He left at dawn. He did not feel particularly well, and laid this to the fact that he had eaten and drunk far too much. He did not detect the irony in the smiles and the salutes of his hosts, as he rode away. But when he glanced back, to wave his arm at them in farewell, they merely stood and watched him, without replying.
The sun rose high and hot, and all at once Yesukai realized that he was mortally ill. The sweat that rolled down his cheeks was cold as ice. Violent cramps seized his middle. He leaned over on his horse and vomited. The fiery desert swung about him in circles, and there were a score of raging suns in the scarlet sky.
He thought to himself, simply: They have poisoned me. He fastened his rope lariat tightly about his waist and tied himself to his horse. He leaned his head on his horse’s neck and gave himself up to black suffering. Blood began to trickle and writhe from his mouth. Finally, he lost consciousness.
When he next opened his eyes, he saw that he was in his own ordu, and that they had laid him on his own bed. He saw the grief-stricken faces of his people, and the gray eyes of Houlun. The Shaman was muttering his incantations. Unable to endure his torment, Yesukai gripped his lower lip with his teeth, and then cried out for his son. Temujin.
Kurelen came to him and knelt by his bed. Sincere sorrow stood on the face of the crippled man. Yesukai smiled at him faintly.
“Counsel my son, Kurelen. Thou art a wise man, though ofttimes a foolish one.”
He closed his eyes. A courier had already been dispatched for Temujin, and this courier was Kasar.
But when Temujin arrived, his father was already dead.
Chapter 16
“Loyalty?” Kurelen shrugged his shoulders, and looked at his nephew with ironic compassion. “There is but one way to secure the undying loyalty of thy followers: Make it to their best advantage to be faithful unto thee.”
“That is not just,” said Jamuga with bitterness and anger.
Chepe Noyon laughed lightly, but he regarded Temujin with sparkling eyes as hard as gems. “As for myself, Temujin, know that thou hast my life if need be.”
Kasar was so overcome with emotion, that he made his face as fierce as a bear’s, to hide the tears in his eyes. He could not speak. He could only keep beating the fist of one hand in the other, and looking at his brother with passionate love.
But Subodai said gravely, his brow seemingly touched with light: “Thou knowest me, Temujin.”
Temujin, whose eyes were red with weeping for grief for his father, flung out his arms wildly. “But what are we, after all? Who are my followers? A cripple, a woman, and you, who are but children?” His voice was harsh. He regarded them with helpless fury.
No one spoke for a moment. Their faces were somber as they contemplated the truth of Temujin’s words. Then Temujin, more infuriated than ever, exclaimed:
“Even the Shaman hath deserted me. He standeth with Bektor. I believe they plot my life.”
“I am sure of it,” said Kurelen, without mockery, and in such a quiet voice that Temujin, who always relied on Kurelen’s irony and ridicule to hearten him, felt his heart fall into a pit of coldness.
“Then, I shall go forth and kill Bektor at once!” cried Kasar, in his simplicity. He wrenched his scimitar from his belt, and ran his finger lightly over its edge.
“That would be folly,” said Kurelen. “Kokchu would only find another sword against you. To destroy an enemy, it is a waste of time to knock the sword from his hand. The enemy himself must be destroyed.”
Chepe Noyon drew out his dagger, and said with quick resolution: “I shall kill the Shaman.”
Kurelen shook his head, smiling: “Nay, that is a pleasure I reserve for myself, in the future. In the meantime, I enjoy his conversation. Besides, ye are all young fools. Ye may kill a people’s king; ye may destroy them and enslave them, and throw down their heroes. And even then, if ye are powerful enough they will submit and forgive, and even offer their love. But lay a hand upon their priests, and they will rise up and overthrow ye. Such is the power of superstition. At the end, men are afraid of their gods, no matter how they laugh at them. Secure the loyalty of a people’s priests, and ye have nothing to fear from them. I suggest thou secure the Shaman, Temujin.”
“But how?”
“By making it valuable to him to be faithful to thee.”
They fell into gloomy silence.
The situation of Temujin was truly formidable. He looked at his followers with helpless rage, his face dark, his eyes the translucent green eyes of a wolf in the night.
Yesukai had been dead two days when Temujin had arrived home. Before his arrival, the leading and discontented men of the clan had thoroughly discussed the whole matter. Much more than half, thereafter, resolved that they would desert the banner of the yak tails and seek new and stronger chieftains to adhere to and serve.
After all, they argued, they had wives and families and herds of their own to protect and for whom to find sustenance and protectors: Who was left in Yesukai’s ordu now? A weak woman and her children; a youth without experience. Poor staffs to sustain them. A shattered sword to guard them. A rent banner to follow.
“The strong wheel is broken,” they said. “The horsemen have lost their horses. The sustaining water hath been swallowed in the sand. Let us go.”
They were inarticulate people, but the Shaman had subtly put words into their mouths. Bektor, he had hinted, was a strong and resolute youth. He would lead them to new protectors. But what was Temujin? A youth of fiery and uncertain character, given to passions and rages without point. It was good for men to be faithful, but after all, what was faithfulness if it lead to death? A mirage, sought only by fools. It was the business and wisdom of men to live.
So nearly two-thirds of the clansmen decided to desert. Even while Temujin discussed the desperate state of affairs in his uncle’s yurt, the people were harnessing their oxen and calling in their herds and horses. It was spring, and the journey to summer pastures had already begun. Around the yurts of Temujin and his family there was a bare ring of desertion and silence. Even the dogs had left them.
The flap of the yurt opened, and bending her head Houlun entered. Her quiet face was stern, but her gray eyes flashed with bitter lightning and affront. The hood of her fur cloak had fallen on her shoulders, and her head emerged, strong and heroic, for all that her hair was streaked with threads of steel. She stood a moment, looking at her sons and her brother, and her lip lifted rigidly with scorn.
“Ye sit here, like whipped dogs, while the wife of the dead khan is insulted in her own ordu! But the strong stone is broken, and there is left nothing but gravel!”
They were abashed by her sudden appearance, and her look of majestic anger and cold sternness. Then Kurelen stood up and took her hand, pressing it between his palms. He was concerned at its coldness and its fixed tremor.
“What meanest thou, Houlun? We are here, consulting as to what best is to be done. Who hath offended thee?”
Her stern anger seemed to increase, but Kurelen saw the hard tears rising in her eyes.
“The Shaman hath just told me that I have been refused admission to the sacrifices. I protested, and the women set upon me with screams of contempt, and have ordered me to leave their camp and pastures. ‘Thou art an alien woman,’ they said to me, with disdain. ‘Our husbands shall not follow thee, and thou art an outcast, with thy children, among us. Get thee gone.’”
Her sons and their friends stood about her, shaking with rage. Their breath filled the yurt with its hoarse sound. Kurelen gazed piercingly into his sister’s eyes. Then he lifted her right hand. It was clenched about a whip, and caught in that whip were strands of hair. He smiled, dropped her hand. He said: “My sister, thou art a master among women. Fear not we shall leave thee on the field alone.”
He went out of the yurt alone. His hands were folded in his sleeves, for he carried certain objects in them. The ordu was in a state of great confusion, he observed wryly. Running cattle were being chased and
gathered by shouting herdboys and shepherds. Preparation for departing was in evidence everywhere. A long line of camels and yurts, cattle, sheep and horses, was already strung out towards the horizon. Campfires were being stamped out, children gathered up. Few took time to glance at Kurelen, and those who did spat openly and contemptuously, and turned away. But he went serenely on to the yurt of Kokchu, the Shaman. Two warriors rose up at his approach, and warned him away. He eyed them humbly, and spoke to them in a deprecating voice:
“I wish only a moment with the Shaman, to bid him farewell.”
“Bah,” said one warrior, spitting at Kurelen’s feet. “He will have nought to do with the kinsman of an alien woman and her beggar brats. Besides, the Shaman is preparing to go, and cannot be hindered by idle chatter.”
Kurelen lifted his voice loud enough to be heard within the yurt. He knew very well that behind the flap the Shaman was listening intently.
“Nevertheless, if it please him, I should like a single word with him. It is a matter of extreme importance.” He sighed. “However, grave matters are ofttimes overlooked for trivial affairs. If he will not see me, he will not.”
He turned away. The flap opened, and not at all to his surprise, the Shaman appeared on the platform, suspicious, cold and formal, with eyes like pieces of hard jet. He looked down at Kurelen with disdainful composure.
“How now, Kurelen, what wouldst thou have with me?”
Kurelen, smiling to himself, glanced about diffidently at the hurrying and departing tribesmen.
“Forgive me, Kokchu. I see thou art in the midst of confusion. I will not keep thee.”
He lifted his eyes to the Shaman, and they were as soft and bright as the simple eyes of a doe. Kokchu gazed at him searchingly, and then suddenly he smiled cynically, with inner amusement. “Come into the yurt,” he said, and re-entered, himself, abruptly.
The warriors, muttering with dark surprise, stood aside while Kurelen mounted the platform. He fastened the flap carefully behind him. Kokchu was already sitting cross-legged on the floor, his hands in his sleeves, waiting.
Kurelen said: “It would be of no use to speak to thee of loyalty to the son of Yesukai?”
Kokchu smiled still more. “Let us waste no time in the language of fools, Kurelen. We are men of sense. Sit down.”
Kurelen sat down. The Shaman graciously filled a cup with wine and handed it to his old enemy. Kurelen thanked him, drank deeply.
“I shall miss thee, Kurelen. From this night on, I must confine my conversation to the camels.”
Kurelen shook his head sadly. “I have written to Toghrul Khan. He is sworn brother to Yesukai, and will assist his son. Moreover, he is a man of wit and much fame. I have promised him edifying conversations with thee.”
The Shaman raised his eyebrows in deprecating surprise. He heard the threat behind Kurelen’s words, but pretended to hear only the words.
“Express my regret to the khan. But mayhap I shall meet him some day in the future.”
“Kokchu, I am certain of that.”
He held out his cup to the Shaman, who refilled it. But as he did so, he fixed his subtle eyes motionlessly on the other man.
“Tell the khan, Kurelen, that even priests must live, and that the gods themselves despise the fallen.”
“But the gods frequently make mistakes,” said Kurelen, with an indulgent smile for the folly of them. “They would make a grave error today, for instance.” He withdrew his hands from his sleeves, and Kokchu, with amazement, saw that they were full of gold and silver trinkets, studded with jewels. Kurelen, watching him closely, saw his face pale.
“A mere handful of the gifts which Toghrul Khan sent to Temujin, for his bride. But they were so many, and the promise of more so generous, that my nephew gave these handfuls to me. I am sad to see thee go, Kokchu. In token of my esteem, and as a remembrance, take thy choice of any of them.”
He extended his hands to the Shaman, who could only stare, paling even more.
Kurelen laughed softly. “With any of these, thou couldst buy a fair woman, or a white horse, or the swords of a hundred men.”
Kokchu lifted his head and looked at him with a dark frown. “Thou art a liar, Kurelen.”
Kurelen laughed. “Mayhap.”
“Toghrul Khan is famed for his greediness and avarice. I know this.”
Kurelen shook his head indulgently.
“Nevertheless, take thy choice, Kokchu. I have much more.”
The Shaman carefully and lingeringly selected a string of golden beads alternating with beads of turquoise. “Thou art also a thief,” he observed.
“Mayhap. But, as thou dost say, the gods love a clever man.”
The Shaman lovingly laid aside the necklace. Again, he fixed his eyes on Kurelen.
“What hast thou to offer?” he asked, almost with contempt.
Kurelen sighed with relief. “Ah, now we begin to speak like honest men. It is true that Toghrul Khan will assist Temujin, and avenge him, if necessary. But that is beside the point. I have faith in the destiny of Temujin. Thou, thyself, didst prophesy what he would become.” And he grinned.
The Shaman smiled darkly. But he said nothing, merely waiting.
“I believe myself a judge of men,” Kurelen went on. “Swear allegiance to Temujin, and thou shalt be a khan among priests. Desert him, and thou shalt not prosper. This is not an opinion or a superstition. It is a fact.”
“Bah,” said the Shaman. But he frowned, and examined his fingernails.
Kurelen jingled his treasures. He selected a string of golden coins, and tossed them lightly onto Kokchu’s knee. “Another token of my regard,” he said.
The Shaman slowly lifted his eyes. The black balls were immobile in their glistening whites. His dark face darkened even more.
“There is fate in Temujin,” said Kurelen. “Whosoever follows, shall follow him to power.”
Kokchu smiled, and then suddenly he laughed aloud. He laid the string of gold coins with the gold and turquoise necklace. He leaned towards Kurelen and laid his hand upon the other’s shoulder, and shook him.
“Kurelen, I cannot dispense with thy conversation! Come with me.”
The two men, smiling amiably, went out of the yurt together. The warriors regarded them with astonishment. To the east, the clouds of dust following on the desertion of many of the tribesmen billowed up like golden vapor. Only a handful was left, and this was already preparing to follow the others. As the Shaman strode among them, followed by Kurelen, they ceased their feverish preparations, and stared after him. He went to the center of the almost deserted plot where the great village had stood, and shouted aloud. His tall and majestic figure, his magnificent head, were outlined like the figure of some celestial being against a burning yellow sunset. Within a few moments all that remained of Yesukai’s ordu was there, except Houlun, who had unaccountably disappeared. Bektor, sullen and confused, stood beside his brother, Belgutei, and his mother. Temujin stood among his friends, his face black with anger and despair. The hubbub of disconcerted voices fell before the fierce and contemptuous glance of the Shaman, and every one listened to what he had to say.
“Where are ye going?” cried the Shaman. “Art ye deserting your khan, the son of Yesukai, ye craven dogs? Is there no loyalty in your hearts, no faithfulness in your souls? Are ye like the weak wheel that breaks on a small stone, a sword of lead that bends at the first blow? Are your loins the loins of men, or the thighs of women?”
The tribesmen gaped at him, astounded, their eyes blinking, their faces wrinkling, with bewilderment. He looked at each man in turn, at each bronzed, lined face and their staring eyes. Before his fiery glance each man’s glance finally fell away, and each man asked himself, confused, if he had heard the Shaman rightly yesterday.
The Shaman smiled with grim scorn.
“I know ye believe ye will be welcomed by the khan of the Taijiuts. But ye believe wrongly, to your death. For the khan will say to himself: ‘What manner of traitors
are these, who desert their leader when he needeth them, and come yowling like curs to the feet of another? Men like these must die, for they are a stone of flour in the walls of a fortress, a sword of bamboo in a conflict, a horse with a broken leg in a battle.’
“Know that the khan will not have you. But, if ye believe it not, go. For your young khan will have no traitors among his people, no camel-hearts riding beside him.”
Belgutei, who had avoided Temujin, believing his star fallen, now glanced at him with a friendly and heartening smile. Bektor gnawed his lip. Temujin’s eyes widened with surprise, and Jamuga turned aside with disgust. But the other tribesmen rubbed their bodies and looked uneasily at each other, flushing.
Slowly and portentously, the Shaman fixed his eyes upon the bleached area beyond the ordu. Then, still slowly and portentously, he turned back to his people, and like a man who goes in an orchard and gathers up the fruit piece by piece, so did he gather up each eye and hold it. An intense silence fell, full of a nameless fear, while every man looked at the face of the Shaman, which seemed illuminated with strange lightning.
“Look!” exclaimed Kokchu, in a low and thrilling voice. “The spirits have sent an omen!”
Then every one looked, and a deep and terrified cry broke from every throat. Kurelen stared, then pursed his lips. His eyes lighted with mirth and admiration. At first there had been nothing to see but the golden vapor that followed on the vast departure of herds and camels and horses and yurts. Then this vapor parted like a curtain, rolling aside, and there, where nothing but wilderness had been before was a host of shadowy and giant horsemen, standing in enormous silence, their upheld lances streaming with ghostly banners, their faces as fateful and somber as the profile on the hills, which Kurelen had seen. There was something frightful in their immense silence, something awful in their portentous waiting. Their heads seemed to reach higher than the hills; their horses, gray and spectral, were three times the size of living horses. The ghostly banners blew in an unearthly wind, seemingly in the very clouds. Pale lightning fluttered among them, and each man, in his extreme terror, thought he heard the far and terrible sound of horns and drums.
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