Bridge Across the Land Read online

  Miechowo kneels, wiping tears off his fat face. He speaks with a sniffle, “The King died in a battle and the Mongols chopped down Duke Silesia’s head and delivered it to their Commander-in-Chief . . . . everyone in the royal family has either died or disappeared . . . . other than you, not one is left . . . .”

  His words done, a muted stillness follows, only sobbing remains. Others lower their heads and surround them quietly. Alexander is like a clay statue seeing the two people by his knees. He only feels his bones empty and heartbroken, as if the mouth of hell opened up and his is falling into a bottomless pit. It is as if a mountain tumbles from the heavens, smashing directly onto his head.

  His green eyes flashed dry and his pointed lips as white as wax; his blood freezes and his skin is numb; his legs go weak like lead and step back half a step. Shaking as things seem to whirl about him, he backs up ten more steps in a row, plunk, he staggers and smashes onto the ground. He leans against the cold earth, his face forlorn and his eyes dumb.

  Father, Mother, siblings . . . . his entire family disappears at this moment . . . .

  Even the Granduncle who wanted to seize the throne vanished too . . . .

  Vanished.

  Who would have known that his leaving back then allowed him to survive as a stroke of luck . . . . but alone . . . .

  Is this throne still there . . . . Is Poland still there? Without Poland, who am I?

  “Your Highness . . . .

  Alexander sits with legs spread and stupefied. His limbs paralyzed like sauce. Ed’s hair is wet and eyes red, he crawls forward one step and says anxiously, “Poles . . . . cannot be ruled by Mongols! People believe that you are still alive and helped me and Miechowo escape from Legnica to find you, to bring you back to lead everyone and revive Poland . . . .”

  He places his fist on his heart and says sincerely and loyally, “You are the new king of Poland, our King Alexander!”

  His words fall and he and Miechowo bow deeply into the ground, intimate with emotions as they lift their heads.

  Alexander is at a loss and sits shocked ten steps away. He stares at the two as if he were in a vast sea of iced liquid, drowning and submerging in a grimy blurriness. He does not know where he ought to swim. King . . . . is he already the king?

  He sits on the throne that Granduncle Henry did not attain even in death . . . .

  Why is this crown so heavy . . . .

  The meaning of prince is the future king. It is not until today that he understands what this means.

  Alexander’s thoughts wander off somewhere whereas Marean cups his jaw and stands on the side, carefully studying Miechowo and Ed. His brows are furrowed and he ponders cautiously; his eyes emit doubt. All of a sudden, he approaches the prince, pretending to help him up; his arm next to Alexander’s shoulder and he whispers into Alexander’s ear, “Your Highness, you have to be careful. You cannot believe them so easily.”

  Alexander’s body leans against Marean like a drooping puppet. He goes cold with Marean’s question, stuttering, “Why . . . . why?”

  Marean pretend to hobbles, half tripping and half falling. He lifts up the prince on pretense; their heads only inches apart and he says softly, “Study them, they only have one sword. But their clothes are still clean as they rushed all the way from Poland. We have been running these several days and have lost some people and these two are perfectly unharmed. How did they get through Mongol’s many lines of defense?”

  Alexander looks over Marean’s shoulders and examines Miechowo and Ed kneeling there. Indeed their shirts and pants are clean and the air about them is relaxed, which is strange. He cannot help but open his mouth and eyes wide, slightly hesitant.

  “Also,” Marean’s hot breath spraying into his ear. He continues, “There are gems on Ed’s sword, why did the Mongols not rob it? Don’t you think that their two horses are a bit shorter than Polish horses? A lot like Mongolian horses.”

  The prince checks again visually and shivers uncontrollably. He sees the gem shine on Ed’s waist and the two Mongolian horses standing behind Miechowo! It is as if he wakes up from water being poured over his head and is shocked by the sight. His head buzzes like the ridicule of shadowy demons, feeling a bitter chill. Those two people bowing down are like reflections in the water, disfigured in the ripples, unreal and floating. He can no longer tell the difference between real and unreal.

  “See, Your Highness, you cannot believe them. Maybe they have already become Mongol’s spies . . . .” Marean’s perspiration drenches his hair. Holding the prince, he knits his brows and speaks.

  Alexander’s lips quiver and his hands go cold, blood is clogging up as he leans drowsily against Marean, his green eyes startled.

  Spies . . . .

  When skepticism occurs, it pierces his heart so that he is soaked in raw pain. Suddenly, the scene of Valentin falling off the horse hits him in the head again; that bloody arrow through his intestines as his paper-like body floats downward, being dragged farther and farther away.

  No, no, he does not want to question anybody anymore! Never! He, Alexander, will never suspect his own citizens again! That cowardly prince is not longer here, the person standing here is the King of Poland! All at once, a surge of courage returns to his muscles and marrows. Alexander stands steady, shoving aside Marean and hobbles toward Ed and Miechowo, each step heavy. His fair face is serious, blond hair blocking his forehead; he breathes deeply and trembles while his firm eyes investigate the two kneeling on the ground, lips tight in a line.

  Marean’s eyes are worried and his throat burning. He stands on the side, wanting to advise but stops. Anthony, Koneke and others watch perplexed, slightly concerned.

  Ed and Miechowo crawl on the ground and touch the earth. Seeing His Majesty step down; they look with a tinge of guilt then lift their heads to behold with respect. They only see Alexander’s face like black steel, magnificently determined. He picks up a broken twig next to the bonfire, without another word, draws a rectangle on the ground about the size of two palms in front of them.

  He throws away the twig and takes one step back. His pale face completely frosty, his voice majestic and bleak, “Miechowo, you served the royal family for twenty-five years, you are Poland’s heroic minister. Master Ed, you taught me six years of sword. I learned a lot from you and have always treated you like family. Now before you is a Bible. Each of you lay your hand on there and swear to say that you are telling the truth.” The young man inhales and stares at them sternly. He utters words from between his teeth, saying, “Then, as the King of Poland, I will believe you wholeheartedly, without a bit of doubt—that is my promise.”

  The overhanging flesh on Miechowo’s face suddenly freeze and he steals a glance at Ed. Ed’s cold sweat drips down his temples, he slowly extends his palms and hesitantly hangs them above the rectangle. He wants to press on it but waits, the drum of his heart beats bitterly; he cannot go against his conscience.

  The royal castle’s butler of the old days anxiously but decisively presses Ed’s hand onto the rectangle; the two tumble forward and lean into it. His straight arm touching the earth and he looks up at Alexander, the corner of his mouth twitching. Masking his fright he says, “I . . . . We . . . . swear . . . . upon the Holy Bible . . . . that we . . . .”

  Before he finishes, the young swords master is on the side sobbing with his head buried; although he is suppressing it, you can still hear the broken-heartedness and the awful misery.

  Miechowo pushes him then smiles dryly and rigidly and pretends to be strong with Alexander, “He . . . . he found you . . . . so happy . . . .”

  “Ed,” the new king of Poland stands calmly and faces his master directly. He nods earnestly and says, “Tell the truth.”

  Ed pulls back his hand in the rectangle and cries loudly, wiping away his tears and pouring forth, “Your Majesty, Your Majesty! Sor
ry . . . . sorry! The Mongols had us come and find you . . . . boohoo . . . .”

  An uproar. “You—” Miechowo is afraid and says resentfully, “Why could you tell him . . . .”

  Alexander feels a chill up his spine. The lie is proven. His entire body goes cold and light. He scrutinizes the two and startled, asks softly, “So . . . . they want to make me go back and murder me to prevent future trouble, is that it?”

  Ed shakes his head, his eyes looking at his knees and legs, saying, “They said, they just want to find you and have you go back to help them govern Poland . . . . so that the Polish people will obey . . . .”

  “That means . . . . to be their puppet?” Alexander instantaneously feels humiliated.

  Miechowo sighs on the side, his aged eyes sorrowful and he adds, “Your Majesty, they detained my family and Ed’s, they said if we don’t bring you back in three months, they will . . . . kill all of them! I beg of you—”

  He yanks Alexander’s shirttail, with hands shaking hurtfully he pleads, “I beg of you in that they are also Polish citizens, go back with us! You can still be the king . . . . the Mongols will not kill you—”

  “Right . . . .” Ed weeps and agrees, “Please, save the lives of my wife and children.”

  Alexander’s face is green and in a daze, he turns his back to them slowly, seeing the wild forests in the valley, his palms are still cold and moist. He says slowly, “Since I was young . . . . Father had been telling me that people of the royal family must always live with dignity . . . .” At this point, he only feels a sadness sear his nose, blood pounds in his head and he is startled for a moment. He continues, “Poland is still present today. But if I were to be their puppet, then Poland would really be finished . . . . I will have to deceive and oppress my own people for the sake of the Mongols, I will also personally destroy their last bit of hope for reviving the nation . . . .”

  How is it meaningful to be a king like this? How is it meaningful for the former prince to have been born? His green eyes thick with misery, at a loss he lowers his head. He feels wistfulness drip blood in his chest. Stifled he say, “I cannot personally present Poland to the Mongols—I will not go back with you.”

  Silence. Freeze.

  Alexander is still soaked in sadness and hurt when he suddenly feels his throat and neck tighten. Someone hooks him with his elbow from the back. Alexander screams in shock, both hands pull on the steely arms; he pedals in midair.

  Marean, Koneke and Anthony are extremely alarmed, all rushing forward one step. They see Ed’s other hand pull out his sword and set it against the prince’s neck. Ed threatens madly, “Come closer and I will kill him!”

  “Master Ed . . . . why . . . .” Alexander struggles to breathe, choking. He cannot speak. His handsome face suffocates and swells into a purplish color. He feels his four limbs lose strength gradually.

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty.” Ed loosens his clamping arm slightly but threatens with the blade of his creepy sword. His lips are pressed against the prince’s blond hair and speaking behind his head, “I cannot leave my family and not care about them . . . . without them . . . . I really don’t know what I will do . . . . You say that you cannot give away Poland to the Mongols, but they are living Polish people too—if you are not willing to save them . . . . then I will only have to kidnap you!”

  His words out and they are like the toll of a bell that breaks through the clouds, Alexander just feels a pang in his heart as if something suddenly shattered and the shards are flying about, leaving the sky filled with a haze.

  Killing Polish people . . . . for the sake of Poland . . . . He leaves his body on the spot, extending his neck he stares at heaven. All of sudden he feels his body pervasive and light, his field of vision blurry. What is Poland? Is it not those citizens? Then, if he is willing to sacrifice them, what will he be defending? What will he be insisting? A kingdom. Isn’t that millions and millions of little families? Then how is Ed wrong? What is a king? What is a nation? And Angela?

  So what he had always been rescuing and possessing are just illusory thoughts . . . . Laughable.

  He is still in the hoop of Ed’s arm and elbow, but he instantly feels his breath going down the wrong pipe. Ha ha, he laughs strangely. His rigid tongue and unmoving eyes, one gasp and one quiver; he appears mysteriously bizarre and bitter, as if he has gone insane. Everyone is shocked. Anthony clasps his fist at his heart, trembling in fright. Ed also senses the horror of it. His steely arms suddenly relax, dropping his heavy sword.

  “Ha, ha, ha ha . . . . ah—” Alexander smirks, then at once quiet, he removes the arm softly and frees himself. He stands up straight. His hair a mess and his shirt dirty and his back still to Ed. In an air as magnificent as a king, he says, “Okay, I will go back with you . . . .”

  His backside lonely, as if loaded with gloomy clouds on his spine. The hair on his forehead shades his brows and eyes so that his face is not exposed. He only utters from his lips, “. . . . But first, I want to fulfill my final wish—find Angela.”

  Act Six

  Bridge Across the Land

  Act Six

  In the southern section of the Volga River, its two banks are far and wide. Dark green ridge stretches along the west coast; wild fields of weeds are all along the east coast. Spring flood is starting, shells of ice float and melt while regions of snow liquefy so that the rivers rise, tumbling southward, fast and furious. Beneath the rays, waves stack up then fight to flow forth; liquid frost is clear and frozen.

  Wisps of clouds are in the bright sky that shines on the rivers and their shores. The old forests are shooting new buds and their shades are green. Sparrows hop along vivaciously while squirrels gaze up at the branches. Everything is alive and vibrant.

  On the east side of the river is a raft; two horses are shaking off water on the shore. Two people with their pants and shirt sleeves breathe deeply from the chill. Looking back as they step onto the shore, they see water flowing along smoothly like silver ribbons that divide mountains; the waves evaporate into cool air, blowing against the green lawn.

  A gust of wind whizzes by, Angela leads her horse with one hand while the other drapes her hair over her ear. Stupefied, she watches the river. She peers back at Tianyin and sees his black hair tied back tight and his dark eyes deep and glistening. He watches the shore from whence they came, he seems serious and mysterious; she does not what he is thinking.

  Since that last time . . . . the two seem to be together and seem to be apart. Their hearts are connected but their deeds are far apart. He seems to be avoiding her on purpose. His words are few and contacts are rare. He often thinks deeply as he watches the fire or focuses on the blue sky, but dare not look directly at her. He is laden with worries, so quiet and gloomy like a pool of lake water.

  “We . . . . crossed the Volga River.” Angela suddenly says. She gazes at the interminable running river and her thoughts ripple. On the other side of the river, they left too much behind. Kyrigu, Uncle He, Dad . . . . and that flying waterfall in the echoing valley.

  “Um.” Tianyin clinches his rein and observes, answering evenly.

  Angela visually examines his cheek from the side again, her cherry-like lips slightly apart, “How much farther do we have to go?”

  Tianyin is still staring directly at the other shore and does not turn to get a view of her. He saunters over to the raft alone and hides it in the shrubbery. Finished, he dusts off and turns back. Surveying the drifting flow, he contemplates the road ahead without responding. He only speaks briefly in a low voice, “Let’s go.”

  Leading the horse around, he leaves with his straight back to her. Angela mournfully lowers her eyelashes, then follows him at his heels.

  In short order, the two horses panic and their heads wobble up and down; their eight hooves stomp in alarm. Tianyin pauses his steps, immediately controls his rein and press the ma
ne, steadying the nervous horse. He only notes that the horse ears stand straight up, noses spray heat and large eyes appear frightened.

  Angela pulls on the horse bridle, trying to calm it down and asks, “What is the matter?”

  Tianyin controls the harness and scrutinizes the surroundings smartly and cautiously, eyes bright and sharp. Suddenly he is shocked to see dust fly in the valley path on the other shore; clouds of dirt flutter, secretly hiding evil. He cannot help but be forewarned and speaks hastily, “There are people here! Hide in the forest, quick!” Finished, the two turn to mount their horses; stepping over the grass and riding on wind, they sprint straight into the ancient forest.

  They journey for less than a mile and see an aged tree with gnarly roots standing heroically in the forest, huge and mighty. Its shade extends and covers; new leaves are shooting out of the branches. Warts on its brown bark, withered vines climb and the timbers are tied in knots; it is more than sufficient to be the perfect blockade for hiding. The two fold their straps, hop down and inspect the spot. Upon a closer examination, they see this is the growth of two trees wrapped around each other, the back off it has an open slit and the trunk is hollow.

  Tianyin frowns, guiding his horse to the tree. He turns back and scouts for what is in the distance. His eyes suddenly wide open and his body goes cold. Through the dense forest, a wide river separates them; but on the valley path, Mongolian cavalry rolls in en masse, knocking over things like black clouds. Shadows of that crowd close-in quickly, vicious like wasps. Their hooves beat the gravel, a formidable sight to behold!

  He immediately takes a big step back, eyes revealing worry. He tells Angela, “Quick! Hide in there!” Finished, he pushes the young woman into the cave and he also bends over and contracts the rein, sneaking into the cavern of the trunk.

  The interior of the tree is narrow and small, a mix of wood and dirt; a musty smell rushes into their noses. The two cannot help but have their knees and shoulders next to each other, their breathing palpable. The two horses forcefully tug their ropes outside of the slit of the tree and stick their butts up in the air; they drop their heads toward the opening of the cave.