One Night in 13th Century Belarus
A tale of the Keivian Rus and the Mongols
Zlata, a young widow on a Belarussian Farm in the mid-13th century, has an encounter with a mysterious stranger from the East. What lies in store for her will change her life, and the life of her small community, creating ripples in history that follow through to this present day.
1247 - Belarus
As the sun fell lower in the blue, cloudless skies of a lovely Belarussian midsummer Saturday, Zlata stepped from the door of her tidy log-timbered house, her rosy-cheeked, golden-curled son of one year, Bohdan, cradled in a large handled willow basket, cooing and smiling. Zlata surveyed her small farm from the garden-gate, from the small orchard of fruit trees, past the small timbered-and-thatched barn and oxen-yard, the goat pen, the ripening fields of grain in the near distance, all the way to the blue-green hills to the west in the distance where the small local village stood.
Scanning her growing fields of rye, she spotted Yuri and Ales, rakes and hoes in tow. The teenage brothers were the strong arms of her farm, and they walked towards the house, ready for wages and a well-deserved day off. Sons of a blacksmith, with a mother widowed as well as she, and with many more mouths to feed, Zlata offered the poor mother wages for the industrious pair, and the quiet, cheerful boys were a great comfort since the death of her beloved Antin, the prosperous farmer that had taken her as a bride not two years past.
Antin fell into a deep fever in the early spring when she was great with child. Despite the urgent efforts of the Herbalist, he did not linger long. Zlata, overwhelmed with work and wracked with grief, delivered Bohdan two moons later, herself. There was no time to fetch a midwife. With only twenty summers behind her, Zlata was now a mother, and a widow. But the prosperous Antin had left her a wonderful home built of straight sturdy logs, 12 acres of fertile fields, a pair of healthy oxen, sheep, goats, and enough small livestock to make Zlata a comfortable, albeit, busy life.
"My baby Bodhan couldn't tarry, just like his Father," Zlata smiled to herself, the memory bitter-sweet, "Dear Antin, always in a hurry."
"Yuri! Ales!" Zlata called to the boys, now nearing the farm-yard, "Are you ready to go home for the Sabbath? You know, you could stay for dinner - I've roasted a chicken. Or, I suppose you'd like to get paid?" Yuri smiled widely as he greeted Zlata with hand clasp, exclaiming, "Yes, Madam, Mother will glad to see me - and the coin, right, Ales? The coin maybe even more than me. You know she likes me best, right, my brother?" Ales swatted his brother good-naturedly on the arm, and the brothers took the proffered coins. Turning to the road leading to the village, Yuri waved his goodbyes with a "See you Monday morning! Have a blessed Sabbath, Maa'm!"
Zlata set down Bodhan's basket, and smoothed the stray golden curls behind her ears, twisting the flaxen braid into a knot at the nape of her neck. She loosed the fastening laces of the colorful embroidered neckline and pushed up the sleeves of her white linen chemise, letting her shoulders and work-hardened arms drink in the deeply slanted sun the and warm, light breeze.
She stepped through the garden gate, the low fence wound with fragrant rose vines, and surveyed the ripening vegetables in her kitchen garden. Fat hens and roosters foraged for insects between the rows of cabbage, beets, turnips, cucumbers, melons, herbs and medicinal plants. Past the garden and the fruit trees, fat bees buzzed about, collecting nectar from the abundant wildflowers and making honey in the hives Antin had made for her.
Bodhan drowsed in the fading light, his bright eyes growing sleepy, having just had his dinner of bread, milk and stewed fruit. Zlata stopped to tuck his blanket in and whispered, "Just a little while, my angel, then you can go to bed. Mama needs to do just a bit more work."
Zlata started to weed, intent on getting just a bit more done before dark. There was no use to wasting a minute of these long midsummer days, the pinkish-golden light and long shadows signaling the inevitable end to the days work. Besides, there was roasted chicken and vegetable soup waiting for her, a special treat, and she had been waiting since noon-day.
The only sounds were the soft trills of the insects calling to each, the melodic songbirds, the clucking of the hens and the slight rustling of the leaves as Zlata turned an ear towards the road, hearing the sound of distant hooves. Straightening, she rose to see a figure of a man fast approaching on horseback from the distance. He was wearing a white peasants shirt with heavy red embroidery and a riding-cap pulled low on his brow. Was he from another village, lost or needing directions? "Perhaps he needs some water for his steed?" Zlata mused, wiping her hands on her overskirt. She drew her knife from the sheath on her belt, "Just in case," and tucked it into her skirt-pocket.
As he approached, Zlata narrowed her eyes. As his visage became clearer, she noted that despite the familiar clothing, his appearance was unfamiliar. "Is he not from a nearby village?" Zlata thought, her apprehension rising quickly. Sensing danger, She grabbed the basket carrying Bodhan and ducked down behind the berry bushes at the edge of the garden.
He roared up to the house, dismounting deftly. From Zlata's perch behind the bush, she could see that he was indeed, not of the village. Of medium height, powerfully built, his skin was bronzed, much darker than men just sun-kissed of outdoor work. Although the riding-cap was low on his brow, she noted the high, sharp cheekbones, the wide nose, the full lips, and his sparse, dark facial hair sculpted in a unfamiliar style, highlighting his exotic features.
He tied his horse with a practiced turn, the steed small, strongly muscled and shaggy, to a support column of the porch. As he strode towards the garden, his steps were long and commanding and he scanned the farm-yard from under the rolled brim of his cap.
Whistling a bird-call he started, his voice low, "Come out little bird," he called, his accented voice making apparent this was not his native tongue, "Come out, come out, you need no fear."
Zlata scooped Bodhan from his cradle, clutching him tightly to her breast. "He speaks my tongue - what is this madness? Should I run? Can I run?" Zlata's mind raced, "What does he want? From me?" Just then, Bodhan let out a small whimper. Zlata covered his mouth to stifle his cries, but it was too late. She had been discovered.
With an alarming speed of purpose, he vaulted the garden-gate, his stride long and swift, and his roughened hands pulled Zlata up from behind her hiding-place. "There you are, little bird," he hissed, "Little bird who didn't try to fly. Come along." He pushed Zlata ahead of him, "Don't try to fly away now, I've made sure no one will come for you. The boys are far down the road, they won't hear your calls."
"I've been stalking you this long afternoon, my quarry," he thought rakishly, "and yet you did not notice me. There is no escaping the net, now."
He pushed her towards the house, intoning, "I have needs, little bird. Perhaps you can help me." Zlata dared not look back as her panic rose within her, clouding her thoughts. Within seconds, he propelled her through the door-way, latching it behind them.
Zlata stood stock-still, her eyes downcast. "What to say? What to do?" she thought wildly, "Give him what he wants? What does he want?" The small, still voice in her head said to her, "You must know what he wants. You must give it to him, and you may save yourself, and your son."
He strode around the house, searching the corners and he pulled back the patterned curtain separating the great room from the bedchamber, scanning for occupants. He rummaged through the storage jars and baskets sitting on the kitchen shelves, examining their contents. He took down the large earthen-ware jug, sniffing the contents. "Ahhh, mead," he murmured, "I haven't tasted mead for..."
Returning to face her, the mysterious stranger circled Zlata slowly, his head cocked with intent, his eyes hidden under the riding-cap while taking deep quaffs of the sweet drink. "First." He asked in a coolly theatening tone, "Do you have a man here? Is your husband late for dinner? Are those boys your brothers? Do you have any weapons on your person? Lie to me," he continued, "and the baby will die. I do not care for surprises."
Zlata's heart felt as if it would leap from her chest as she quietly answered, "I have no husband, he left this world over a year ago. The boys you saw on the road are my farm-hands. They won't be back until the morning after the Sabbath. This is the truth."
"Good. Now, I need water," He started, his voice changing to a soft, musical tone, "The basin, here." He pointed imperiously to the large dining-table, " A cloth, soap. And a fresh shirt. You must have one? And then, put the baby to bed."
Zlata quickly fetched the water-basin and ewer, along with a linen cloth and the small wooden bucket of soft-soap. As she moved toward the bed-chamber, he spoke to her back, "Don't try to fly out the window, little bird. I know it is open."
Zlata laid Bodhan in his cradle and pulled Antin's best linen shirt from the wardrobe, set it on the table and returned to rock her sleepy son. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she watched the last reddish light fade from behind the hills, contemplating her fate. The cool breeze from the window made her suddenly aware of her loosened shift, her bared shoulders and breast. She re-tied the drawstrings tight, and steeled herself to face what was come this night, whatever it might be.
Bodhan settled into a deep sleep, the faded light playing on his serene face. Hearing the sound of splashing water, Zlata rose silently to stand hidden by the door-frame. She glanced into the outer room, the mysterious visitor's powerfully built back to her. Intrigued, she watched as he pulled the riding-cap from his head, shaking down long, dark locks that fell below his breast-bone.
If he noticed her peering from her hidden perch, he made no acknowlegement as he shed the peasants shirt, tossing it on the floor. His torso and arms were strongly muscled, sinewy and lean, and crossed with scars. She could see his dark skin, bronze in the dim light of the hearth, and the broad shoulders tapering to a slim but muscular waist. "This is not the body of a merchant, or a pilgrim, or a messenger," Zlata thought, "This is a warriors body. A warrior from the East. Why was he dressed as villager?"
He began to scrub and splash, rubbing his face with the cloth and soap. As he twisted towards the doorway, smoothing the dark fringe of his hair from his forehead, Zlata finally caught a glimpse of his eyes, exotic tilted almond-shaped orbs the color of ebony and fringed by thick lashes. She watched in rapt silence as he shed his boots and leather leggings, revealing a glimpse of his manhood, dusky and well-shaped, set on a slight patch of dark fur, his thighs thick as willow logs.
He finished his grooming, slipping the finely-wrought shirt over his head in one swift move, his long fingers idly toying with the embroideries at the neck and wrist. He stretched, lolling his head, his arms moving languidly, his back arching. "He reminds me of the mountain lynx," Zlata mused, transfixed by his exotic visage, "Small, yes. But powerful, sleek - and dangerous."
