by Daniel Diehl
“You asked Gumolin what were the meaning of the words airag and kumis. That,” he said, pointing at Jason’s cup, “is kumis.”
“What is it?” Jason wheezed out, still hardly able to talk.
“Fermented mare’s milk. It is what makes the Mongol warrior so fierce.”
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and setting the cup between his feet, Jason took a deep breath before he was able to reply. “It’s a wonder it didn’t make the Mongol warriors dead.”
Gumolin laughed and winked at Merlin. “Later you can try airag.” Before Jason could protest, he added, “But now you will watch my warriors.” With that, the chieftain raised a hand toward the mounted horsemen at the edge of the field. The instant his arm fell, the men kicked their ponies in the ribs and charged across the field.
Riding in single file, at full gallop and standing in their stirrups, one after another the horsemen came within range of their target. Each one nocked an arrow into his bow as he dashed across the rough plain. Immediately after the first arrow spun, singing into its target, the rider drew a second arrow, ready for the next target. Close on the heels of each rider came the next, each one shooting as their horses galloped at full speed across the rough, frozen earth. Twelve men, eight targets; each of which, within minutes, held a perfect count of twelve arrows. Not a single rider had missed the mark. On reaching the far end of the field, the Mongols reined their mounts a hundred-and-eighty degrees in preparation for the return run. As the warriors readied themselves, Gumolin explained that having warmed up, each rider would now display the trick shot at which they excelled.
Approaching the line of targets, the first man stood erect in his saddle, knees locked, bouncing furiously with the plummeting gate of the horse and executed another perfect round of bull’s eyes. As he neared the last target, Gumolin turned to Merlin.
“Now, watch this next man. He is Similak, one of the best riders in all Mongolia.”
Similak plunged across the plain, pulled his right foot free of the stirrup, hooked it across the back of his saddle and leaned so far forward that the front half of his body dangled below the bottom of his horse’s neck. Hanging parallel to the ground, his bow slung beneath the horse’s head, he scored eight perfect hits. In the tent, Merlin and Jason watched in slack-jawed amazement while their host roared approval. One after another the riders executed a string of seemingly impossible shots. One whirled around in the saddle and shot while facing the rear of the horse; another held the bow behind his head and fired across his back, managing to score seven out of eight bull’s-eyes. After having completed three such incredible passes, the riders reigned in at the end of the field while a runner pulled all but a dozen arrows from each of the targets.
“You will have to watch closely to see what they do now, but it will be worth it.” Gumolin was already on his fourth cup of kumis and had refilled Merlin’s cup for the third time. Raising the cup to his lips, Gumolin twirled his free hand in the air. The first rider leaned forward as his horse lunged pell-mell toward the row of targets. Pulling his rifle from the saddle holster, he fired eight times in rapid succession. One after another the remaining contestants did the same. Although Jason could see tiny plumes of debris fly into the air from each target, he could not see how close to scoring a bull’s-eye anyone had actually come. “Gumolin? From here, I can’t see how close to the center of the targets they got. How do you know who scores the most hits?”
Gumolin roared with laughter, slapped his knee and rocked back and forth with mirth. “They are not shooting at the targets. Any child could do that. Each man makes his own arrows and they are all slightly different. When the runner pulled out the extra arrows, he left one arrow from each man in each target.” The look on Jason’s face told the chieftain he had no idea what this meant. “They were shooting the feathers off their own arrows. Each man only shot once so we will now know how good his shot was. If every man made a perfect score, each of his arrows will be missing a single feather. Good, no?”
“My, God, that’s amazing.”
“Not amazing. Mongol skill. Come now, we will eat and drink.”
At the campsite, nearly the entire tribe had already gathered in anticipation of the evening’s feast and the returning riders were dismounting. When they took off their gleaming metal helmets, Jason was amazed to see that of the twelve, three were women.
“Excuse me, Gumolin, do your women compete in these events, too?”
“Of course. Archery, guns, everything but wrestling. You will see our young men wrestle later. You will enjoy it. Now, take a seat and my daughter will bring us airag.”
It was obviously more of a command than a request, so Jason complied, placing himself near Merlin. On the fire the two goats were still turning on the spit, scenting the air with their rich drippings enhanced by liberal coatings of wild mint and garlic. As Jason looked at the rich dress and laughing faces of his new friends, a young Mongolian girl with plaited, waist length hair came toward them with mugs and an earthenware jug. Handing the first mug to Gumolin, she filled it with a frothy liquid and repeated the procedure for Merlin and Jason. When it came Jason’s turn, she gave him a quick glance, giggled, blushed and hurried away at a sharp word from Gumolin. “That is my daughter.” He said to Merlin. “She and all the young women are particularly taken with your young friend. They have never seen a man with yellow hair. This far east, even the Russians have brown skin and black hair.”
Overhearing this exchange, Jason tried to will himself into invisibility, pulling his knees tightly together and staring into his drink. Hoping to hide his face, he took a long pull from the cup. “Hey. This isn’t bad.” He said, holding the cup toward Gumolin. “What did you say it was?”
“Airag. It is not unlike your beer and is brewed from wild grain. Drink all you like. Among the Mongols, there is no shame in drunkenness. It is a sign that we are having a good time and it helps us forget the hardships of life on the steppe.”
To himself, Jason thought: Evidently. I read that Genghis Khan drank himself to death. But it didn’t seem like the sort of thing he should say out loud, so he asked. “How many people are there in your group?”
“Including the children, thirty-eight. We are not large, but we are well respected. Everyone knows Gumolin’s people even when we travel to the Naadam in Ulan Bator. Now, you must tell me where you are traveling to.”
Not knowing how much information to divulge Jason fell into a dead silence and cast a surreptitious glance toward Merlin who nodded and spoke. “We are trying to find an ancient fortress that stands on the Chinese border...” Before he could continue, Gumolin’s small, slanted eyes narrowed to the point of disappearing into the wrinkles of his weather beaten face, but he said nothing. “We were hoping you could show us the way. Possibly some of your warriors could lead us.”
Gumolin sat back in silence for a moment before answering. “Why do you want to go to this place?”
“Our enemy is hiding from us there and we must find her and confront her. It is a matter of honor.”
Gumolin nodded. Honor was something he understood and respected. “It is a very dangerous place. In the long past, the Chinese used it as a place from which to raid our lands. It is said that they had powerful sorcerers in their employ and that they placed terrible curses on our people. Some of the stories say they even sent dragons to devour our people.” Then, with a dismissive wave of his hand, “But of course, I don’t believe such tales. Still, it is now a base for the Triads. They are criminals and drug smugglers. Far too dangerous to fight. Are you certain you are ready to confront them?”
“We have no choice. We hope to find our enemy - a western woman who works with them - and be gone before the Triads know we were there.”
“I think you are very foolish.” Gumolin shook his head sadly. “You seem like good people and I would hate to see you fall into their hands. Do you insist on following this course?”
“Yes. We have no choice.”
“Very well,” he sighed. “Tomorrow, my men will pull your automobile out of the sand. They will get you close enough to find the place you seek but they will not accompany you. Even I, Gumolin, cannot make them go there.”
“We understand, and we appreciate your help. You’re a good friend.”
“If you truly considered me a friend, you would heed my advice and avoid that place. But it is your lives and you must follow your own destiny.”
Picking up the empty airag pitcher, Gumolin waved it at his daughter. “Mary. More airag.”
Merlin shot a curious glance at his host. “Mary? Your daughter is named Mary?”
“Yes. Her mother, my wife, who died in her second pregnancy sixteen years ago, was not of the Mongol people. She was Chinese. Her mother, my mother-in-law, had been raised by Christian missionaries before the communists drove out the church. So my wife became a Christian and insisted we name our daughter Mary, after your Lord’s mother.”
“I assume you are not a Christian.”
“No, but I have a great respect for your beliefs. It is a good religion, but it is not Gumolin’s.”
“May I ask what your religion is?”
“I am a Taoist. Are you familiar with the beliefs of Tao?”
“A little. It too is a good religion, but it is not mine.”
At this, Gumolin smiled and nodded. Then, pausing as though searching for the right words, he continued. “From my wife, I learned something of your faith. Among the things I learned is that some of your monks dress in long gray gowns. You wear a long gray gown. Is it possible that you are one of these holy men?”
Merlin sighed and straightened up, looking Gumolin straight in the eye before answering. “I was a priest in a monastic house, many, many years ago. But I am no longer in the order.”
“Do you still retain your faith?”
“Yes, I like to think so.” Merlin nodded.
“Good. You will need all the help your God can give you if you go to that place.
Chapter Twenty
The next morning, after a light breakfast of gruel and tea, Jason and Merlin were given a small supply of food, a wineskin of water and directed to a pair of ponies that would carry them to their car. Before they left, Gumolin came to wish them farewell and ask them once again to reconsider their decision. When they declined, Gumolin and a dozen of his people watched as they set out in the company of four of Gumolin’s men.
By ten a.m. the lead rider sighted the half-buried vehicle and drove his horse toward it, signaling the rest to follow him. With shovels and bare hands, Jason and the Mongols began uncovering the front end of the car, tying stout ropes to the tow ring. With six horses pulling and tugging, the vehicle wallowed and sloughed along the edge of the road for fifty feet before the front wheels reached solid ground. Another fifty feet and the car was back on the road.
Jason opened the hood and dusted the sand off of the engine. Knowing he was no mechanic, when he had done all he could do, Jason got into the car. The engine ground, spluttered and ground again, but refused to catch hold. On the fourth try, with the battery nearing its limit, the engine roared to life. Leaving it to idle, Jason got out of the car and walked over to the others, who were cheering and applauding, and thanked them profusely for their help. While he was talking to them, Merlin climbed down from his pony and carried the wineskin and food to the car.
“Tell Gumolin how grateful we are to him, and to all of you, for your help. Without you we might have died out here.”
“Gumolin wishes us to tell you that you are welcome among our people any time, but now that you can travel on your own, we must return to our camp.”
Jason scowled, wondering if he had misunderstood Gumolin’s promise of a guide. “I understood you were going to lead us to the fortress.”
The men looked at each other and shook their heads. Finally, one of them spoke. “We are happy to provide you with directions. We will even ride along with you for a little while, so long as the road is straight, but we will not go near that evil place.”
Frustrated, Jason replied. “Well, if you can only go as far as the road is straight, then I guess we can do that by ourselves. Could you at least tell me where to go when the road stops being straight?”
“Twice the road will divide before you reach the place you want. At each dividing point you must stay to the right. You will see the place in the direction of the rising sun,” he said, indicating the eastern horizon. “It lies a few hundred feet across the border into China, but there will be no guards to interfere with you.”
“How long will it take me to get there?”
“Four, maybe five hours by horse.”
“How long in the car?”
The men looked at each other, muttering and shaking their heads. “None of us have ever been in a motor vehicle, but on these roads you will not go much faster than on a pony. Maybe one hour less. We don’t know.”
“Ok. Well, thanks again.” Jason was not happy with their refusal to accompany him, but before returning to the car he took the time to shake each one of them by the hand and wish them well.
As the men turned their stocky horses back toward the desert, one of them turned back and called to Jason. “Be very careful on your journey and come back safely into the world.”
“What an odd thing to say, ‘back into the world’. What the hell does that mean?” Jason mumbled to himself as he trudged through the sand toward Merlin and the Land Rover.
“They’re not coming, are they?”
Jason clambered into the driver’s seat with a grunt. “Seems not. Even Gumolin’s orders weren’t enough to make them go near Morgana’s little castle.”
“Subadie was right. Even the bravest Mongol warrior won’t go there.”
“Are you sure this is such a good idea?”
“I never said it was a good idea. I said we didn’t have any choice.”
“Oh, yeah” Jason said ruefully, engaging the clutch and pulling the Land Rover toward the center of the narrow road. “That is what you said, isn’t it?”
Three hours later they were hopelessly lost. They had looked for the turn-offs Gumolin’s men described, but the road was so indistinct that somewhere along the way they missed a turn and were again headed north-west. Having reduced their speed to a ten mile an hour crawl they argued whether to go on or turn back. As they discussed the merits of one course of action over the other, Merlin said, “I think we should ask him.”
“Who?”
“The man up there, leading the donkey.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Jason eased the Land Rover into gear, heading toward the distant figure. As they approached, they could see he was tiny and bent with age; a strange looking figure even for the primitive world of the Mongolian border. Down his back hung a braided queue of the sort Chinese men wore in the nineteenth century. His baggy trousers and long jacket were made from magnificent black silk but their cut was as dated as his hairstyle. Around the neck of his coat stood a high, mandarin collar and the hem reached well below his knees. On his head was a low, round cap with a single pheasant feather fastened across the top. When they rolled down the car window, the man turned to look at them. He could have been seventy or ninety or one hundred - it was impossible to tell.
After a low bow, the old man stared through the open window at Merlin. Unlike the Mongols, his face had not suffered the effects of weather; his wrinkles were the result of extreme age. His eyes were small and as intensely black as Merlin’s were blue. They also had the appearance of being as hard and cold as polished obsidian. His Manchu moustache hung well below his chin and when he smiled in answer to Merlin’s greeting, they could see his teeth - small, sharp and too widely spaced, making his smile look disconcertingly like a rat trap. All in all, the man looked positively feral.
“How may the pathetic Ling Chu be of assistance to the honored western gentlemen?” His dry, croaking voice managed to be at once aggressive and obsequious.
“We seem to have lost our way and hoped you would be kind enough to give us directions.”
“I will do my humble best.” The rattrap grin widened. “Where does your journey carry your most esteemed selves?”
Merlin did not like talking to this man, but since there seemed no alternative, he continued. “We’re looking for a ruined fortress on the Chinese border. I believe we have missed one, or both, of our turns.”
The man bowed in acknowledgement. “Indeed you are correct. As I have some limited knowledge of your fine western system of measuring distance, I believe I can tell you where you must go. Please to turn around and go back for four-tenths of a mile. There you will come upon a small pyramid of rocks. That is the turnoff you seek. There you must go to the left. As this is the only turnoff prior to your destination, I must assume you took the other one without knowing it.”
“You’re very kind. Thank you.”
The old man bowed again, this time so low that his withered body nearly bent at a ninety-degree angle. “And in what other way may this wretched creature be of service to you?”
“None, thank you. You have given us all the information we need.”
“Then Ling Chu bids you a prosperous day, and with your kind permission I shall continue on my way.”
As the old man tugged his burrow and shuffled off down the road, Jason turned the Land Rover around and headed back toward the turnoff, watching the odometer as the tenths-of-miles ticked away. In the rear view mirror, he could see the old man stop his donkey and grin hideously toward their car.