Khan Tengri
The Lord Of The Sky
Book II in The Taklamakan Silk Road Series
By
John Schettler
Khan Tengri
The Lord Of The Sky
Book II
in the Silk Road Series
Smashwords Edition
Writing
Shop Press Edition © Copyright 2002, John Schettler
Smashwords
Edition, © Copyright 2011, John Schettler
All rights reserved.
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other titles by John Schettler at Smashwords.com
Meridian
- Meridian Series - Volume I
Nexus Point - Meridian
Series - Volume II
Touchstone - Meridian Series - Volume III
Steamboat Slough - Mythic Mystery
Wild
Zone - Science Fiction
Mother Heart - Science Fiction
Sequel to Wild Zone
Taklamakan: Silk Road Series Book I - Historical Fiction
Khan Tengri: Silk Road Series Book II - Historical Fiction
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Smashwords Edition Note:
This is book II of a special edition format for the long original novel published in 2001 as a Trade Paperback under the unitary title "Taklamakan." That novel was originally divided into two parts, both under one cover when published in 2001 with AuthorHouse. As I conceived it, however, Part I was to be titled "Taklamakan: The Land of No Return," and Part II titled "Khan Tengri: The Lord of The Sky." Eager to get the whole story out in the most economical way at that time, I decided to combine both parts under one title in 2001. Yet more material in the story line was written after the publication of that novel, and I am taking this opportunity, ten years later, to finally publish those chapters.
The original novel, was already of near epic length at over 550 pages (7"x10") in 10 pt type! It comprised both books: 72 chapters and the epilogue. The addition of seven new chapters has added over 30,000 more words, pushing the word count well past the quarter million mark for a single file. I therefore decided to present the story as it was originally conceived, in two books. Book I: Taklamakan presents all the original material from part one of the Authorhouse version, Chapters 1-36, and four chapters moved from the original part II, to make 40 chapters at about 150,000 words. Book II: Khan Tengri presents the remaining chapters from the original Part II, seven new chapters, and the author's afterword.
Like the three books that make up Tolkien's long epic "Lord of the Rings," or the two volume edition of Clavell's "Shogun," this seemed a proper and legitimate way to revisit the story, ten years after it was first penned, and make it available in popular eBook formats at a lower price. The two volumes stand as complete novels on their own, each exceeding 350 pages and 150,000 words in length! Nothing from the original presentation has been omitted, though some chapters were resequenced. The new, updated material is largely assigned to the end of Book II, "Khan Tengri," and answers many lingering questions the original novel left open about the fate of the main characters.
I hope you enjoy this new digital presentation, and the new material added to extend this story, my epic novel of the silk road.
- John Schettler
“Dreams, Delusions,
Flowers of the air!
Why should I be so anxious
to have them in my grasp?”
- Basho
Book II – Khan Tengri
01 – Charchan
02 – Kara-Kum
03 – Omu’s Gift
04 – Arrival
05 – Offerings
06 – Darkened Minds
07 – Circle of Fire
08 – Emissary
09 – Kucha
10 – Council of War
11 – The Master
12 – The Road West
13 – Whisper of Night
14 – Endére
15 – Pilgrim’s Soul
16 – Old Man Niya
17 – Taklamakan
18 – The Young Hawk
19 – A Trader’s Map
20 – Finger of God
21 – Trail of the Heart
22 – Wan Han Lo
23 – The Shrine
24 – Diamond Night
25 – Blade of Truth
26 – The Pearl
27 – Yol Bolsun
28 – Nala’s Choice
29 – Return of the Prince
30 – Karma
31 – Khotan
32 – The Bridge
33 – Tando’s Way
34 – The Visitors
35 – Many Questions
36 – Jammu
37 – The Charcoal Seller
38 – Bale of Silk
39 – Yang Gate
40 – The Deepest Thing
Author’s Afterward
Chapter 1
Charchan
Like all settlements on the edge of the great desert, Charchan lived by the grace of the river it was named after. In the time of the Han dynasty, it had been a minor outpost bearing the name Chü-mo, perhaps little more than a way station on the route serving the richer agricultural and trade cities to the west. Once, long ago, it had been an outlying eastern fringe settlement loosely affiliated with the kingdoms around Domôko and Niya. But those cities had long since fallen into ruin, prey to the fickle nature of the changing watercourses that flowed down from the Kunlun-Shan, and the inevitable ebb and flow of the Taklamakan. In years when the waters were rich and the river full, more settlers would gather in the oasis and struggle to harness the waters in a series of shallow irrigation channels. The T'ang made Charchan a kind of frontier outpost, a place where messengers, envoys, and military detachments could find safe haven on the long road leading east to Dun Huang. Now it felt the heavy hand of the desert and seemed to cower under the pervasive brown haze borne by the winds. Its walls were low and ill kept. Many of the buildings that made up the central core of the settlement had long since fallen into disrepair, occupied by vagrant families and then abandoned again with little regard.
As Artuk and his small band of horsemen rode in toward the city, they found the way largely unguarded, though many soldiers moved among the dilapidated hovels and broken adobe shells of homes. There was no gate to speak of in the wall. It had been thrown down and cut up to provide firewood when the Tebu Clansmen had occupied this place. They rode in through a wide gap in the wall, making their way toward the heart of the settlement, a small trading bazaar where they encountered the only signs of normal life they had seen. Groups of nomads mingled with a few scraggly looking traders who offered bales of cloth, carved wooden bowls, glassware, and a few other refinements to the peasants in exchange for food.
Artuk searched about the fringes of the bazaar until he found an old woman with two young children. He dismounted and spoke to her quietly, gesturing at the girl on Yoru’s horse. At first it seemed that the woman was reluctant to take on an extra mouth to feed, but she became much more willing to accept the girl into her care when Artuk produced a few copper coins and a small jade stone, which he gave her in payment. He told her to find suitable clothing for the girl, and to feed her well. Once the woman had heard the tale of her finding, her heart seemed to open to the child, and she herded the girl quickly through the doorway of her house, clucking at her like a mother hen. Artuk knew that he was asking much of the woman. He promised her that he would see that she received additional compensation for her kindness in a few days time.
The horsemen rode on, making their way to a wide court fringed by a series of stubby buildings of sun-bleached clay. Artuk saw that one, larger than the others, was emitting a column of gray-white smoke from its roof. At first he thought it just another fired building, until he saw that a wide gash had been cut in the roof as a chimney to allow the smoke to escape. The place was well guarded by a group of thirty or more men who were milling about the front entrance, talking loudly with one another as they went about preparations for their evening meal. Artuk’s troop dismounted nearby and found a few wood posts that had been hammered into the dry earth where they could tether their horses. The men were ordered to find water for the animals and take refreshment and food for themselves. He took Yoru with him and started off toward the large building, for it was clear to him that this must have been set up as the central headquarters for the occupying troops.
As they approached the place, Artuk winced at the sight of seven disembodied heads that had been propped up on the haft ends of spears planted in a circle about a fire pit. Their faces were twisted and sallow-gray, disfigured further by the fact that the men had been shooting at them with bow and arrow. Many were pricked with five or more black shafts jutting obscenely from gouged eyes. The pallid, slack cheeks were frozen in masks of agony and throngs of buzzing flies visited the stumps of their necks.
Artuk and Yoru stepped through the cluster of men, who largely ignored them, until they had passed the arc of seven heads and approached the doorway. Then a large man stepped forward from the shadows of the entrance, barring the way.
“I am Olka Samu of the Tebu Tark. Who are you? I do not recognize you.”
Artuk had no time for the protocols of rank now. “I am called Artuk, a messenger sent here to give word to the one who leads your clan. I have both woods to give, and words that I must speak here tonight.”
“You have a strange look about you, where are you from?” The man regarded him with some curiosity, looking him up and down as if confused by his dress, but noticing the gold-hemmed shawl and badge that marked him as Khur Kan leader.
“We have been five days marching from the east to reach this place. The men that I lead have come by order of Du P’ong Rana Tenpai. We are sent here to bring tidings of his approach.”
“More messengers, more messengers. Is there no end? Well, you must wait here. The Tark is feasting, and not to be disturbed until the time of the woods. Then I will announce you, and you may go in.”
They did not have long to wait before the guard tramped back through the entrance, waving at them to follow him in as he began shouting Artuk’s name. “A messenger—bearing woods and words for the eyes and ears of the Tark!”
They entered the room, thick with the smell of briny sweat, wood smoke, and mutton tea. Artuk saw that virtually every wooden furnishing in the room had been smashed and scored with knife and sword blades. The furniture was thrust aside to clear a place where a wide gouge had been cut in the clay floor and circled by black rocks for a fire pit. There were many men seated about the fire, and they were laughing and pointing at a bullish figure who sat at its head, in the place of honor. The solid shape of the man seemed to glitter with a sparkle of many lights. Artuk could see that he wore a riveted coat in the fashion of soldiers who hailed from the Hindu-Kush. The men were laughing at the strange headdress he wore, which was the head skin of a yak, complete with horns, and obviously from the same beast they had been cooking and eating here tonight. The man was bobbing his head and grunting as if mocking the animal, much to the pleasure of his men. The light from the fire cast a strange wild shadow on the walls behind him, and it seemed that a dark-horned, malevolent spirit hovered over the man, animating him with an evil energy and wit.
The men about the fire suddenly turned to notice Artuk, and the leader flashed a mirthless grin, waving for him to approach where the circle opened opposite him to create an empty place. Yoru stood where he was and Artuk advanced slowly to the edge of the circle, bowing low and stooping to kneel at the appointed place.
“I bring greetings,” he said. “I am told to ride to this place at the bidding of Du P’ong Rana Tenpai.” Artuk spoke in a clear voice. “I am told to seek one known as the Tark.”
The heavy set man on the opposite end of the circle regarded him with a half sneer, licking a smatter of grease from his fingers as he did so. “Who are you?” it was clear that the man was displeased. Artuk realized that he had forgotten to identify himself, being so distracted by the man’s glittering coat and the gruesome spectacle of the yak skin headdress. Artuk gave his name, bowing again, and waited.
“What is a Wend? I have not heard of that clan. Rana Tenpai gathers quite a rabble these days, or so I’m told. But no matter, I am the Tark. If you have words for me, then speak!”
Artuk offered a polite nod and spoke again. “The Lord Rana Tenpai sends this: that he comes herewith at his earliest convenience, and is even now marching this way on the roads north and east of this city. I am told to deliver these wood slips into your hands.” He reached into his leather jerkin and drew out a short bundle of six bound wood slips, which he handed to the man on his right, watching closely as they were passed around the circle from man to man to be certain that the message reached its intended recipient intact. The Tark grunted as he leaned forward, extending his thick palm and grasping the woods, his eyes glittering with a mischievous light. He made as if to scratch his armpit with the bundled woods, and all the men around the circle laughed—all except Artuk, which did not go unnoticed by the Tark.
“So it is true,” said the Tark, his voice slow and heavy, as if weighted down by the man’s thick jowls. “Rana Tenpai has crept away from the Emperor’s court at Lhasa. Now he fancies himself Tson Kan of all the Western Regions. Good! I will need someone to look after the goats and sheep here!” All the men laughed again, and the Tark’s eyes narrowed as he watched Artuk, goading him.
Artuk felt the heat on his neck, but he knew that this was not the time or place to offer rebuke for the insult. He was only a messenger at the inner circle of a clan leader’s court. He must be very careful here, particularly with a man so boorish and crass as this one. The Tark and his circle of ten Khur Kan leaders embodied everything negative he had heard about the ‘Zari’ as Tando called them. Artuk was disgusted.
The Tark watched him for a moment, as if waiting to see how his jibe would be received. Then he seemed to lose interest in his play and spoke again. “So,” the Tark belched as he spoke, throwing a slice of fat on the fire and watching as it hissed and sputtered on the hot embers. “Rana Tenpai wishes to visit the Tark? Omu Seng Tu wishes to visit the Tark. Everyone wishes to visit the Tark! I am too flattered.” He rested his fat palms on his knees and sniffed at the oily smoke. “Well? Is that all? What more?”
“The wood slips for your eyes will tell anything that remains unspoken of my Lord’s intentions.” The mention of the woods seemed to annoy the Tark more than to satisfy his request. He regarded them with some disdain, and then tapped the woods lightly against his the side of his head. “Strange,” he smirked, “I hear nothing!” Artuk was considering how he should respond when he heard a throaty shout from the entrance behind him.
“Where? Where is the man? Who, that one?” The voice echoed through the hall. Everyone turned to see what the commotion was all about. A lean, muscular man in scaled armor was pointing at Yoru where he waited by the entrance, squaring off to him, his features twisted in a scowl. “My Lord Tark,” he bellowed. “I demand a life!” Both men were reaching for their weapons, but before either could act the Tark bellowed and threw a pail of mutton tea onto the fire, which exploded in a hissing column of steam and smoke.
“Be silent! Stand where you are!” His voice was so commanding, that all the men around the circle of the fire seem to freeze in place, eyes averted. It was as if some dark sorcerer had cast a wicked spell on the room. The steam billowed up, dissipating through the hole in the roof to reveal the angry figure of the Tark. The two men at the back of the room immediately ceased their squabble, bowing low. “Who disturbs the circle of my fire tonight? Speak!”
The intruder straightened himself and spoke in a loud voice. “I am told that messengers, late come to this place, have quarreled with my men where they stand their post by the north road. One of my men was struck on the face! Their woman was taken from them by force of arms. Great insult was given. It was said one of the offenders wore the green shawl of a Khur Kan leader. Another was of higher rank. It was said that they were come here to the hall of the Tark. Maybe it is this man! Make him speak!”
The Tark glowered at the men at the back of the room and pointed at Yoru.
“Is this so?” he spoke in a loud, demanding voice.
“Lord,” Artuk’s interrupted. “We are those this man has spoken of, but I wear the shawl of the second rank; my comrade the fourth. It is I who must bear any responsibility for what was done. If you will hear my tale, I will tell you that I would do again all that this man has said, and more. His men dishonored themselves, dishonored their clan, and tempted even the anger of the gods!” Speaking quickly, he told the Tark all that happened on the road, and how he had sought only to rescue a poor, helpless girl from the clutches of her tormenters.
“No matter!” The man at the back of the room would not be satisfied. “I am Raga Dakman Tebu. This man has taken a woman of my clutch. I will have his life! If not his, then this one in his place!” He pointed at Yoru angrily.
The Tark stroked his chin, at wry, evil smile beginning to tug at his thick cheeks. Then he began to grumble to himself, resolving into a low, malicious laugh. What to do, he thought? This one is Khur Kan leader of the second rank. He must be favored by Rana Tenpai to bear such a message to my fire. Yet, he is strange in dress and manner of speech. How to read this? He wanted to know more before he decided the matter. When at last he spoke, his voice was honed, and knife-sharp as he pointed at Artuk.
“I have asked you once, and now I ask a second time. Who are you? You do not present yourself in the fashion of my people. What clan did you name?” His words were edged with suspicion.
“I have called myself a Wend, Lord, and this is my clan name, though my people are not kin to your country. I am come from the city of Khotan. I now serve the will of my Lord, Rana Tenpai.”
“Where did you get that shawl? Perhaps you stole it and killed the man it belongs to—is this so?”
“No, Lord. The Lord Rana himself gave me this charge. I am sworn to the service of the house of Tenpai, as I have said.”
“Sworn? You have neither bones nor blood and you are sworn to fealty?”
“I am so sworn, common-fated to the Lord Rana Tenpai.”
At this the Tark took pause. His confusion seemed to redouble itself and he was all the more angry with the situation. “You are common-fated? Ha!” Artuk could almost feel the foul breath of the man as he shouted. The tension in the room thickened perceptibly. Then Artuk spoke in a low voice that seemed almost threatening.
“I will renounce the life that was given to me of old. I will always cherish the Lord of my house; I will never consider power, and I will always wish to cope with his directions. I will never doubt, and will always be brave. I will never want to abandon the life of my Lord, and I will always heed his word. Though others may entice me, I will never listen, and I will never wish to conspire…” He was speaking the formal litany of the ritual of sworn allegiance. The Tark was taken off guard by the words, but he contained his anger, listening, and thinking to himself.
Common-fated! This is an unseen twist of the rope. What now? A man could know those words and yet not be sworn. He comes to me in the company of that other, who is certainly of the Tenpai brood—I know it by his dress. And this one wears the shawl—how else but by the hand of a clan leader? He is bold, but I do not think he would be so bold as to deceive me here. Then he is common-fated! If that is so I cannot so lightly sport with him here. He would rank those he slandered, and may plead just cause for his actions. What to do? He grunted, coming to some inner conclusion.
“You speak well,” he said, “but if you know the pledge of my people then you will also know that you now stand accused of great misdeed. The Tark is not pleased to hear this!” His voice echoed loudly in the hall, forcing silence into every corner of the room. “It disturbs the circle of my fire, and I will not hear this now. So, I am decided. If you are common-fated as you claim, then I must speak with the Lord Rana on this matter before I judge. If I hear from him that you have lied here tonight, then I will gut you myself and feed your entrails to my Khur Kan leaders while you watch! And as for you…” he pointed at the back of the room where Raga waited, glowering, his features brazen with anger and frustration. “You I should kill, but the Tark will overlook your intrusion, as you have just cause to be angry. It may be that you will have the life you seek, but you will do nothing until the matter is decided. Return to your post!”
The man was clearly unsatisfied, but he knew not to press the matter. He bowed low, glaring at Yoru and Artuk before he turned and strode out of the room. The men in the circle of the fire were stilled now, all trace of frivolity gone from their faces. They watched Artuk closely, regarding him with new eyes. They had thought him to be little more than a messenger, but one who was common-fated, and spoke the word of his liege Lord, was given much greater status. He was Phon-ya, a formal emissary and voice of the Lord he served whenever he was charged to speak in his name. His simple message here tonight suddenly took on greater meaning. He was formally announcing the arrival of his clan leader, and not merely reporting news of his coming. The Tark knew this as well. He now fixed Artuk with a thick-lidded stare.
“Say this to your liege Lord,” he began, his tone taking on an equal measure of formality. “The Tark has eyes, and the Tark has ears. He has heard and soon he will see. The time of the Chöd draws near, but I do not think the Lord Rana hears the drums beating. His ears are stopped with pride. When Rana Tenpai comes here to this circle and sits in your place, then he may see. Understand?”
“I will return to my master and speak your words as you desire,” Artuk proffered a formal bow. He knew what the Tark was demanding and it worried him a great deal. By sending Artuk as emissary, Rana was serving notice that he wished to be received with a formal ceremony of greeting. It was a way of clearly establishing that he was, in fact, the senior authority in the region—that he was Tson Kan. The Tark’s reply carried an ominous note. The man seemed to be demanding that Rana present himself here at the circle, as any subordinate would come before his master. This did not bode well. The sinister mention of the time of the Chöd was another matter that concerned him. Artuk knew that the old blood rites of the Bön-po would often be played out during the time of ceremonial offerings known as the Chöd. He resolved to be mindful and learn as much as he could before he left this place.
It was time to take his leave. Artuk stood up, bowing to either side of the circle, and lastly to the Tark. Then he walked slowly and deliberately to the entrance at the back of the room, his pace measured and unhurried. Yoru was watching him closely, sweat streaking his soiled features. When Artuk reached his comrade, the two men turned and both bowed again in unison. The Tark’s lower lip seemed to quiver with anger, though he said nothing, his eyes searing the men as they turned and left the room. When they were gone, he reached up and seized the headdress of the yak and flung it onto the fire with a curse.
The Tark’s evening meal was concluded. His fingers tensed around the bundled wood slips Artuk had given him and he stood up, clearly angry as he stomped through a side door at the head of the room. Every man in the circle bowed low when he stood. None dared to move until he was long gone.
Chapter 2
Kara-Kum
It was a long, empty march before Drekk finally caught sight of the sun-bleached walls of Kara-Kum rising in the distance. In spite of his inner hope that Nala was alive, he had seen no sign or mark on the ground while he traveled north. He had trudged along with a strange inner hollowness, afraid that he could never hope to find her in all the empty quarters of the desert. The sight of Kara-Kum raised his spirits somewhat. He began to encounter signs of life as he approached the city. Outlying hamlets appeared off to his left where shiftless farmers struggled to repair the damage so lately done by the sand storm. Here and there he saw small groups of traders hovering around wagons and carts, and an occasional string of five or six camels in the distance reminded him of Tando. He reached for his old train captain in his mind, but that seemed so long ago and he let the memory go.
He approached the city near dusk, just another weary traveler flowing in from the barrens to join the mix of peasants, farmers and traders that were streaming in through the open gates. The walls of Kara-Kum were tall and smooth, bathed in a wash of ochre with the fading sun. They towered up, ten times the height of a man, with wide towers at intervals about the circumference of the city. The place stood in stark contrast to the darkness of the soot and sand on the surrounding terrain. Kara-Kum meant “Black Sand,” and the heavy silt in the region lived up to the name well. The great wooden gates of the city were thrown open and Drekk saw that they were scraped and scared where the wind-blown sands had clawed at them during the storm. He fell in behind a wobbly trader’s cart as he passed through the yawning portal, thinking of Locca and still heavy with guilt and remorse.
He was soon distracted by the bustle of the city entrance. Swarms of bearded men thronged in the street ahead and small trade stands pressed close by the gates where vendors clamored to sell their wares. There were leather workers offering finely crafted saddles and bridles. Other stands displayed knives, hand carved wooden bowls, woven baskets and finely braided rope of hemp. There were cotton and silk garments, lambskins, fur hats, shoes of woven felt, wool fleeces, embroidered carpets and decorative shawls. The smell of food was intoxicating as he took in the scent of skewered kabobs of grilled meat, fresh vegetables, roasted naan bread, boiled eggs and a bounty of fruits such as melons, apricots and peaches…Oh the peaches! He was drawn at once to a stall where he stood transfixed by a mound of golden ripe peaches that brought memories of the rolling orchards of his homeland near the great city of Samarkand.
Off to the left there was a sheep pen where several men in long robes and brown skullcaps were arguing over the outcome of a Dumba ram fight. He looked and saw that one of the men was pointing at an unenthusiastic ram, pulling on the beast’s ears and trying to get it to butt heads with another animal across the pen. A few people laughed and jeered at the man, and some placed bids on the opposing sheep, certain that they would return a good win.
“Posh, Posh!” A scrawny wrinkle of a man was herding another bob-tailed sheep along the rutted street and waving reedy brown arms to clear people out of the way. Drekk stood before the vendor, a heavy, round-cheeked woman who was squatting and fussing with her dog at the side of the stand. She noticed Drekk, staring at him strangely for a moment before her seller’s instincts were triggered and she began to cluck at him, pointing at the ripe, succulent peaches.
“Very good,” she said, smiling warmly at him, her eyes blooming over full red cheeks, her nose a polished bob in the middle of her round face. “Very sweet! You tired? Thirsty? The desert is very hard and my peaches so soft. Only three yuan. You take?”
Drekk fumbled about for a moment, realizing that he would need coinage to make the transaction and struggling to recall if he had any money on him. He patted his soiled kaftan, searching for pockets. The woman’s smile drooped a bit as she began to suspect he was either too poor to afford her wares, or simply trying to feign poverty as a means of quibbling down the price.
“Only three yuan,” she said again, firming up her price and turning the peaches this way and that so Drekk could see the gorgeous streaks of red and carroty orange that dappled the swelling fruit. The smell of the peaches surrounded him. He simply had to have one, and was relieved to find a copper coin that would easily count for a five yuan piece in any market. He drew it out of his pocket, pinching it between his brown thumb and finger as he showed it to the woman.
“Two?” he asked, not wanting to dicker. Thankfully the woman was in a mood to make the sale quickly. She cheerfully offered him his pick of the pile in trade for the coin. He took up one plump peach and immediately took a bite, his eyes rolling as the sweet nectar swilled down his chin into the stubble of his short dark beard. He ate the whole of the peach with great relish as the woman watched, smiling with delight, for his obvious pleasure had attracted two other customers to her stall. They were eyeing the peaches with some interest as they watched Drekk devour the fruit all the way to the wrinkled inner seed, which he slipped into his pocket, along with his second peach. Then he bowed graciously to the red faced woman and moved on, greatly satisfied.
He realized that he would have to find a moneychanger and see what he could do for coinage now. He managed to root out another three coins from his coat, hefting them in his juice stained palm and realizing that they would not buy him much more than a single night of lodging at a typical inn. Then he remembered the pouch that Tando had pressed upon him when he left the caravan those long days ago. He groped for it, finding it still safe in the hidden pocket of his coat. He was greatly relieved. He had a full fist of Jade Ring Green, and more…He had the seed of this most exotic of teas. That alone would be worth many khal of silver. Bless you, Tando, he thought. How you managed to wrangle the seeds away from the growers, I’ll never know. With this I can plant my own crop of the teas any time I desire! I am no farmer, but in the right hands these seeds could be nurtured into a fortune. I’ll keep them close, just as you asked. The fist of tea should be all I will need to find lodging and food here for a week or more if I need it. Bless you!
He moved on through the thronging entrance, working his way across the wide outer courtyard to a place where clusters of mud-packed houses angled around crooked streets. In time he came to an inn and was able to find a moneychanger who would accept half of his Jade Ring Green in exchange for coin. Soon he had enough to buy a room for the week, complete with meals in the common great room. The amiable innkeeper was a gray-haired Chinese man with a long, braided ponytail reaching to his waist and a thin tangle of a beard that was almost as long in the front. He was very busy, but Drekk managed to convey his desire for a room that had a window looking out on the court. He shook his head at two offerings and the innkeeper began to mutter in Chinese before he ushered Drekk into a third room, which was exactly want he wanted. The view from the window took in the wide, open court before the gates of the city. He would be able to watch people coming and going as he desired.
He stretched out on the woven hemp mat, intending only to take a moment’s rest as he listened to the odd clamor of the city around him. How different it was from the whispering sounds of the desert and the river. He closed his eyes, listening to the muted sounds of conversation, and the banging of pots and bowls in the great room. Beyond this he could still hear the calls of street vendors mixed with the braying of herded sheep, tingling donkey bells and the harassing bark of dogs. He stilled his mind, letting the weariness and fatigue of the long day’s march flow away from his tired limbs. The sounds of the city seemed to coalesce into a thrumming mantra that soon lulled him to the edge of sleep. He tried vainly to rouse himself, but not even his hunger would provide him a crutch and he soon drifted off to sleep, safe at last within the outermost shell of Kara-Kum.
He awoke with a start, bleary-eyed and wondering where in the world he was. The room was still dark with shadows, and the sounds around him were muted and dim. He could still hear activity in the great room. The smell of food was on the air, tugging at him. He reasoned that he had probably slept three or four hours and he felt greatly revived for it. His stomach was growling, and the aroma of cooked food soon pulled him up from the woven hemp mat where he lay. He stumbled about in the dark until he nearly tripped over a low wooden bowl that had been set on a stool for him. Apparently the innkeeper, or one of his servants, had slipped in the stool and water bowl while he slept. An unlit wax candle was set beside the bowl. Drekk fumbled about to find his flint until he had sparked a sliver of dry kindling straw from the floor to light the candle.
He spent some time washing himself and trying to brush off the soot and dust of the desert. What he really needed was a good long bath and new clothes. He had the means for both if he chose to trade away a pinch or two of his seeds. But hunger was uppermost in his mind now, gurgling in his empty stomach and drawing him out of his room and down a dank hallway to the great room. The heat of the fire burning in a central pit warmed him. There were many boarders sitting at the tables, talking in animated voices as they slurped down their meals. He saw skewered meat kabobs on the fire, and recognized the smell of green peppered mutton simmering in a black kettle. There were also dumplings of manta stuffed with spiced lamb and a hearty soup called Chushi-ra. He wanted to throw himself at the food, but he mastered his impulse and sauntered over to a table to seat himself on a low bench, his back to the wall where he could see the entrance to the dining room well enough.
A round faced man sat at the table, his features flushed red with the warmth of the room. Firelight played on his bald head fringed with short gray hair. He was drinking a bowl of mutton tea, oblivious of Drekk for the moment, until he looked up and saw the looming shape of the scout. At first he seemed somewhat startled by Drekk’s dusky aspect, his hair still wet from the water bowl and slicked back on his head. The man edged away slightly, nosing into his tea bowl again as if to pretend he did not even see Drekk.
“Are you hungry?” said a voice.
Drekk looked up to see the gray-bearded innkeeper at his side. “Yes,” he said. “Very hungry.” He eyed the simmering kettle with obvious desire.
“Good!” The innkeeper seemed pleased to find another eager mouth to feed. “I bring good food. Nice and hot! Good spice here in Kara-Kum. You will see.”
Drekk offered a polite bow as the man shuffled off, noting the groups of people gathered around the tables. They were mostly traders and herders that had come to shelter behind the city walls after the storm.
“Bad storm.” Now that the round-faced man had finished his mutton tea, he set the bowl down and focused his attention on Drekk, apparently intent on conversation. “You sleep in the desert?”
“Many nights,” said Drekk. The man appeared Chinese, but he was speaking the mix of Indo-Turkic languages that were often heard on the trade roads.
“You suffer much.”
Drekk thought the remark a bit odd, but strangely true. He looked at the man more closely, noting the weathered bareness of his right shoulder, and the thin arm that protruded from beneath the swath of a dull, orange shawl. For the first time it registered on him that the man was a cleric. He noted the amulet that hung around his neck, suddenly interested.
“You are a priest?” Drekk nodded to the mandala symbol dangling at the end of the man’s necklace.
“Monk,” said the man. “I am called Chen Hu. And you?”
“Drekk.” He looked at the man with a bit of suspicion, guarded against all clerics in his mind now, but knowing he had no real reason to suspect this man of any wrongdoing.
The innkeeper was back with a wood platter replete with a sampling of all the evening’s fare. Drekk bowed graciously, breathing deeply to take in the wonderful aroma of cooked food. It seemed he had not eaten a proper meal for weeks, and he fell upon the food like a famished beggar, much to the delight of the monk, who laughed and pointed at him gleefully.
“You are very hungry! You suffer much in the desert!” His eyes nearly disappeared under thick charcoal brows as he laughed. Drekk smiled, but his mouth was too full of meat and dumplings to speak. He wolfed his way through the peppered mutton and then eased back, very satisfied, a pleasant sensation of fullness in his belly for the first time in days.
“I have not eaten that well for nearly half a moon,” he breathed, noting how the monk’s eyes seemed to linger on a few unfinished dumplings.
“Oh, please,” said Drekk, nudging the platter towards the monk. “Forgive my manners. I was so famished that I neglected to offer you some.”
The monk smiled and bowed, but his hand was already on his chopsticks and he snipped up a segment of manta dumpling and plopped it into his mouth, careful to catch a dribble of gravy that had started to run down his bearded chin. The food seemed to lighten the mood considerably. “You are a trader?” he asked, curious about Drekk.
“I served a trader for three years past. We fell on hard times on the road out of Dun Huang this year.”
“Dun Huang? Very bad there now. An Lu Shan makes much trouble in China. You were there recently?”
“Months ago.”
“Your traders bring silk to Kara-Kum? I need new robes. Maybe you could sell me cheap?
“No, I am not a trader,” Drekk explained. “I was train scout serving the caravan, but my captain has taken another road now. We had trouble.” He was not certain how much he wanted to say about the Tibetans, though he could not think of any reason why he should keep the information to himself.
“Bandits? Ah, yes!” The monk seemed to finally put Drekk’s haggard appearance into some meaningful frame of reference.
“You might say so. We were forced to flee from soldiers—Tibetan soldiers. They were terrible to look on, for sure.”
“Soldiers of Tibet? Tu Fan? I have not heard that any men from Tibet have come this way for years.”
Drekk told him the story, leaving out the part about Nala and the monks and the fate of Locca with all of his men. Just thinking back over it seemed to weigh upon him, and that, along with the full meal, seemed to sap his strength again. In spite of his sleep, he was still very tired.
“You tell me now,” he said quickly, changing the subject. “Are there many priests or monks here in Kara-Kum?”
“Oh yes, many monks. Monks sell incense and prayer scrolls. They bring much good fortune. Yes? You want a prayer? Can do. I can sell you prayers, very cheap.”
“You have been here long?”
The monk seemed a bit thrown off the scent by the question. He answered quickly, angling back to his services. “I have been here one moon. I sell very good incense here. It kills donkey smell, desert smell; all kind of smells—Makes everything very pure! You want some?”
“Have you seen monks come here lately with a girl? Three monks, maybe. One girl.” Drekk hoped the man might help him, though he knew the odds were long.
“Girl? Monks are not allowed with women. That is very bad. Why do you ask this?”
“Just curious.”
“Oh no.” The monk was not convinced. “You ask for some reason, yes?” His eyes wandered over Drekk again, noting his soiled kaftan coat as if he were looking for some answer to his question in the tattered quilts. Then he pursed his lips, resolved, and spoke again. “Monks are holy.” He leaned on that last word to make his point. “Not allowed with girls.” He waved a thin arm to add emphasis.
Drekk nodded that he understood, looking very downfallen. The monk watched him for a moment, his eyes intent. It was obvious to him that this was not the answer the stranger was expecting. He noted how the big man’s shoulders seemed to slump a bit, and his eyes softened, relenting. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind, and then reached a hurried conclusion. Chen Hu put his finger to his lips, leaning close to Drekk as he spoke.
“One exception…” He looked over his shoulder, as though afraid the other boarders would overhear him. “A Master may enjoy the company of a woman at times.” Chen Hu was whispering now, his eyes dancing about as he spoke. “But not a monk.”
Drekk was suddenly interested.
“A Master?”
“Yes. A Guru Master is very high, very holy. He knows many ways to the Buddha; the Eightfold path and many other paths. Some things are very secret. Only holy men know these things. They do not even tell monks, and they certainly will not tell you. But … sometimes, a Master will take a sacred consort for secret teaching. Only a Master. No one else. Not even a priest!”
“Consort?”
“Oh yes,” the monk knew a captive audience when he saw one. “The sacred consort is very special; a Dharma Queen! Some say Dakini. I only hear of this, of course. I hear stories, teachings.” He lowered his voice again, adding to the sense of mystery he was trying to convey. “Somewhere, far off, there is a great copper colored mountain. The Pure Land of great and powerful gurus. It is very far. That way.” He waved his arm off to the south. “Very far; over purple mountains to Chamára. There is a sacred place there, with nine islands guarded by savage Rakshasa demons. In the middle of Chamára a red mountain scrapes the sky.” His eyes looked up at the beamed ceiling as he spoke. “There one can see the magical palace of Lotus Light! That place is home to Padmasambhava. He is a very great Guru Yogi—Bigger than a monk, or priest, or even a Master! He knows all things and teaches many secrets. Dakini secrets.” He looked about him again, his voice hushed and guarded.
“What is that? Dakini secrets.” Drekk was taken in by the monk’s story. “What does that mean?”
“I cannot tell.” Chen Hu folded his arms. “Oh no! Very secret. What is a secret for if all men know? Only a Master knows.”
“Yes, but if this is so secret why does this Guru teach it? Tell me that! Who does he teach?”
“Dakini secrets. Only Masters can do this. Not monks. Masters and special consorts.”
Drekk was not satisfied. He could see that he would not solve the riddle here with this monk, but the mention of the Master gave him something more to grasp at. “Where can I find a Master who knows these things?”
“A Master? He will not talk to just any man. Only priests, and sometimes monks.” Chen Hu had that scolding look about him again. “You can not find a Master here. Maybe at the Kizil Caves. Perhaps there.”
“The Kizil Caves? I have heard of that place! I even saw them once, when I was very young. That was many years ago. You say there are Masters there?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. I think yes. A thousand Buddhas there. Masters give teaching and make even more Buddhas. Very sacred. But you are not a monk. You must be very pure to go there. How did you see these caves?” He gave Drekk a suspicious look.
“I know them I tell you. But that was years and years ago. They are north of Kucha in the mountains. A stream issues from a great gash there at the feet of the Tien Shan. I could find them again if I wanted to.”
“Oh no! You cannot go there. Spirits will eat your heart!” Chen Hu gave him a searching look. “Why do you ask so many questions?”
“Curious.”
The monk had a dubious look on his face. He shifted back on his stool, breaking the conspiratorial bond between them, and assumed a tone that was more a lecture. “Better to pray.” He wagged his finger at Drekk. “Light incense. Do not go to the Kizil Caves and meet dark spirits.”
“Yes,” Drekk assured him. “I will pray tonight instead, and stay right where I am. All I desire is a good night’s sleep; not dark spirits. Am I a priest?” Drekk backed out of the proposition, but he was inwardly musing over old memories of the caves and coming to a decision. If this monk speaks the truth, he thought, then where else would the others be bound for in this region? Holy men seek holy places. And these caves are the holy of holies, or so this monk seems to believe. Now what about this Dakini business, and spiritual consorts, and Masters? Perhaps I should go there, and find these caves. I can’t just sit here in this inn until I fritter away the last of my Jade Ring Green, can I? Would the monks come here to Kara-Kum? I would be very surprised if they would even dare enter the city. After all, a woman with monks would be thought strange, yes?
The more he thought on it, the more he resolved to try the caves. At least there he might have hope of learning something more about the strange monks. It was clear to him that Chen Hu could offer him little more. But he thanked the monk, just the same, and asked him to sell a prayer scroll with incense and amulet. Chen Hu was very pleased.
Chapter 3
Omu’s Gift
“This is a dangerous situation, Rana.” Keemah leaned close as he spoke, his face creased with worry. “You must consider the implications, no matter what you decide here.”
They were sitting in Rana’s tent with Artuk, hearing the last of his report of events at Charchan, and weighing the meaning of the Tark’s reply. After hearing it, Artuk did not stay long in Charchan. He took a brief rest in the town bazaar, searching out anything palatable he could find and buying a few small delicacies for his men as well. They were not often treated to well cooked meat, but in one small street stand, a vendor had offered skewers of meat that had been charred over coals. Artuk used some coinage Tando had given him to see that his men ate well.
They mounted soon after, heading north along the same road they had come by. When he reached the narrow place in the track where he had rescued the Chinese girl, he found that the men there had been replaced by others. They watched him cautiously, clutching the hafts of their long spears tightly as he regarded the house. Artuk noted that the carcass of the butchered dog still remained where he had first found it. Threads of smoke spiraled upwards from the smoldering fire and a stench hung over the place. His men seemed uneasy. Yoru was looking this way and that, as if he feared some ambush or trap, but Artuk was not concerned. He knew that word of the Tark’s displeasure would have reached this place by now. He had little doubt that the other men had been carted off to a new work detail, possibly to avoid exacerbating the situation. He made a mental note to visit this place again, but knew now that he had urgent news for Rana that would not wait. They had another two hours ride or more before they could rejoin the column, and he wasted no more time here.
The watery moon was waxing, and the light cast wan shadows over the barren land wherever a lonesome toghrak tree or withered willow clung to life. He led his men on at a good pace, stopping every so often to listen to the ground again and satisfying himself that they were not being followed. It was not long before he had spied a telltale amber glow in the distance, and knew that they were approaching Rana’s night camp.
Now he huddled in conference within Rana’s personal tent, honored to be considered Samaya bound, an oath-taker, admitted to the inner circle of voices this night. He told them everything that had happened, including the incident on the road where he had shamed the Tebu clansmen and rescued the Chinese girl. Keemah’s eyes moved to Rana when he had finished this part, as if sharing some secret the two held together.
“You removed the girl?” Keemah asked.
“I took her into town with me and delivered her into the keeping of an old peasant woman. She was willing to take the girl, for she had two daughters of her own. I could not leave the child to be tortured by the clansmen.”
“I can understand your heart on the matter,” said Rana. “But if this girl had been taken as a captive, or given as tribute or reward for service, then you have earned yourself a great deal of enmity by your action.”
“I know this,” said Artuk. “I am willing to accept the consequences of what I have done.”
“They may be far more dire than you expect,” said Rana. He looked briefly at Keemah before relating the story of the three women that had been taken from his clutch by a Khur Kan leader long ago. “You may have tread upon the honor of those men to shame them for their mistreatment of the girl, but, by so doing, you have given insult to the Tebu Clan as a whole.”
“How did the Tark react?” Keemah leaned forward, his face awash in the light of the coal brazier, very interested.
“He seemed unwilling rule on the matter, without first speaking with you, Lord Rana. Yet he was very angry—That much was obvious. If I have implicated you in this quarrel, I beg your forgiveness. It was not my intention.”
“A man does many things he may not intend,” said Rana softly. He had a pensive look on his face as he turned the situation over in his mind. He had launched this man at the Tark to see what might come back. Artuk was alive! If the Tark were headstrong, rash, and utterly stubborn as many have said, this man would be dead now. Rana was secretly elated, though outwardly he wore the face of one who was much perplexed.
“How to read this Ku Ku, Keemah?” He was referring to the riddle that Artuk’s actions had spun for him to solve.
“The Tark knew the man was sworn,” said Keemah, hitting on the crux of the matter. “Perhaps he intends to try and raise his mark now and hold you accountable for the slur. It could be just the pretext he needs.”
“Perhaps,” Rana was very thoughtful. “Tell me, did he read the woods in your presence?”
“No, Lord, he made sport with them before his men, but did not open them. They were still bound when I took my leave.”
“He did not fire them, as least as far as you were able to see?”
“No, Lord.”
“Well, that is some consolation, Keemah.” Rana looked like he was casting about for something to shore up his thinking. Inwardly, he was very pleased. The Tark could have thrown the woods to the fire, but he did not, thought Rana. This is another good sign. He is uncertain. He is brash and uncouth, but he is no fool. He will be cautious until he learns more. Yet, his honor demands some reprisal. This has gone just as I might wish, Rana thought, but outwardly he scratched his head, feigning doubt.
“Was it after the intrusion that he gave his reply to you?” Rana questioned Artuk again.
“Yes, Lord.”
Rana sighed heavily. “Well, what is done, is done. It cannot be helped now. I order you not to interfere in the doings of the Tebu Clan again. You acted well, mind you. I would have done the same thing in your place. You have done me honor by acting in this manner, and I do not rebuke you. But there will be consequences—for both of us. You may go now. I will summon you again in the morning.”
“My Lord.” Artuk bowed low, taking his leave while they waited. When he had gone, Keemah turned to Rana with a smile.
“So, your arrow has struck home, Rana!” Keemah rubbed his palms together.
“It has.”
“The Tark has plucked it from his hind quarters with a yelp. Now he is bent on making offering in the Chöd. How interesting. Do you think he read the woods?”
“He most certainly read them, if he could do so.” Rana was convinced. “Now he will know that it is my intention to assume command here in the Emperor’s name. He will not like that, of course, and if he is to oppose us here he will need the loyalty of all his men to make such a challenge.”
“So, he will buy time with the ritual of the Chöd.” Keemah’s mind leapt ahead, following Rana’s thought and leading them on. “I can bet that his offering will be a blood offering.”
“Yes, he will make a red feast blood offering to Heruka or some other demon spirit, that is certain. He is a follower of the Bön. What else should we expect from him?”
“How can you allow this in light of the Emperor’s decree? If he flaunts his blood sacrifice, and makes smoke offerings to wrathful deities—”
“You forget, Keemah. He has not yet heard of the Emperor’s decree. He departed over two months ago, and his clan is far removed from the doings at Lhasa. The Emperor’s scroll is another matter. First we must deal with the woods. How will he react to my demands? Will he accede to my authority here? If not, then the matter concerning the Emperor’s decree means nothing. First the woods, then the scroll.”
“His reply worries me, Rana. He demands that you come before him like a messenger and make petition. You cannot allow this!”