The Earth Is the Lord's

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Kurelen found the journey back no less exalting than the journey southward. The child, Temujin, strong of back, gray of eye, and wiry and vigorous of limb, would sit on his knee now, on the platform. He would laugh often, and appeared fond of his mother’s brother. Houlun would join them contentedly, though she had lately complained. For she was with child again, the spring having been too much for Yesukai, who had acquired one or two extra wives.

  The sun would lie warmly on Kurelen’s twisted back. The child would scramble on his knees, or laugh over the handfuls of rank-smelling and pungent flowers gathered for him. But sometimes, in the gray childish eyes there would be a dark shadow, in spite of the blinding sun. And something of the primitive ferocity of the barrens, the mountains and the deserts, would transfix his little features.

  There was a place on the way back which Kurelen had seen many times. He always watched for it eagerly. Among the red cliffs and chasms and ramparts, among the pointed pyramids and the pillared natural temples as red as blood, he would finally find a high hill of steel-colored granite. Its profile, against the passionately blue sky, was the profile of a sleeping giant, a giant who never awakened, whose face was turned upwards eternally to wind and heaven and storm. There was something terrible in that fixed and ageless repose, something appalling, Kurelen would think. It was like the spirit of the desert, the spirit of death or fatefulness, waiting for eons, perhaps never to awaken, or if awakening at long intervals, to turn frightful eyes for one awful moment upon the world, before sleeping again.

  Many years later, he thought of this sleeping doom when he looked upon the face of Temujin.

  Chapter 9

  The shallow bowl of the earth was filled with purple, floating, deep and tenuous. Streaks of fiery yellow splintered the west. In another moon, the winter migration would begin. The air was already chill as a frozen mountain stream. The purple of the earth lightened, and now the world was lost in vagrant shadows of pale orange, violet, dusky blue and gray, having lost its solid quality and become but a dream of chaos.

  In his yurt, Kurelen warmed his hands at his dung fire. The three young boys at his side were still unsatiated. They would have more stories about Baghdad and Samarkand and the cities of Cathay. But Jamuga was interested excessively in the accounts of the strange mailed men whom Kurelen had seen once on a time, destined to an even stranger land. Kasar was inclined to be dubious. He never believed in the existence of anything which he had not himself tasted, smelled, touched or heard or seen.

  “If thou wouldst have been born blind, Kasar, thou wouldst have called men liars if they spoke of the sun,” said Kurelen.

  Jamuga had replied, in his soft and steadfast voice: “Kasar would not have been so great a fool, in truth. If he could not have seen the sun, then the sun, for him, could not exist.”

  Kurelen smiled. He liked Jamuga. But this did not keep him from teasing the boy. Part of his malice arose from his old discovery that Jamuga did not trust him, and had a cold small contempt for him. Jamuga, he would tell Temujin, had eyes which were incapable of glancing sideways.

  But Temujin was impatient. He was not an imperious boy. But he detested idle talk. He also hated obscurity. But this was not because he was a fool. He understood most of the abstruse talk between Kurelen, and his anda, Jamuga, but he thought abstract conversation folly because it was not accompanied by action. This aversion of his did not extend to heroic tales, or strange ones. They carried with them the aroma and the violence of things which had happened and were done.

  “Tell us more of the men with the pale faces, and with the coats of mail,” said Kasar, the brother of Temujin, sceptically.

  Kurelen chuckled. “They were not so fair of face when we came upon them, lost in the Gobi sands! Their flesh was the color of raw entrails, from the heat of the sun and the flailing of the sandstorms and wind. They wore coats of silvery mail, not like our armor, which is of hard lacquered leather, and their swords were better than the Turkish swords. Their horses had long since been killed and eaten. They numbered about fifty, though they explained that many, many times that number had died in the long journey, including their leader, whom they called a great prince. We were able to understand them, for some of our people were Nestorian Christians, and two of them had been beyond the mountains into a far country called Russia, where men of many languages congregate, especially at the western borders. It seems they were lost, and far out of their way. Upon questioning, they declared that they had originally set out from their native countries far to the west for the purpose of going to a strange country, there to engage in mortal combat to rescue that strange country from those they called ‘infidels.’”

  He added reflectively: “We finally understood that these ‘infidels’ were Turkomans, or a kindred race, who lived in the strange country, where the god of these pale-skinned men once dwelt, and where he died. It was all very stupid, and very confusing. Men must fight for women and food and pasture lands, and perhaps, sometimes, for things of beauty. It is worthy that they fight if suffocated for room. But for none of these things were these imbeciles fighting. Their language and gestures were very noble, and many of us were impressed, though puzzled and contemptuously pitying. From the first, I doubted very seriously the story they told us. When they were fed, and ointment put upon their raw flesh, and when they were given quantities of Turkish wine, they lost their nobility very quickly. They began to boast They told us the real reason for their seeking and fighting. They desired to find some one they called Prester John, the Old Man of the Mountain, a fabulous being who lived in a gigantic city whose tents were made of cloth of gold, and who had many treasures. Moreover, I gathered from their confused accounts, that they had heard of Cathay. The streets and temples, they condescendingly informed us, were made of gold, and the doors of the temples and the palaces were studded with turquoises and many other precious stones. Even the horses were harnessed with silver and gems, and the women were of surpassing loveliness. When they spoke of these things their eyes glowed and they licked their lips and scratched.

  “I said to them: ‘It is true that in Cathay are many treasures, but not what ye seek. They are treasures of the mind, the jewels of philosophy, the gems of fine manners and gracious living.’ But of these things they had never heard, and stared at me with scornful amazement, as men might stare at an idiot. It was most evident that they were what the people of Cathay call us: barbarians. In truth, they were even less civilized than we, for they tried to repay our hospitality with treachery and theft, for all their fine words about their god, and our women were not safe with them. One morning we awoke and discovered that they had made off with our father’s best horses, and two of my sisters. We pursued them, and found them with little trouble. We left their bodies for the vultures to pick to the bones. My father said to me, for I was a youth then ‘Beware of him who cometh with holy words and eyes that are piously lifted, and mouth that is piously drawn down, for surely he is a thief and a liar and a traitor.’ Then he ordered the Nestorian Christians among us to be tortured and killed, for they had seemed to understand something of what the pale men had said, though somewhat puzzled.”

  Kurelen stuffed his mouth with a choice piece of young mutton, and chewed with a pleasant expression on his face, as though his thoughts pleased him.

  “My father was a wise man. He preferred murder to argument. I often thought he had an envious eye on the Christians’ swords and chains of mail, and was grateful for their treachery. Otherwise, he would have been hard put to it to find a way to violate the laws of hospitality.”

  The boys laughed. Jamuga had listened with passionate intensity. Kurelen glanced at him. “As thou dost know, Jamuga, thy mother is the wife of Lotchu, half-brother to Yesukai. She cometh from the Naiman, and was one of their fairest maidens. But before she married Lotchu she was with child by one of the pale men. Thou wert that child. Yet, it is strange: thou art neither mealy-mouthed nor pious, treacherous nor crafty. That proveth that good blood can dr
own out black.”

  Jamuga smiled with reserve; he was a youth without humor, and suspected those guilty of it. He was certain that Kurelen was mocking him. Nevertheless, he was secretly proud. The bitter suns and winds of the Gobi could not completely darken his fair skin. His eyes were as blue as the mirage waters of the Lake of the Damned, which he had seen once on a time. This blueness of his eyes was not fierce or hot, but rather misty and fragile and very pale. Though Temujin, his anda, had the gray eyes of the Bourchikoun, and hair the color of raw red gold, he seemed darker than Jamuga, whose fine hair was the color of an autumn leaf. Moreover, Jamuga’s body was lighter and more delicate, his eye-sockets wide and straight instead of slanting, his nose smaller and tilted, his mouth gentle and reserved. There was no ferocity about him, no anger that was wild and untamed. When angry, he felt as cold as death, and only the rigidity of his fine features betrayed his emotion. Too, though courageous, he did not care for wrestling, which was the chief amusement of the young Yakka Mongols. On the other hand, he was not liked, except by those of subservient spirit, for he was of a peculiar temperament, almost sullen, aloof, haughty, imperious, yet at times kind and sensitive. When the hunters returned with the spoils of their raids, he was not interested in the swords and the lances and scimitars and bow-cases and the arrows of various weights, nor in the lacquered shields and the cattle and camels. He did not care for the bags of silver coins, mixed with gold. But he was his mother’s favorite, and also beloved of his stepfather, Lotchu, who was afraid of him, and he was always able to coax and wheedle the things he desired from their shares of the loot. In the yurt which he shared with his half-brothers he had a strong Chinese chest of his own, made of the hardest black wood, and in that chest he had gathered lengths of silvery cloth, ivory figurines exquisitely carved, rolled manuscripts painted with strange characters of tiny lovely faces and gracious Chinese landscapes, silver cups beautifully traced and shaped, daggers with ivory sheaths inlaid with silver, and small rugs which glowed like jewels, and even strings of turquoises and pearls, and silver and ivory flutes. No one laughed at him to his face, partly because Lotchu was a fierce warrior, and partly because there was something mysterious and odd in Jamuga himself, which made laughter sound foolish. He had long ago discovered that men laugh only at those who have been guilty of familiarity, and that if a man sits at your side and eats with you in equality, and drinks from your cup, he will consider himself your equal, or even your superior. Jamuga secretly thought no one his equal or superior, yet he had no contempt in him except for those like Kurelen, who laughed when laughter was not indicated. To the end of his life, Jamuga suspected those who laughed with their eyes, only, and especially those who laughed internally. This was because he was enormously egotistic, but had the wit to be able to conceal this egotism from the simple. But from Kurelen, and from the Shaman, who detested him, he had not been able to conceal it.

  Moreover, though generous to a few, and especially to the helpless, he was avaricious and selfish and secretive. Rarely did his eye warm with human emotion and tenderness, except for Temujin (whom he considered not too intelligent) and for his mother. He suspected, with truth, that Kurelen understood this about him, also, and with his dislike for the crippled man was mingled cold apprehension.

  But Kurelen was fond of him, for he knew that Jamuga never lied nor cheated, nor was consciously cruel, and that his word, once given, was even more rigid than the word of the Mongols, if that were possible. He knew he had honor almost beyond belief, and that he was brave and steadfast. Kurelen had taught him to read the language of Cathay, and even as much as he knew of the language of the Turkomans, the inhabitants of Baghdad and Samarkand. He had taught him philosophy and the religions of other men. But never had he been able to teach him that delicate laughter at others, which is without brutality, and filled only with wry cynicism and mirth at oneself. Jamuga, thought Kurelen, with some regret, was too egotistic for humor, for above all things he had a passion for his own pride, and a deep love for himself. In that pride and that love, Kurelen suspected, sprang his bitter honor, his hatred for ferocity, his contemplative mind.

  Kurelen, who had lived in more or less amity with his old enemy, the Shaman, for some years now, once said to him: “Kokchu, when thou hast eventually disposed of me, thou wilt have another with whom to converse. Jamuga. And a far more comfortable other, for, lacking the ability to laugh, he will be no asp in thy hand.”

  But the Shaman had smiled his dark subtle smile, and had replied: “Men of mind who laugh are dangerous, but more dangerous are men of mind who do not laugh.” He had tapped Kurelen on the chest: “Thou and I, Kurelen, are rascals, therefore we can enjoy each other. But this youth is no rascal, and I have no love for him.”

  Jamuga, Kurelen observed, grinning, had no love for the Shaman, either. But Jamuga did not condescend to tease the Shaman, nor argue with him, nor give him tribal honor. He merely ignored him. Jamuga’s mother was a simple woman, and a comely one, and Kokchu had long enjoyed her; otherwise Jamuga might have long ago been found with a knife in his back, or mysteriously left upon the desert for the vultures. In him, Kokchu had long ago recognized a mortal enemy.

  “Men of thought,” said Kurelen, “who are without mirth and humor, are vigorous enemies of all charlatans, whereas men of thought and humor tolerate them and are grateful for their buffoonery in a tiresome world.”

  Once or twice he had wished that Jamuga liked him. That was because he was the anda of Temujin, whom Kurelen loved with all his heart, as he loved Houlun. At first he had feared that Jamuga might injure Temujin’s affection for his uncle, and then he had lost his fear. Jamuga was incapable of tampering with the loyalties of others, even of his friend.

  Once Jamuga had complained fastidiously of some of the cruder cruelties and debaucheries of the Yakka Mongols. Their lustiness offended him; their ruthlessness and savagery revolted him. Then it was, to his own profound surprise, that Kurelen had said:

  “It is these things which make our people invincible and strong and undefeated. Townsmen, whom thou dost admire, are weak. Temples are places for eunuchs, and academies the houses of castration. The man who sits on his hams and contemplates hath the soul of a slave, and he who writeth in books and he who readeth the books, is a man without bowels.”

  While Jamuga was interested profoundly in the subject of the wandering Christians, Temujin was interested only in Kurelen’s accounts of the great riches and power of Cathay, its decaying grandeur, its cynical decadence, its generals, ministers, princes and emperors. He liked to hear his uncle tell about the Northern Kins and the native Sung dynasty of Cathay, and the tragic chaos which internal conflict was inducing in that magnificent empire. Above all, Kurelen observed, the youth was minutely absorbed in every account of the military weaknesses of Cathay, and the strength of the Turkish towns and cities in the vicinity of the Orkhon River. As he listened to these accounts, Temujin’s dilated nostrils would expand still more, as though with contempt, and there would be an eager gleam in his tilted gray eyes.

  Temujin was a handsome youth, though not quite as tall and impressive of stature as Bektor, his hated half-brother, nor quite as broad as Belgutei, Bektor’s brother. But he was alert, and swift as a fox, and never tired, and his step was swifter than that of the others, his glance quicker and more piercing, his manner shorter and more decisive. His face was bronzed by wind and sun, and his cheekbones were broad and harsh, framed by two thick braids of red hair. His mouth, straight and hard, rarely laughed, though he could smile occasionally, and then with a sort of impatience. His gleaming eyes, his expanded nostrils in his jutting nose, his broad darkened face and grim chin caught the most casual glance and held it. For there was a fateful ferocity about him, which had nothing of primitive innocence and simple animalism. Rather, it was a ferocity which was completely aware, and as implacable as stone, and as cruel and impersonal as death.

  Jamuga might consider Temujin not overly subtle or intelligent, but Kurelen knew
that Jamuga was never a good judge of other men. Such as Jamuga spent their lives in a confused and resentful quandary, because others upon whom they had passed early judgment failed to justify that judgment in later days. Jamuga, to the end of his life, never understood the deeps in Temujin, and when the day came for him to die he could only die in despair and weariness, still not understanding. In his own soul there was always this weariness, this tired impotence, even in youth, and Temujin’s restless energy, his avid seeking, his lust for life, his exuberant passion for all things, offended him. Once he had called Temujin a barbarian, and then when Temujin had stared, and had laughed loud and long, Jamuga was affronted as though by some subtle insult. When, towards the end of his life, he dimly guessed what lay beneath the surface of Temujin’s impatient nature and rough hard manner, Jamuga was so appalled, so stricken down, that he turned to death as one turns to opium, loathing himself, and full of hatred and misery. He told himself he might have known, had he not been a fool, but his own egotism, his own necessity to condescend, had made it impossible to discern in Temujin what Kurelen and a few others had discerned from the beginning.