One Great Year (27 page)

Three years earlier, Nate and Quinn had met on a small plane between Lake Arenal and Montezuma beach in Costa Rica. They were the only two passengers on the tiny, turbulent flight, and they had been delighted to learn that they lived a mere ten miles apart back home in Washington State. It was no coincidence. Though Nate did not have past-life memory, nor was he an Emissary, his aura was distinct, a fingerprint belonging only to him, and Quinn had recognized his spirit when they met.

“You didn't answer about that woman, the blonde. Did you call her?” Nate asked hopefully.

“Naw, I don't need the complications.”

“You're already practically a monk, dude … don't have to marry her,” Nate teased, picking up the Mongolian text next to him and shaking his head at Quinn's strange preferences.

“Yeah, look who's talking,” Quinn said snorting.

Life was always complicated enough. Relationships, especially romantic ones, never worked out for Marcus. There was only one Theron, and no matter who or where he was, no one else could reach that place within him. It was unfair to put other loving souls at such a disadvantage, so Quinn stayed casual and aloof, ever vigilant.

AD 1171

Borte ran unchecked through the marketplace; sheep, wheels, grain—all obstacles to be avoided. The tips of her plaited hair, dark and glistening, blew free of her fur cap. Her black eyes sparkled with the chase, her cheeks permanently ruddy and burnt by the constant winds that cut across the plains of her homeland. The crowd was loud and moved deliberately, ignoring the children as they darted and played joyfully. Borte and Chilger, laughing and running, stopped breathless behind a shelter, unnoticed by the adults nearby. Chilger opened his hand and produced a date, easily snatched in passing. He held it out to Borte and she took it happily, biting it in half and returning the other portion to him. He popped it in his mouth, flashing a broad white smile, and suddenly, without a word, they were off again. She looked back, her heart racing. How close was he? Bam! She slammed to an abrupt stop. The tribal leader, her father, solid as a stone wall, loomed unyielding over her. She bounced off like a pebble, and he easily caught her before she hit the ground.

“Ay, ay!” he grumbled. Her smile already wiped clean, she was contrite and lowered her head respectfully as her father steadied her and used the moment to subtly scold her under his breath. He hurried her along and his swiftness unnerved her. It was unlike him to move quickly or say much, so she thought that he must be quite upset with her to act so. He was a quiet, contemplative man, typically cautious to smile but unlikely to anger, very good qualities in a chief.

Chilger watched from a distance, sorry that he had caused his friend to suffer her father's disapproval. Borte's father eyed the boy cautiously and waved his arm in the air toward him once, as if swatting a fly. Chilger sadly watched her go; they were from different clans and he looked forward to their chance meetings at the market, as they always had great fun together. There was something unusual about her, and since the first time he saw her, he had been compelled to seek her out.

The daughter was loaded onto the family cart, and they made the long journey home in customary silence. They crossed the endless grassy landscape, empty to the untrained eye, aware of every rabbit, fox, and magpie for miles. Even under the bright sun the temperatures cut hard and cruel as they rode; the wind from all directions stirred the dust and grass in alternate sweeps.

It was the early months of autumn. The days of snow would come soon to make life difficult, but the people of northern Asia would endure heartily. In tune with the elements, the heavens, and the Earth, they survived the bitter cold by hard work and planning—the furs must be plenty and the food stocks full. The angry cold and blizzards could hold them captive for weeks at a time, isolated and dependent on their herds, which needed grazing land to survive.

The nomads positioned themselves the best they could to accommodate their need to be self-sufficient, often going months without the option of trade in a shared marketplace. Common sense and preparation were second only to pleasing the gods in their beliefs. There was no chance; events unfolded as they were meant to at the pleasure or displeasure of the countless deities which abounded in the living, breathing land around them. Borte smelled the snow that had not fallen yet; the sweet flowery scent of summer had gone and been replaced by the frigid crispness that warned them to make haste.

Borte and her father arrived at their nomadic tent, which was one of a group of fifteen gers spread out along that section of the remote steppe. Their fellow tribespeople were busy with their work and did not stir as they arrived with the dust billowing around them. Their sheep herd, back from the pastures for the night, milled around them, and Borte's father forgot her, busy with his work. She climbed out to help unload, casually looking at the distant horizon. She saw something there, a cloud, an unusually large smudge of movement approaching their camp. She pointed. Her father turned, his square silhouette momentarily obscuring her view of the evening sunset.

“Go daughter, there is much to do, they come quickly,” he instructed, nudging her toward the shelter. Her brothers had already joined their father in attending the cart, and he directed them with few words to position the sheep for the night.

Borte was unsettled at being sent inside. Her father was acting strangely—her ten-year-old mind reflected back to the marketplace and Chilger, and she assumed that she was to blame. She knew that she was getting too old to behave in such a carefree, childish way, and she felt shame that she had disappointed him.

In actual fact, she was responsible for his preoccupation, but not for the reasons she supposed. Though she remained unaware, it was a monumental day in her life. Borte was being introduced to her prospective husband that night, and if the meeting went well, an alliance would be made and a contract agreed upon. The fathers were both tribal leaders, and they had met months before to discuss the possible alliance of their like-aged children. It was a time of discord and uncertainty between tribes, and wars were not uncommon; an ally would be welcome.

“Daughter, you may meet your husband tonight. You see they approach. Come quickly and be washed and dressed,” her mother said as she entered. Instantly she noticed that the ger smelled deliciously of roasting lamb tail and fragrant tea, and she was grateful for the warmth of the healthy fire in the center of the room. She saw that the traditional circular dwelling had been neatly arranged to receive guests at the north side near the altar, respecting Father Sky, Mother Earth, and the ancestors. It was laid invitingly with their best furs, skins, and carpets. Borte walked clockwise the short distance east to the women's side of the quarters. She stood compliantly while her hair was tightly rewoven and her over-clothes were replaced with fresh ones that she had only ever seen folded carefully in her mother's personal belongings. Her mother and grandmother rubbed and dressed and cleaned her, the whole time clucking around her like hens.

“This is a special day, Borte,” they explained briefly in their spare but happy sing-song way. “You will always remember the first time you see your husband.”

Borte's mother stepped away from her, attending to the food preparation and arranging tea and spirits, while her grandmother continued to fuss over the wide-eyed girl. Borte noticed that both of the women had also taken special care with their dress and had scrubbed themselves and retied their hair. They were beautiful; their wide, round faces were perfectly symmetrical and kind. Even the elder woman, almost in her forty-third year, had an unusual sparkle in her almond eyes.

“Will they take me away?” Borte asked bravely. Her respected grandmother's face creased into cheerful lines and, smiling widely, she displayed the gap where she had lost a side tooth. She held the girl tightly by the shoulders.

“Good girl to be so strong,” she said, nodding. “You won't go now, not until your thirteenth year at least. This is just a time to make sure that the choice will stick and that your temperaments are in balance. If it is heaven's will, he will join us here to serve your father until the year of the marriage ritual,” she said, while at the same time rubbing her thumb superstitiously across the girl's forehead in a protective sign.

“But who is he?” Borte begged to know, her excitement and curiosity building.

The dust cloud grew closer, ox and cart and more men on thick, wide, heavy horses. Father rushed around the outside of the ger, still preparing, then pounded the dust from his layers of clothing. The sun was barely a sliver on the scarlet horizon and the cold of evening was settling upon them. Each breath and word hung like smoke in the air. A blazing outdoor fire had been built to welcome and comfort the visitors, and the sheep, their long winter coats growing in, had been gathered nearby to rest for the night, where they could be heard bleating occasionally.

Tribal members from the other gers just beyond the chief's began to gather a few hundred paces away, anxious for a first-hand view of the visitors.

Nine-year-old Temujin approached, accompanied by his father, Yesugei Khan, his uncle, and numerous attendants. The group had traveled on horseback for three long days, but they were a traveling people and were unfazed by the journey.

The men arrived looking rested and well. They were an impressive sight, and it was obvious that their clan was large and prosperous. They brought gifts of spice, grains, and textiles for their hosts. Borte's father led the honored guests through the southern tent flap into the traditionally appointed ger, warm with fire and food. Her brothers stayed outside with the remaining entourage and gathered at the fire, where they enjoyed a simple meal and exchanged stories and shared good humor.

“I hope you find your horses fat and your sons strong,” Yesugei Khan began, demonstrating his friendly intentions to his hosts as they entered. His uncommon ginger hair and beard were bright against his fur cap, and his weathered face was nearly the same shade.

“You are generous and wise. I hope that your yak has the muscle of many,” Borte's father answered graciously.

As was mandated by custom, the men walked clockwise around the ger to the northern side and took their comfortable, warm places among the furs. The night had become harshly cold compared to the heat of the day, and they were glad to nestle in. A wind gust whistled through the ger, sending chills through Borte's body at the mere sound. She thought compassionately of her brothers outside, though they were well accustomed to adapting to the rapidly changing environment.

“We bring well wishes and good luck from our tribe to yours. My wife Hoelun was born of your tribe. The Olkut'hun are hearty, powerful people. It is with satisfaction and humble pride that I introduce my son, the future chief of the Borijin, Temujin.”

The young man had been silent up until then, but he bowed his head respectfully and expressed his gratitude at being honored in their home. Borte listened intently, drinking in the voice and enjoying the sound of him as he spoke. He was not silly or arrogant as she had feared he might be; he used very few words but they were well chosen, and she decided to like him.

The prospective bride had not yet been introduced, and she sat excited and silent at her grandmother's side. Her head was lowered, and she peeked curiously through wisps of hair that had once again broken free of their leather ties.

Temujin stole sidelong glances whenever he thought he would not be seen, but nothing went unnoticed as the adults watched the pair with amusement. He was anxious to see the girl's face; he cared not if she was beautiful, but rather if she was proud. He did not want the headache of a proud wife; his father's experience had taught him that.

The meal was offered first to the gods, and then it was shared and properly appreciated and acknowledged. Finally the youngsters were brought together so they could interact. Borte was small and thin for her age, unlike the thick, hearty-looking body type more common to her people. She stood especially erect, pushing out her chest to puff up and compensate for her scrawny frame. She kept her eyes on her warmly wrapped feet, her naturally rosy, round cheeks flushing deep crimson.

“T-t-t,” her grandmother scolded, nudging her chin upward with a lumpy root of a finger. Borte's innocent brown eyes met those of her future husband. Even though he was a full year younger and only nine, he already looked like an adult to her.

Temujin felt a jolt at his core and electricity shot, burning, searing throughout him. Light and dark sparred and danced, vibrating up and down his spine and radiating out from every chakra. Each hair on his body stood at attention. He watched incredulously as a beautiful rainbow of color sprang from her, streaming and filling the ger with beauty and light. He felt like he couldn't breathe, and he stood confused and overwhelmed. Could anyone else see this and feel this? He looked at them all watching, unchanged, unmoved. What was happening, and how had he not noticed it from the beginning? Helghul, awakened, stirred sleepily inside his head, still barely known to him in this lifetime but budding within to eventually overtake him like a parasitic weed. Temujin struggled to understand what was happening to him.

Helghul's energy was shaken by Theron's underlying luminosity, still only a faint glow in Borte. He somehow understood that her power and energy would grow exponentially as she aged, and for the first time he had a brief glimpse of his own potential and power. He decided he must certainly have her, and he stood speechless and staring.

Borte watched him, unsure what to think. He was behaving very strangely, and she wished that he would ask her a question or at least pay her a perfunctory compliment. Finally he spoke, and then behaved admirably, despite his inner turmoil. In keeping with custom, he wished her the blessings from the gods, and then remarked on her home and her dress garments, and again praised the food.