The Earth Is the Lord's

by Taylor Caldwell

  But today he rode alone indeed, and there was no shadowy companion with him. And he knew that never had he been so alone, so solitary. Some psychic amputation in him bled and ached. The mournful realization came over him that a death had taken place, some beloved had died, and that he would henceforth be unutterably lonely and lost.

  Now he was no longer enraged against Temujin. The suffused features of the monster had disappeared, and only the face of his anda was left, young and gay, violent and turbulent, vehement and generous. He thought of Temujin as one thinks of the dead. The creature which had taken his place was an enemy, as much Temujin’s enemy as his own.

  His heart shook with his anguish. His eyes gazed blindly at the green and flowing river, and the golden grain.

  O Temujin! he cried silently, where art thou? Why hast thou left me, abandoned and alone, never again to see thee nor to hear thy voice? Never again shall we sleep under the same blanket under the stars. Never again shalt thou smile at me, and call me friend! Thou hast died. The world is as empty as a broken cup. It is a desert where no thing grows.

  And then he was still, thinking only of the things which he must do. Some prescience told him that death would be his reward, and that all that he had done must fall into ruins.

  But surely, he thought with sudden strength and courage, the things of hope and peace and love shall not die, nay, though the darkness and fury shall come, they shall live! It is in the nature of the world that though the storm cometh and the forest is broken, that though the volcano pour its lava over the vineyards, that though the winter blacken the pastures, there is a spring of the earth and the soul, and all things shall rise and bloom again.

  This must be my faith. This must be the faith of all men.

  Otherwise, the earth and all the peoples must forever die, and God Himself must pass as a shadow.

  Chapter 15

  “And now,” said Temujin, quietly, looking at the bloody heads of his messengers, “the time hath come.”

  Many of his people thought that he meant the time had come for vengeance. But he knew that the time of his destiny had come.

  By some strange accident, the disaffection of Jamuga Sechen had not reached him. Had he heard the rumor, he would not have believed it. For rooted in him was the conviction that Jamuga would never betray him. Paradoxically, it was he, rather than Jamuga, who believed in the sacredness of the true oath of friendship, which must never be violated. He would have more readily believed in his own betrayal of himself than believe in Jamuga’s betrayal.

  It is true that he had often been enraged with Jamuga, had often insulted and affronted him. It is true that he had banished him, and laughed at him, and spoken with open contempt of him. But nevertheless, he believed in his loyalty. Even so late as this day, he told himself in his heart that he had no other friend but Jamuga, no real friend of the spirit.

  The memory of their years of conflict was forgotten. Like Jamuga, he rode with a shadow at his side. Never had he so loved Jamuga as he did in these dark and ominous days of approaching conflict. He spoke to that shadow frankly, hearing no dissenting nor criticizing word. He was more candid with the shadow of Jamuga than he had been with the substance.

  There are those that argue that the things that are, are the things that must be, he would say to his invisible companion. But when the wheels stop the cart goes nowhere. There are those that say that change is but another face belonging to a single entity. But the face at least is new. Man cannot stop motionless, gazing at the moon, forever. He must move, if only in a circle. Otherwise his heart and his blood must halt. They say there are no tomorrows. Perhaps, in eternity, this is true. But for every living man there is always tomorrow.

  To each man of courage and vision, tomorrow doth wait. And tomorrow is mine. The empires of Cathay have fallen in the swamp of yesterday; the Golden Emperor is crumbling into dust. Each day doth call to a single man. Today it doth call to me.

  The hour of conflict is here. And I know in my soul that I shall conquer.

  He was filled with a wild exultation. He laughed aloud, in the solitary spaces where he rode with the shadow of Jamuga. He clenched his fist, and gazed arrogantly at the pale heavens.

  Men shall say of me: Here was the greatest of all warriors, of all emperors. Here was he whose vast army roamed the steppes and the barrens, and the eyes of men fell away in fear before it. Above the low anonymous mass of the centuries, the head and shoulders of Temujin shall rise, like a peak over monotonous plains, illuminated by the light of deathless ages!

  And the shadow of Jamuga answered: I have always believed in thee.

  But Kurelen, for one, was not so easily convinced. He was alarmed. He said: “Perhaps it is because I am old. But I believe thou art going into certain disaster. Toghrul Khan is still the mightiest of the nomad khans, and he hath invincible friends among the princes and the politicians of Cathay. Who art thou, to challenge him? An unwashed baghatur of the steppes. A young illiterate man who doth not know the strength of his mature enemies. Draw back before it is too late. Keep silence. And perhaps Toghrul Khan will forget thee.”

  Temujin listened to this with incredulous fury. “Once thou didst say, mine uncle, that I was made for destiny.”

  Kurelen shrugged. “That was because I wished to have enough to eat, and flattery was the spur I used to get it.” He added: “But what canst thou do? Thou art outnumbered by Toghrul Khan by twenty to one. Thou hast gained much. Do not sacrifice it by one mad gesture. Look at thyself! Look, without delusion. And thou wilt know I have given thee good advice.”

  Houlun, too, was aghast. “Thou wouldst attack Toghrul Khan? My son, thou art a mad fool. He will crush and annihilate us before the first snow falls!”

  She added with bitter dismay: “Thou art a fox that wouldst challenge a tiger. I grant thee that he hath treated thee with abomination, and murdered thy peaceful messengers. I grant thee that this is so, on the surface. But I know deeper things than this. I know that thine increasing arrogance hath angered thy foster father. Thy boastfulness and ruthlessness have given him grave doubts about the enduring peace of the Gobi. I have but one advice to give thee: write to him at once. Acknowledge thy foolishness. Ask his forgiveness, and promise him thy continuing obedience and fealty.”

  Temujin looked long and slowly over his tremendous city of yurts, and he smiled darkly. He looked at the herds, and the many people. He said: “I have done all this. I have brought order where bandits and robbers roamed before. I have brought peace to warring clans, and ended feuds. I have introduced stern discipline, and given strength to hundreds of helpless tribes. I have guaranteed safety for the caravans, and added to mine own wealth and strength. All this have I done myself. And now Toghrul Khan is envious and alarmed.” His voice suddenly rose with wild ferocity: “For he doth know that I am his enemy! That between us a conflict must come, for control of the Gobi! I have known this always. I have kept the peace until I was strong enough to attack. Now, I am strong. Now, we must fight for the lordship of the Gobi. And I tell thee that I shall not be the defeated. Fate and the spirits are with me. It hath been said before. Now I know it is true.”

  Old Kokchu was demoralized with fear. But when Temujin came to him, and he saw his face, he concealed what he thought. He knew what Temujin wished him to say, and being a wise priest, he said it:

  “Lord, for many nights I have made divinations. Last night, at midnight, a new star appeared in the heavens. It brightened; it grew large. It blazed. It was the color of a conflagration, and the black skies about it trembled as though with the shadow of fire. And all the other stars paled and faded beside it. And I knew that this star bore the name of Temujin, the mighty warrior.”

  Temujin listened to this with a surly half-smile. When the priest had done, he said: “See to it that the people hear of this. Keep thy prophecies for them.”

  Nevertheless, he was oddly heartened, though he chuckled to himself. That night he took a furtive look at the skies, himself. And to
his amazement, he saw the red blazing of the new star. Perhaps it is true, he thought. But before he allowed Kokchu to speak of it, he waited several nights, to see if the star remained fixed in its place, and to be certain it was not a mere meteor to disprove the divinations, and thus to dismay his people. The star remained fixed, and the people were filled with superstitious joy and awe.

  Bortei was not alarmed. She was exultant. She cried to Temujin: “Have I not always told thee this, my lord, that thou art the mightiest warrior of the ages, and that no man shall stand before thee?”

  Chepe Noyon, who believed in no divinations, and privately thought that this approaching war would mean the end of everything, merely shrugged and smiled, and accepted everything with the indifference of the true fatalist. But he said to Temujin: “It is given only to thee to see the end. And to lead us.”

  Subodai said simply: “We live but to obey thee, lord. Where thou goest, there shall we go. And we shall fight beside thee, worthy warriors of thy banner. We are thy Raging Torrents, thy paladins. We have no will but thine.”

  Kasar merely looked at his brother with his heart in his simple eyes, and laid his hand on his sword. Belgutei, his half-brother, was dismayed. And then he thought to himself that when Toghrul Khan annihilated Temujin, perhaps the old khan might make him vassal lord over the remnants of the Mongols. He was much cheered at this logic. Therefore, he regarded the coming conflict with enthusiasm.

  So Temujin was satisfied. He sedulously avoided Kurelen and Houlun, whom he called old crows croaking of disaster. He sent out swift-riding messengers to call in the various tarkhans of the tribes, to give them instructions and to mobilize their warriors. When he had sent forth the messenger to Jamuga Sechen, his heart strangely lifted.

  Tomorrow, he thought, I shall see Jamuga!

  Then, for the first time, he fully realized how lonely he had been, and how rusty his tongue had become. Now his thoughts and his words arched behind the dam of silence, waiting for release. He waited for Jamuga as a bridegroom waits for his bride, conscious of past emptiness and loneliness.

  With the messenger to Jamuga, he had sent rich gifts for Yesi and the children, and a letter full of friendship and anticipation.

  When Jamuga received the gifts and the letters, he burst into tears.

  Chapter 16

  The wildest excitement spread over the clans of the western confederacy of the Gobi, and the most feverish activity.

  The Mongol tarkhans and the nokud came, furrowed and dark of face, their bodies wrapped in long woolen coats and girdled with painted leather, their fur caps and tall pointed hats shadowing their glittering eyes. Temujin’s ordu rang with strange hoarse shouts; the women cooked over their pots unceasingly. Messengers came and went in a general hubbub of confusion and excitement. The fattest of the herds was killed, and the odors of cooking meat and spices hung in the dusty air.

  It was a most momentous gathering, one of the most important in the history of the world. Hourly, a new chieftain arrived, roaring up on his horse, surrounded by his officers and generals, their lances glittering in the sun. The children peered eagerly from the yurts at the unceasing flow of newcomers. The dogs barked fiercely. Camels shrieked in the uproar. Everywhere, there was a constant coming and going, the delivering and the sending of messengers. The prettiest girls coquetted from the safety of the platforms of their family yurts with the strange young officers, who pretended to ignore them. Women screamed at their children, and bustled to and fro in the preparation of the gigantic feast, carrying sacks of wine and cups, and throwing dung upon the high hot fires.

  Every chieftain, immediately upon his arrival, went to Temujin’s yurt, to pay his respects and renew his oath of fealty. Temujin sat on his royal white-horseskin, with his banner hanging over his head. Each chieftain knelt before him, or near him, and remained there, waiting for the arrival of the others.

  As each chieftain entered, Temujin glanced up with hidden eagerness, and as he saw the newcomer’s face, a faint darkness of disappointment passed over his eyes. He had sat like this since the dawn. Now, it was almost sunset, and Jamuga had not come.

  He looked at the bronzed and somber faces about him; he saw the fierce, falconlike eyes fixed on him. Some of the eyes were gray, for the owners were members of his own people, the Bourchikoun. Some of the khans were still unconquered by Temujin’s arms. But they had come to him at his summoning, swearing allegiance, and declaring their enmity for Toghrul Khan, the Karait Turk.

  The hoarse voices of these men filled the hot and stifling confines of the huge yurt. The smell of their bodies was acrid and pungent. The sunlight that struggled into the gloom through the flaps made luminous their wild barbarian eyes, made their bronzed skins shimmer with a metallic reflection. They drank wine with Temujin; they glanced about them with untamed ferocity. More and more came, until the yurt was crowded to the walls, and the air was fetid.

  It was sunset. Now the last came, one by one. The uproar of the camp made the cooling atmosphere vibrate. And each time a shadow darkened the aperture, Temujin stopped in the middle of a sentence, and glanced up with intense eagerness.

  But still, Jamuga did not come.

  Now the air was redly aglow with the fires, and a servant lit the lamps in the yurt. The lamps added to the heat. The smells grew stronger. Temujin panted. His face shone with sweat, and those about him saw how his green eyes glowed in the hot semidarkness, like the eyes of a tiger. And they saw how pale he was.

  They became restive. Temujin had spoken only casually of irrelevant things, though hours had passed. They exchanged impatient and furtive glances. Why did he not speak of the thing most important to them? They drank, to cover their barbarian impatience, and finally, they too watched the empty aperture, expecting they knew not what. They became hungry. They loudly sniffed the odors of good cooking food which entered the yurt. But they dared not rise and excuse themselves until he gave the word.

  At last a shadow appeared at the doorway, and Temujin glanced up with a passionate expectancy. But it was only a frightened messenger with a letter from Jamuga Sechen. Temujin seized it; they saw how his hands shook. He looked about him fiercely, and his lips parted. Then he rose, and ordering them to remain where they were, he left the yurt rapidly.

  He strode out into the cool dim twilight, which was filled with the leaping firelight. He passed unseeingly through the throngs. He went to Kurelen’s yurt. He found the old cripple dozing on his couch. Old Chassa sat near by, fanning him, absorbed, all her soul visible in her wrinkled face.

  “Wake!” cried Temujin in a peculiar, stifled voice. He flung the letter at his uncle. “Read this to me immediately!”

  Kurelen, blinking and groaning, sat up. He looked at Temujin, and was about to speak. But when he saw his nephew’s face, he could not speak. He lifted the letter, and saw that it was from Jamuga. Instantly, his heart failed him.

  He began to read, slowly:

  “Greetings to mine anda, and wishing him all the health and happiness which a sincere heart can offer.”

  He paused.

  “Read!” cried Temujin.

  Never had Kurelen seen such a face and such eyes. For the first time in his life, he quailed before the younger man.

  “I have the summons of mine anda, and I have read it with despair and sorrow, and I have written this letter, knowing what anger it will provoke, but daring to write nothing else.

  “For I can write nothing but this, and praying for forgiveness and charity and understanding.

  “Thou hast summoned me to the gathering of the khans, to lay before me the plans for the bloody war of conquest which thou hast long ordained. But I cannot come. I shall not come. And neither can I promise thee the aid of my people, nor mine own. To do so would be to violate all that I believe and hold dear.

  “Instead, with prayers and grief, I can only beg thee to reconsider, before thou dost plunge the peoples of the Gobi into death and ruin. I ask thee to consider that thou canst not overcome
Toghrul Khan, and the end will be nothing but famine and torment and flight. My love for thee imploreth thee to halt before it is too late. If thou shouldst die, there would no longer be joy in the world for me.

  “I cannot believe that this is a just war. Thou hast spoken of conquest from thine earliest youth. I know that this ordained war is but the expression of thy lust for power. Surely thou canst not believe thou art justified in destroying thousands of men, and laying waste their lives, for thine own vanity and madness. Surely thou dost not believe that victory is more than peace, and tranquillity less than conflict.

  “Therefore, I cannot come. And again, I implore thy forgiveness, and pray thee to remember that it is not treachery that hath prompted my words, but only love and sorrow. To mine anda, I, as always, swear fealty to the death. But to Temujin, the murderer and the warmaker, I point my sword.”

  Kurelen slowly rerolled the letter. His heart was beating with a deathly pain. He hardly dared look at Temujin.

  But Temujin stood before him, in a terrible silence. He did not seem to breathe. Not a finger moved. His lips were folded like stone. Only his eyes, frightful and blazing, were alive.

  Kurelen wet his trembling old lips. “Temujin,” he faltered, “this is not the letter of a traitor. It is the message of the man who hath loved thee more than life, more than all else.”

  An indescribable expression appeared on Temujin’s face. Then, without a word, he wheeled and left the yurt.

  Chapter 17

  But nothing could have been calmer than Temujin’s manner when he re-entered his great yurt, and resumed his place on the white horseskin. If he were ordinarily livid, if there were a look of rigor on his face, no emotion was apparent either in his gestures or his voice.

  He began to speak quietly, but in resonant tone that filled the whole yurt, and engaged every man’s acute attention: