The Mountain Cage (2 page)

“The Novella Race,” I am happy to say, I do know. It appeared in one of the latter Orbit volumes in the mid-1970s, a devastating, deadpan portrait of fiction writing as event and dead end. It sets up—and is nonetheless superior to—my own collaboration with Bill Pron2ini on the subject, “Prose Bowl.” A nifty, devastating story in which your faithful undersigned, imperfectly masked, can be sensed making dilatory progress through the competition, one of the more disaffected of the contestants.

Through all of these thirty years, Pamela Sargent has kept working. This is a signal and remarkable achievement: it is better to be a good person than to be a good writer (one would like to be both, of course) and Pamela Sargent, that great writer, is a person of even greater quality. Through insults and publisher derangements, through malfeasance, pomp and the swagger of fools, she has stayed on, she has done her work, she has been more than dutiful. Indomitable! This, the third of her collections—and I do not minimize the others—is signatory, an accomplishment.

I really should have read “The Summer’s Dust” twenty years ago. Rectify my stupidity or languor: read at once and prayerfully. Her work itself is intense, a rigorous, an embracing prayer.

New Jersey:

April 2001

THE SLEEPING SERPENT

1

Yesuntai Noyan arrived in Yeke Geren in early winter, stumbling from his ship with the unsteady gait and the pallor of a man who had recently crossed the ocean. Because Yesuntai was a son of our Khan, our commander Michel Bahadur welcomed the young prince with speeches and feasts. Words of gratitude for our hospitality fell from Yesuntai’s lips during these ceremonies, but his restless gaze betrayed his impatience. Yesuntai’s mother, I had heard, was Frankish, and he had a Frank’s height, but his sharp-boned face, dark slits of eyes, and sturdy frame were a Mongol’s.

At the last of the feasts, Michel Bahadur seated me next to the Khan’s son, an honor I had not expected. The commander, I supposed, had told Yesuntai a little about me, and would expect me to divert the young man with tales of my earlier life in the northern woods. As the men around us sang and shouted to servants for more wine, Yesuntai leaned toward me.

“I hear,” he murmured, “that I can learn much from you, Jirandai Bahadur. Michel tells me that no man knows this land better than you.”

“I am flattered by such praise.” I made the sign of the cross over my wine, as I had grown used to doing in Yeke Geren. Yesuntai dipped his fingers into his cup, then sprinkled a blessing to the spirits. Apparently he followed our old faith, and not the cross; I found myself thinking a little more highly of him.

“I am also told,” Yesuntai went on, “that you can tell many tales of a northern people called the Hiroquois.”

“That is only the name our Franks use for all the nations of the Long House.” I gulped down more wine. “Once, I saw my knowledge of that people as something that might guide us in our dealings with them. Now it is only fodder on which men seeking a night’s entertainment feed.”

The Noyan lifted his brows. “I will not ask you to share your stories with me here.”

I nodded, relieved. “Perhaps we might hunt together sometime, Noyan. Two peregrines I have trained need testing, and you might enjoy a day with them.”

He smiled. “Tomorrow,” he said, “and preferably by ourselves, Bahadur. There is much I wish to ask you.”

Yesuntai was soon speaking more freely with the other men, and even joined them in their songs. Michel would be pleased that I had lifted the Noyan’s spirits, but by then I cared little for what that Bahadur thought. I drank and thought of other feasts shared inside long houses with my brothers in the northern forests.

Yesuntai came to my dwelling before dawn. I had expected an entourage, despite his words about hunting by ourselves, but the Khan’s son was alone. He gulped down the broth my wife Elgigetei offered, clearly impatient to ride out from the settlement.

We saddled our horses quickly. The sky was almost as gray as the slate-colored wings of the falcons we carried on our wrists, but the clouds told me that snow would not fall before dusk. I could forget Yeke Geren and the life I had chosen for one day, until the shadows of evening fell.

We rode east, skirting the horses grazing in the land our settlers had cleared, then moved north. A small bird was flying toward a grove of trees; Yesuntai loosed his falcon. The peregrine soared, a streak against the gray sky, her dark wings scimitars, then suddenly plummeted toward her prey. The Noyan laughed as her yellow talons caught the bird.

Yesuntai galloped after the peregrine. I spied a rabbit darting across the frost-covered ground, and slipped the tether from my falcon; he streaked toward his game. I followed, pondering what I knew about Yesuntai. He had grown up in the ordus and great cities of our Prankish Khanate, been tutored by the learned men of Paris, and would have passed the rest of his time in drinking, dicing, card-playing, and claiming those women who struck his fancy. His father, Sukegei Khan, numbered two grandsons of Genghis Khan among his ancestors, but I did not expect Yesuntai to show the vigor of those great forefathers. He was the Khan’s son by one of his minor wives, and I had seen such men before in Yeke Geren, minor sons of Ejens or generals who came to this new land for loot and glory, but who settled for hunting along the great river to the north, trading with the nearer tribes, and occasionally raiding an Inglistani farm. Yesuntai would be no different; so I thought then.

He was intent on his sport that day. By afternoon, the carcasses of several birds and rabbits hung from our saddles. He had said little to me, and was silent as we tethered our birds, but I had felt him watching me. Perhaps he would ask me to guide him and some of his men on a hunt beyond this small island, before the worst of the winter weather came. The people living in the regions nearby would not trouble hunters. Our treaty with the Ganeagaono, the Eastern Gatekeepers of the Long House, protected us, and they had long since subdued the tribes to the south of their lands.

We trotted south. Some of the men watching the horse herds were squatting around fires near their shelters of tree branches and hides. They greeted us as we passed, and congratulated us on our game. In the distance, the rounded bark houses of Yeke Geren were visible in the evening light, wooden bowls crowned by plumes of smoke rising from their roofs.

The Great Camp—the first of our people who had come to this land had given Yeke Geren its name. “We will build a great camp,” Cheren Noyan had said when he stepped from his ship, and now circles of round wooden houses covered the southern part of the island the Long House people called Ganono, while our horses had pasturage in the north. Our dwellings were much like those of the Manhatan people who had lived here, who had greeted our ships, fed us, sheltered us, and then lost their island to us.

Yesuntai reined in his horse as we neared Yeke Geren; he seemed reluctant to return to the Great Camp. “This has been the most pleasant day I have passed here,” he said.

“I have also enjoyed myself, Noyan.” My horse halted at his side. “You would of course find better hunting away from this island. Perhaps—”

“I did not come here only to hunt, Bahadur. I have another purpose in mind. When I told Michel Bahadur of what I wish to do, he said that you were the man to advise me.” He paused. “My father the Khan grows ever more displeased with his enemies the Inglistanis. He fears that, weak as they are, they may grow stronger here. His spies in Inglistan tell him that more of them intend to cross the water and settle here.”

I glanced at him. All of the Inglistani settlements, except for the port they called Plymouth, sat along the coast north of the long island that lay to the east of Yeke Geren. A few small towns, and some outlying farms—I could not see why our Khan would be so concerned with them. It was unfortunate that they were there, but our raids on their westernmost farms had kept them from encroaching on our territory, and if they tried to settle farther north, they would have to contend with the native peoples there.

“If more come,” I said, “then more of the wretches will die during the winter. They would not have survived this long without the aid of the tribes around them.” Some of those people had paid dearly for aiding the settlers, succumbing to the pestilences the Inglistanis had brought with them.

“They will come with more soldiers and muskets. They will pollute this land with their presence. The Khan my father will conquer their wretched island, and the people of Eire will aid us to rid themselves of the Inglistani yoke. My father’s victory will be tarnished if too many of the island dogs find refuge here. They must be rooted out.”

“So you wish to be rid of the Inglistani settlements.” I fingered the tether hanging from my falcon. “We do not have the men for such a task.”

“We do not,” he admitted, “but the peoples of these lands do.”

He interested me. Perhaps there was some iron in his soul after all. “Only the Hodenosaunee, the Long House nations, can help you,” I said, “and I do not know if they will. The Inglistanis pose no threat to the power of the Long House.”

“Michel told me we have a treaty with that people.”

“We have an agreement with the Ganeagaono, who are one of their five nations. Once the Long House People fought among themselves, until their great chiefs Deganawida and Hayawatha united them. They are powerful enough now to ignore the Inglistanis.”

Yesuntai gazed at the bird that clutched his gauntleted wrist. “What if they believed the Inglistanis might move against them?”

“They might act,” I replied. “The Hodenosaunee have no treaties with that people. But they might think they have something to gain from the Inglistani presence. We have never given firearms to the people here, but the Inglistanis do so when they think it’s to their advantage. By making war on the Inglistani settlements, you might only drive them into an alliance with the Long House and its subject tribes, one that might threaten us.”

“We must strike hard and exterminate the lot,” Yesuntai muttered. “Then we must make certain that no more of the wretches ever set foot on these shores.”

“You will need the Long House People to do it.”

“I must do it, one way or another. The Khan my father has made his will known. I have his orders, marked with his seal. He will take Inglistan, and we will destroy its outposts here. There can be no peace with those who have not submitted to us—the Yasa commands it. Inglistan has not submitted, so it will be forced to bow.”

I was thinking that Sukegei Khan worried too much over that pack of island-dwellers. Surely Hispania, even with a brother Khan ruling there, was more of a threat to him than Inglistan. I had heard many tales of the splendor of Suleiman Khan’s court, of slaves and gold that streamed to Granada and Cordoba from the continent to our south, of lands taken by the Hispanic Khan’s conquistadors. The Hispanians were as fervent in spreading their faith as in seizing loot. In little more than sixty years, it was said that as many mosques stood in the Aztec capital of Tenochtftian as in Cordoba itself. Suleiman Khan, with African kings as vassals and conquests in this new world, dreamed of being the greatest of the European Khans. How easy it had been for him to allow us settlements in the north while he claimed the richer lands to the south.

But I was a Bahadur of Yeke Geren, who knew only what others told me of Europe. My Khanate was a land I barely remembered, and our ancient Mongol homeland no more than a setting for legends and tales told by travelers. The Ejens of the Altan Uruk, the descendants of Genghis Khan, still sent their tribute to Karakorum, but the bonds of our Yasa, the laws the greatest of men had given us, rested more lightly on their shoulders. They might bow to the Kha-Khan of our homeland, but many of the Khans ruled lands greater than his. A time might come when the Khans of the west would break their remaining ties to the east.

“Europe!” I cleared my throat. “Sometimes I wonder what our Khans will do when all their enemies are vanquished.”

Yesuntai shook his head. “I will say this—my ancestor Genghis Khan would have wondered at what we are now. I have known Noyans who go no farther to hunt than the parks around their dwellings, and others who prefer brocades and perfumed lace to a sheepskin coat and felt boots. Europe has weakened us. Some think as I do, that we should become what we were, but there is little chance of that there.”

Snow was sifting from the sky. I urged my horse on; Yesuntai kept near me.

By the time we reached my circle of houses, the falling snow had become a curtain veiling all but the nearest dwellings from our sight. Courtesy required that I offer Yesuntai a meal, and a place to sleep if the snow continued to fall. He accepted my hospitality readily; I suspected there was more he wanted to ask me.

We halted at the dwelling next to mine. Except for a horse-drawn wagon carrying a wine merchant’s barrels, the winding roads were empty. I shouted to my servants; two boys hurried outside to take the peregrines and our game from us. A shadowy form stirred near the dwelling. I squinted, then recognized one of my Manhatan servants. He lay in the snow, his hands around a bottle.

Anger welled inside me. I told one of the boys to get the Manhatan to his house, then went after the wagon. The driver slowed to a stop as I reached him. I seized his collar and dragged him from his seat.