Treasure of Khan (28 page)

G
IORDINO WAS DREAMING
. H
E DREAMED
that he was floating in a still pond of tropical water. The warm liquid was unusually dense, like syrup, making his movements a slow and laborious effort. The water suddenly lapped at his face in a series of small hot waves. He jerked his head to escape the surf, but the warm moisture followed his motion. Then something about the dream became overly vivid. It was an odor, a very unpleasant one at that. A smell too powerful to reside in a dream. The repulsive aroma finally spurred him awake and he forcefully cocked open a heavy eyelid.

Bright sunshine stung at his eyes, but he could squint enough to see there was no aqua blue water lapping at his body. Instead, a giant pink swab descended on him with a hot wipe across one cheek. Jerking his head away, he saw the pink swab roll behind a picket fence of large yellow teeth housed in a snout that appeared a mile long. The beast exhaled a breath that bathed Giordino's face in a putrid cloud of onion, garlic, and Limburger cheese.

Popping open both eyes and shaking off the cobwebs, he stared past the expansive snout into two chocolate-brown eyes shrouded behind long eyelashes. The camel blinked curiously at Giordino, then let out a short bellow before stepping back to nibble at a fringe of felt protruding from the sand.

Giordino struggled to sit up, realizing the syrupy water in his dream was a layer of sun-warmed sand. A drift of sand nearly a foot thick had piled up in the little cove during the sandstorm the night before. Weakly pulling his arms out of the morass, Giordino nudged the figure next to him similarly buried under felt and sand, then scooped away handfuls of the brown silica. The felt rustled a bit then was thrown back, exposing the drawn and haggard face of Pitt. His face was sunburned, his lips bloated and chapped. Yet the sunken green eyes sparkled at seeing his friend alive.

“Another day in paradise,” he rasped through a parched mouth, taking in their surroundings. The overnight sandstorm had blown itself out, leaving them bathed in sunshine under a clear blue sky.

They heaved their bodies upright, the sand falling off them in rivulets. Giordino sneaked a hand into his pocket and nodded slightly in reassurance, finding the horseshoe still there.

“We've got company,” he wheezed, his voice sounding like steel wool on sandpaper.

Pitt crawled weakly from under the blanket of sand and peered at the beast of burden standing a few feet away. It was a Bactrian camel, as evidenced by the two humps on his back that sagged slightly to one side. The animal's matted fur was a rich mocha brown, which darkened around its flanks. The camel returned Pitt's stare for a few seconds, then resumed its nibbling on the blanket.

“The ship of the desert,” Pitt said.

“Looks more like a tugboat. Do we eat him or ride him?”

Pitt was contemplating whether they had the strength to do either when a shrill whistle blared from behind a dune. A small boy bobbed over the sand, riding a dappled tan horse. He wore a green
del
, and his short black hair was hidden under a faded baseball cap. The boy rode up to the camel, calling it by name as he approached. When the camel popped his head up, the boy quickly looped a pole-mounted lasso around the animal's neck and pulled the rope tight. Only then did he glance down and notice Pitt and Giordino lying on the ground. The startled boy stared wide-eyed at the two haggard men who resembled ghosts in the sand.

“Hello.” Pitt smiled warmly at the boy. He climbed unsteadily to his feet as a pool of sand slid off his clothes. “Can you help us?”

“You…talk English,” the boy stammered.

“Yes. You can understand me?”

“I learn English at monastery,” he replied proudly, enunciating each syllable.

“We are lost,” Giordino said hoarsely. “Can you share food or water?”

The boy slipped off his wooden saddle and produced a goatskin canteen filled with water. Pitt and Giordino took turns attacking the water, taking small sips at first then working up to large gulps. As they drank, the boy pulled a scarf out of his pocket, which was wrapped around a block of sun-dried curds. Cutting it into small pieces, he offered it to the men, who gratefully split the rubbery milk residue and washed it down with the last of the water.

“My name is Noyon,” the boy said. “What is yours?”

“I am Dirk and this is Al. We are very happy to meet you, Noyon.”

“You are fools, Dirk and Al, to be in the Gobi without water and a mount,” he said sternly. His youthful face softened with a smile, and he added, “You come with me to my home, where you will be welcomed by my family. It is less than a kilometer from here. A short ride for you.”

The boy slipped off his horse and removed the small wooden saddle, then prodded Pitt and Giordino to climb aboard. The Mongol pony was not tall, and Pitt easily pulled himself onto its back, then helped hoist Giordino on behind him. Noyon grabbed the reins and led them north across the desert, the roped camel following behind.

They traveled just a short distance before Noyon led them around a thick sandstone ridge. On the opposite side, a large herd of camels were scattered about a shallow plain, foraging for scrub grass that sprouted through the stony ground. In the center of the field stood a lone
ger
, shrouded in dirty white canvas, its southerly door painted a weathered orange. Two poles with a rope tied across acted as an adjacent corral, securing several stout brown horses. A rugged, clean-shaven man with penetrating dark eyes was saddling one of the horses when the small caravan rode up.

“Father, I have found these men lost in the desert,” the boy said in his native tongue. “They are from America.”

The man took one look at the bedraggled figures of Pitt and Giordino and knew they had flirted with Erleg Khan, the Mongolian lord of the lower world. He quickly helped them down off the horse, returning the feeble shake of the hand offered by each exhausted man.

“Secure the horse,” he barked at his son, then led the two men into his home.

Ducking and entering the
ger,
Pitt and Giordino were amazed at the warm décor of the interior, which was in stark contrast to the tent's drab exterior. Brightly patterned carpets covered every square inch of the dirt floor, melding with vibrant floral weavings that covered the tent's lattice-framed walls. Cabinets and tables were painted cheerful hues of red, orange, and blue, while the ceiling support frames were painted lemon yellow.

The interior was configured in a traditional
ger
layout, symbolic of the role superstition plays in daily nomadic life. To the left of the entrance was a rack and cabinet for the man's saddle and other belongings. The right section of the
ger,
the “female” side, held the cooking implements. A hearth and cooking stove was situated in the center, attached to a metal stovepipe that rose through an opening in the tent's ceiling. Three low beds were positioned around the perimeter walls, while the back wall was reserved for the family altar.

Noyon's father led Pitt and Giordino around the left side of the
ger
to some stools near the hearth. A slight woman with long black hair and cheerful eyes tending a battered teapot smiled at the men. Seeing their exhausted state, she brought damp towels to wash their face and hands, then set some strips of mutton to boil in a pot of water. Noticing the bloody bandage on Pitt's leg, she cleaned the dressing as the men downed cup after cup of watery black tea. When the mutton was cooked, she proudly served up a giant portion to each man, accompanied by a tray of dried cheeses. To the famished men, the flavor-challenged meal tasted like French haute cuisine. After devouring the mutton and cheese, the man brought over a leather bag filled with the home-fermented mare's milk, called
airag,
and filled three cups.

Noyon entered the
ger
and sat down behind the men to act as interpreter for his parents, who did not speak English. His father spoke quietly in a deep tone, looking Pitt and Giordino in the eye.

“My father, Tsengel, and my mother, Ariunaa, welcome you to their home,” the boy said.

“We thank you for your hospitality. You have truly saved our lives,” Pitt said, sampling the
airag
with a toast. He decided the brew tasted like warm beer mixed with buttermilk.

“Tell me, what are you doing in the Gobi without provisions?” Tsengel asked through his son.

“We became separated from our tour group during a brief visit into the desert,” Giordino fibbed. “We retraced our steps but got lost when the sandstorm struck last night.”

“You were lucky my son found you. There are few settlements in this region of the desert.”

“How far are we from the nearest village?” Pitt asked.

“There is a small settlement about twenty kilometers from here. But enough questions for now,” Tsengel said, seeing the weary look in both men's eyes. “You must rest after your meal. We will talk again later.”

Noyon led the men to two of the small beds, then followed his father outside to tend the herd. Pitt lay back on the cushioned bed and admired the bright yellow roof supports overhead before falling into a deep, heavy sleep.

He and Giordino woke before dusk to the recurring smell of mutton boiling on the hearth. They stretched their legs outside the
ger
, walking amid the docile herd of camels that roamed freely about. Tsengel and Noyon soon came galloping up, having spent the afternoon rounding up strays.

“You are looking fit now,” Tsengel said through his son.

“Feeling fit as well,” Pitt replied. The food, liquids, and rest had quickly revitalized the two men and they felt surprisingly refreshed.

“My wife's cooking. It is an elixir,” the man grinned. Tying their horses to the hitching rope then washing at a bucket of soapy water, he led them back into the
ger
. Another meal of mutton and dried cheese awaited them, accompanied by cooked noodles. This time, Pitt and Giordino consumed the meal with much less relish. The
airag
was produced earlier and poured in larger quantities, consumed out of small ceramic bowls that never seemed to empty.

“You have an impressive herd,” Giordino remarked, complimenting his host. “How many head?”

“We own one hundred thirty camels and five horses,” Tsengel replied. “A satisfactory herd, yet it is a quarter the size of what we once owned on the other side of the border.”

“In Chinese Inner Mongolia?”

“Yes, the so-called autonomous region, which has become little more than another Chinese province.” Tsengel looked into the fire with a glint of anger in his eyes.

“Why did you leave?”

Tsengel nodded toward a faded black-and-white photograph on the altar, which showed a boy on a horse and an older man holding the reins. The penetrating eyes of the boy revealed it was a young Tsengel, alongside his own father.

“At least five generations of my ancestors have herded on the eastern fields of the Gobi. My father owned a herd of over two thousand camels at one time. But those days have vanished in the winds. There is no place for a simple herder in those lands anymore. The Chinese bureaucrats keep commandeering the land without regard to its natural balance. Time and again, we have been pushed out of our ancestral grazing lands and forced to drive our herds to the harshest portions of the desert. Meanwhile, they suck the water out wherever they can, for the noble cause of industrializing the state. As a result, the grasslands are disappearing right under their noses. The desert is growing day by day, but it is a dead desert. The fools will not see it until the sands begin to consume their capital of Beijing, by which time it will be too late. For my family's sake, I had no choice but to cross the border. The grazing conditions are sparse, but at least the herder is still respected here,” he said proudly.

Pitt took another sip of the bitter-tasting
airag
as he studied the old photograph.

“It is always a crime to take away a man's livelihood,” he said.

His gaze drifted over to a framed print mounted at the back of the altar. The portrait of a rotund man with a stringy goatee peered back, drawn in an ancient stylized hand.

“Tsengel, who is that on the altar?”

“The Yuan emperor, Kublai. Most powerful ruler of the world, yet benevolent friend of the common man,” Tsengel replied, as if the emperor were still alive.

“Kublai Khan?” Giordino asked.

Tsengel nodded. “It was a far better time when the Mongol ruled China,” he added wistfully.

“It is a much different world today, I'm afraid,” Pitt said.

The
airag
was taking its toll on Tsengel, who had consumed several bowls of the potent brew. His eyes grew glassy and his emotions more visceral as the mare's milk disappeared down his throat. Finding the geopolitical conversation becoming a little too sensitive for the man, Pitt tried to change the subject.

“Tsengel, we stumbled upon a strange sight in the desert before the sandstorm struck. It was an artificial village surrounded by wooden camels. Do you know the place?”