The Roof of the World Is Forever

By Aimee Lamb

Temuchin, Ghengis Khan, set out to conquer the then known world and almost succeeded...

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543955507

Book preview

Epilog

"In our heart of hearts believing

Victory crowns the just,

And that braggarts must

Surely bite the dust,

Press me to the field ungrieving,

In our heart of hearts believing

Victory crowns the just."

- Men Who March Away - Thomas Hardy -

CHAPTER 1

We sit mounted, silent, our breaths and that of our mounts’ scarce discerned as they rise, swirling and mingling over our heads and floating off with the dissipating morning mist, awaiting but our commanders’ orders to charge.

I fidget, uncomfortable for the first time, and I hoped the last, in the saddle. Men speak in whispers to either side of me, but I just sit staring ahead trying to see the enemy through the early morning darkness. I start to shiver and my mount, as though sensing my unease, snorts and stomps her right hoof. I lean forward along her neck, both warmed and comforted by her body and whisper softly into her twitching ears.

Soon, soon.

As though the order has been given, I feel the ground beneath us move and then I can hear the thundering noise of a thousand hooves and the jingle and jangle of harness and armor.

The sun suddenly rises on the horizon lighting up the enemy forces with a pink glow. I know that we, with our backs to the dark mountains, cannot be discerned as easily by the enemy as we can discern them.

I look at the thundering mass descending on us and, as I look, I can sense the excitement and anticipation rippling through our ranks. Then it begins, the slow, steady beat of the drums. The order to ride!

Suddenly the air around me is suffused with the screams of men and the snorting and neighing of mounts as we surge forward, a wave of death, ready to meet whatever destiny the day will bring us. Over our heads, as we advance, the arrows shot by our women and boys scream by dangerously close, seeking the enemy targets ahead of us. We, the cavalry, still wait the order to charge, our bodies, and those of our steeds, impatient at the slow advance.

The it comes, the trumpet order to charge. It is repeated down each flank and we bound forward my horse needing no hand to guide her, for she knows instinctively what she must do.

I am as though another person as I squeeze my mount between my legs and hold my lance and sword in palms crying out at the tension from the long wait. My teeth hold the reins between them as my heels dig into my mount’s flanks, urging her into a gallop. Then I am as though alone facing three enemy warriors as they come at me. I parry and fend off their assaults too busy to think clearly, my training taking over. I turn my mount around and she responds with alacrity. I hear a disembodied voice screeching and realize that it is myself that I hear as I slice through an enemy cavalryman and fatally stab another. Blood, warm and wet, splashes my face and covers my hands, the ferrous smell assailing my senses, but I dare not stop swinging my sword for my life depends on it.

The next hours pass as though in slow motion, the whole suffused with red from the rising full sun and the blood of foes and companions alike.

Then it is over and I lie whispering sweet nothings into my brave mount’s ears, feeling as though drained of every bit of strength I ever had.

Through a haze of dust and men, I see Temuchin. He is assessing our losses but I realize we have won, for of the enemy few are seen. Those that are among us are either dead or kneeling in submission, heads bowed, weapons on the ground, out of their reach. A group of our women, bows at the read, stand guard lest any one tries to escape.

I let my mount take me back to the camp where I slither off and literally almost crawl into the horses’ enclosure barely having enough strength to take the saddle and trappings off my wonderful companion’s sweat, spittle and blood drenched body. I rub her down as best I can, relieve to find no injuries, and then release her to the young boys who will see that she is watered and loose her to eat. She whinnies in delight as she races off, kicking up her heels, glad to be rid of the weight on her back. I smile as I wearily pull the saddle up into my aching arms, and stagger back to my yurt, almost breaking my neck when my boots become tangled in the teeth marked dragging reins, as I try to step aside to avoid a herd of ponies being driven towards the enclosure.

I place my saddle on the pole outside my yurt and drape the reins and bit next to it. As I do so, I look down at the sleeves of my tunic. They are stiff with congealed blood as is the felt of my boots. My hands look like I have soaked them in walnut dye for blood always dries dark brown. I am too tired to go sort through the clothing taken from the dead, for a fresh set of garments and boots, and have no fear that there will still be plenty of choices on the morrow for the dead probably outnumber the living at the end of today’s battle. So I stagger into my yurt, lie down on my bed pile and stare up at the domed roof too tired to even seek out food or drink.

Thus ends my first day as a fully fledged warrior in Temuchin’s cavalry. I am twelve years of age.

As I lie, too tired to sleep, I do not protest when Temuchin comes and pulls me up and drags me after him to sit by the camp fire with other warriors. Our bloodied hands clasp one another and I shiver as I wonder whose blood it is that mingles in our grasp.

As we seat ourselves, a wolf howls. The sound is repeated tenfold and I know a pack is restlessly pacing outside the circle of light cast by our fire. As I sit there I begin to wonder about the legend that is told of our wolf ancestors, the grey eyes, and seek comfort against Temuchin’s knee, secure in the knowledge that if there is to be any further killing tonight that he will be the one to carry it out. I feel the heavy silk of his trousers against my cheek as I look into the fire frying to see the future in the dancing flames. Temuchin’s knee flexes under my cheek and I feel his hand begin to stroke my hair.

My eyes wander over the faces of our companions, huddled around the fire, as we all listen to Yuli.

The wolf is our legendary ancestor and symbolizes our greatest qualities. As you all know those are limitless endurance, inherent intelligence and an ability to live on and off of nature’s bounty. Listen to our brothers as they pace outside the circle of light cast by this fire. Hear them howl, hear their pride in their constant challenges to survive and stay together as a pack. We must be like our brother the wolf. We must always honor and worship this spiritual ancestor of ours. We must live as he does, by cunning. Use our strengths to survive and always act as a cohesive whole. Remember the words and example of our dear departed Houlun, who showed how an arrow by itself may easily be broken by one person, but several men, no matter how strong, together cannot break a quiver full of arrows. Times are hard for our people but there will come a time when we will be rewarded richly for what we have to endure now. Let your faith and belief in our worthy ancestors sustain you! Look how well the battle went today, you were victorious because you believed!

Long haired, flat brows, piercing eyes, hollowed cheeks, my companions show the hard times we live by the lines etched on their features. Some have scars they wear proudly, further testaments to the dangers we all live and face in our daily lives, as well as the battles like the one just fought. To a man, they are all blood spattered, some of it from their own wounds, a testament as to how their day was spent and echoing the redness of the fatigue in their eyes. Yet they all listen rapt by Yuli’s recounting of our forefathers’ trials and successes and as he urges us all to be strong and carry on the fight to honor our ancestors as well as make a future for our children and those yet to be born.

Remember the trials and dangers our ancestors, the blue-gray wolf and his wife the reddish-brown deer faced and overcame, on their journey from Siberia to Baikal. How, after many months of hardship and travel, they finally reached our beloved Onon river where their son Batachikan was born. How blessed we are that our ancestors chose this rich and diverse land. Here we have everything a man could want, and yet, you will travel beyond this area to lands as yet unknown and make them yours.

Yuli is our Shaman, his long hair is streaked with grey denoting age and the wisdom that comes with it. Not only is he our wise man, but he knows all out history, so we listen to him and respect him and his knowledge and heed his advice.

A branch crackles and sends spark shooting up, black and red in the yellow flames.

I follow their upward journey and look up at the sky above, deep purple pierced by a horde of golden stars, like nuggets of gold scattered on a silken carpet, reminding me of my father’s favorite cape. My mind begins to wander as Yuli’s mellifluous voice washes over me and more sparks fly up from the fire, dancing on the night air where they mingle with the spiraling smoke traveling heavenwards. I imagine them to be jewels and coins for the taking, but what hope have I, or my companions, of ever obtaining any! We come from herding stock and thus that will be our destiny.

The warmth of the fire, Temuchin’s hand stroking my hair and the odours of blood and sweat of my companions both soothe and relax me and I am transported back, back to when I first saw the light of day and slept secure at my mother’s breast in our family yurt. Although, I have no recollection of my mother, for she died before I was six months old, I do remember the first time I laid eyes on Temuchin.

The week had started out like any other. I had woken up and been fed the usual morning meal of millet and milk by one of the women who lived in our yurt. I remember it as being a sad and dreary place. On that particular day, I had no concept of time at that age, my father had gone out never to return. In his absence our yurt had been ransacked and everything in it that I was familiar with, either taken or tossed aside by rough men who had pushed me and my nursemaid aside. Over her protests they had taken all my father’s belongings and some items that I knew had been my mother’s. I wailed, my nursemaid cried, the men laughed, and then dragged her, screaming, out of the yurt.

I was too young to wander away and sought security in the familiar debris ridden yurt where, at night, I would curl up on the ground and sob myself to sleep, the comforting smell of the earth below me imbuing my nostrils and soul.

And that is where I was on that fateful day, sat on the ground of our yurt, howling in frustration, my stomach aching from lack of food and my bare bottom sore from having fallen down for the third time, when, suddenly, my field of vision was blocked by a pair of sturdy legs clad in rough red silk trousers. I looked up sniffling, almost chocking on a hiccup which rose unbidden up my throat halting my cries, while my small frame shook with silent sobs and quavers. My eyes traveled past the red silk-clad legs, up the chest covered only by an embroidered linen vest, to a boy’s face that was both round and flat in physique and from which two cat-like hazel eyes, set far apart, stared down at me intently. He did not say anything and I was too young to formulate words.

Waaaaa! I wailed.

The boy’s dark red hair¹ hung lankly about his shoulders and brushed across my tear-stained face as he leant down and pulled me to my feet.

Come little one, we are taking you home with us.

I looked into his warm hazel eyes and instantly knew our lives would be forever linked.

That was the first time I laid eyes on Temuchin yet I did not question his coming nor why I was being taken from the only home I knew. I only knew that I was going home with this boy, not much older than myself but already with a commanding aura about him that was to be his trademark his whole life span.

As he picked me up, effortlessly, I noticed he was not alone. Such was Temuchin’s force of presence, even as a boy, that I had been unaware of the others. Two younger boys and an older man, their father Yisuhgei and, who I was to learn later was my uncle, were with Temuchin. There were also about fifteen horsemen, both companions and servants, all heavily armed, accompanying them.

Everyone set to and quickly dismantled and packed up my family home and what little was left of its contents.

Once everything was packed up, even the broken wood poles, for wood was a scarce commodity. We then set off, I in the arms of my cousin atop his sturdy pony, my home and its meager contents traveling behind us on an oxen drawn car and the backs of pack horses and camels. Around us rode the armed men, enclosing us in a circle of protection.

When we reached Yisuhgei’s encampment I was taken from Temuchin’s arms and given into those of a woman who held me close.

Houlun, Temuchin’s mother, exclaimed over me as she cuddled me to her. She smelt of warm bread and smoke and I loved her instantly.

Just look ast the poor mite and still in baby’s backless trousers. So young to lose both parents. Poor dear. Come on, little one, you need some nice warm milk and some bread to chew on. Come with me.

And so, alternately talking and crooning, she carried me into their yurt an d welcomed me into the bosom of the family, placing me next to her newborn son, Pali, who lay gurgling on his sheep skin blanket on the floor. He looked up at me with his big round grey eyes and smiled, as drool trickled down his chin, while his little bare legs and arms punched and kicked at the air. I was instantly smitten.

I did not learn until I was several years older that my father had been killed by a rival tribe and that my uncle Yisuhgei had felt it his family obligation to take me in, one girl among four boys. I was not treated any differently than they, and they, in turn, all expected me to keep up with them in everything they did.

* * *

Temuchin was to lose his father at the age of only twelve.

Yisuhgei was poisoned by Tatar tribesmen in retaliation for his once having robbed them not long after my own father’s death. Some said Yisuhgei had robbed in retaliation for the Tatars killing my father, though I was never to know the full or true story. But rumors swirled around the camp fire that he had merely been trying to reclaim some property of his and my father’s. Whatever the cause, he was now dead and we were leaderless.

Yisuhgei had been a minor chieftain and, with his untimely death, life became difficult for my aunt Houlun and cousins, for Yisuhgei’s followers and servants, including three who had accompanied me from my home, pledged themselves to other chiefs leaving us, not only to fend for ourselves but, without protection. Even Yisuhgei’s secondary wives and concubines left, not wishing to be claimed by a boy not old enough to offer them protection.

One even left her young son behind, Belgutai, half brother to us all. He was spoilt for his mother had doted on him and waited on him more like a servant than a mother. And, though my uncle had acknowledged that Belgutai was his progeny, he had not welcomed him, during his lifetime, into the family yurt. Houlun, however, had no qualms about taking in yet another abandoned child, though it would mean stretching our already meager rations and resources even further.

I was about two years of age at Yisuhgei’s passing and I clung to my aunt’s leg not understanding what was happening as she held Pali to her breast. The man I had begun to call father was gone, in his stead a void that would have to be filled. Houlun hoped that it would be filled by her first born Temuchin. But a twelve year old boy scarce invited confidence in those who had supported his father, for he was untrained and untested in leadership though his three brothers, his half brother and I could have refuted that opinion!

Houlun did her best, taking up the standard of nine yak tails and pursuing those who were abandoning us, as she tried to reason with them to stay loyal to the symbol the standard represented, that of their chieftain and of his heir Temuchin, who accompanied her. Reason did not prevail that day, and though some were persuaded to stay loyal to Temuchin, and pledged their allegiance to him, they soon left us to fend for ourselves for they feared retribution on the son of one who had, during his lifetime, made many enemies.

Temuchin was fatalistic. He knew he could expect no succor from most of those loyal to him and the memory of his ancestors, for they were scattered in settlements about the countryside and up river protecting what little they still had against marauders and wild beasts. So, we would have to learn to fend by ourselves and for ourselves.

And learn we did.

His father’s domains, as they had in the time of his great grandfather, Kabul Khan, lay in the fertile valleys that stretched between our beloved Onon river and the Kemlon. There was a sufficiency of water, game and wood from the copses of birch and firs. Though wood was a scarce commodity, general only used for slats to firm up the yurts, in the building of wagons and such furniture as was necessary, weapons and, of course, the forms for the saddles over which hides were stretched, sewn and decorated, we had enough.

What would a Mongol be without his faithful steed and saddle? Indeed, Mongols spent more time on horseback than they did on their legs of lying down to sleep. From a very early age we were taught to ride. Even before we had our first ponies we had learned to grab a sheep and hang onto it by its woolly coat, as the beast protested trying to shake us off with many a bleat and rolling of their soft brown eyes. We ignored their protests as we indulged in mock battlers and races. From the sheep we would progress to the cattle and their very bony, lumpy backs and side to side motions. But they were too slow and lumbering so we would boldly seek out the herds of horses and ponies. We left the camels alone for they could be hard to control and besides, one could not access their backs as easily as horses and ponies, therefore, we concentrated on the latter. If we were lucky, we could sneak a ride on a pony, that is, if we could catch one set out to graze. This was harder than it sounds for our ponies, while known for their hardiness, stamina and speed, were very truculent and short tempered. Many a kick from their short, sturdy, but powerful legs was endured as were bites from their strong teeth. But woe beside the youngster if the owner of the animal came upon him, or her, and discovered the miscreant. A severe beating was often the result which inevitably prevented the youngster from riding anything, or having the desire to, for quite some time!

Needless to say, Belgutai would not attempt to ride the corralled ponies but he would tell on us, and many a night we went to our beds swearing revenge on him, though, Houlon, for some reason, protected him and managed to keep him from any serious injury!

The grasslands of the valleys provided us with the food for the herds that were the backbone of our way of life, for they in turn provided us with our vital necessities. Hides for clothing, saddles, bags, pouches and leather boxes to carry valuables in. Hair for rope and to make the felt of our homes. Bones were used for arrows, carved into combs and ornamentations as well as into bowls, spoons and utensils as well as fashioned into buttons for our clothing. Koumiss, fermented mare’s milk, kept us going when times were harsh, and, of necessity, their meat filled our bellies.

At night, after dinner, we discussed means and ways of survival.

We would not starve however, for we were all, though still very young, adept with the bow and arrow and as comfortable on the backs of our ponies as we were walking on the flood plains that cradled our beloved Onon River in that northeastern part of Mongolia we called home. We caught fish in the waters of the Onon and snared marmots and other small game in the lush grasslands that grew inland from its shores. With our sling shots we were even able to bring down a fleeing hare or a bird in flight. Unlike the boys, whose main responsibility was the tending to of the herds of horses and their grazing, protecting them from marauders and wild beasts, my aunt and I collected berries and tended to our small garden plot where we grew millet, sunflowers, barley and cabbages and also took care of our small flock of sheep, our chickens and small string of ponies.

At night,