I, Chinggis Qan

By Nathaniel H.C. Kim

I ask of you: by what measure- ment is the value of a mans life determined? Is it how much wealth he has accumulated? Or how many wives and children? Perhaps it is how large the land over which he rules and how many peoples reside in those lands. Or how many he may call nokor (friend) to whom he would give his life or their own. If these are the measures of the value of a mans life, is it enough to have only one or two, or must a man possess all for others to say of himhis life is truly valued?
Often have I pondered the question. Perhaps, like beauty, the value of a mans life remains in the eye of the beholder. A farmer who tills the soil and produces food for others may be said to have a life of great value for what he does sustains others. Even more so than the nobleman who owns vast tracts of land yet produces nothing for others unless the nobleman has brought to those who depend upon him prosperity, health, and peace as opposed to fear, disease, and poverty. Does the value of a mans life even matter in the great heaven of things?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 30, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462837816

Nathaniel H.C. Kim

Sarai is the third and final installment of the Qans Triology. Nathaniel Kim resides in Kaneohe, Hawaii with his two sons and is presently working on a fourth novel based on the legend of Chinggis Qan’s return eight hundred years after his death.

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I,

Chinggis

Qan

47892-KIM1-layout.pdf

Nathaniel H.C. Kim

An Autobiography of Fact and Fiction

Copyright © 2008 by Nathaniel H.C. Kim.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Cast of Characters

Bibliography

We are tenggeri-yin-ko’ud.

(We are sons of heaven.)

– Chinggis Qan (AD 1206)

Prologue

I ask of you: by what measure-

ment is the value of a man’s life determined? Is it how much wealth he has accumulated? Or how many wives and children? Perhaps it is how large the land over which he rules and how many peoples reside in those lands. Or how many he may call nokor (friend) to whom he would give his life or their own. If these are the measures of the value of a man’s life, is it enough to have only one or two, or must a man possess all for others to say of him – his life is truly valued?

Often have I pondered the question. Perhaps, like beauty, the value of a man’s life remains in the eye of the beholder. A farmer who tills the soil and produces food for others may be said to have a life of great value for what he does sustains others. Even more so than the nobleman who owns vast tracts of land yet produces nothing for others unless the nobleman has brought to those who depend upon him prosperity, health, and peace as opposed to fear, disease, and poverty. Does the value of a man’s life even matter in the great heaven of things?

When the time has arrived for a man to close the book of his life, would he believe that the words of his daily life and the lives of those whom he touched had some meaning? That he fulfilled a purpose for the time he spent upon the earth and gave meaning to others? Whether wealthy or poor, peasant or king, he lived his life to the fullest possible and faithfully followed whatever destiny or fate had ordained be it greatness or obscurity.

In the sixty years I have been upon this earth, I’ve touched the lives of multitudes, most of whom I did not know. I altered history and the lives of others and, some may say, destroyed whole civilizations and left cultures in utter ruin. Powerful statements few could ever make. Yet even so, in the end, I face death like every man who has walked this earth and every man who will walk this earth after me. This being true, it would seem the only thing that would distinguish my time upon Mother Earth from all others is what I did and whether it was deemed valuable.

Although many have written about me and many have passed grievous judgment upon me, it is not for them I record these events. Rather it is for those I will never know – the ones who come after me, the ones not yet tainted by the biases of the vanquished or other prejudices. Perhaps they will find in my life some meaning for their own existence. Perhaps not.

I am Chinggis Qan, and my story begins in AD 1167, the year of the boar, amid the beautiful forests and mountains of the Khentii mountain range in my beloved Mongolia.

Chapter One

His name was Teb Tenggeri, a hawk-faced man with long wavy whiskers sprouting from a feeble chin. The color of his skin resembled scorched leather, and his eyes were black as sable. He was the shaman of my father’s ayil (camp); and on the day I was born, my father invited him to be present to pray for my safe delivery and that of his beautiful second wife, Hoelun Unjin of the Olqunu’ud tribe. Being Hoelun Unjin’s first child, her labor was extended and difficult, wringing from her lips curses that burned the ears of all present. I was later told, not even my father thought, this woman of the Olqunu’ud knew such manly words and phrases. When after many hours I was at last expelled amid the blood and liquids of my mother’s womb – much to her great relief – Teb Tenggeri and my father stared at my small right hand holding a clot of blood larger than the knucklebone of a sheep. At first, they thought the thing was stuck to my hand, and it was only after father tried to wipe it away did they realize my fingers were actually curled around part of the stringy bloody lump. After some gentle prying by my father to dislodge the thing, Teb Tenggeri proclaimed the clot a sign of great destiny, which pleased my father and mother immensely.

I was given the birth name of Temujin after a Tatar noyan (noble) my father defeated and captured during those years when Tatar and Mongol were actively at war. Since time immemorial, our two peoples have been blood enemies living on the steppe, the reasons long forgotten. Still, Tatar and Mongol managed a tenuous coexistence until the day the Tatars ambushed my father’s renowned grandfather, Ambaki Qan, and his daughter and sold them to the Chin. When I asked my father why he named his firstborn son after a hated Tatar, he laughed and said it was not because of the Tatar noyan but because he was pleased with the meaning of the name: smith of iron. It was a good, strong name, fitting for a boy with a great destiny.

Over the next six years, three more sons and a daughter followed my birth – Qasar, Chagadai, Temuge, and Temulun – all about two years apart. Being so close in age allowed us to share in the many trials and tribulations awaiting us. The shared experiences made our brotherly bonds stronger. There were also two half brothers from an earlier marriage of my father to a Tayici’ud woman by the name of Suchigu. We thought her ugly and squat as a toad and wondered why Father ever married such a woman given our own mother who all thought wise and beautiful. The older of Suchigu’s two sons was named Bekter, two years older than me, and the second, Belgutei, a year older than I. None of us looked alike. Their skin was darker than our own, their hair was black as a raven’s, and their eyes the color of coal – traits of the Tayici’ud people who made up most of my father’s tribe, the rest being Borjigin like ourselves. My brothers and I weren’t fond of Bekter. We considered him a bully and mean-spirited. We liked his brother, Belgutei, well enough. He seemed more like us in temperament and interest. As I will relate, our lack of fondness for Bekter and his belligerent ways led to a tragedy that haunted me to the end of my days.

Teb Tenggeri once told me that people do not remember their early years as a child. Somewhere along the way, a person’s memory develops, and it is only then a person can begin to recall their early days. It seemed he was right for my own memories of childhood were a blur but for a single incident when I was four years of age.

I remember being inside our ger (tent) that day, playing alone. Qasar and Chagadai had been taken by Mother to look for roots, which were not far in the forests. She intended to be away only a few minutes. My father was out hunting with his brothers, Nekun Taisi and Daritai Odcigin. I was tethered to a post in the ger with a leather strap so that I could not venture outside. Somehow, I managed to untie the knot and went outside to look for my mother and brothers. Although I was alone, I do not recall being afraid. Rather, I thought it as great adventure and soon forgot about them and focused instead on the fun of digging in the dirt with a stick, looking for earthworms. The moment the noqod (wild dogs) emerged from the woods, growling and salivating, I sensed something wrong and, as any child of four would do, stood up and ran. Clearly, the worst thing to do Father later told me. The leader of the noqod, a big black dog with a white face and long pink tongue, caught up with me and knocked me down hard on the ground. Only through good fortune did Father return at just that moment and, with drawn saber, immediately attacked the noqod before I was seriously injured. He slashed and killed two of the noqod – one, the black dog – and wounded a third. The rest of the pack scattered into the forests of fir, yelping and howling their loss and terror. He picked me up in his strong arms, brushed the dirt from my legs and face while I screamed and cried in fright and relief. All my life, I remembered the warm, pungent scent of his body, his deep soothing voice telling me it was all right. I was safe. When Mother returned, he told her what happened, and they began arguing until she showed him the leather tether I had managed to untie. They both turned and looked at me while I showed Qasar how to dig the dirt with a stick.

Although I was not physically harmed, the incident left a scar on my mind. From that day forward, I was afraid of dogs. With age, I learned to control my fear though not completely. Sometime later, when I was a little older and could understand better the talks my mother and father would have at night, I remember him telling her of his suspicion that the noqod had been lured to the ayil by Targutai Kirilitugh, a noyan of the Tayici’ud clan of our ayil and Father’s competitor.

Targutai was nicknamed the Fatty One because his belly hung over his girdle and his jowls shook whenever he spoke. The more excited he became, the more his belly and jowls shook. While one might not think a fat man dangerous, I came to learn very quickly such obese men could be very dangerous indeed. Targutai was terribly jealous of my father’s position as qan of our tribe and harbored bitter thoughts. He always believed he should have been elected qan by the people. Why, I don’t know. My father told me why his belly was so big – it was there all the evil, jealous, and bitter thoughts dwelled; and when the Fatty One gave expression to it, you could smell just how bad they were from a long way away.

We loved our father very deeply and had much respect for him. He was smart and handsome with a long sharp nose and dark bushy mustache and chin beard. When he smiled, all his teeth showed, and his gray eyes would sparkle like sunlight off a snow-covered peak. His hands were thick and rough, and he could break a large branch of tree with them – take either end in his hands and snapped it in two. Yet for all their strength, those same hands could be gentle enough to remove a splinter from a small finger or massage my mother’s shoulders. He smelled of his horse, Qutula, a beautiful black and tan stallion, which he allowed me to ride on occasion. Mongol children are taught to ride the moment they can sit in a saddle. By the time I was five, I could shoot marmots with a child’s bow and arrow from a galloping pony. I didn’t always hit them, but I came close. Other than the encounter with the noqod, those early years were the fondest of my memories – hunting, fishing, shooting a bow, fighting with a wooden sword, and learning how to make a quiver of arrows from our father – exciting times for a young boy with brothers so close in age. We learned many of these things together, which made it that much more fun.

Qasar was the second oldest and most fiery. He possessed high cheekbones like our mother, light brown hair, and a nose that resembled a double-barbed arrow. When he was angry, I swear, his nose would sharpen just like one. Chagadai was third and the most thoughtful. His soft features resembled more of our sister, Temulun, than any of the boys. He rarely got angry about anything, and sometimes I wondered if he even knew what it was to be mad.

The youngest of the boys was Temuge. The most easygoing. Little upset him, and he had a laugh that came deep from his belly and flowed out his throat. His laughter alone could leave us laughing as well. Whenever I heard it, I felt as though a wave of warm water had washed over me.

The youngest of the children was Temulun, our only sister, a beautiful girl with doe eyes and small nose. Being a girl, she couldn’t do a lot of things with us and spent most of her time with our mother. Still, we were quite protective of her though I later learned in life she was as fierce in battle as any man and would have defended our family to the death.

At an early age, Father taught us how to wrestle. For Mongols, wrestling was very important. It was a way to settle disputes between two people without shedding a lot of blood, and it was also considered a sport. He showed us how to quickly slip the grasp of an opponent and pin them to the ground before they could recover and, if need be, how to break their back. When I asked him why we would ever wish to do such a thing, he looked sternly at me and said, The steppe is full of men who would do it to you. Still, notwithstanding the ominous nature of his words, we found wrestling marvelous fun, especially during heavy rains when the ground turned soft and muddy. That was the best time to wrestle. Sometimes Mother would watch us rolling and frolicking in the mud much to her dismay, but she never tried to stop us. She gave her sons a great deal of latitude to do things and learn if not by words, then by experience.

When we weren’t learning some new skill or Father was off on a hunt or another campaign, my brothers and I would explore the nearby mountains, forests, and steppes around the ayil. The forest was tall and thick and smelled of pine, poplar, and sweet mountain flowers. Many different kinds of game lived in the forest – bear, wolf, fox marten and sable, and the snow leopard. I think in my life I saw this animal only two or three times for rarely did it venture down from the extremities of altitude. It was a beautiful animal with thick silver-white fur covered in large circular black spots, and the tail was thick and long. The closest I ever came to one was the evening my firstborn, Jochi, killed one and presented the fine fur to me as a gift to his father and qan. But I get ahead of myself.

We learned to hunt and set traps with rope and by digging pits. We also learned to fish and make line out of sinew and hooks out of bone. Sometimes we’d get brave and venture along the lower slopes of the snowcapped Khentii Mountains, scrambling and climbing the rocky flanks, playing hide-and-seek or Mongol versus Tatar. From the top of a ridge on its western flank, we could see the great Kerulen River flowing nearby. Many small ponds and lakes dotted the area, and on really hot days, we’d sneak a swim. Mongols weren’t to bathe or swim during the heat of summer for fear of calling down the wrath of a jada (thunderstorms) with their dreaded bolts of lightning. Many people died when that happened. We saw it.

One spring, we accompanied Father on a falconing trip with his big gray and white gerfalcon, Ucumay – a beautiful, if somewhat scary, bird of prey with huge sharp talons and equally sharp beak. Moving through the woods, we came to an opening overlooking a grassy plain; and there on the plain moved a small caravan of families seeking new grazing grounds for their herds of sheep, goats, oxen, and horses. The view was nice, and we decided to rest and chew on curd and drink cold water. About ten minutes later, big black clouds began to form above us and stretch out over the plain. Perhaps no more than a minute after Qasar first pointed out the clouds, a flash of lightning streaked across the sky. We scrambled for cover beneath a large upthrust of rock, noticing that the caravan remained out in the open. With the first booming peals of thunder shaking the ground, the caravan started breaking up, people running around their carts as though they’d lost their heads. We thought it was funny at first until we saw the bolts of lightning. Thick white bolts shot out from the black underbelly of the clouds. One struck a man through the top of his head. It exploded. Another hit one of the carts, turning the cart into a moving pyre and roasting the poor oxen pulling it. Wherever the bolts touched, destruction appeared. We were frightened and awed by the sight, and after witnessing the absolute power of Tenggeri, never again dare tempt the Eternal Blue Heaven by sneaking a swim no matter how hot we might be.

Of all our activities, fishing was Qasar’s favorite pastime. On a few occasions, Belgutei joined us. Between him and his brother, Belgutei was by far the friendliest. Bekter never did anything with us. He considered himself too old to play with children. That was fine with us, but instead of playing alone or finding others his age to play with, he’d spend his time taunting and teasing Qasar for no good reason. Being the oldest, I expected to be the one to bear the brunt of his relentless and cruel jokes and teasing. But I wasn’t.

He’s afraid of you, Temujin, Qasar told me. He’s two years older than you, but you and he are the same size. I’m smaller. He thinks he can get away with it. I still remember how Qasar looked when he said that – a deep frown wrinkling his youthful brows, a foreboding tone in his high voice, which had not yet changed in pitch. I should have realized then the trouble brewing inside him, but I didn’t because I understood exactly how Qasar felt and thought nothing of what that could mean when mixed with his hot temper.

When children are happy and content, the seasons of youth past all too quickly; had I known what lay ahead for me, I probably would’ve tried to slow their passage down or maybe even stop it altogether. I loved being young and a boy. Unfortunately, that was all about to change.

One morning in my ninth year, Father woke me and told me to saddle my horse. No explanation. Just go saddle the gray – my gray gelding. When I was done, he told me to bring a bedroll and small pack of clothes. We were going on a journey and would be gone a couple of days. Qasar, Chagadai, and Temuge were envious; and I teased them, thinking I was going on some special kind of adventure for being such a good son. I soon found out it wasn’t a treat, and as for being an adventure, I suppose that depended on where you were standing. For a boy of nine, it was no adventure at all. We had left our ayil about midmorning and had ridden about two hours when Father turned to tell me where we were going. I waited anxiously.

You’ve reached an age, Temujin, when it’s time for arrangements to be made – keeping to our Mongol customs.

I frowned. What kind of arrangement? I asked, befuddled.

To find you a bride.

If I hadn’t been firmly holding on to the jiloo (reins) of my horse, I would’ve toppled off the rear end. As it was, I lost speech. I stared at him in utter, total disbelief. Not once had he or Mother given an inkling about this custom. I thought he was making it up.

You’re making it up, I said, expecting him to break out in laughter.

His eyes narrowed. "Ugui [no]."

But… but I’m only nine, Father, I blurted.

Old enough, Temujin. As son of a qan, it’s your fate and duty. There is no choice.

I was about to protest more vigorously until I saw the look on his face that told me I’d better be quiet. We traveled northeast toward the forested lands of the Olqunu’ud – my mother’s people. The scenery was beautiful, and under any other circumstances, I would’ve been enthralled by the hidden valleys and high forests we traveled through. Huge outcropping of rock thrust upward out of the ground, a big toe of some monstrous giant, slumbering beneath the skin of Mother Earth. Unfortunately, even with all the natural beauty around us, I was more preoccupied with figuring a way out of my predicament. My brooding did not bother Father at all because he knew I knew that is all it had better be. Whether I liked the idea or hated it made no difference to him. I was going to do it, and I could brood all I wanted.

Two days after we left our ayil, we passed into a forest of tall widely spaced fir and pine at the base of two humpbacked, snow-covered mountains. Sunlight slanted down in shafts of golden light, gathering in pools that seeped a serenity I could feel. Although I remained against the arrangement, I hoped that somehow we wouldn’t be able to find the Olqunu’ud ayil and go home. People had gotten lost before traveling the steppe and mountains of our beloved lands. It was not unheard of though rare. We walked our horses through the tall trunks, Father leading, when a man on horseback suddenly appeared near the far edge of the forest. Father saw him and slowed. Instinctively, my right hand went to the pommel of my saber though I noticed Father did not reach for his own. We approached the man who was dressed in a colorful silk del beneath a wool vest and a beautiful sable cloak. His horse was a two- or three-year-old fallow mare. Drawing closer, I saw he had a long face with two deep furrows running from the top of his nose to either side of his white-bearded mouth. Under his fur skin cap, two big dark eyes stared back at us. The man slid out of his saddle and greeted my father. They behaved as though they were long-lost brothers, clasping hands and smiling happily. Father motioned me to come forward.

Temujin, this is Dei Secen. Leader of the Onggirad tribe, Father said to me, motioning me closer. He turned to Dei. We’re on our way to the lands of my wife’s people, the Olqunu’ud, to find my son a bride.

At the announcement, Dei’s wiry brows lifted like the wings of a bird. He took a step toward me, head lowering to see me better. Determined not to show fear, I stared back at him. After a while, he straightened up, nodding.

He has fire in his eyes and a light in his face, the Onggirad noyan said. I thought it a strange thing to say, but Father apparently agreed. Then Dei Secen began to tell him about a dream he had the night before.

I saw a white gerfalcon holding the sun and the moon in its talons, and it came to rest on my hand. Then I saw a forest and this place and you leading your son, and that was the end of my dream.

Not much of a dream, I thought.

Father asked him what he thought it meant. Dei Secen could not tell him except he felt it was a good omen.

Oh boy, I thought. It reminded me of Teb Tenggeri’s prediction when I was born – a great destiny lay ahead for me. Sure. I was going to get married at age nine. When he invited us to his ger to meet his wife and his only daughter, Borte, that’s when it dawned on me that this had been nothing more than a ruse. What a sly man, I thought. He knew all along what he wanted to do. His daughter must look terrible.

The ayil of his people wasn’t far, nestled in a large meadow of colorful purple and gold flowers beneath the gently sloping flanks of the twin mountains of snow. Children played in the surrounding forests, chasing each other. Activity I should’ve been doing with my brothers back at our ayil instead of riding to find a bride. Every time I thought about it, I wanted to puke. Then some noqod started barking, and I nearly bolted my horse. Father quickly grabbed the halter, explaining to Dei my fear. Dei assured him that the noqod of the camp were chained. It didn’t make me feel a whole lot better, but it helped – some.

Dei’s ger was in the middle of the ayil, which I guessed had about twenty families. It was the only white felt tent with a door at the front facing south and curtained. To one side of the entrance rose the tribe’s standard of eagle feathers. He asked us to wait outside then dismounted and went into his ger, which gave me a chance to say something to my father.

I thought we were going to the Olqunu’ud ayil? The look he gave me sent a chill down my back, and I thought he was going to hit me with his leather horse switch. Then the curtain of the door pushed aside, and Dei came out, holding the hand of a young girl who trailed behind him.

This is Yesugei, qan of the Borjigin, Dei said to her. And this is my daughter, Borte. His voice was full of pride. He pointed at me. That is Yesugei’s firstborn son, Temujin.

I remember noticing two things about Borte – the color of her eyes, a deep smoked hazel, and the soft angular shape of her face. It wasn’t round like most of the girls I knew. She was, I admit, unlike any girl I’d seen before. There was a kind of defiance in her eyes, or maybe it was in her face as she looked at me. It reminded me of Qasar when he was far from convinced about doing something. If that was indeed true, then perhaps this girl felt the same way I did about this foolishness, and maybe it wouldn’t happen.

We went inside the ger to meet her mother. She was slim and older with the same shape of face as her daughter and, later when she moved into the fire light, the same color of eyes. Her name was Chotan. She had a nice, warm smile, slightly crooked at the corners.

Thick rugs lay spread over the wooden floor. One was quite colorful, and Chotan told us she had traded for it with merchants who passed by a year ago, heading to the lands of the Chin. It came from a kingdom called Khwarazm. The brazier sat in the center of the ger, and smoke rose up and out through the to’ono (opening) at the top. Dei took a seat next to my father, and Borte sort of sat next to me. Actually, between me and her mother and more toward her mother. The two men started talking, and Father told him how we came. Dei asked if he intended on taking the same route back. Father told him he was planning to take a shorter route, heading more toward the south through the Sa’ari Steppe.

"Best be careful, quda, Dei said. Some of my hunters have told me there’s a Tatar camp in that area. Been there about a month now. They’re at feast."

I was taught from an early age that the Tatar were people not to be trusted and, above all, hated. Their lands were to the south of us, bordering the great empire of the Chin; and the Chin emperor, the Altan Qan, used them to keep the Mongols tamed like noqod. There were six main Tatar tribes: the Alci Tatar, the Aluqai Tatar, the Ayiri’ud Buiru’ud Tatar, the Ca’a’an Tatar, the Cahan Tatar, and the Duta’ud Tatar. The last of the great Mongol qans, Father’s great-uncle, Ambaki Qan, had made an alliance with the Alci Tatar through marriage. On his way to give his daughter to the tribe, he was ambushed by the Cahan Tatars. After selling them to the Chin for gold, the Altan Qan had both nailed to wooden donkeys, put on display, then stoned to death.

Tatars are the blood enemies of the Mongols, Temujin, Father told me. Never forget that. Never trust one.

I happened to glance at Borte and caught her staring at me, a strange smile on her face. To be polite, since we were in their ger, I smiled back; and to my surprise, she promptly got up and went to help her mother prepare the evening meal.

Chotan skewered chunks of freshly slaughtered lamb on metal spits, sprinkled them with jaquasu (mountain cinnamon), and roasted them on the brazier. She also served boiled mushrooms from the forest, and it was all very good. Father and Dei ate little. They were too busy drinking airag (fermented mare’s milk) and talking and laughing. For myself, I was quite content to be left alone. After I’d eaten about a half-dozen chunks of the skewered lamb, I felt sleepy and thought of lying down. At that moment, Borte got up from the rear of the ger and came over and sat down beside me. A rather bold thing for a girl to do, I thought.

You don’t say much, do you? she said. Her voice reminded me of a tin bell. Are you shy?

No, I said, licking grease off my fingers. I’m not shy.

What do you think of our camp and my father’s ger?

Nice.

Is that all?

I looked at her. Is that all? What else was there supposed to be? This was an ayil. This was a ger. What else was there?

These are our favorite camp grounds in summer. And my father has the largest ger in the whole ayil.

Obviously, she wanted me to say something more. Okay. That’s very nice, I said, moving to one side of the ger to lie down. She moved with me.

Do you have any brothers and sisters? she asked.

Three brothers and one sister, I said, opening my bedroll. I’m the oldest. My sister, the youngest. Temulun is her name.

How wonderful to have a sister, she said.

She’s a girl.

Borte’s slim forehead wrinkled, the ambient light of the fire deepening the lines. What’s that mean? She’s ‘a girl?’

Just what I said – she’s a girl.

You think girls aren’t worth much?

Did I say that? I started to get into my bedroll. I don’t think so.

That’s what you meant.

No. It’s not.

Yea. It is.

I stared at her, wondering if I wanted to carry this any further. I decided I didn’t and rolled onto my side away from her.

We’ve got a lot to talk about if we’re going to get married one day, she said.

That clearly wasn’t worth talking about, so I pretended to fall asleep. She sat there waiting for something until she realized, I guess, she’d be wasting her time. To my great relief, I heard her move toward the back of the ger.

Meanwhile, Father and Dei continued talking about the steppe, the tribes, and the raiding and killing going on; and after a while, I really did fall asleep. I was exhausted from all my brooding.

Chapter Two

The next morning, Father and I awoke about the same time and went outside. It was a cold morning with small translucent ice crystals scattered over the ground and hanging from the trees. The sun was just above the eastern horizon, and clouds covered the tops of the twin mountains. As I busied myself keeping warm, stamping my feet, he told me to go saddle my horse.

Really? I exclaimed. He nodded.

All right! I didn’t have to be told twice! We’re going home at last, I thought jubilant. I quickly got the blanket, saddle, and bridle on the horse and walked my horse back to the front of the ger, expecting to see Father standing by his own saddled mount. Qutula was there all right, tethered to a line attached to the ger, but Father wasn’t; and then I heard his low voice coming from inside the ger. Thinking he had left it up to me, I went over and placed the blanket on Qutula and started to pick up his saddle when he came out.

No need, Temujin, he said, gazing