay dead and their mothers and sisters were taken by Yesugei's men. But the Tatars would have done the same in this camp. Her pain worsened; the struggle of her own child to enter life wrenched her away from thoughts of others.
Todogen slowed to a trot. “Victory!” he shouted. “We surprised an enemy camp—only a few had time to escape.”
“My husband,” Hoelun said.
“Yesugei has a Tatar chief for a prisoner,” Todogen said, “and other captives to bring to us—he's already sending one to you. When I left him, he was embracing one of the women. She missed him with an arrow, then tried to get him with her knife. He saved her for last.”
Hoelun was no longer listening. She leaned against Sochigil as the other woman led her away from the river.
Sochigil helped Hoelun out of her clothes, held her up as she circled the hearth, and rubbed her back. The pains came more quickly, until she had only a few moments between one pain and the next.
“This is your first,” Sochigil said. “Maybe you should have an idughan.”
Hoelun shook her head. The spells of such a shamaness might help her, but she wanted no one's hands poking inside
her. Outside her tent, people were laughing and shouting to the men who had returned. She crawled towards the bed as someone called out beyond the doorway.
“My brother told us to bring her here,” Nekun-taisi's voice said. Hoelun grabbed a cushion and buried her face against the felt. Sochigil was speaking, but she could not make out her words. Let it be a son, Hoelun thought; let it be over.
“Ujin,” a strange voice said, “your husband said you would have need of me soon. I see he was right.”
Hoelun looked up. A middle-aged woman with heavy-lidded brown eyes was leaning over her.
“Have no fear, Ujin,” the woman said. “I'm called Khokakhchin. The Tatars killed my husband and made me a slave long before your men rode against them. When I told your chief I knew much about birthing, he had me brought to you, and said he would reward me for my aid.”
Hoelun tried to speak.
“You can trust me,” the woman continued. “The one called Yesugei Bahadur also said he would kill me if harm came to you or the child.”
It seemed that Yesugei had decided quickly about this woman. Hoelun ground her teeth as she sank back against the bed.
Her body fought itself. The child pushed to get out; Hoelun's body resisted, and the pain subsided, only to return with more fury, its claws ripping at her insides.
In the midst of her struggle, she dimly noticed that the sky above the smoke-hole was growing light. Had this child been contending with her for a day and a night? It had to be a son; everyone knew a boy entered life more violently than a girl.
Her labour continued. Khokakhchin chanted; Hoelun could not make out her words. The band of pain held her in its vise. She no longer cared what she brought into the world; she only wanted the struggle to be past.
Something flowed from her body; her thighs felt wet. She lay on her side, panting, her knees pulled up towards her chest. Khokakhchin's hands were warm as they rubbed her back and legs.
Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan Page 5