Chapter 4
Karamuren River
Chapter 37th year of Toghon Temur
(Amur River Valley S.E. Siberia 1367)
It was troubling to find no sign of the Ordu along the Sungari, but as I proceeded down the Karamuren and still saw no sign of them, I became alarmed. Grim thoughts raced through my mind, another plague, an uprising by the locals, an invasion from the north, the south, or the west, a flash flood? Mongols did not panic, I reminded myself and began to sort things out. A plague never wiped out everyone, and besides we had heard nothing of any plagues in the north back in Khanbalikh. The locals had neither the means nor the inclination to attack the Ordu—besides, they liked us as much as anyone could like a pack of outsiders, for we did always treat them fairly, and we both benefited from trade, their fish for our game or herd meat. Invasion was possible, but not from the north; there was no group strong enough, not from the west. Why would they come here? The south was the only possibility, the Koryo. But even there, why would they bother to come all the way here to take out a single Ordu? Besides, I had not run into any foreign military along the way, and if they had attacked, wouldn’t they have moved on afterward toward the capital? After all, they had attacked before. Of course, there were also the remnants of the Jurchids. They had actually conquered the Hanjen, but Chingis had greatly scattered and absorbed them, and it was unlikely they would be ready to do anything yet. Again, I had not seen any soldiers or signs of battle. Nor had there been any apprehension at any of the yams along the way. I closely looked at the river, but I couldn’t tell if there had been a flash flood. After all, it flooded every summer and would be starting to rise soon. I continued downriver with more puzzlement than anything else. It was fairly obvious that no one had been near here with herds since at least early spring, for the grass was untouched. I decided the easiest way to find what happened would be to ask at the nearest local village. There had been a Nanai village not too far downstream from my current position. I would have to see if it was still there.
It was with no small relief when the village finally came into view. It looked much the same as I remembered it, although it seemed smaller. The Nanai summer villages were simply a scattering of conical huts that were covered with strips of birch bark. I had forgotten how “fishy” their villages smelled. Everywhere, one saw the fruits of their labor, racks of fish drying or being smoked, seines being repaired. Even the clothes they wore were made of fish skins. Not surprisingly, my approach was noted but since I was alone, I was soon ignored, as I made my way to the largest hut, which was usually the headman’s hut. The headman, a large, beefy fellow, more than a little long in the tooth, was actually the same one as before, and I could see he was shocked when I greeted him by name in his own tongue. It took a while for him to realize who I was, but once he did, he received me warmly and asked for stories about the great capital. Politeness demanded that I comply before asking my questions, so I patiently described the capital for them over dinner, then asked about their health and luck with fishing, expressing all due admiration with the large sturgeon we had eaten for dinner, talked about the weather, the imminent monsoon season, then finally I felt I could ask them what had become of the Ordu and when they had last seen it.
They smiled broadly and pointed north, across the Karamuren! The Karamuren had always been our northern border. On occasion a few of us would venture across and look around, but the whole Ordu had never crossed. It must have been quite an undertaking for the river is wide and deep and swift. It seemed that the winter before last, the Ordu did not go to their usual winter camp east of the mountains, but stayed on this side near the village and braved the brutal northwest winter wind. In late winter when the Karamuren was frozen hard, they had crossed not far downstream from the village. It had been quite a spectacle, and many of the villagers had watched. All had made it safely across, headed away from the river, and no one had seen them since anywhere along the Karamuren.
The next morning, I got the villagers to help me get across the river in one of their boats while my horse swam alongside guided by his reins, which I held securely. They gave me some food and directions to another Nanai village no more than two days’ ride away, where I might hear more of the Ordu since they likely passed that way. The ride was not an easy one, forcing me at times through dense underbrush, but I finally reached the village shortly after noon on the third day. Mongols rarely ride the same horse two days in a row, usually taking up to six mounts with them. I was not so equipped, however, and wisely spared my horse as much as I could. After a few tense moments, the village accepted me as a guest, mostly (I suspect), because I could speak their language. I’ve always been blessed with a facility with languages, and it has come in very handy. In this case, of course, my vocabulary was that of a boy, but I was quickly recalling the language and becoming quite fluent with practice, only occasionally needing to have a word explained. Of course, my hosts demanded stories over dinner. I remembered one of the silly hero tales from Grandfather Peter’s books, and regaled them with that much to their enjoyment. That night the storm that had been brewing all day long finally broke and after softening us up with barrages of lightning, a torrential downpour was unleashed which continued well into the morning and then only tapered off to a steady downpour for the rest of the day. The necessary layover was very good for my horse, and it enabled me to get a feel for where I was as I began a crude map of the area north of the Karamuren. This was of great interest to my hosts, and they eagerly offered suggestions and corrections, over which they argued extensively. While all this help was probably more enthusiastic than useful, I encouraged it hoping to get some bearing on the whereabouts of the Ordu. They were fairly unanimous that I would likely find the Ordu camp near a large lake about ten days’ ride to the northeast. They also suggested that I should go north up their river for about four days, then cross the mountains to another valley which heads northeast right to the lake. When the river turned north, I should continue northeast between a high hill on the north and a swamp to the south, right to the western shore of the lake. The Ordu should be on the west, south, or east side of the lake, since the north side was too swampy. They had been there early in the spring.
This last piece of intelligence, dropped in their usual offhand manner greatly excited me, and I was eager to set off. The villagers loaned me a second horse, which I promised to return, and gave me enough food for ten days. I followed their directions and corrected my map as I went along. As usual, they underestimated how long the journey would take, especially with all the rain I encountered. It took five days to get up their valley, and then it took almost two days to negotiate the crossing of the very slippery mountains to the other valley. Fortunately, they also overestimated how much I would eat, so I still had some food left some thirteen days later when the lake came into view. I couldn’t see the Ordu from the lake’s shore, but it was a very large lake, so I decided to ride up the lakeside of the tall hill from where I should be able to see much farther. As I climbed the mountain, I kept looking back but could see no sign of them. Finally I reached the top of the eastern ridge of the hill and could still see nothing around the lake. Blessed with a rare clear day, I started to look around and to the south, beyond a swamp, I could just make out the glassy reflection of another lake, possibly as large as this one. I went back down the hill and rode southward until nightfall, skirting around the swamp as much as possible.
The next morning, I continued south and soon reached the slope of another hill. I rode up the north side to the top of its eastern ridge, and there on the southwestern shore I could see the Ordu, for the sun was reflected off the white lime coating of the felt yurts and above them smoke from their morning fires escaped through the smoke holes and hung wraithlike in the still air. As I descended the hill toward them, it was obvious that I had also been seen, as a group of horsemen was coming toward me. By the time I got down the hill and crossed a small stream, they were upon me.
It took me quite a while to convince my “escort” who I was, but a few of the boys with whom I had played just barely recognized me, especially after I enumerated where their birthmarks were. On the way into camp, they told me that my father had died three years before, but my brother was still with them. In fact the latter was married and had children. They also warned me that there had been many changes in the Ordu, and after I had seen my family, I should report to Kaidu right away. They would tell him of my arrival. As we arrived at the camp, I could see that it did seem smaller than before. I turned aside to my father’s old yurt and watched the others ride up to Kaidu’s yurt in the middle of the encampment.
My brother came out of the yurt as I drew near, and we both stopped and stared at each other. He was the image of father only much younger. His children crowded out and peered curiously around him at me. Then his wife, a Turk from the look of her, came out to see and finally an older Mongol woman waded through the others and gasping her surprise, grabbed me in a bear hug.
“Kahh! My Kahh!” my stepmother screeched, “You have finally come home. Look at you, all grown, with a beard already, all that education and you smell like a Mongol, you weren’t ruined! You can still ride, but can you still shoot the bow? You are not very big; did not your grandfather feed you? Are you at least strong? How did you find us? Where is your wife? Much has changed since you left!”
“Mother, stop for a minute.” My brother rescued me. “Karl, you look so much like mother Christina, I thought I’d seen a ghost. Welcome! Meet the family. This is my wife, Doqus, remember her? Ussu’s sister? These are my boys, Henry and John, and my daughter, Christina. Come in, come in. This is still your home.”
“Kahh, you must be hungry,” My stepmother could not be put off for long. “There is still some porridge left. Come, sit by the hearth, eat, and tell us all.”
“Mother Yesui,” I laughed, “I knew you would not change. But before I do anything else, I want to wash two months in the saddle off and get presentable, for I’m supposed to present myself to Kaidu as soon as possible.”
“First,” Yesui jumped up from the fire, “you must pay your respects to your father. Come.”
I followed her to the little shrine she kept and there silently greeted my father’s memory. I tried to see him as he was when I left, but found I could only picture my grandfather George. My memories of Father were few and tinged with sadness, while those of Grandfather were many and happy. I quietly thanked Father for sending me to Grandfather and felt sure he would not be offended if I thought about the latter for a few moments. After a while, I returned to the hearth. Doqus had readied a tub of water for me to wash and set out one of my brother’s outfits for me to wear since all my things were dirty.
“You have honored your father’s memory well, my son,” Yesui hovered about. “To think of him and smile that way shows you are a good son, full of happy, loving memories of your father. I am very pleased with you. I feared you would have become a Hanjen in Khanbalikh.”
She spat out the word “Hanjen” like it was the worst insult she could think of. But this was not the time to point out that she was more closely related to them than she was to me, anymore than that I was smiling about my grandfather’s memory, not my father’s. She took my soiled clothes and blatantly eyeing my privates, congratulated me on growing up completely, before going out to wash them, cackling all the way. While I cleaned up and got dressed, I reminded myself how crude her humor had always been and wondered what my poor Paula would think of her. All through my toilet, I was subjected to the rapt attention of my nephews, who stared up at me with their big hazel-brown eyes. Meanwhile, my brother tried to tell me a little of what had been going on while I was away.
It seemed that about five years earlier, Kaidu began sending some of the people away. No one was sure why, but when he had finished, almost half of the tumen was gone. He had picked up a few new members over the years, but as I had noticed, the Ordu was much reduced. Kaidu had over the course of two years personally talked to each member of the tumen who was head of a yurt or an unmarried young adult and on the basis of that interview either sent them away or allowed them to stay. There was no pattern to the division that was discernable to my brother. No tribes were excluded, age didn’t seem to matter, and even health didn’t matter. My father had been accepted, and after he died, Henry had also passed the test. He supposed that was why I had to report to Kaidu, for a belated interview. He wasn’t sure if my being in Khanbalikh would work against me, but feared it might, since Kaidu had not reported to the capital or even the nearest governor for some years. He had no idea what Kaidu planned to do, but here, north of the Karamuren, was out of the Mongol Khanate, so perhaps it was for safety. Henry’s information was rather puzzling and obviously incomplete, so it was with great curiosity and an open mind that I went to meet the leader of the Ordu.
Kaidu was no longer a young man, but he looked strong and vigorous, his dark eyes bright and sharp. He was shorter than I remembered him but just as imposing. He was broad but not fat. His complexion was ruddy and healthy like that of most of the Ordu. He was sitting on a wooden chair set on a platform slightly above the level of the floor. I presented myself, bowing three times as I entered according to the custom, and he nodded in response. Soon some of the awe in which I had always held him came back for he seemed to be reading me with his deep, dark penetrating eyes. At his side was my old friend the shaman, Givevneu. He also watched me, but smiled at me as he had always done. Finally Kaidu broke the silence.
“So,” he barked eyeing me carefully and waving me to sit on the floor, “the youngest son of my late sword maker has returned.”
“I have, sir,” I replied lowering my eyes with good Hanjen manners.
“Look at me when I talk to you, Ferengi!” he hissed.
“Yes, sir!” My head shot up and my eyes met his.
It had been a long time since I had been called Ferengi, but it was no insult, merely the Mongol term for all western people. We stared each other down for some minutes, until Kaidu smiled, then broke eye contact and laughed uproariously in the Mongol fashion. I continued to look at him for a while puzzled by his behavior, but Mongol laughter is irresistible, and I finally joined in.
“I like you, boy,” he said, wiping his eyes. “What is your name?”
“Karl, sir,” I replied.
“Kaahhr? It sounds like the song of a crow,” he smiled, pleased with himself. “Perhaps I should call you ‘The Crow.’ Would you like that?”
“Could you at least make that ‘Raven’?” I winced. “A crow is thought clever but a thief, while a raven is respected and admired.”
“The Raven! That sounds impressive,” he looked at me mockingly. “Do you deserve an impressive name?”
“Not yet,” I replied, “but perhaps it will give me something to which to aspire.”
“So be it, Raven.” His tone turned serious. “But now that you are named, perhaps you can tell me what use you will be to this tumen. Have you any skill?”
“I have been trained in history, geography, cartography, navigation, tactics, engineering, chemistry, and philosophy, sir,” I answered. “I can both read and write the Mongol script, Farsi, Hanjen, and our old family language.”
“Very presumptuous training,” he darkened. “Were you planning to become vizier to the Khan?”
“No, sir,” I shook my head. “I have no interest in entering the Khan’s service, those were the subjects that interested me. I really had no thought about what I would do with the knowledge, but I’m sure it will be helpful to me in the future, and I am very willing to continue learning.”
“Hmmm,” he mused. “We’ll see. Meanwhile, whose history, what geography, and whose tactics did you study?”
“The Mongol and Hanjen history, geography, and tactics, sir,” I eagerly replied.
“Mongol history is short, Hanjen endless, Mongol and Hanjen geography are constantly changing, and Mongol tactics are far superior to that of the Hanjen. Would you agree?” He smirked.
“Well,” I began,” I suspect that Mongol and Hanjen history are equally long, depending on how you define Mongol and Hanjen, but the latter is better recorded since they have used writing longer. As to geography, the borders do indeed change frequently, but the land itself changes much more slowly. Mongol tactics are superior if one is blessed with Mongol warriors in a fairly open terrain, but the Hanjen are very effective at siege warfare and are quite creative when it comes to weaponry and engineering.”
“Why did you study philosophy?” He shot at me.
“It helps one think logically, examine motives and, in short, understand the entire picture or situation before you,” I replied.
“What about religion?” he looked at me steadily. “Did you also study religions?”
“Not really,” I replied thoughtfully. “My first teacher was a Christian, my next one a Muslim, then I had a Buddhist teacher, and the last never mentioned it. The first three told me about their beliefs with varying fervor, but none convinced me.”
“Why?” he asked.
“The first two are too dogmatic, and I distrust anyone who has all the answers because he hasn’t asked half the questions.” I was warming to this subject, but puzzled at his interest. “Further, I resent the way they exclude from God’s benevolence anyone who doesn’t adhere to their particular and peculiar set of rules. As to the latter, it seems too fatalistic, denying that we are the masters of our fate. Its adherents seem irrationally passive.”
“I thought all Ferengi were Christians,” he seemed surprised.
“My Mother Christina was,” I replied, “but she died when I was quite young. My father always said if Christianity had anything to do with Christ he might adhere to it, but it didn’t. While I was in Khanbalikh, my grandfather George, with whom I lived, did his best to keep me free from all such ‘misunderstandings of reality’ as he called religions.”
“You have answered well, Raven,” he smiled warmly for the first time. “Or perhaps I should say you have been trained well. Some of your skills could be of great use, but it would depend on how good you are. You found us, that shows some skill, but you claim to be a cartographer. Did you have the foresight to map your way here?”
“Yes, I did.” I brought out my map, which I had brought along just in case my cartographic skill was challenged. “It’s a bit crude, but I think you can easily follow it. I came up from the Karamuren along this river to a village I have marked here, and then proceeding up the same river, I crossed the mountains here to this other river and followed it to that lake just north of here.”
“Yes, yes,” he nodded, “I know that lake, and you have also put in this lake and the rivers emptying into it. Very good, I can use you in my tumen. Would you stay?”
“Would it be presumptuous to ask what you plan to do here in the north?” I boldly asked.
“It would indeed be presumptuous to ask,” he smiled, “and stupid not to, eh shaman? I rejoice you are no fool, but I must first ask you, why do you hesitate? Is it loyalty to the Great Khan? Or fear of adventure?”
“No, sir,” I protested. “It is rather a fear of no adventure. It appears that you have some grand design in mind, and if it involves an adventure, I would gladly be a part of it. If, on the other hand, you merely want to become a Tungus clan leader and herd reindeer in the icy north, I would not be a part of it.”
“Hah!” Kaidu roared with laughter. “Herd reindeer, indeed. No, you insolent boy, you will have your adventure, perhaps more than you wanted. Are you prepared to never see Khanbalikh or even the Karamuren again?”
“Yes, sir, but not until I retrieve my bride from there,” I blurted out.
“You can get her early next summer,” he shrugged. “We will remain here a little longer. But meanwhile, it is fortunate that you have come today, for you will accompany my grandson Juchi on an important adventure tomorrow and put to good use your mapmaking skills.”
“Tomorrow!” I exclaimed. “Where do we go?”
“You of course remember our shaman,” he began. “Some years ago, he and I began to reflect on the future of the Mongol Khanate. It was clear to us that it would soon die, and we searched in vain for a way to save my tumen. Givevneu had an idea. I saw the wisdom of his suggestion and began to pare down the tumen with his help, trying to avoid all the problems which beset the Khanate. I weeded out any who might be disloyal to me for any reason even if they had an indispensable skill like your brother, and you, for that matter. It was disloyalty that destroyed the Khanate of Chingis. His heirs fought among themselves and soon were cutting the Khanate into weak pieces, which have fallen one by one. Next, I weeded out those who thought themselves better than others, whether because of a religious or tribal affiliation. I exempted your bigoted stepmother because she will not live much longer and, of course, she had nowhere to go. Next, I weeded out the faint-hearted, for our adventure will not be an easy one. So, what you have here is an Ordu of fearless, strong, loyal, tolerant, and undistracted Mongols. Of course, not many of us are tribal Mongols anymore, but if you recall, the word Mongol means ‘the brave,’ and that is why we are the true Mongols. Now as to what this journey is about, I’ll let Givevneu tell you.”
“I rejoice that you will be with us, ah…Raven”—he smiled broadly at me—“for have I not always said Tengri shines through your eyes making them the color of his abode.”
“You honor me too much, Givevneu,” I replied quietly, “for it is through your eyes that the goodness I believe to be God shines, not mine.” I had always dearly loved the shaman who was so kind and patient with me. As a child I was fascinated by his appearance as well as his powers—for he had round eyes, curly hair, and a rounded head like my family had. I would tell him he had to be my relative, but he would deny it saying, “Only in spirit in this life, but surely closer in another.” It was good to see him again.
“You have grown in Khanbalikh, my son,” he said, “but have not become jaded. I congratulate your grandfather, no doubt a great and wise man. Your mission is simple and difficult. It is simply to deliver a message to my native village. It will be difficult, because I cannot precisely tell you where it is. I can tell you that it was on the coast of the Great Sea, and I have drawn a rough outline of the coast as I remember it. I can also tell you that you must go north and east but never south along the coast, for there is a very large peninsula that would take you far out of your way. Juchi has the drawing, and I have told him how the stars should appear when he is near my village. So, as you can see, a simple task, but a difficult one to perform.”
“Indeed,” I replied nodding. “Can you give me some idea how far away this village is?”
“Not really.” He shook his head. “I venture to guess, however, that it is about three months’ journey on horseback.”
“Will that not take us there in the dead of winter”—I was incredulous—“and is that not a rather imprudent time to head north?”
“To be sure,” he agreed pleasantly, “but it is necessary to be there in deep winter to fulfill the mission.”
“I don’t understand.” I was beginning to think it was a mistake to get involved with these people. “What possible difference does it make which season it is when a message is delivered? And, for that matter, what is the message?”
“Juchi has the message memorized,” he replied. “There is no need for you to learn it as well. Besides, since it is in my native language, you probably wouldn’t understand it anyway. As to the season, when and if you succeed in delivering the message, you will understand the reason for delivering it in the winter. Until then, we would prefer if you both know no more than you have been told, because our future depends on the success or failure of your mission.”
“But if your people only understand their own language,” I asked, “how will we communicate?”
“In the Tungus tongue, of course,” he smiled. “All the northern tribes understand it well enough and if you do not remember it, Juchi does.”
“Also,” Kaidu interjected, “and the main reason you accompany Juchi, you must draw very good detailed maps on the journey. Maps that can be easily followed, and on your return, if you find a better route, correct the maps. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” I was beginning to be intrigued by all this. “This should indeed prove to be quite an adventure.”
“A mere beginning, if all goes well,” he shrugged. “But as Givevneu told you, the very future of our Ordu depends on your success. Will you take on that responsibility?”
“I will,” I answered with more enthusiasm than conviction.
“Good,” Kaidu waved my dismissal. “Tomorrow morning early then.”
“Yes, sir!” I bowed my way out and, head swimming, returned to my brother’s yurt.