The Earth Is the Lord's Read online

  The hunters followed on their short and agile Arabian horses, carrying the fruits of the hunt slung before them: hares and antelopes, hedgehogs and birds and foxes, martens and other small furry animals. The hunters whooped triumphantly, and made their mounts cavort and whirl, and when they collided with others they laughed like maniacs. They waved their short swords and their bows, and dug their hard heels into the sides of their horses, and galloped in circles. Their women did not approve of this childish display, and as the hunters entered their yurts the sound of women’s voices could be heard, contemptuous and scolding and quelling. Great scarlet campfires began to burn between the rows of the yurts, and spluttering torches began to move between these rows, for the mighty sky above was rapidly turning purple in the desert evening.

  The herds had passed, and Kurelen emerged from a small space between two yurts, and began to make his way towards the largest yurt of all, where his sister dwelt. The bright yellow dust was still thick in the air, and the black yurts could be discerned only dimly through it, like huge beehives floating unattached in a fog. The campfires were burning high and vivid, like banners, and the torches moved here and there in the dusk. Voices were muffled, and sounded seemingly at a great hollow distance. The gravelly and powdered earth under Kurelen’s feet was still hot from the day’s heat, and felt like velvet. He looked at the dimming sky. The west, in the direction of the yellow-gray river, whose boundaries were marked with irregular grayish-green verdure, was a terrible spectacle. It flamed alone in its frightful isolation, illuminating the west, but giving no light to the earth. The horizon was an unbearable and pulsing crimson, bitten into by miles of little sharp black hills, like teeth. Above this enormous pulsing, which was like the beating of a monstrous heart, were bands of pale fire, hundreds of miles in width, and blowing in silent and gigantic gales, as yet unheard and unfelt on the earth. And above these bands were serrated layers of green and gold and red and blazing blue, rising to the zenith, which was the color of hyacinths. And the earth below was dark and unformed and chaotic, lost and empty, in which the tiny red spots of the fires burned in pathetic helplessness.

  Kurelen looked at the east. Here the endless heavens were a dim and spectral pink. Arched against them, purple and vague, was the immense shadow and curve of the earth, the tent of night, reaching into the skies that reflected it. And now the winds, descending from heaven like a vast and invisible horde, assaulted the earth, and filled it with the sound of their huge voices. But they made the great silence of the Gobi night only the deeper, only more awful. Now the earth itself belonged to the night and the winds, and was lost in them, and there was only the west, and its most horrible splendor, and its eternal loneliness.

  Kurelen, forgetting his sister, left the tent village, and moved through the swelling darkness to a little space beyond it. It had suddenly become bitterly cold, and he shivered in his cloak of goatskins. His eyes sparkled in the gloom, as though possessed of some malevolent life of their own, or a reflection of the falling light of the western skies. He was alone. He drew deep breaths of the gale-filled darkness into his nostrils. Now the zenith was sprinkled with the mighty sparkling of new stars, fierce and icy and imminent. He thought to himself, standing in the wind and the silence: Here man hath not ruined for his avarice. Here no cursed footstep falls, no breath befouls the night. Here are the stars, and here the earth, and only wind and I between!

  Somewhere in one of the yurts, at a far distance, the camp flutist had taken up his flute. All at once the enormous Gobi night was pierced with the most heart-rending and sweetest sounds, wild and savage and lonely, touching the soul with aching fire. Kurelen felt his heart squeezing and expanding, until all his spirit throbbed with unbearable pain, and the bitterest longing. And yet with his pain was a sense of majesty and peace that was at once tortured and rimmed with joy. Tears ran down his sunken cheeks; he could taste their salt on his lips. Here he had no need of irony, no shield of mockery against the hideousness of living. He had turned his back to the village, and did not see the little flickering banners of the campfires. He saw only the east, and the dark drifting shadow of the earth.

  I should never have gone to Cathay, he thought. I should never have seen of what man is capable, if he wills. If a man drinks of the flaming cup of knowledge, there is no peace henceforth for him, but only loneliness and longing, hatred and sadness. He must walk among his fellows like a leprous dog hating and hated, yet filled with pity and madness, knowing much and knowing little, but understanding only that he can never know anything. He must see his stature dwindle to nothingness, yet be tortured with an awareness of infinity, without bounds.

  The voice of the flute wailed, but its wailing rose and at last it was triumphant, its thin flame assaulting and piercing the heavens, not lighting them but entering them. It entered the chaos of eternity, and burned there, not illuminating it, but apart from it, beautiful and sad and defiant. It was the soul of man, besieged and alien, lost and little and bright, assailed by all the winds of heaven and hell, seeking the fragile and living. Its trembling voice spoke of love and God and futility and pain, but always of hope, even under its despair.

  When it ceased, Kurelen was overwhelmed with sorrow. He went on his way to his sister’s yurt. When he mounted the platform, and bent his head to enter the yurt, he was smiling ironically once more, and his tilting eyes were full of mischief.

  The dome-shaped yurt was made of thick black felt, stretched over a framework of wattled rods. There was a hole in the top, which allowed the egress of smoke. A brazier of charcoal was burning brightly under this hole, and furnished the only source of light. The curved walls of the yurt had been coated with white lime, and a skillful Chinese friend of Yesukai had ornamented it with elaborate and decadent figures, delicately colored. These corrupt postures, these subtle faces, these frail colors, were a strange contrast to the barbaric Mongols, who seemed to gain in strength and virility and power by their juxtaposition. The yurt’s wooden floor was colored with silken carpets from Kabul and Bokhara; the luster of these carpets made a warm shimmer in the gloom. Standing on these carpets were three chests of teakwood, looted from some Chinese caravan. Exquisitely and weirdly carved, depicting forests of bamboo, grottoes, arched and fretted bridges, herons and toads, Buddhist monks with long sleeves and pointed hats, lovers and flowers, they had a grotesque and alien air in this yurt of the barbarian. One of the chests stood open, and revealed silken and embroidered women’s garments, also taken from caravans, or bought from some crafty Arab trader, and articles of inlaid silver, such as small jewel boxes and daggers and bowls. On one side of the felt wall, which had not been decorated by the Chinese artist, hung two or three round leather shields, gilded and lacquered and colored, bamboo and ivory bowcases, Turkish scimitars gleaming like lightning, arrows and short Chinese swords, and two broad silver belts, the intricate and lacelike work of the best of the Chinese artisans, studded with irregular turquoises.

  Houlun lay on a wide bed strewn with embroidered Chinese silks and soft furry skins. Squatting on the carpets about the bed were several women, rocking back and forth on their hams, their eyes shut tightly, muttering prayers to the spirits. Their hands were folded in their long wide sleeves; their long cotton robes fell over their thighs and arms and shoulders in statuesque folds. When Kurelen entered, they stared at him with hostile eyes, not rising, though this was the brother of the chieftain’s wife, and the son of a chieftain. Houlun lifted her head a little from her bed at his entry, and she gazed at him unsmilingly, and in silence.

  It was evident that she was suffering. The red and wavering light of the brazier showed her pale drawn face, her gray tormented eyes. Even her lips were the color of lead. Her long black hair, like strands of lustrous glass, fell over her arms and over the bed, to the floor. Her full breasts rose like hills under her thin silken robe, which was a shining white and embroidered with scarlet, green and yellow Chinese figures. Her belly was enormously swollen, and she had clasped her hand
s convulsively over it. Her long rounded legs were drawn up in her pain.

  She regarded her brother with pride and dignity and extreme coldness. They had not spoken since the day he had betrayed her, though he had seen her at a distance, and once or twice she had passed near him, proud and unseeing, her beautiful features rigid with aversion. Now, as he stood beside her bed, smiling down at her wryly, his slanted eyes shining with a curious light, her own eyes filled with angry and suffering tears, and she turned her face aside.

  Kurelen smiled. “Thou hast sent for me, Houlun?” he asked softly.

  She kept her face averted, rigidly, the tears thick on her lashes, her face prouder and colder than ever, for all her pain. Her legs drew up, tightened. Kurelen thoughtfully bit his upper lip with his lower teeth, an odd habit of his. He looked at the hostile women surrounding the bed, and they turned their gazes away, contemptuously. He rubbed his chin with his thumb. He returned his attention to his sister. He saw that her forehead was gleaming with beads of tortured sweat, and that there were purple lines about her bitten lips.

  “Hast thou sent for the Shaman?” he asked her, and smiled again, sardonically.

  She turned her head on her pillows, her eyes filled with dark wrath. “Even in my suffering, thou dost mock me!” she cried.

  The women muttered. They shifted their hams away from him. But they seemed uncertain. One spoke to Kurelen, out of the side of her mouth.

  “She will not have the Shaman, though he stood at the door of the yurt all day.”

  “Ah,” said Kurelen, meditatively. Houlun had begun to weep, and her weeping angered her, shamed her. She strained her face away from him, away from the light of the brazier, and proudly made no effort to wipe away her tears. He lifted a corner of a thin silken robe, and gently touched her cheek and eyes. She made no gesture of repudiation, but all at once she sobbed aloud, as though his touch had broken down her defenses.

  “Leave me,” she said brokenly. But he knew she did not mean it. He turned to the women. “Thou hast heard thy mistress,” he said. They stood up, surprised and more uncertain than ever, staring at Houlun. But she was weeping, and did not look at them. Slowly they filed from the yurt, muttering. They closed the flap after them. Brother and sister were alone.

  The charcoal in the Chinese brazier crackled; the red dim light rose and fell. The ornamented walls of the yurt were buffeted by the terrible winds outside. The colored figures on the walls swayed, bellied in, were sucked outwards. Some of the corrupt and subtle faces seemed to wear evil and sardonic smiles. The tall woman on the bed writhed and wept in her pain and loneliness. The Turkish scimitars glittered, as they moved.

  Kurelen sat down on a chest near his sister, and waited. Finally, she wiped her eyes simply on the back of her hands, and turned her face to him. Again, it was proud and cold, but her gray eyes were soft and stricken.

  “Why hast thou not left me?” she asked.

  He replied gently: “Thou dost know, Houlun, that I have never left thee.”

  She became, all at once, greatly agitated. She raised herself on her elbow. Her round arms were clasped about with broad Chinese bracelets of silver and turquoise. Her breast heaved, her eyes flashed. “Thou didst betray me, and leave me to my enemy!” she cried out. About her neck was clasped a broad Chinese collar of silver, inlaid with wide flat crimson stones. They glowed like fire, with her uneven breath. Her silken garments fell back from her breast and thighs, and Kurelen thought how beautiful she was.

  He answered her with increasing gentleness: “I considered thee at all times to be very wise, Houlun. Not childish, not womanish. I believed that thou didst believe with me that not to struggle, always to accept, always to seize the advantage from disadvantage, was the mark of a man who had risen above the other beasts. I never thought thee the victim of foolish pride and smallness of vision. What didst thou desire from life? A husband? Thou didst have one, and he ran away and deserted thee, and a stronger one took thee. Are not all men alike in the darkness? And is it not better to have one who is strong, ambitious, and a great hunter?”

  He reached over and fingered the delicate silk of her garments. She regarded him, breathing stormily, the jewels about her neck and her eyes equally passionate with light. He shrugged, released the silk.

  “Thou didst wear cotton and rough wool, before. Now thou dost wear silks. Thou hast a strong husband. Thou hast soft garments, and food, and chests and silver. Thou hast the passion of a virile man, and he treats thee gently. He is master of thirty thousand yurts, and his followers grow daily. He hath protected thee. None could take thee from him. What more dost thou wish?”

  She did not answer. Her breath was as stormy as ever. Anger glared upon her features. But she had nothing to say.

  Kurelen, still smiling, sighed. He glanced about the yurt. On a carved and inlaid Chinese tabouret of teakwood was a silver bowl full of Turkish sweetmeats and dates. He helped himself, chewing stickily, and sucking on the stones of the dates. He spit out the stones, licked his lips appreciatively. And all the time his sister watched him, more furious than ever, but with growing embarrassment.

  He regarded her with amusement, wiping his lips on his sleeves. “Do not be a fool, Houlun,” he said.

  She burst out in a loud and stammering voice: “Thou art a coward, Kurelen!”

  He stared at her, as though astounded. The smile left his subtle face. He seemed genuinely outraged and amazed.

  “Why? Because I, a lone man, and a cripple, did not engage thy husband in combat? Because I did not deliberately throw myself upon his lance, or his dagger, in some monstrous folly?”

  She glared at him with enraged contempt. “Hast thou never heard of honor, Kurelen?”

  His stare became wider, more incredulous, more astounded. “Honor?” He burst into laughter. He rocked on the chest. He seemed convulsed with uncontrollable mirth. Houlun watched him, blinking her eyes, flushing. She listened to him as he laughed. Her rage increased, because she felt more foolish than ever.

  Finally he became quieter, but he had to wipe his eyes. He kept shaking his head.

  “The dead,” he remarked, “have no need of honor or dishonor. But I, Kurelen, have need of my life. Had I died, thou wouldst still have been retained by Yesukai. But thou wouldst have worn my ‘honorable’ death on thy breast, like a bauble. I have mistaken thee, Houlun. Thou art a fool.”

  He rose. He shook out his woolen garments. He put his hands in his sleeves. He stood beside her, tall, misshapen, bent, his long dark face subtly smiling, his eyes ironic. His white teeth flashed in the light of the brazier. He bent his head sardonically, then moved toward the flap of the yurt, as if to leave.

  She watched him until he had reached the flap and was about to raise it. Then in a heartbroken and despairing voice she called out to him: “Kurelen, my brother, do not leave me!”

  He paused, but did not turn. She swung her legs with difficulty over the side of the bed. She groaned. She staggered towards him. He turned, and she fell into his arms. He held her to him as she trembled and sobbed, her black hair falling over her hands and breast. He felt the shaking and swelling of her bosom against his chest; he felt the pressure of her limbs. He pressed his lips to the crown of her head, and held her to him more tightly. He smiled, but it was with a strange passion and tenderness, which no one had ever seen before on his lips.

  “I have never left thee, Houlun,” he repeated, very gently. “I have loved only thee, in all the world.”

  “And I,” she wept, “have loved only thee.”

  He was strong, for all his deformity, and he lifted her in his arms and carried her back to her bed. He straightened the silks and the furs upon it. He smoothed her long hair, and pushed it back from her wet face. He covered her feet with a red fox robe. She allowed him to minister to her, watching him with streaming and humble and adoring eyes. And then he sat beside her again, and took her hand. He smiled at her, but his smile was odd and wry and bitter.

  “It was an evil
day when the gods gave us the same father,” he said.

  She did not reply, but she pressed her pale cheek against the back of his hand. He sighed. He put his other hand on her head, and they remained like this, not moving, but looking at each other deeply, daring not to say the things they thought.

  The gales of the night rose to the sound of thunder. The floor of the yurt trembled; the walls shook and swelled and were sucked in and out. The carpets on the floor were agitated, and their lustrous colors shimmered as though with life. The wattled rods of the yurt groaned and squeaked. The deep lowing of the disturbed cattle and oxen mingled with the wind. A horse neighed at a distance, and other stallions answered him, neighing with distress and fear. But Kurelen and Houlun were in a sad and passionate world of their own, looking deeply in each other’s eyes.

  Then, very gently, Kurelen released his hand, which was under Houlun’s cheek. And as he did so, she writhed convulsively, seized with her pains again. He watched her, wrinkling his narrow high brow, distending his nostrils.

  “It goes too long,” he said aloud, but as though speaking to himself.

  Houlun clasped her hands over her writhing belly. She bit her lips, but could not keep her groans in her throat. She flung her legs about. The flap of the door was lifted, and a serving-woman peered within.

  “Mistress, the Shaman is here again,” she said.

  Kurelen made a motion of admission, and a moment later the Shaman, his enemy, entered sullenly, his gray woolen robe falling around his gaunt legs, his dark and wicked face full of enmity for Kurelen. He had a nose like a vulture’s beak, and fierce glinting eyes. Kurelen smiled at him artlessly.