Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan

by Pamela Sargent

  The morning sun had burned off the pale mists near the river. The Onon was narrow and shallow here, widening as it flowed on to where Temujin and Bekter were fishing. Hoelun looked up at the cloudless sky. The day would grow warm, but she did not think a storm would come. She recalled another warm day and the place further up the river where she had first seen Yesugei.

  She was about to dig up a root when she saw a rider far to the east. She backed slowly towards the trees, set her stick down, pulled her bow from its case, then glanced down the river. The man might pass them by, but Temujin and Bekter were crouched behind a shrub, their arrows ready.

  She waited until the man was closer, then drew out an arrow and took aim. The rider's horse broke into a gallop. Before he came within range, she had seen who he was, and lowered her bow.

  “Munglik,” she called out, then ran down to the bank. He rode through the shallow water, leaped from his horse, and caught her in his arms.

  “Hoelun,” he murmured. She rested her head against his chest, unable to speak. “What happened here?”

  “They abandoned us,” she managed to say. “They left us a few days ago.” She drew away from him. “Orbey Khatun offered the spring sacrifice without inviting me. We didn't have long to wait. All of them broke camp the next day.” She swallowed. “Prepare yourself, Munglik. Your father tried to stop them. Todogen Girte rewarded him for that by putting a spear in his back. We buried him five days ago.”

  She sank to the ground. Munglik was silent for a long time. “Todogen will pay for that.” He sat down next to her and took her hand. “My wife and son—”

  “They left with the others. They had no choice. Even Khokakhchin was dragged from my tent.”

  “Listen.” He gripped her hand more tightly. “I can go to Toghril Khan.”

  She shook her head; she had already dismissed that possibility. “The Kereit Khan has nothing to gain by aiding helpless widows and children. He may think it wiser to keep the Taychiut chiefs as allies—my husband always said Toghril Khan was a practical man.” She slipped her hand from Munglik's. “Even if he took us in, my sons would be hostages. He'd offer them to Targhutai if he had something to gain.”

  “But there's little hope for you if you have no one to protect you.”

  Hoelun turned towards him. “I refuse to believe that. Targhutai and Todogen might have killed us outright, but Tengri stayed their hands. They must still fear my husband's spirit.”

  “But your sons—”

  “—will have to be even braver than their father.” She drew up her legs and rested her hands on her knees. “I know Temujin,” she said softly. “He wouldn't last long either as a hostage of the Kereit Khan or among his father's old followers. My son would demand his rightful place, and then they'd have to kill him. If he dies abandoned, his death won't come any sooner than it would have among them. But I intend to keep him alive.”

  “You're a stubborn woman, Hoelun. I would have expected despair.”

  “Sochigil does enough weeping for both of us.”

  “When Daritai hears of this—”

  “He'll do nothing for us.” Perhaps she would have spoken more kindly to the Odchigin if she had known what was to come. “We were left alive, so he doesn't have to avenge us. Targhutai must have considered that when he showed us mercy. Daritai will think of himself now.”

  Munglik took her hand again. “I can't leave you here. I promised the Bahadur to look after you.”

  “I won't ask you to keep that promise,” she said. “You must think of your own son and the child on the way.” She glanced at him briefly before lowering her eyes. His face was still filled with sympathy and concern, but she had seen relief as well. Munglik had made the offer that honour demanded and could hardly blame himself for leaving when she had told him to go.

  Munglik cleared his throat. “I must go to my wife, of course. Other Khongkhotats may choose to travel to our old grazing grounds, and Targhutai would be willing to let us leave if he knows we'll remain allies.”

  Hoelun lifted her head. “You'd swear an oath to the brother of your father's murderer?”

  “Todogen will be punished for that, but this isn't the time. I can't serve you or my own people if I make my wife a widow. I'll find a way to strike at Todogen Girte later.”

  How practical Munglik was. Hoelun released his hand and stood up, leaning against her stick. “I'll always remember,” she said, “that your father gave his life for us.”

  She moved towards the trees. Munglik was suddenly at her side. “I haven't said all I wanted to say,” he whispered. “Marry me, Hoelun. I've always cared for you. Wait here, and I'll come back for you when I know my wife's safe. You can live among my people if I take you as my wife.”

  How soothing he sounded. The Taychiuts would be relieved to know that Munglik sought no vengeance for his father's death. They would be even more pleased to see her reduced to being the second wife of her husband's old retainer, and Temujin would not be safe among the Khongkhotats unless he gave up his claims.

  “No, Munglik,” she said. “Perhaps I could be content with you, but my husband's memory is still too fresh.”

  He took her by the arms. “He wouldn't want you to struggle on alone, living this way.”

  “Were our lives ever easy?”

  “When I come back for you—maybe then—”

  “I won't change my mind.”

  His breath was warm on her face. She remembered how Yesugei had held her, how his strong hands could grow gentle. Munglik's arm slipped around her waist. She could pretend she was in her husband's arms once more and forget her duty to his heir.

  “I love you,” Munglik said. “I always have.”

  But not enough, she thought, then freed herself from his grip. “I will come back,” he continued.

  She would have to leave this place before he returned, and find shelter near the mountains to the west, where they could hide from their enemies. If the Taychiut chiefs believed them dead, they would be safe.

  “You never told me,” she said, “what you found out.”

  “The Tatars are keeping to their usual trails. We needn't worry about them this season.” He bowed his head. “I must visit my father's grave.”

  “Temujin will show it to you.”

  “I'll hunt some game for you before I go. Khasar may come with me—his aim was always good. I'll come back as soon as I can.”

  He went to his horse and led it towards the place where Temujin and Bekter were fishing. Hoelun stared at the ground, spied some leaves, and dug for the root underneath.

  24

  Bortai shouted a farewell to the Olkhunugud girls, then raced past a row of wagons. Fifty Olkhunuguds had arrived at her father's camp; they would feast tonight before they all broke camp and moved south to join other clans for the autumn hunt.

  She hastened towards her father's yurt. Maybe Temujin would return after the hunt. Whenever her people were on the move, she imagined looking out from the wagon to see him following their trail.

  Her parents did not yet know the truth about her betrothed's sudden departure. She had kept her secret while praying for a miracle—that Temujin might have gone home to find his father alive and healing. Her wish now seemed more real to her than Temujin's sad parting words and the mournful, resigned face of his companion Munglik.

  The odours of burning fires and roasting mutton made her smile. She was suddenly ashamed of feeling happy in the absence of any news about Temujin. Surely he would come back before winter; she would tell him that she had kept his secret, and he would tell her that his father was well. They would both laugh together at the tears they had shed.

  Her father's dogs bounded towards her. She made a face at them, then entered his yurt. Her parents were sitting on their bed; Shotan's head rested on her husband's shoulder. Bortai was surprised to see Dei here instead of out drinking and talking with the other men.

  Dei looked up; his face was solemn. “Come here, Bortai,” he said. “I
have unhappy tidings.”

  Shotan stood up, patted Bortai's cheek, then went to the hearth. Bortai sat down at her father's feet. “What is it?” she asked.

  “An Olkhunugud told me the tale,” Dei replied. “He married a daughter to a Taychiut Mongol not long ago.” He pulled at his thin beard. “He told me that my khuda—that the father of your betrothed no longer lives.”

  Tears rose to her eyes and trickled down her cheeks; she would not have to feign surprise or grief after all.

  “They say he was poisoned by Tatars on his way home,” Dei continued. “I'm surprised we didn't have word of this before, given that our lands lie so close to those of the Tatars, but perhaps they didn't want to brag about such an evil act. The Bahadur was buried this past spring.”

  Bortai could not speak.

  “How his wife must have wept,” Shotan muttered, “to lose her husband so soon.” She wiped at her eyes. “How cruel for the children he left behind—what will become of them now?”

  Bortai tugged at her father's sleeve. “Temujin,” she said. “What about Temujin?” She peered into Dei's sad brown eyes. “His mother will lead his people now, won't she?”

  “I see now why his father's friend came here,” Dei said, “and why he didn't tell me the truth, but he only took the lad back to great hardship. It seems Temujin's mother insisted on her place, even after the men refused to swear an oath to her son. The Bahadur's followers abandoned his family. No one knows what's become of them.”

  Bortai tensed; it could not be true. “They must be alive,” she insisted. “Temujin wouldn't give up. He told me his mother was strong—she wouldn't give up, either.”

  “Even the bravest woman would find it hard to struggle on alone, with no protector and with sons so young. Face it, child—he may already have joined his father.”

  “No!” she cried, and held on to her father's coat. “Someone will help him.” She took a breath. “We can help his family. You could bring them here. We're betrothed—you have a duty to him.”

  “I have a duty to my people.” He shook off her small hands, then grabbed her by the shoulders. “Listen to me, Bortai. We might spend a season searching for them, and consider this—they have enemies who left them to die. Do you want those who abandoned them riding to our camp to finish the job?”

  “I don't care!”

  He released her. “Be sensible, daughter. Temujin might not be any safer here than wherever he is now, and I must think of what's best for us, however much it pains me. If he survives, I'll rejoice, but you mustn't raise your hopes too high.”

  “You're young,” Shotan said from the hearth. “A girl can think her sorrows will never pass, but they do. I was sorry Temujin had to leave us so soon, but maybe it's a mercy you didn't have more time to form an attachment to him.”

  “Dry your eyes and help your mother,” Dei said. “We'll pray for the Bahadur's soul and for those he left behind, but we must go on with our other obligations.”

  Bortai stood up slowly. “I won't forget.” Her voice was steady. “I made a promise, and I'll keep it.”

  “The man to whom we made that promise is dead.”

  “I made a promise of my own, to Temujin.” Her dream had foretold his arrival; how could she forget that? She thought of the hard look in his eyes when he promised he would find her again; there had been no doubt in his face. She could not bear the thought of disappointing him. If she ever failed him —

  Bortai shivered, and realized then that she, who had never been afraid of anything, feared the boy she loved.

  “I won't forget him, ever,” she went on. “No matter what you say, I know he'll come back.” Dei drew away from her. For a moment, she felt as hard and unrelenting as Temujin would expect her to be, then threw herself against her father and sobbed.

  Part Three

  Temujin said, “I shall never forgive those who abandoned us, or forget those who helped us. That promise lives in my heart.”

  25

  The young shaman sat by the hearth, staring into the glow of the fire. For a moment, Jamukha thought that the holy man was in a trance, his soul wandering elsewhere.

  “You slept late, boy,” the shaman said. “Were the efforts of the night too much for you?”

  Jamukha sat up on the hide and said, “I drank too much. Perhaps you used a spell.”

  “You aren't new to such joinings.” The young man leered as he looked at Jamukha. “I needed no spell.”

  Jamukha got up and dressed, suddenly wanting to get as far from this man as possible. The shaman saw too easily into his soul; he had probably sensed what Jamukha wanted the moment he had asked the man for shelter from the snowstorm. He had not been that drunk when the shaman began to fondle him, and had heard no chanting of spells before finding himself between the two hides. The wind had howled outside the tiny tent, drowning out Jamukha's cries as the pain he felt became the pleasure he sought.

  The shaman did not know his name and Jamukha knew nothing about him. He might have left his camp to test himself in solitude or to send his soul wandering with spirits. Except for a bag of herbs and some provisions, the young man had little with him, and Jamukha had not examined his weapons to see if they bore the marks of any clans he knew.

  “Stay if you like,” the shaman said.

  Jamukha picked up his bowcase and quiver, then went outside. The tent stood among birches on a southern slope, sheltered from the north wind; the shaman's white horses, their legs hobbled to stakes, sniffed at the snow.

  Jamukha's own brown gelding was tied to a tree. He mounted his horse and rode down the slope into the valley below, wincing as he settled into his saddle. He had not bled too much this time, but remembered the man's hot breath on his ear and the bruising, almost painful caresses of his callused hands.

  Jamukha welcomed that violence, the pain of the joining, the whirlpool of anger, rage, and desire that swallowed him. He felt purged afterwards, his fears and needs washed away by the dark flood. It had not always been that way, not the first time with another man out on the steppe, when the tearing of his flesh, his helplessness, and the man's power over him had made him feel violated. The pleasure had come later.

  Now, he allowed this to happen, in spite of what he had said to the shaman. He endured the pain for the sake of the pleasure, taking pride in the strength that allowed him to bear it. When he became a man, he would no longer submit; he would inflict the pain himself and take only the pleasure.

  Jamukha pulled his hat lower over his eyes and squinted at the whiteness of the new snow. The world was cloaked in white, the colour of purity and of luck. He sniffed at the clear air. The clean, pure feeling was already fading; the urges of his body would return before long. He thought of a boy back in his camp who often trailed after him, one he might use as the shaman had used him, one who might restore the feeling of purity and strength.

  Jamukha rode south-west, towards the headwaters of the Onon. The valley lay between two ridges of mountains; high above him, the bare boughs of larches and the green limbs of pines were bowed under heaps of snow. More larches and a few pale birches covered the foothills; he kept near the trees. Occasionally, the wind rose and hid the landscape behind a veil of swirling flakes, forcing him to wait before he rode on.

  He soon came to flatter ground. The Kentei range lay to the south; the massif was a distant dark ridge jutting up from the pale land. The shaman had mentioned seeing horse tracks and signs of people near the frozen river.

  A gust of icy flakes blinded him for a moment. When the wind died, he saw two riders galloping east on grey horses across the flat land near the Onon. One figure lifted his bow; an arrow streaked towards a small long-eared shape darting across the snow.

  Jamukha rode on slowly until he had a better view of the two hunters; they were only boys. The boy who had made the kill swung a leg over his saddle and slid to the ground. The other boy suddenly rode towards the one on foot, swung his spear at his head, knocked his companion to the ground, th
en leaned down from his saddle to grab the carcass. The boy who had fallen got to his feet; the other struck him again with the spear.

  Jamukha urged his horse into a gallop. The mounted boy circled the other, stabbing at him with his spear. The boy on foot grabbed the shaft and yanked the rider from his horse. The two grappled for the weapon as they rolled in the snow.

  “Stop!” Jamukha shouted as he approached. “Let him have his kill!” Both boys were still; then the taller boy seized his spear and ran for his horse. The other struggled to stand; his hat had fallen from his head, and there was a bloody spot near his temple.

  “Are you hurt?” Jamukha called out.

  The boy shook his head, then fell to his knees. His companion was riding hard towards the woods near the Kentei foothills. Jamukha trotted towards the remaining grey horse, reached for its reins, and led the gelding back to its owner.

  “I can still catch him,” Jamukha said, “and steal back your game.”

  The boy stumbled to his feet. “Don't bother. I'll get even with him another time.” He lifted his head; his eyes were large and pale, greenish-brown with flecks of gold. “He's a coward and a bully,” the boy continued as Jamukha handed him his reins. “That's the way he is—sneaking up from behind and stealing. This isn't the first time he's done it.”

  “It's good I was riding this way, then. He seemed ready to kill you. Well, you're rid of him now.”

  The pale-eyed boy picked up some snow, wiped the blood from his face, then leaned against his horse. “But Bekter won't leave me alone,” he said, “and I'll have to put up with him. He's my brother—my half-brother. He'll go too far someday.” The boy picked up his cap, donned it, then mounted his horse. “I'm grateful you came past.”

  “But I see you really didn't need my help. You would have got the better of him if I hadn't come along.” Jamukha paused. “My name is Jamukha, and I am the son of the Jajirat chief Kara Khadahan.”