by David Winnie
“Not what I hear,” he sneered. “Little Pitth, returned to the Khalkha, looking like a priest.”
“I am not a priest, Sui,” Pitth responded in an even tone. “Why are you so angry? I hoped you would have been happy to welcome me home.”
“I am Suishin now, Boy,” his brother replied. “I am a man; you will refer to me by my man name. I am not the child you recall.” His massive form towered over his slighter brother. “Your mother is expecting you to escort her to the Naadam Festival. I suggest you change into something acceptable.”
Pitth stood at the edge of the vegetable garden. The Keep had many such gardens, fed from the river that flowed deep under the mountain. His mother was bent, plucking weeds from the narrow rows of radishes.
She was a plain woman, of peasant stock. Pure Mongolian, Qui was a member of the Khalkha tribe who had shared her yurt and her bed one freezing night on the lowland steppe with Tenzing. He had married her as one of his minor wives until Pitth was born. He then elevated her to the position of second wife, after Suishin’s mother. This changed the tiny peasant Qui little. She now lived in the palace and had servants available, but she preferred to work the garden or ride out on the vast steppe to visit friends and families in the migratory camps.
“Mother?” called Pitth.
Callused hands set her trowel down. Bright eyes glowed as her weathered face broke into a wide smile. “My son!” She cried as she opened her arms. They embraced, Qui covering his face with kisses and rubbing noses.
“Enough now,” she said after several moments, “I need to finish this row. Then we can go to festival. We have much to do before your Naming Day tomorrow.”
Pitth joined his mother in the muddy dirt, plucking the weeds from the soil. Father had once said how mother was a perfect Mongolian woman, shy and demure when in public, a chatterbox around friends and family. “Everyone is talking about how auspicious it is that your Naming Day is on the first day of the festival,” Qui said. “Your father has invited all the headsmen of the tribes to attend and a great many of the leaders of Pan-Asia! Certainly, the leader of Khmer will be there, as you have lived there for so many years. And India, Persia. All of them. We’ll have to find a special robe for you, something quite magnificent for such a special day!”
“Mother, please,” he replied, “don’t make such a fuss. A plain robe will be just fine.”
“Nonsense!” she shot back. “Everyone wants to see the son of the headman of the Khalkha named. Members of the Kurultai Council will be there. Your father is counting on you to gather much face.”
She leaned over the row of green shoots to whisper. “Three years ago, that spoiled brat, Suishin, embarrassed his father and the whole tribe, showing up immodestly with his chest bare and wearing that Chin queue! It was clear he had been drinking. I have promised Tenzing you will be the very son he deserves.”
The air car swept over the massive yurt city assembled on the steppe. It was as his mother had promised, thousands of the traditional homes of the nomadic Mongols from as far back as history recorded. (Although nearly all were of modern materials, sculpted and painted to resemble yurts.) They surrounded a central pavilion, avenues radiating out like the spoke of a giant wheel. To the west were more shelters of foreign design housing many of the friends and allies of the Pan Asian Confederation.
Pitth and Qui were escorted to a yurt near Tenzing’s. After tomorrow, of course, he would have his own yurt, as an adult should. But tonight, as a child still, he was expected to stay with his mother.
The yurt was roomy, large cushions and blankets sorted about. Mindful of Pitth’s modesty, his mother had ordered a screen set up in one corner. They were served a savory bowl of spicy beef strips with vegetables. He wanted to wolf down the food, so much more exciting than the plain fare he had eaten for the last dozen years in temple. A dozen years at the temple had given him restraint. Savoring the well-seasoned dish added to his enjoyment. The meal finished with a warm custard. Pitth patted his stomach and belched appreciatively. “Thank you, my son,” Qui beamed at Pitth’s burp. “I was afraid all those years amongst the priest would have dulled your manners. Now, no sitting about, we must go shopping for tomorrow!”
There were dozens of markets set throughout the encampment. Merchants from across Asia hawked their wares: bolts of rare cloth, squawking creatures from Earth and beyond. Jewelry sparkled in all the stalls, forged Terran gold with firestones of Mercury. Strange art from any of a dozen worlds adorned the walls of the makeshift businesses.
Pitth sniffed and savored the odors wafting through the market. It was well his mother had fed him! Any number of merchants were serving steaming meat, rice of every color, fruits and vegetables of every shape and size!
He had stopped at a bookseller, leafing through an ancient text from the Americas, when his mother called, “Pitth! Come here! I have found it, it’s perfect!” He set the book down, memorizing the title, Confessions of a Martian Schoolgirl…” He would have to come back for it.
Qui grabbed his arm and dragged him to a clothier. “Here, look what I have found!”
It was hideous, gaudy. A stiff-looking golden brocade, high collared. It gathered at the waist, then flared out a foot of narrow, rainbow stripes. The cuffs were large and white, a dragon embroidered on one cuff, a leaping horse on the other. Cream-colored breeches and soft boots would complete the outfit.
“It’s er, a bit much, don’t you think, Mother?” Pitth ventured.
“Nonsense! It is perfect!” she declared. “It shows just the right amount of audacity and panache demanded from the son of the Khalkha, without being overly ostentatious or immodest.”
“I designed it from images I found of the last Chin Emperor from the twentieth century,” the seamstress said with pride. “It’s more modern, of course and of a fashionable cut. His was called the Rainbow Robe. Wearing this modern version, you will certainly be remembered.”
“Oh, yes I certainly will,” mused Pitth. “But not for the reasons you think.”
He reluctantly conceded to his mother, allowing the tailor to take his measurements with the promise the clothing would be ready by sunrise.
The ceremony was to take place outside the city, on the steppe. A dais had been raised, a hundred seats arranged. The leaders from across Pan Asia had arrived in air cars and been escorted to their seats. The Mongol leaders, of course, rode in on fine steeds. Tenzing arrived, Qui riding at his side. They took their positions at the center of the dais.
There was a great shout. The crowd roared and parted as Pitth rode in on a warhorse, a shield on one arm, his bow in the other. A quiver of arrows was strapped to the saddle at his knee.
“Who is this?” shouted Tenzing. “Who disturbs this gathering of the Khalkha? What manner of intrusion is this before our brothers, the Oirats, the Durigan and the Boryats? And my friends from throughout Mongolia and all of Pan Asia?”
“I do,” answered Pitth.
“And just who are you to interrupt, Boy?” thundered Tenzing. “How dare you appear here in the clothing of a man and carrying the weapons of a Mongol warrior? By what madness is this?”
“It is by no madness, Father. Today, by the laws of my people, and before the leaders of my people, I declare myself to be a man,” Pitth recited from the age-old script.
“Pah!” Tenzing turned, “I see no man! I see a child wearing a man’s clothing on a man’s horse. Begone, child, run back to your mother.”
A whisper of fletching’s followed by the solid thwock. An arrow buried between Tenzing’s feet. The crowd knew the symbology of the arrow and HooooOOOO-ed their appreciation of the shot.
Pitth stood tall and proud in his saddle, the next arrow nocked. Tenzing knew it was aimed at his heart.
“I claim my position as a man of the Khalkha!” stated Pitth, “You will acknowledge my place at the table of warriors!”
“A man?” asked Tenzing. “Who is this man who claims to be my son?”
He stood tall
in the saddle. “I am your son and a man. My name is…Angkor.”
The crowd roared.
Tenzing opened his arms and shouted. “Come to your father then, Angkor, my son.” No one could hear, the cheers were deafening. Angkor leapt from his horse and strode confidently onto the dais. “A fine man you are Angkor. Tall, proud, modest. Yes, I am proud to call you my son.” The two men embraced.
“Come, my friends and I have laid out a warrior’s breakfast,” Tenzing said. “Then you and I will go enjoy the festival.”
It was a resplendent board. The tables groaned under platters of meats and fruits. Large cheeses were scattered about along with outsized loaves of bread. Servants scurried about with pitchers of tea and butter mead. Musicians played gay tunes as entertainers juggled, sang, and performed acts of bewilderment and amazement.
Tenzing dragged his awestruck son to the head table. “Friends!” he cried, “I give you a new Khalkha warrior, a man and my son.” The assembly of Mongols and their allies stood and cheered, saluting Tenzing on his great fortune. Only Suishin was silent, standing near the rear of the tent. His dark eyes burned holes through Angkor as he cleaned his fingernails with a thin, tapered blade.
Chapter 5
Tenzing and Angkor strutted down the streets of the temporary city on the steppes. “Come, my son! Let’s go see the games!” his father insisted.
The Naadam Festival had its roots in the ancient times when the tribes were spread across the whole of Asia. Yearly, they would gather for feasting, settlement of arguments, exchange of goods and gifts. And the Games.
The Games had started as demonstrations of warrior arts, horseback riding, archery, and wrestling. But as the centuries progressed, more games were added and contests of singing and poetry.
Now all the nations or Earth sent representatives and their games to the festival. Hellas, famous for its Olympics, sent its version of wrestling and foot races. Occident, nearly as large as Pan Asia, sent a great variety. Tall poles they threw, the lifting and throwing of heavy weights. Sliding stones across slippery sheets of ice. Each region had its favorite and drew great crowds to hoot and cheer at the skills of their neighbors.
Only the games of Earth were allowed. While many aliens attended, their games would never be permitted.
“This is who we are,” declared Tenzing. “This is what it is to be human! Our songs, our games, our struggle with each other. We fight and squabble amongst ourselves, yes. But in the end, each looks to his enemy and declares ‘you are my brother!’”
They joined the crowd at the children’s horse race. Angkor recalled riding in the race years ago, the first time his father brought him to the festival. With a shout, the next race of five hundred leapt from the starting gate, as the tide rushes through a channel. Tiny voices screamed out dozens of tribal war cries as they broke from narrow bleachers and onto the open plain. Tenzing and Angkor jumped and cheered with the crowd as the horde raced through the course, riding miles out and back. A small girl from the Oirats tribe took the race for the five-year old’s. The cry went up and the next race, for six-year old’s, began to form up.
Tenzing led his son away, wandering toward the archery range. He was deep in thought. “Answer me, Angkor, one question…What is the best form of government?”
“Democracy, father,” Angkor replied.
“Why?”
Angkor considered for a few steps. “Because it allows participation for all of the governed,” was his uncertain response.
“Does it?” Tenzing pressed. “What of the man or woman who doesn’t participate? Doesn’t vote? Doesn’t engage in their local politics? Does democracy work for them, too?”
“They are fools if they don’t participate,” came Angkor’s stern reply.
“Yes, fools.” Tenzing walked several steps, then offered, “Yet these same fools cry out the loudest when the policy they support isn’t enacted or when the politician they oppose win elective office. Usually quite noisily, if my experience is to have any weight.”
An announcement thundered from the fairgrounds tannoy. The men’s competition in archery was about to begin. “Shall we?” Tenzing beckoned to the line of men who waited to compete. Angkor was thrilled. His father’s prowess with the bow was legendary amongst the Khalkha; to be invited to shoot with his father was incredible. He would gain much face with the gesture his father was offering.
Several of the other participants recognized the headman of the Khalkha and whispered to themselves. One ran to the front of the line, excited, and whispered into an official’s ear, pointing. The official scurried down the line to Tenzing and kowtowed.
“You honor us with your presence, Exalted One,” he groveled. “Would you honor us with a demonstration of your skill?”
“I came here to shoot a quiver with my son,” explained Tenzing, “not to show off before all our fellow Terrans.”
“Please,” a bystander asked, an Egyptian by appearance and dress. “I should like to tell my children how I saw the Great Tenzing shoot a bow.” Other men and women around them insisted as well.
“If those in front of us do not object?” asked Tenzing. None did, of course. Indeed, most applauded as Tenzing led Angkor to the front.
They each searched though the bows available. Many varieties, from modern composite bows to ancient weapons from many cultures were neatly organized for participants to select from. Angkor had learned on the Mongolian short bow, and selected one that felt right. When he looked to his father, they both grinned. Each had selected the weapon of their ancestors.
Angkor wanted to examine each arrow as carefully as he had the bow. However, Tenzing walked over and selected the first quiver of arrows he found, slung them over his shoulder. “A warrior knows his weapons as he knows his own arm,” explained Tenzing. “Poor is the warrior who blames a warped arrow or a bent arrow head. When he draws, he knows these things and adjusts to compensate when he fires,”
A youngster led them from the tent to the target range. The path was well trod, tamped down by the feet of thousands of participants for centuries. Whispers flew up and down the line, the legendary Tenzing Khan, headman of the Khalkha and Khan of all Mongolia, would be shooting today! As the great man and his son passed, the crowd pushed forward, climbing on any object for a better view. Fathers held their sons on their shoulders.
Targets were set at ten yard intervals, ranging out to one hundred yards. Two further targets were at one hundred twenty-five and one hundred fifty yards. “It shall be Khalkha rules,” announced the official. “Odd distances out, even distances back. Scores for target and speed. Contestants ready?”
The two men, father and son, stood at the firing line. The signal was given; both loosed at the ten-yard target. Then the thirty. Again, and again. At the ninety-yard target, Tenzing asked, “So, my son, if you see a lack of participation as the single biggest issue with democracy, what would you offer as a means to replace it?” He let loose his arrow and hit the target dead center, as he had all the rest.
Angkor hesitated. He pondered the question, then focused on his target and let fly. “Mandatory participation,” he said as his arrow flew down range. “Or a different form of government entirely.” His arrow struck center.
“Indeed?” Tenzing’s one hundred twenty-five-yard arrow flew from the bow. “What form would that be?” The missile struck center, to rousing applause from the gathered throng.
Angkor struggled to focus. Clearly his father meant to distract him with all these questions. He ignored the sound of the crowd, focusing only on his breathing, his heartbeat and the arrow. He exhaled, waited for the slight pause in his pulse and released his arrow. “I’m not sure, Father.” His arrow flew true. It hit dead center.
“Ah, then we have much to talk about.” Almost too swift to see, Tenzing lofted arrow after arrow until his quiver was empty. He tossed the bow to the stunned official as the striking of the six arrows sounded of an even ripple across the six targets, each perfectly centered.
“When you are finished, my son, I’ll see you at the starting line for the Great Race.”
The crowd parted in awe as the headman strode past.
The Great Race was the oldest of all the traditional and most grueling of all the competitions of the Naadam Festival. Riders from every corner of Terra participated, with the horses of their nations.
Tenzing stood on the starter’s platform, Angkor at his side. “This is the race of champions!” declared Tenzing. “The race above all races. Only the bravest men and women, only the heartiest of beasts may participate. You shall ride across the open Gobi for seven days to the temple on the edge of Mongol lands. There, the bonzes will award you your pendant. You return here to receive acclaim and honor for completing the race! This sword,” he held a gleaming silver blade, “is the prize for the victor. The first rider, with their pendant, who grabs this sword is champion! Make ready, when the sword strikes.” Tenzing suddenly threw the sword down into the turf, where it buried itself several inches.
The riders raced off. Many of the elders, Tenzing included, shook their heads. “The swiftest runners the first day won’t finish,” an elder told Angkor. “He will whip his horse out the first day. The beast will die within the first few days. No, the winner comes from the sure and steady rider, who has thought out his race and conserves his horse at the start.” He pointed to the small band that was trotting away, just barely in sight. “One of those will be the winner.”
Angkor watched the group trot away. One, from Occident, wore an unusual hat, flat and brown, mangled looking.
Father and son walked the streets again, heading to Tenzing’s yurt for supper. “Have you considered my question?” asked the father.
“I have, Father,” replied Angkor, “but I reserve the right to study the question more.”
“That would be fair,” agreed Tenzing. “I myself have considered the question for more than forty years. I cannot expect you to answer in a few hours. But, please, tell me your thoughts?”