Daughter of Xanadu Part 19

Everyone seemed to realize that we were living at a historic moment. It had been sixty years since Chinggis Khan began the conquest of China by sacking the northern Chinese capital of Yenjing, which later became Khanbalik. For decades, we Mongols had controlled North China. Now, with the conquest of Kinsay, his grandson Khubilai Khan had unified all of China, north and south, under Mongol rule. A new era was beginning, full of the promise of harmony.

General Abaji rode down the main avenue of the capital in a stately manner. Temur followed him, holding high the Khan's white horse-tail banner. The rest of us followed in formation. The half-grown trees lining the sides of the avenue had been wrapped in silk strips of yellow and white, contrasting with the vivid spring green of the buds on their branches. Banners of red, yellow, blue, and white fluttered from the roof tiles topping the walls that lined the street.

The atmosphere was festive. Men, women, and children, Cathayans, Mongols, and foreigners mingled along the sides of the avenue, watching and pointing, raising their children to their shoulders, cheering and laughing.

"It's Prince Temur!" one boy shouted.

"Temur! Temur!" others echoed in joyful voices. "Returned from the South!"

Finally, I was entering the city of Khanbalik in a victory parade, but without Suren. No one recognized me or shouted my name. Our triumph at Vochan had not won me celebrity. Instead, they cheered this man who had marched into Kinsay without a fight. After the horrors and losses of battle, I still did not get to enjoy the victory parade that Suren and I had desired so ardently. It felt like an insult to Suren's memory.

I had hoped the Great Khan himself would greet us, but he was on his annual spring hunting trip. Abaji gathered us just inside the palace gate, praised us for our service to the Khan in battle, and instructed us to return to our families for a rest of twenty days.

I dismounted, handed Baatar's reins to a servant, and headed to my parents' courtyard. Everything looked different to me. The great audience halls of the palace seemed larger and grander. But after seeing Nesruddin's smaller, elegant palace by the lake, the Khan's palace seemed ostentatious.

After months on the road, eating simple meals with my companions around open fires, riding with the wind in my face, wearing the same uniform day after day, the everyday luxuries of court life seemed excessive. On the road, we had talked of war and peace and the future of mankind. Here, people talked of minor spats and spread rumors of concubines who flirted with guards. My cheeks had grown ruddy from exposure to the elements, and here women rubbed lotions on their cheeks to keep them smooth.

As I walked toward the back of the Khan's palace, no one greeted or recognized me. A hard spot around my heart began to throb.

When I entered my home, my mother rushed out to greet me. She grabbed both my hands as if I were still a young girl. The top of her head reached no higher than my nose. She leaned back and examined my face, my arms, my body, looking for wounds.

"Were you injured, my daughter?" she asked.

"No, not at all." I squeezed her hand. "But...Suren..." Suddenly, I was weeping like a girl with a gaping wound that would never heal. It was the first time I had cried after Suren's death. Here, at home, it was safe to mourn.

Small as she was, my mother embraced me, just above my waist, and laid her head against my shoulder. She hugged me so tightly that my breath came in gasps. Her hair, flattened with a fragrant oil, exuded the flowery scent I remembered from childhood. I, too, hugged her so tight I thought I might squeeze the breath from her.

Drolma seemed happy to see me, but the gulf between us was wider than ever. During my absence, my parents had arranged a marriage for her, with Jebe, son of the general who had dismissed me.

"General Aju said I was exactly the kind of daughter-in-law he wanted," Drolma told me with pride. I was bursting to tell stories, of the lion I had killed, of the dragon hunt, of the battle. But they didn't want to hear of my adventures. Drolma only wanted to tell me the latest court gossip.

That night, I slept in my old bed with my sister. I retired early, overcome with six months' worth of exhaustion. What had been the point of trying so hard to be a soldier, to fight like a man and keep riding day after day? Here I was, back where I had started, like a maiden who had never left her father's ger ger. I had still been able to smell the pungent wind of the farmlands and the sweat of the army on my outer clothing. But once I'd taken my army clothing off and lain down under my sister's quilt, all I could smell was her perfume. My body felt tired and heavy, yet my mind was swirling. I felt sad, bitter, lost.

The next morning, my mother handed me a square of silver. It was the Tara amulet from my father that I had cast aside nearly a year ago.

"Your father heard about Suren's death. He wanted to make sure you were carrying this, from the G.o.ddess of mercy, to help you in your grieving."

This time, I accepted the amulet. I needed whatever compa.s.sion was offered.

"He is at the monastery," Mama said. "Go talk to him."

After all I had been through, I was in urgent need of answers, and I no longer felt certain that my father's choices had been wrong. For the first time in my life, I felt a pressing desire to learn from his wisdom.

36 At the Monastery

After resting a few days at home, I made the journey to the Buddhist monastery. It was a half day's ride from Khanbalik, situated on a hillside overlooking the plains.

I was not sure what I wanted to hear from my father. I needed to fill this painful hole inside me, to find some meaning in life after the loss of Suren. I had to decide about my future, about the army and Marco. My father had never provided such wisdom for me before, and I was not sure I could speak honestly to him. But I sensed that he had deeper thoughts than he had ever expressed to me.

As I entered the front gate of the monastery, I breathed in the fresh mountain air, scented with the sweet smell of burning incense. This was one of the oldest Buddhist compounds in this part of Cathay, built almost a thousand years earlier. Each of the temples was s.p.a.cious and imposing, with wise-looking Buddhas-past, present, and future-carved of wood. I wandered through a series of courtyards with twisted pines and cypress trees, stone monuments called stupas, and rock formations. The atmosphere was one of quiet serenity and humble contemplation.

I saw a monk and asked him where to find my father, Prince Dorji. He understood Mongolian but did not speak it. He took me to the Hall of Guanyin, the G.o.ddess of mercy.

There, a nun, with head shaved bald, was kneeling and praying on the stone steps, facing the statue. She was wearing simple gray robes and chanting a stream of foreign words. I guessed they were Tibetan, since the sutras were written in Tibetan. The air was thick with the smell of incense.

The monk cleared his throat and waited. The nun seemed totally absorbed.

Finally, she stopped chanting, paused, stood up, and walked toward me. Her looks surprised me. She was young, with a smooth, broad face, round like a moon. She seemed vaguely familiar, but I had never talked to a nun.

"Yes? How can I help you?" She spoke clear Mongolian. This was odd. I had heard of Chinese and Tibetan nuns, but had never known a Mongolian to become a nun.

Only after the move to Khanbalik, during my childhood, were Mongols introduced to this foreign religion of Buddhism. By tradition, Mongols wors.h.i.+ped Eternal Heaven-Tengri-and Mother Earth. We built ovoos ovoos in sacred spots in nature and circled them, tossing stones onto them to ask for good fortune. Ours was not an organized religion with temples and texts. Some Mongol tribes were Christian, such as that of Khubilai's mother, but few had adopted the Buddhist or Muslim religions. My grandmother Chabi was an exception, a Mongol who had become a devout Buddhist. in sacred spots in nature and circled them, tossing stones onto them to ask for good fortune. Ours was not an organized religion with temples and texts. Some Mongol tribes were Christian, such as that of Khubilai's mother, but few had adopted the Buddhist or Muslim religions. My grandmother Chabi was an exception, a Mongol who had become a devout Buddhist.

When I told the nun my name, she smiled and examined my face carefully. "Ah, Emmajin! Follow me," she said. She led me through a gate to another courtyard. At its center was a deep pool, surrounded by mulberry trees just beginning to bloom.

Inside a nearby room, my father was sitting cross-legged on a low bench, looking at some long, thin books laid out on a table. The pages were covered with curly connected letters arranged in neat rows. I could not imagine how they made sense.

Just seeing him, with his heavy-lidded eyes and deep under-eye shadows, brought back my feelings of bitterness. He had left my mother to fend for herself at court and showed no interest in me at all. What wisdom could I expect from him?

My father's eyebrows rose, but he did not stand or approach me. Instead, he pointed to a low bench just opposite him. I sat there with my legs crossed. My father had shaved his head bald, too, and wore a simple monk's maroon robe.

The nun poured some boiled water into a bowl and handed it to me to drink. She sat near the wall, watching like a chaperone.

"I hear you fought in a battle," my father began. "I'm glad to see you alive."

"But Suren," I began. I choked, unable to continue.

He shook his head in sorrow. I was glad I would not have to explain. "Such a fine young man. You two were so close."

I didn't know what to say, and my words tumbled out. "I just wish I could...The battle wasn't what I expected. Bodies everywhere. Even horses killed! And Suren...I saw...I never thought...I was so angry. I wanted revenge. Once I killed an enemy soldier, I couldn't stop killing."

A flash of pain surged across my father's face, but he waited for me to finish.

"It all seems so pointless now," I continued. "How can I go on without Suren?"

I had thought he might be angry or say I told you so I told you so, but he seemed sad. "Suffering is a part of life. I am sorry you had to learn this so young."

He began to speak in a calm, flowing voice. He told me that he had been a soldier, too, when he was my age. I had not known this. My father had joined the army at the age of sixteen, as the eldest son of Khubilai, who was then a minor prince of the Golden Family. In the army, he had come down with a terrible disease. He could not move and could barely breathe. Many others died of this disease, but he recovered. He had had to learn to use his arms and legs again, which was why he limped.

As he spoke, the tension in my shoulders began to ease. "I was told you fell from a horse," I said. Such a fall is the ultimate shame for a Mongol.

His lips formed a grim line. "I did, later. I tried to ride too soon, before my legs had regained full strength. That fall made it harder to learn to walk again."

My heart filled with sympathy.

"For years, I hunted for answers. I wanted to know why I had suffered from this disease. Why I could not lead a normal life like my younger brothers. My mother, the Empress Chabi, was the only one who seemed to understand."

My mother, in a moment of bitterness, had once blamed the Empress for taking my father away from her. Now I knew why. My father would never have become a Buddhist if not for his mother. But she had helped him in a moment of turmoil.

"And what of the family you left behind?" I asked him.

"I knew you would be well cared for at court."

I looked away. It was not a sufficient answer. Growing up, I had felt fatherless. Suren's father, Prince Chimkin, was always nearby, but he did not take my father's place.

My father continued. "I tried to quiet my heart, to put aside the difficulties at court. But I see now that I also lost much joy. The joy of watching you grow up."

My heart lurched. The sorrow in his face had deepened.

"You lost Suren," he said. "I lost you."

I watched as his eyes teared up. His loss, unlike mine, had been by choice. We sat in silence a few moments. My bitterness softened.

"So Buddhism does not have all the answers," I said at last.

He tilted his head, giving my comment serious consideration. "No one has all the answers. But it's important to keep searching. There is much wisdom in these sutras. Back when I was at court, my heart was in distress. I did not see the world the way other men did. Fighting wars cannot make the world a better place."

He stopped to check my eyes, as if to see whether I was truly listening. I nodded.

"Every life is worthwhile. Every sentient being, including animals. Even those of the enemy soldiers you killed on the battlefield."

I looked away, remembering. Some of the dead horses had had frozen expressions of fear. Some of those Burmese faces had looked like Little Li. At the time, I had hated them all. Did any of them have cousins, like me, who were mourning their deaths?

"The Burmese attacked us," I said, only half convinced. "They sent a huge army, with elephants, over the border. This battle was their fault."

He shook his head. "Someone always gives a good reason for war. Sometimes it even has a positive outcome. I would not want to be the Great Khan, making such decisions."

I could see his point. I had wished so hard that I had been born a boy, the eldest grandson, possible heir to the throne. To have men kowtow to me! I had never understood how my father could give up that honor. Now I was glad I would not inherit such responsibility.

"The Great Khan," I began. "He has talked of sending an army to invade Christendom." I wondered if my father had heard about Marco Polo.

"The Khan knows that Tengri, Eternal Heaven, has commanded him to complete the conquest of the world," said my father. "He senses his grandfather, Chinggis Khan, looking over his shoulder, expecting him to finish the work begun by our ancestors. But the Khan has begun to change his emphasis. He is spending more of his time finding ways to wisely rule the lands we already control."

"Do you think he could be convinced not to invade Christendom?"

My father looked as if he was trying to figure out my motives. "Christendom? Why Christendom?"

I did not have the courage, or the right words, to explain about Marco. "I don't want to fight in any more battles. I wish I could stop them somehow."

He laughed gently. "You don't sound like a soldier in the Great Khan's army."

I shook my head. "I am not sure what to do next. I don't want to stay in the army. But I do not want to get married. Please."

My father's eyes glowed softly. "There is another path. You could become a nun, like my sister here, Miaoyan." He indicated the young nun sitting by the wall.

I looked at her in surprise. I had not recognized her as one of my father's many younger sisters. I did not know her well, and without her braids, she looked different.

"Aunt Miaoyan Beki," I said to her, bowing my head in respect.

She smiled and nodded.

"Miaoyan came to me, about a year ago, just as you have come today. She asked many questions. She became a nun just five months ago."

I felt as if two walls were closing in on me, one on each side. I had not come here to enter a nunnery.

My father reacted to my look of consternation. "I will not force you. This choice must come from your heart."

Miaoyan spoke up in a soft voice. "Emmajin Beki. This life is right for me, I know that with certainty. But living here has many restrictions. You should take your time before deciding if it's right for you."

Their suggestion jarred me, since it was so at odds with the way I had lived my life. But in my despair, it seemed tempting to retreat to this peaceful place. I would miss Marco, but we had no future together. Perhaps I could say good-bye to him, then enter the nunnery with my heart at peace.

I promised my father I would think about it. Miaoyan said I could stay that night with her, at the nunnery nearby. It was too late to return home that day, anyway.

After leaving my father, I went, alone, to the Temple of Guanyin. As I entered the temple, my eyes went straight to the large, central statue of the G.o.ddess of mercy. In this Chinese manifestation, as Guanyin, she had a look of gentleness but seemed remote. On an altar in front of her were an incense burner, several plates of dried fruit, and some metal religious objects.

Guanyin was not really a G.o.ddess; my father had told me that. She was a bodhisattva: an ordinary woman who had meditated and studied Buddhism deeply enough to enter Nirvana, the highest state of enlightenment. But instead of entering Nirvana, she had returned to earth, to help the rest of us become more enlightened. That sacrifice was the ultimate in compa.s.sion.

b.u.t.ter candles burned steadily in the quiet.

As my eyes adjusted to the semidarkness, I began walking around the temple, trying to think clearly after the conversation. On a side wall in one nook was a brightly painted mural. Clearly, it had been added recently, to give a lively Mongolian flavor to what was otherwise a serious Chinese temple. At first the colors seemed too bright. But then I looked at the detail.

With a start, I realized that I was face to face with Tara, the Mongolian version of Guanyin. I pulled the silver amulet out of my sash; yes, the images were almost the same. But on the mural, nearly life-sized, Tara seemed alive.

This Tara looked young, with a plump face of smooth jade-white skin, arched eyebrows, a slim and graceful figure. Adorned with jewelry on her ears and neck and wrists, she sat on an open lotus, holding a blue flower on a long stem. Her expression was sweet and consoling.

Tara had an extra eye, set sideways, in her forehead, and also an eye on the palm of each hand and the sole of each foot. Each one was a thick black line, but nonetheless recognizable as an eye. Seven eyes altogether. Ever vigilant, she could see all suffering in the world. Her eyes were gentle, not judging. Yet she could see right through my rough exterior, past my bold name of Emmajin and my status as a soldier, into my soul.

As her eyes locked onto mine, I felt my turmoil melt like b.u.t.ter in hot sun. Her compa.s.sion flowed into me, through my eyes, down my throat, into the deepest parts of my body. The amulet glowed warm in my palm.

A beam of clear thinking shone into my mind. I could not flee from the world and become a nun. It was not in my nature. I needed to go back out into the world and do whatever I could to save Christendom and Marco. To make future battles unnecessary. To build a bridge between our people, the Mongols, and those from faraway lands.

I knew this suddenly, standing before the image of Tara, born of tears, whose compa.s.sion for living beings was stronger than a mother's love for her children. She had come back into the world to help people like me. She was in my father; she was in Princess Miaoyan. She was, from that moment, in me.

Breathing deeply, I lost track of time. In that place, I was not a warrior-not even a granddaughter of the Khan-or a princess who loved Marco Polo. The boundaries between me and the world around me faded. I was becoming something new, something I could not quite figure out, yet it filled me with calm.

37 Chabi's Wisdom

The next morning, I took leave of my father. I explained that I needed time to figure out what I would do, but I doubted I could become a nun. He blessed me and sent me back into the world. The tension between us had melted away.

As I was leaving, I noticed a short, wide woman dressed in elegant silks-my grandmother Chabi. Although her moon-shaped face was not beautiful, she emanated regal dignity.