Chapter One

Allowing his horse to choose its own path among the trees, Beltai sat easy in the saddle, the reins held loosely in his calloused fingers. From the corner of his eye, he watched Li-shan, riding beside him. The expression on her face registered such wonder and delight that it served to heighten his own pleasure of their surroundings.

He was glad that he had this opportunity to spend time alone with his daughter. Since winter had loosed its hold upon the land, the clan had been on the move. Anxious to reach the banks of the Onon River before the onset of another winter, they had not stopped for more than a day or two at a time. He hadn't realized until today just how much he had missed the hours they used to spend together.

Li-shan rode with her head tilted back, her gaze drawn to the leafy canopy high above, where shafts of sunlight filtered through the dense foliage, creating a shimmering golden haze that softened and blurred the vivid hues of autumn.

The wind sang in the treetops, and the brightly colored leaves appeared to dance with gay abandon amidst the dark green boughs of stately conifers that performed moresedately, with a graceful, swaying rhythm of their own, presenting ever-changing patterns of color and light that Li-shan found entrancing.

Beltai's quiet voice broke the silence, and Li-shan turned her head to look at him. “Once, when I was a boy no older than you are now, we went to a Red Disk Festival on the eastern shore of Lake Baikal. There I saw a forest of trees so tall that they appeared to touch the clouds. For a very long time I believed those giants of the forest held up the sky,” he confided with a self-conscious laugh.

“Truly, Father? It doesn't seem possible that there are trees greater than these. I want to see them!”

“And so you shall, little one. Someday,” Beltai promised. “I long to see them again myself… to see if they are really as tall, as magnificent, as I remember them to be.”

“When, Father? When will we see them?” she asked excitedly.

“Patience, child,” her father counseled, smiling at her eagerness.

‘Patience! Why do my elders always tell me to be patient?’ There was so much to see, to experience, to learn… she didn't want to wait until someday… later… when you are older… when you're grown up. That was the worst! ‘I am grown up!’ She was tired of being treated like a child. ‘How old is ‘old enough? It isn't fair.’ Li-shan sighed, vexed with the vagaries of time.

In an effort to hide his smile, Beltai smoothed the drooping moustache that bracketed his wide, full-lipped mouth. Grown up, indeed! But did I not think that I was grown up when I was her age? She is all of eight… no! My little girl is nine, he realized, surprised as always by the swift passage of the years. By the gods, it seemed as if it was only yesterday that the bawling, red-faced infant had been placed in his arms. Choling had been so apologetic, begging his forgiveness for having had borne him a worthless female child, but he had been delighted. He had already been blessed with two sons, all by his main wife, Chinsei. This tiny replica of his beloved number two wife had made his heart sing. It still did!

‘Do not be in such a hurry to grow up, my little Li-shan,’ he thought to himself. All too soon you will be gone from us. For just a moment he wished that he could make time stand still.

They rode in silence, savoring the peace and beauty of late afternoon. The ponies picked their way among the cool, green shadows, the clip-clop of their hooves muted by the thick carpet of springy pine needles that lay upon the ground.

“Do you hear them?” Beltai asked, breaking into her thoughts.

“Hear what, Father?”

“The voices of the gods speaking. Can you hear them?”

Cocking her head to one side, Li-shan listened intently, a frown of concentration puckering the brow.

“I hear only the sound of the wind,” she replied.

“Ai. Listen well then, for the gods speak on the wind. They can be heard in the rushing waters of a mountain stream…and in the rustling grass upon the plains. They speak to us in many ways, in many voices,” Beltai explained quietly. “For myself. I have always heard them most clearly here, in the silence of a forest.”

“Truly, Father? Why is it that I don't hear them?”

“It's not something that you hear with your ears, little one. You hear the gods speak deep within you. Here,” he said, his fist thumping the center of his broad chest.

“Will the gods ever speak to me? Will they, Father?”

“I believe the gods speak to all. But not everyone listens…or recognizes the voices for what they are. If you open your heart and listen carefully, you, too, will hear the gods speak,” Beltai assured her.

Li-shan turned her father's words over in her mind, not doubting them for amoment. Was her father not the wisest of men!

‘What a wondrous thing it must be to hear the gods speak,’ she thought, but it was scary, too. ‘Like my dreams of the Ancient One!’ Dreams that often woke her in the night, feeling excited and frightened all at the same time.

“Father, do you believe that the gods speak in dreams, as the shamans say?”

“Yes. Yes, sometimes I think they do,” Beltai replied. “Why do you ask?”

About to speak, to tell Beltai about her strange, recurring dreams, she suddenly changed her mind. She shrugged. “No reason, Father. I just wondered.” Someday, she'll tell him, she vowed, but not today. She also promised to tell him of the increasing uneasiness that lurked within her consciousness, a fear that grew each day as they approached their destination. But along with her dreams, her fears were not something she wished to share this day, this glorious and recently rare day she spent alone with her father.

She had never told anyone about her dreams; not her mother, nor Hagatai, her nursemaid, not even Joblai, her stepbrother, with whom she always shared her innermost thoughts. Somehow, the dreams were different. It was something she could not explain, not even to herself. She knew only that her night-visions of the Ancient One were hers alone, a secret she was loath to share with anyone.

The forest floor rose gradually and it was late afternoon by the time they emerged from the woodland. They paused to rest the ponies on the crest of a high hill overlooking a narrow valley, bisected by a river that wandered among clumps of poplars, willows and bird-cherries. The sun hung low above the western ridge, casting mauve shadows on the far slopes, tinting the few scattered clouds in pink and silver.

Watching Li-shan from the corner of his eye, Beltai felt pride swell in his chest. She sat tall and straight in the saddle, her lithe, slender body swaying easily with the rhythm of the pony's stride.

‘She's as beautiful as her mother,’ he thought. As Li-shan had grown older the resemblance to her mother had grown stronger. Beltai glanced at the child, seeing her face in profile. Like her mother, she had a broad, smooth forehead; black winged brows; high, delicately sculptured cheekbones; a short, straight nose with finely chiseled nostrils; a wide mouth, the lower lip sensuously full; and a firm, rounded chin. ‘A chin that can thrust out as stubbornly as my own,’ Beltai thought, smiling to himself.

‘Ai, she is the image of my beautiful Choling!’

But there the resemblance to Choling ended. There was nothing shy or retiring about Li-shan. ‘She has the fiery spirit of the Mongol, fearless and tough… and that is good,’ he reflected. ‘This is a harsh land… a land in which gentle spirits, such as Choling's, struggle to survive.’

As if sensing his gaze upon her, Li-shan turned to look at her father, and he was struck anew by the startling brilliance of her eyes. It was the one feature that set her apart from her mother. Although both mother and daughter had the same thickly lashed, almond-shaped eyes, Choling's were dark; a deep, fathomless black, while Li-shan had inherited the grey eyes of Beltai's family, evidence of their Hun ancestry. But hers were not the somber shade of storm clouds in winter like those of her kinsmen, rather they were an unusually light silvery grey, flecked with bright opalescent tints, ever-changing like the sun-dappled waters of a clear pool.

Looking up, Li-shan watched as a leaf, loosened by the wind, twirled and spun downward, followed by another, then another. For a moment, they hung suspended, as if caught and held by a sunbeam in midair then, spiraling gently, they drifted down to earth. She slid from the saddle and ran to catch them as they fluttered to the ground. Holding the brightly colored leaves fanlike, she lifted them for Beltai's inspection.

“Look, Father! Are they not beautiful?”

Holding them carefully so as not to crush them, she swung herself back into the saddle. “I am taking these to Mother. Surely, she has never seen leaves such as these!”

“I am sure she will be pleased, little one.”

“I wish Mother could have come with us, today. It's so beautiful here and so… so…”

“Peaceful?”

“Yes! It is so peaceful! I know Mother will love the forest.”

“Yes, I am sure she will,” Beltai agreed, but his tone lacked conviction. His thoughts turned to Choling and he sighed, the sound heavy with sadness.

‘My poor little Princess,’ he thought. ‘She has found little of beauty… or of peace, in this land.’ A tiny flicker of guilt stirred in his mind and he tried to shrug off the twinges of uneasiness that always accompanied thoughts of Choling.

Li-shan's mother had been captured in a raid upon a caravan traveling the Silk Trail, and she had been a rich prize, yes, a rich prize indeed! Of obvious wealth and gentle breeding, she would bring a high ransom and Beltai and his warriors had carried her off, returning to their camp in triumph. But ransom negotiations had never gotten underway. Entranced by the shy, gentle and exotic beauty of his young captive, Beltai had overridden the objections of his Council of Elders and taken Choling as his bride.

Although his love for her had never waned, Beltai sometimes, as now, questioned the rightness of his decision to wed Choling. Even after all these years, she had never adjusted to the rough, nomadic life on the steppes… and she never will, he thought sadly.

Daughter of a high official in the Imperial government and a fourth cousin to the Emperor himself, Choling had been raised behind the walls of the Imperial Palace. A product of the elegantly formal and tradition-bound Han society, she had been educated to take her place as the wife of a highborn official; to be cosseted and pampered within the structured confines of a proper and genteel household. In very fact, she had been captured while on her bridal journey to a far western province, to become the wife of a titled Governor.

Of a shy and retiring nature, the gentle girl had been ill prepared to become, instead, the wife of a Mongol chieftain and to live the harsh life of a steppe nomad. No one knew more than Beltai how hard Choling had tried to accept, and to adjust to the blow Fate had dealt her but the rough manners and exuberant spirits of the clansmen were beyond her experience and understanding.

Beltai sighed again. Even after all these years, he knew that she was still terrified of the alien, and seemingly barbaric tribesmen and of the wild, open expanse of the land through which they ceaselessly traveled. Yet, despite everything, he believed that Choling had come to love him, in her own way, and the thought never failed to fill him with wonder and gratitude.

‘No man could ask for more,’ Beltai thought, his gaze once more falling upon his beautiful, young daughter.

Li-shan was roused by a shout, and glanced over her shoulder. “Look, Father! There's Barshan and Joblai!” She laughed and waved. Though happy to see her half-brothers returning, she was momentarily saddened by their return, for it marked the end of her coveted time with her father.

Abruptly halting Nightwind, Li-shan slid from the saddle and dropped lightly to the ground. Parting the tall grass, she bent down to examine the still-twitching body of a large hare. The hare shuddered convulsively, then lay still, its eyes glazing over in death. It was a fine, fat doe, heavy with the fullness of its rich, summer grazing, and Li-shan could not conceal her pride as she held up the limp, grey-brown form for her brothers’ inspection.

Leaning from the saddle for a closer look, Barshan noted that the arrow had pierced the hare's neck just below the jaw line. “A clean kill, little sister. I could not have done better myself.” The quiet words of praise were spoken with pride, the pride of a teacher for a student who had excelled beyond expectation.

Li-shan felt a tingling surge of pleasure. It was Barshan who had fashioned her very first bow and arrows, and who had spent countless, long hours patiently teaching her how to use them. She could not have had a better teacher. Although he had not yet seen his thirteenth summer, Barshan had already earned a reputation as one of the clan's best marksmen and hunters.

“It is you I have to thank, elder brother, for whatever small skill I possess.” Li-shan replied, with unaccustomed modesty, her eyes bright with gratitude and love.

“It is the gods, not Barshan, you should thank, for surely it was they who guided your arrow to the mark,” Joblai hooted, his loud, derisive laughter shattering the stillness that permeated the narrow valley. “But it does my heart good to hear you finally admit that you possess only a small skill with the bow. Such honest humility is much more becoming than…”

“You're just jealous, Joblai,” Li-shan sputtered angrily, stung by his mockery, and loathe to admit that there might be a modicum of truth to his words. “What have you contributed to the day's kill except two, scrawny marmots and a…”

“Jealous? Of you? A mere girl who…”

“Enough!” All three heads swiveled at the sound of the gruff command. Beltai tugged on the reins, bringing his sorrel stallion to a halt beside them. “The gods are to be thanked for every kill! Is it not so, Joblai?” he demanded, giving his young son a hard look. “Though the gods provide, that takes nothing away from the hunter's skill.”

The sharp reprimand brought a crimson flush to Joblai's lean cheeks. He ducked his head, but not before he saw the smug smile on Li-shan's face. His fists clenched around the reins until the knuckles showed white. Damn, Li-shan! He had only been teasing, hadn't he? Perhaps, he had gone too far, but that was no reason for her to get so angry. And now his father was angry with him, too!

“You will both apologize for your cruel and thoughtless words to each other,” Beltai ordered, a frown drawing his dark, shaggy eyebrows into a vee above the ridge of his hawk-like nose.

The satisfied smile vanished. “Apologize?” Li-shan's voice rose, shrill with indignation. “But, Father, I…”

“Li-shan!” Her father's tone and stern gaze quelled any further argument.

Forgotten, the hare dangled from Li-shan's hand, its blood draining into the sun-parched earth. Unwilling to look at her brother, she stared sullenly at the up-turned tips of her felt boots. It wasn't fair! Joblai should be the one to apologize, not she. She had known that he was only teasing, but the words had stung her pride. She'd had a right to defend herself!

The two youngsters, their shoulders set stiffly, stood in sullen silence; neither willing to be the first to speak. Beltai wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, hiding the smile that twitched involuntarily, at the corners of his lips. ‘Aiee, but these two are so much alike. Too much alike! They are as stubborn as desert onagers,’ Beltai thought, observing his offspring. His anger had fled, replaced by amusement not unmixed with pride.

Only six months separated the two, and despite their intense rivalry, they had grown up the closest of companions. Years ago, Joblai had declared himself the leader of the pack, a position that went unquestioned by the other youngsters of the clan, all except Li-shan, who challenged him at every turn. Although their incessant teasing and bickering sometimes vexed him, Beltai believed that the rivalry between them was a good thing; it kept Joblai on his toes, forcing him to hone his warrior and hunter's skills, if for no other reason than to stay one step ahead of his younger, half-sister.

Chapter Two

The sun rode the rims of the hump-backed hills, and purple shadows were lengthening in the valleys. Li-shan lifted her head, sniffing the air. A hint of dung smoke and roasting meat, mixed with the musty odor of dry grass, drifted on the wind. Beltai had set a fast pace and they had made good time.

Walking their horses, they rode side-by-side toward the camp. From the corner of her eye, Li-shan looked up at Beltai. Suddenly, she felt overwhelmed by the love she felt for the strong, proud man, who was her father. She felt an urge to reach out and touch him, to tell him how much she loved him, but she restrained the impulse. It was not their way to speak of such things or to show their affection in such a manner, and Li-shan knew that it would only embarrass him.

Not since she was a very little girl, had he hugged or kissed her, yet never for a moment of her life had she ever doubted his love for her. It was simply a thing that she knew, and she was warmed by it. The knowledge of his caring was the shield she carried before her, her protection against the, oft times, harsh realities of nomadic life on the steppes.

In the center of the common ground, fragrant smoke rose from the communal fire, where a haunch of antelope was being slowly turned on the spit, filling the camp with the tantalizing aroma of roasting meat. Li-shan's stomach grumbled with hunger, as once again she pushed the all-too-familiar, guilt-inducing thoughts regarding her mother from her mind. She hurriedly removed Nightwind's saddle. Before she could eat, she must first attend to the stallion. It was one of the first lessons she had ever learned… her pony's needs must always be attended to before her own.

Raising her in the tradition of the People, Beltai placed Li-shan in the saddle before she could even walk. Before she had seen three winters, she could ride well and, on the occasion of the anniversary of her third natal day, her father had presented her with her very own pony.

Using a softened piece of leather, she carefully removed all traces of the dried, salty sweat that streaked the neck and flanks of the pony. Already, Nightwind's coat was thickening, preparing for the long winter ahead when the dense, shaggy hair would protect him from the icy blasts of wind that would relentlessly sweep across the steppes.

Despite a long day of riding the hills, the young pony was in a playful mood and as Li-shan worked, Nightwind nuzzled the girl's shoulder. His soft, velvety lips nipped gently, tugging at Li-shan's jacket until, giving in, she dropped the cloth and hugged the pony's neck.

Picking up a thistle brush, Li-shan began to comb out the snarls in the pony's long mane that fell to the ground like a silken veil. “Stop it, Nightwind,” Li-shan giggled, tugging her braid from between the horse's large, white teeth. “I have no time to play with you, now. It's late and I'm hungry!”

She stood for a moment, scratching a white spot high on his forehead, then Li-shan led the pony to the open ground behind the tents, where it could graze. From the very beginning, Nightwind had refused to remain with the herd, preferring to spend the night close to his young mistress. At night, the pony would remain near the yurt, resting and grazing, always within hearing distance of Li-shan's whistled signal. Morning would find the ebony stallion standing close to the tent flap, patiently waiting for Li-shan to emerge. The grass was thick and high in the narrow strip of land that ran between the tents and the deep fringe of woods that bordered a narrow ribbon of river, running behind the campsite, offering good pasturage and easy access to water for the pony. Immediately, Nightwind lowered his head, nibbling delicately at the tall, golden stalks.

With a final, affectionate pat, Li-shan turned and skipped away. Skirting the wagons that stood like dark, humpbacked sentinels around the large circle of tents, Li-shan hurried through the shadows between the tents, drawn by the aroma of the cooking fires that made the saliva gather in her mouth and her stomach rumble hungrily.

Dropping her saddle beside the tent she shared with her mother, Li-shan hesitated when she saw that the tent flap was closed. She knew she should go in; her mother would be anxious for her return and would not rest until she was safely in the tent for the night. Still, she hesitated. It was a lovely evening, and looking up, she could see the first stars making their appearance to proclaim to the world that the Moon Goddess would soon be entering the Temple of the Heavens. The stars, handmaidens to the Moon Goddess, as her mother called them, would dance attendance to the Goddess throughout her lonely vigil in the night, gracing the world with their sparkling light until the Life Giver rose in the East to assume her reign once more. A few more moments would not make that much difference, she reassured herself, trying to ignore the twinges of guilt nibbling at the edges of her mind.

Indecisively, she let her gaze wander around the camp. Set at one end of the valley, with the river protecting its north and west perimeters, the camp formed an orderly semi-circle. Each doorway faced the south, the most propitious direction, from whence came all good things. Beltai's large yurt, which he shared with his main wife, Chinsei, and Li-shan's brothers, stood at the northern edge of the camp, directly facing the wide entrance to the common ground. Close beside it, stood the slightly smaller tent of Choling; the placement of each yurt dictated by the family's rank within the clan.

Darkness had settled quickly into the valley, and a fire blazed in the center of the common ground, that was the heart of clan activity. Except in the coldest of weather, or when storms raged across the steppes, the tribesmen preferred to be out under the wide expanse of sky, and this night was no exception.

The men sat about, smoking their long-stemmed pipes. Curls of aromatic smoke rose from the small, silver bowls, wreathing their sun-darkened, weather-lined faces, as they puffed contentedly and discussed the success of the day's hunt.

Beside an open doorway, several old women squatted, their weight resting on their heels. Their gnarled, work-worn hands lay idle on their knees, as they enjoyed a brief respite from their labors, and gossiped quietly among themselves. Soon, Li-shan knew, they would retire to their sleeping platforms, only to be up again with the dawn, when they would all resume their journey northward.

Having fed their elders and menfolk, most of the younger women were still busy with their endless chores, hurrying now, to bed down the children and finish up the day's work. Despite their weariness, Li-shan could hear laughter and snatches of song coming from the tents. With their long journey nearing its end, the women were filled with excited anticipation, for soon they would see again families and friends that they had left behind so long ago.

Out of earshot of their elders, her female cousins huddled together, giggling and whispering. They called and beckoned to her, but Li-shan felt no temptation to join them. She was tired of hearing the seemingly endless discussions about dowries, and betrothals, and the bright new clothes they were making to wear at the Clan Meeting. It was all any of them had thought about all summer long, and Li-shan thought it was all very silly, and very boring. She turned her gaze away from the group of laughing girls, with a sigh.

Behind her, Li-shan heard her mother and the soothing voice of Hagatai coming from within the tent. The night air was cool and crisp and filled with tantalizing aromas, the slightly musty smell of dry grass, the wet, dank odors of riverine growth, the tangy fragrance of the pine forests carried on the wind, almost hidden beneath the rich aromas of roasting meat and fowl that permeated the camp.

The tent would be overly warm, heated by the fire Hagatai kept roaring to ward off the chill that always seemed to plague Choling; and the air would smell sickly sweet from the incense her mother kept burning in the tiny, blue porcelain jar, set at the feet of the small, ivory statue of Kwan Yin, the Goddess of Mercy, that stood at the head of her mother's sleeping platform.

Li-shan sighed. It was still early and she didn't want to be cooped up in the stuffy yurt, not yet, and besides, she wanted to talk to someone, to share her adventures of the day. Not that her mother would not listen to her tales; she would, but Li-shan knew that if she told her mother about the race she had run, and won, Choling would only become anxious, and Li-shan hated to see the look of fear in her mother's eyes when she recounted the stories of her day's activities. She tried to tell Choling that there was nothing to be afraid of. The world outside the yurt was a wonderful place, filled with exciting things to see and do, and Li-shan could not understand why it all frightened her mother so.

Li-shan sighed. “Always in her tent…” No amount of pleading on her part, or scolding by Hagatai had been able to induce Choling to leave the yurt. Her mother would simply smile her gentle smile and shake her head stubbornly. Nothing could persuade her to leave the protective confines of the tent, and the illusionary world she had created for herself within its walls.

Even when the clan was on the move, following the grass, Choling preferred to remain beneath the high, felt canopy of her traveling wagon, enduring the stifling heat of the small enclosure, rather than face the vast, open emptiness of the steppes that she both feared and hated.

Li-shan felt an all-too-familiar surge of pity well up within her, as she stood thinking about her mother, but it was a pity, not unmixed with exasperation and puzzlement.

Her mother never wanted this kind of life, of course. Li-shan understood that. Everyone understood that. But her father, well, he was stubborn. ‘Just like me,’ she thought.

Perhaps, her mother, too, was stubborn in her own way, refusing to give up the fantasy of the life she could have lived. Maybe her father was wrong.

Even Chinsei, Beltai's main wife, had objected, as she had once told Li-shan quite honestly. She had not objected to Beltai's taking a second wife, after all that was to be expected, and a second pair of hands to help with endless chores would have been most welcome. But Chinsei had known that those small, well-cared-for hands, with their long, lacquered nails had never gathered dung, or kindled a fire, or milked a goat, or skinned a rabbit, or tanned a hide. With her tiny, bound feet, no larger than a child's, she would never be able to haul buckets of water, or put oxen to the yoke, or tend the flocks.

As it turned out, Chinsei had been right in her assessment of Choling's potential. Except for her marvelous skill with a needle, Choling had proved extraordinarily helpless to cope with the simplest of tasks. At Chinsei's insistence, another servant had been assigned to Choling's household, an elderly slave, who despite her advanced years, was as strong and long-suffering as an ox. It was Hagatai, who ran the household, doing all of the tasks that would otherwise have fallen to her mistress. Thus, Chinsei's grumblings were silenced and, in time she had become quite fond of the timid and unassuming girl. It is impossible not to love Choling, Chinsei had admitted, but I will never understand her.

Nor did Li-shan. She adored her soft-spoken, gentle mother, but she could not understand her many fears. Li-shan loved the land, and the nomadic life they lived. She saw each new day as an adventure, a challenge to be met and mastered, and few things frightened her.

Even as a very young child, Li-shan had recognized that her mother was different, not like Chinsei or any other of the women of the clan. Her love for her mother fought against the embarrassment, an embarrassment she barely allowed herself to acknowledge. Ashamed, she buried them deeply, and railed against any and all who would comment or even look at her mother with distain.

Li-shan approached the communal fire, where Chinsei was carving large slabs of meat and passing the wooden platters to a group of the men, seated on the ground nearby.

“Ah, there you are, child. Come. Eat. I have saved a slice of antelope liver for you,” Chinsei said, beaming down at her. Chinsei's cheeks were flushed from the heat of the fire and her bright, warm smile made her plain face almost pretty.

Li-shan took the proffered plate, smiling her thanks and plopped down on the ground, close to where the men were sitting. Popping the rich pieces of raw liver into her mouth and chewing hungrily, she listened with avid attention as they recounted tales of the day's hunt. Beltai, sitting cross-legged, among them, roared with laughter at something said, then wiped his chin on the cuff of his coat, and Li-shan smiled even though she had missed the quip that had evoked her father's laughter. She loved to hear her father laugh… the joyous sound seemed to roll up from his stomach and erupt from his throat… loud, booming, and infectious.

All the men had been fed and Chinsei filled a platter and squatted down beside Li-shan. With her weight resting on her heels, she balanced the plate on her knees and lifted a slice of meat to her mouth, chewing lustily with her strong, white teeth.

“Good, isn't it?” she queried. “It was a fine hunt today… antelope, some tolai hares… there will be rabbit stew, tomorrow… with carrots, garlic and herbs, just the way your father likes it… thanks, in part, to you.” A broad smile fell upon Chinsei's lips.

“Oh, Father, told you!” Li-shan's pride clearly showing in the glow emanating from her face.

“Yes, your father told me of the fine day you had together. And what did you think of the forests?” she asked.

“Oh, Chinsei! They are so wonderful… the trees, so tall! Did Father tell you about all the animals we saw?” Not waiting for an answer, Li-shan prattled on, making Chinsei laugh with her vivid description of the flying squirrels.

“Li-shan! So there you are!”

Li-shan jumped to her feet and turned to face the old woman bearing down on her.

“I was just coming…”

“And long past time, too,” the old woman scolded. “Your mother has been worried and…”

“It was my fault, Hagatai. I delayed the child,” Chinsei said, defending Li-shan.

Ignoring Chinsei's explanation, Hagatai scowled down at the girl. “You know how your mother worries. There is no excuse for causing her so much concern. You have been very thoughtless…”

“Go along, now, Li-shan.” Cutting into the old servants querulous tirade, Chinsei patted Li-shan's shoulder affectionately, sending her on her way.

“You should not keep Li-shan from her mother! You know that Choling…”

“You forget your place, old woman,” Chinsei sternly reprimanded her, but there was no real heat in her voice. “Go along and attend to your mistress.” With a wave of her hand, she dismissed the servant. Hagatai turned and stomped away, grumbling under her breath.

Chinsei watched until they entered the tent and she saw Hagatai close the door flap behind them. Shaking her head, she set about gathering up the empty platters from

the men. Beckoning to a passing servant, she gave the girl the grease-encrusted platters to be scrubbed with river sand, and walked slowly toward her own tent, exchanging a few words with those she passed on the way.

Stooping to enter the yurt, Chinsei looked around the orderly room. Since they were to move on again in a day or two, much of their belongings had been left in the kibitka. On the latticed walls hung a few cooking utensils and the small, leather bags containing dried herbs, while on the far side of the circular tent, above the sleeping platform shared by her sons, the pegs were filled by an assortment of weapons and pouches, containing whatever it was that young boys collected so avidly. Above her own sleeping platform, spread with a warm yak robe, held the felt replicas of the household god, Natigay, protector of children and guardian of herds and livestock.

Lifting the lid of the hollow-log tub, Chinsei checked to see if there was an ample supply of kumiss, giving the rich, creamy, mare's milk a stir with the paddle that hung on the side of the tub. Satisfied, she replaced the lid and moved to the stone-lined hearth in the center of the yurt. The fire had burned down and she added some dried dung chips to the embers. The flames sputtered to life. Swinging the small, iron cauldron, filled with water, over the trivet, Chinsei settled down to wait for the water to boil. Never one to be idle, while she waited, she set about preparing the vegetables for tomorrow's rabbit stew.

Her thoughts returned once more to Li-shan and to her husband's second household. Chinsei had accepted Beltai's marriage to Choling with the good grace expected of her, though given the choice, she would have chosen a woman of the People, rather than the young, helpless, little alien. Perhaps, soon, Beltai would take yet a third wife. He could easily afford another, and this time, Chinsei hoped it would be one who could help her with the seemingly endless chores required of her as the main wife of the clan chieftain. With a sigh, Chinsei gathered up the scrapings from the small, yellow, wild carrots and threw them into the fire. But Chinsei was never one to feel sorry for herself and she quickly shrugged off the mood of melancholy.

A smile flickered around the corners of her mouth. Ah, that Li-shan, she thought, there is a child to be proud of! She could not love the little girl more, if she were her own and, indeed, had she not helped raise her almost from the very beginning! When Beltai had discovered that Choling's milk dried up, he had rushed the mewling, tiny infant to Chinsei, demanding that she do something to save his starving daughter. With no wet nurse to be found in the camp, Chinsei's practical good sense came to the fore. Boiling goat's milk, she had prepared a sop with a softened piece of deerskin and fed Li-shan, keeping the baby with her day and night until she was certain the child could digest the rich substitute. Li-shan thrived and after teaching Choling how to prepare the milk, she had returned the baby to her mother.

It was obvious to all that Choling adored her pretty, silver-eyed daughter, though she spoke of her in the most depreciating way, lest the gods become envious and take the child from her. It was, also, soon obvious that Choling had become obsessed with her fears for the baby's well-being and she hovered over her in a constant state of anxiety. Fearing that the child would grow up infected by Choling's unnatural fears, Beltai had interceded, giving over much of Li-shan's care to Chinsei. Li-shan was a Mongol, and Beltai was determined that she would be raised as one. Overriding Choling's hysterical pleas, he had taken the baby from her, giving her into Chinsei's care.

Though she never spoke of it, Chinsei had suspected that Beltai's decision had been influenced as much by his jealousy of the time and attention Choling devoted to the baby, as much as it was by his concern for Li-shan's welfare. But whatever his reasons had been, Chinsei had welcomed the child into the tent, and into her heart. Her own two boys no longer needed her constant attention; they had reached the age when their training was taken over by Beltai and the men of the clan. They spent their days learning to perfect their riding skills; the use of weapons, for both hunting and defense; to tame the wild steppe ponies; and the careful husbandry of the herds and flocks. Chinsei had not realized how much she missed them until Beltai had placed Li-shan in her arms.

As spoiled and fretful as she was, Li-shan soon discovered that her loud, wailing demands for attention, no longer brought anyone running to coddle her, and she learned to amuse herself with the small toys Chinsei fashioned for her from scraps of leather, and bone, and feathers. Only in the evening after the cooking fires had been lit, was she returned to Choling's eager arms, to be rocked and lulled to sleep by the soft, sweet voice of her mother, singing ancient Han lullabies. Li-shan thrived, and became a healthy, happy, and keenly curious toddler, whose bubbling laughter delighted everyone. In actuality, Li-shan had two mothers… Chinsei, who taught her to be independent and strong in the face of the hard realities of nomadic life on the steppes, and Choling, who fostered the gentler side of her nature, teaching her to love beauty and art, and to observe some of the more formal courtesies of her Han heritage. Li-shan seemed able to blend the two cultures within herself without difficulty, yet Chinsei was convinced that the child's spirit was more Mongol than Han.

The water was ready and Chinsei sprinkled the crushed tea leaves into the pot, then quickly removed it to the side of the hearth to steep. She stared, with unseeing eyes, at the gently simmering water, hardly noticing as it turned green.

‘Yes,’ she thought, ‘Li-shan is a true Mongol. Anyone seeing her ride would know it at a glance.’ Li-shan rode with a wild abandon that was sometimes frightening, even to Chinsei. ‘The child knows no fear.’ The thought held a mixture of pride and anxiety.

Chapter Three

Just inside the doorway, Li-shan paused, her eyes sweeping the tent until they came to the sleeping platform at the far end, where her mother reclined against a pile of silk-embroidered pillows. Skirting the hearth, Li-shan hurried toward her, stopping beside the fur-draped couch to bow low.

“Greetings, Honorable Mother,” she murmured, raising her eyes to Choling's pale face.

“Ah, Li-shan… my beautiful flower.” Choling reached out to touch Li-shan's shoulder and draw her closer. “I was worried, child. You have been gone since the rising of the sun.” Her voice held a gentle reprimand, and Li-shan flushed, lowering her eyes to stare at the dusty toes of her felt boots. Choling leaned forward to brush her lips against the top of Li-shan's bent head. She settled back quickly, her nose wrinkled in distaste. “Ah, you smell of horses and dung smoke. Go. Hagatai has kept your bath warm.” She waved Li-shan away, a faint smile forming on her lips.

Quickly, Li-shan stripped off her quilted jacket, untied the drawstring at the waist and let the heavy, blue cotton trousers drop to the floor.

“Would it not be easier to remove your boots first,” Hagatai scolded, as Li-shan struggled to kick off the pants. Dropping to the rug-strewn floor, Li-shan looked up at the old woman and grinned impishly, lifting her legs high. Unable to resist the child's smile, Hagatai bent and tugged off her boots and trousers, tossing them to one side. As Li-shan jumped to her feet, Hagatai swatted her bare, round bottom, the corners of her mouth twitching in what passed for a smile on the wrinkled face.

“Hold still, now, you little imp and let me wash the stink of horseflesh from you,” she admonished, taking a firm hold of Li-shan's upper arm to still her jiggling.

“Horses do not stink! They smell better than most people do,” Li-shan replied with a giggle.

“There is truth in your words, little one. Now, hold still.” Hagatai dropped a dollop of soft soap, scented with wild flowers, into a large bowl of warm water, swishing it to make lather. Wielding a cotton cloth, none too gently, she began to scrub the wriggling child.

“You hurt, Hagatai! Here, let me wash myself,” Li-shan yelped, trying to grab the cloth from the servant's gnarled fingers.

“Let Hagatai finish bathing you, Li-shan, “ Choling called.

Quick to obey her mother, Li-shan stood quietly, letting Hagatai rinse off the lather and wrap her in a large piece of whitened felt, made soft with the addition of lamb's wool. Obediently, she blotted herself dry, while Hagatai undid her braids, then kneeling down, she allowed her head to be scrubbed in the scented water, not uttering a sound when the suds ran into her eyes, stinging them. Cleaned and rinsed, Hagatai toweled her hair dry, rubbing briskly. Her head bowed, Li-shan peeked up through the tangle of her long, dark tresses, watching Choling.

Hagatai slipped a thin, silk shift over Li-shan's head, and began to comb her long, damp hair with a large toothed, ivory comb, removing the tangles with sharp tugs that caused Li-shan to grimace.

“Oh, Hagatai! You are not carding lamb's wool,” Li-shan cried, pulling away. She snatched the comb and backed away, out of the servant's reach.

“Bring the comb here, Li-shan. Come. Sit here beside me.” Choling patted the bed, moving over to make room as Li-shan climbed up onto the sleeping platform. She hugged the child to her, laughing lightly. Li-shan could feel the boniness of her mother's shoulders as she put her arms around Choling's neck, returning the hug.

“How was your day, Mother?” she asked.

“Oh, I had a very nice day, my sweet plum blossom,” Choling replied, in a reassuring tone. “I had a fine rest this afternoon and Chinsei brought a lovely, fat ptarmigan hen that Hagatai prepared with ginger root and pine nuts.”

“That you barely touched,” the old woman grumbled, as she pulled back the door flap and emptied the bowl of sudsy water out onto the ground. “You do not eat enough to keep a tiny sparrow alive. You are so thin. How do you expect to ever put sufficient meat of those fragile bones, I ask you? You must eat more… yes, and drink mare's milk… not that weak, mint tea you insist upon. Yes! Mare's milk will put some flesh upon your bones!”

“Oh, do be still, old woman. And speaking of tea… I could do with a cup now. Yes, a cup of tea and some of those wonderful, little honey and nut cakes. You would like some, wouldn't you?” she asked Li-shan, with a bright smile.

“Yes, Mother. That would be wonderful.”

Muttering to herself, Hagatai placed a small, black kettle on the trivet, over the flames.

Choling settled Li-shan in front of her and proceeded to carefully disentangle the knots in her hair. Li-shan loved to have her mother comb her hair. She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, and relaxed under the soothing strokes of Choling's gentle hands and looked around the tent through half-closed eyes.

Even though the clan was camped only for a few days and would be soon on the move again, Choling had insisted on having all of her belongings unpacked from the traveling wagon, and placed around her as if settled in for the winter camp. Li-shan often heard the other women grumble resentfully when servants were taken from other, more necessary, chores in order to accomplish this task. But they didn't understand, as she did, that her mother needed to be surrounded by her old, familiar, and most prized possessions, in order to shut out the real world around her, a world her mother found stark, wild and frightening. Her father understood, and it was he who had explained to her that Choling had never gotten over her homesickness.

As she got older, Li-shan began to sense that being surrounded by her beautiful things gave her mother a much needed illusion of permanence during the long season of the clan's nomadic wanderings across the land. It was only here, in the over-crowded tent, in the midst of the bright and luxurious furnishings she so loved, that Choling felt safe and secure, and somewhat content.

From the outside, the yurt looked like any other, its walls and high-domed roof covered with layers of lime-whitened felt, grayed now with the dust of a hundred summer days. It was the interior that was like no other in the camp. The lattice framework of the walls, and the thin supple poles that formed the dome ceiling, had been stained a deep, carmine red. The earthen floor was strewn with thick carpets, their once bright hues and patterns, jewel-like in the rosy glow cast by the dancing flames in the hearth. Though dulled somewhat by the smoke of countless fires, they still held a hint of their former brightness. The carpets were from places with strange sounding names…Samarkand, Bokhara, Persia…some stolen in raids upon the caravans that toiled the Silk Trail; others obtained by trading bales of thick, grey felt or wool, furs or horses. Though most were old and worn, Li-shan recalled many happy hours spent “walking her fingers” along the colorful paths of their varied and erotic patterns.

To the right of the doorway, the area where the cooking and work of the household was done, and where Hagatai unrolled her pallet at night to sleep, was separated by a curtain of brightly embroidered silk. Every stitch of the scene depicting a group of women, seated beneath the drooping branches of a weeping willow tree and surrounded by peony blossoms, had been done with Choling's expert embroidery needle. Seen from her sleeping platform, Li-shan fell asleep each night while gazing at it. Although totally alien to anything she was familiar with, the figures were so lifelike, that Li-shan felt as if she were actually in the midst of the walled garden where her mother had spent so much of her childhood. The walls were hung with smaller panels of embroidered scenes, dredged in detail from Choling's memory of her homeland. Each little scene was associated with a story in Li-shan's mind, as nothing delighted Choling more than to spellbound her daughter in the mystery and magic of her homeland.

Li-shan

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three