The Mountain Cage (3 page)

He cursed as he sprawled in the snow. “I warned you before,” I said. “You are not to bring your wine here.”

He struggled to his feet, clutching his hat. “To your Manhatans, Bahadur—that’s what you said. I was passing by, and thought others among your households might have need of some refreshment. Is it my fault if your natives entreat me for—”

I raised my whip. “You had one warning,” I said. “This is the last I shall give you.”

“You have no reason—”

“Come back to my circle, Gerard, and I will take this whip to you. If you are fortunate enough to survive that beating—”

“You cannot stop their cravings, Bahadur.” He glared up at me with his pale eyes. “You cannot keep them from seeking me out elsewhere.”

“I will not make it easier for them to poison themselves.” I flourished the whip; he backed away from me. “Leave.”

He waded through the snow to his wagon. I rode back to my dwelling. Yesuntai had tied his horse to a post; he was silent as I unsaddled my mount.

I led him inside. Elgigetei greeted us; she was alone, and my wife’s glazed eyes and slurred speech told me that she had been drinking. Yesuntai and I sat on a bench in the back of the house, just beyond the hearth fire. Elgigetei brought us wine and fish soup. I waited for her to take food for herself and to join us, but she settled on the floor near our son’s cradle to work at a hide. Her mother had been a Manhatan woman, and Elgigetei’s brown face and thick black braids had reminded me of Dasiyu, the wife I had left among the Ganeagaono. I had thought her beautiful once, but Elgigetei had the weaknesses of the Manhatan people, the laziness, the craving for drink that had wasted so many of them. She scraped at her hide listlessly, then leaned over Ajiragha’s cradle to murmur to our son in the Manhatan tongue. I had never bothered to learn the language. It was useless to master the speech of a people who would soon not exist.

“You are welcome to stay here tonight,” I said to the Noyan.

“I am grateful for this snowstorm,” he murmured. “It will give us more time to talk. I have much to ask you still about the Hiroquois.” He leaned back against the wall. “In Khanbalik, there are scholars in the Khitan Khan’s court who believe that the forefathers of the people in these lands came here long ago from the regions north of Khitai, perhaps even from our ancestral grounds. These scholars claim that once a land bridge far to the north linked this land to Sibir. So I was told by travelers who spoke to those learned men in Khitai.”

“It is an intriguing notion, Noyan.”

“If such people carry the seed of our ancestors, there may be greatness in them.”

I sipped my wine. “But of course there can be no people as great as we Mongols.”

“Greatness may slip from our grasp. Koko Mongke Tengri meant for us to rule the world, yet we may lose the strength to hold it.”

I made a sign as he invoked the name of our ancient God, then bowed my head. Yesuntai lifted his brows. “I thought you were a Christian.”

“I was baptized,” I said. “I have prayed in other ways since then. The Long House People call God Hawenneyu, the Great Spirit, but He is Tengri by another name. It matters not how a man prays.”

“That is true, but many who follow the cross or the crescent believe otherwise.” Yesuntai sighed. “Long ago, my ancestor Genghis Khan thought of making the world our pasturage, but then learned that he could not rule it without mastering the ways of the lands he had won. Now those ways are mastering us.” He gazed at me with his restless dark eyes. “When we have slaughtered the Inglistanis here, more of our people will come to settle these lands. In time, we may have to subdue those we call our friends. More will be claimed here for our Khanate and, if all goes well, my father’s sons and grandsons will have more of the wealth this land offers. Our priests will come, itching to spread the word of Christ among the natives, and traders will bargain for what we do not take outright. Do you find this a pleasing prospect?”

“I must serve my Khan,” I replied. His eyes narrowed, and I sensed that he saw my true thoughts. There were still times when I dreamed of abandoning what I had here and vanishing into the northern forests.

He said, “An ocean lies between us and Europe. It may become easier for those who are here to forget the Khanate.”

“Perhaps.”

“I am told,” Yesuntai said then, “that you lived for some time among the Long House People.”

My throat tightened. “I dwelled with the Ganeagaono, the Owners of the Flint. Perhaps Michel Bahadur told you the story.”

“Only that you lived among them.”

“It is a long tale, but I will try to make it shorter. My father and I came to these shores soon after we found this island—we were in one of the ships that followed the first expedition. Cheren Noyan had secured Yeke Geren by then. I was nine when we arrived, my father’s youngest son. We came alone, without my mother or his second wife—he was hoping to return to Calais a richer man.” I recalled little of that journey, only that the sight of the vast white-capped sea terrified me whenever I was well enough to go up on deck to help the men watch for Inglistani pirates. Perhaps Yesuntai had also trembled at being adrift on that watery plain, but I did not wish to speak of my fear to him.

“A year after we got here,” I went on, “Cheren Noyan sent an expedition upriver. Hendrick, one of our Dutch sailors, captained the ship. He was to map the river and see how far it ran, whether it might offer us a passageway west. My father was ordered to join the expedition, and brought me along. I was grateful for the chance to be with the men.”

Yesuntai nodded. “As any boy would be.”

“We went north until we came to the region the Ganeagaono call Skanechtade—‘Beyond the Openings’—and anchored there. We knew that the Flint People were fierce warriors. The people to the south of their lands lived in terror of them, and have given them the name of Mohawk, the Eaters of Men’s Flesh, but we had been told the Owners of the Flint would welcome strangers who came to them in peace. Hendrick thought it wise to secure a treaty with them before going farther, and having an agreement with the Ganeagaono would also give us a bond with the other four nations of the Long House.”

I swallowed more wine. Yesuntai was still, but his eyes kept searching me. He would want to know what sort of man I was before entrusting himself to me, but I still knew little about him. I felt somehow that he wanted more than allies in a campaign against the Inglistanis, but pushed that notion aside.

“Some of us,” I said, “rowed to shore in our longboats. A few Ganeagaono warriors had spied us, and we made ourselves understood with hand gestures. They took us to their village. Everyone there greeted us warmly, and opened their houses to us. All might have gone well, but after we ate their food, our men offered them wine. We should have known better, after seeing what strong drink could do to the Manhatan. The Flint People have no head for wine, and our men would have done well to stay sober.”

I stared at the earthen floor and was silent for a time. “I am not certain how it happened,” I continued at last, “but our meeting ended in violence. A few of our men died with tomahawks in their heads. Most of the others fled to the boats. You may call them cowards for that, but to see a man of the Flint People in the throes of drunkenness would terrify the bravest of soldiers. They were wild—the wine is poison to them. They were not like the Manhatan, who grow sleepy and calmly trade even their own children for strong drink.”

“Go on,” Yesuntai said.

“My father and I were among those who did not escape. The Ganeagaono had lost men during the brawl, and now saw us as enemies. They began their tortures. They assailed my father and his comrades with fire and whips—they cut pieces of flesh from them, dining on them while their captives still lived, and tore the nails from their hands with hot pincers. My father bore his torment bravely, but the others did not behave as Mongols should, and their deaths were not glorious.” I closed my eyes for a moment, remembering the sound of their shrieks when the children had thrown burning coals on their staked bodies. I had not known then whom I hated more, the men for losing their courage or the children for their cruelty.

“I am sorry to hear it,” Yesuntai said.

“Only my father and I were left alive. They forced us to run through the village while rows of people struck at us with whips and heavy sticks. The men went at us first, then the women, and after them the children. I did not understand then that they were honoring us by doing this. My father’s wounds robbed him of life, but I survived the beatings, and it was then that the Ganeagaono made me one of them. I was taken to a house, given to a woman who admired the courage my father had shown during the torture, and was made a member of their Deer Clan. My foster mother gave me the name of Senadondo.”

“And after that?” he asked.

“Another ship came upriver not long after. We expected a war party, but Cheren Noyan was wise enough to send envoys out from the ship to seek peace. Because I knew the Ganeagaono tongue by then, I was useful as an interpreter. The envoys begged forgiveness, saying that their men were to blame for violating the hospitality of the Flint People, so all went well. In the years to follow, I often dealt with the traders who came to us offering cloth and iron for furs and beaver pelts—they did not make the mistake of bringing wine again. After a time, I saw that I might be of more use to both my own people and my adoptive brothers if I returned to Yeke Geren. The Ganeagaono said farewell to me and sent me back with many gifts.”

Speaking of the past made me long for the northern woods, for the spirits that sang in the mountain pines, for the sight of long houses and fields of corn, for Dasiyu, who had refused to come with me or to let our son depart with me. The boy belonged to her Wolf Clan, not to mine; his destiny was linked to hers. It had always been that way among the Long House People. I had promised to return, and she had called my promise a lie. Her last words to me were a curse.

“I might almost think,” Yesuntai said, “that you wish you were among those people now.”

“Is that so strange, Noyan?”

“They killed your father, and brought you much suffering.”

“We brought that fate upon ourselves. If my father’s spirit had not flown from him, they would have let him live, and honored him as one of their own. I lost everything I knew, but from the time the Ganeagaono adopted me, they treated me only with kindness and respect. Do you understand?”

“I think I do. The children of many who fought against us now serve us. Yet you chose to return here, Jirandai.”

“We had a treaty. The Flint People do not forget their treaties—they are marked with the strings of beads they call wampum, which their wise men always have in their keeping.” Even as I spoke, I wondered if, in the end, my exile would prove useless.

How full of pride and hope I had been, thinking that my efforts would preserve the peace between this outpost of the Khanate and the people I had come to love. I would be, so I believed, the voice of the Ganeagaono in the Mongol councils. But my voice was often ignored, and I had finally seen what lay behind Cheren Noyan’s offer of peace. A treaty would give his men time to learn more about the Long House and any weaknesses that could later be exploited. Eventually, more soldiers would come to wrest more of these lands from the natives. Our Khan’s minions might eventually settle the lands to the north, and make the Long House People as wretched as the Manhatans.

“I came back,” I continued, “so that our Noyans and Bahadurs would remember the promises recorded on the belts we exchanged with the Owners of the Flint. We swore peace, and I am the pledge of that peace, for the Ganeagaono promised that they would be bound to us in friendship for as long as I remained both their brother and the Khan’s servant. That promise lives here.” I struck my chest. “But some of our people are not so mindful of our promises.”

Yesuntai nodded. “It is the European influence, Bahadur. Our ancestors kept the oaths they swore, and despised liars, but the Europeans twist words and often call lies the truth.” He took a breath. “I will speak freely to you, Jirandai Bahadur. I have not come here only to rid this land of Inglistanis. Europe is filled with people who bow to the Khans and yet dream of escaping our yoke. I would hate to see them slip from their bonds on these shores. Destroying the Inglistani settlements will show others that they will find no refuge here.”

“I can agree with such a mission,” I said.

“And your forest brothers will be rid of a potential enemy.”

“Yes.”

“Will you lead me to them? Will you speak my words to them and ask them to join us in this war?”

“You may command me to do so, Noyan,” I said.

He shifted his weight on the bench. “I would rather have your assent. I have always found that those who freely offer me their oaths serve me better than those pressed into service, and I imagine you have your own reasons for wishing to go north.”

“I shall go with you, and willingly. You will need other men, Noyan. Some in Yeke Geren have lost their discipline and might not do well in the northern forests. They wallow in the few pleasures this place offers, and mutter that their Khan has forgotten them.”

“Then I will leave it to you to find good men who lust for battle. I can trust those whom I brought with me.”

I took out my pipe, tapped tobacco into it from my pouch, lit it, and held it out to Yesuntai. “Will you smoke a pipe with me? We should mark our coming expedition with some ceremony.”