"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy," Burnett quoted. He had once read it, he said, in the works of one he simply referred to as the Bard, and said it was both the finest piece of writing ever put to paper and the greatest counsel he had ever received. "Mankind is possessed of minds far too inflexible to readily accept and embrace the existence of what is different. We dread the unknown because understanding it requires challenging our certainties, and the very stone on which we stand feels as quivery sand, ready to swallow us whole. Thus, we reject difference at best, and seek to exterminate it at worst. Only by accepting that there are far more things that we can ever know may we truly enjoy the gift that is change. Only by surrendering ourselves to the unpredictability of our world may we witness its true beauty."
There is truth in Burnett's words. Humans are slow to accept change, even when it is driven by their own actions. They squabble and make war on each other over the most insignificant disagreements, and seek to force things and peoples who they consider too different into shapes and forms they deem more acceptable. As their dominion over the Earth grows, they displace the other creatures – both magical and mundane – who hold equal right to life and prosperity; thus, the Age of Man is marked by the suppression of that which they cannot or will not understand. It seems that, for all their achievements and potential, humans are still fickle creatures who waver when confronted with the threat of things not going their way.
This is a rather unfavorable portrait of mankind, of course, and again I must state that I do not believe their sins and failures to outweigh their goodness and triumphs – of which I have seen much during my time amongst them. On the contrary, and in wonderful contradiction of their worst habits, it is a most human thing to crave for change and novelty, to ache with unquenchable curiosity and desire to know more. Humans are not constants put in place by foreign wills, nor are they perpetually affixed to one idea or purpose. They are ephemeral beings, here one day and gone the next, but through this brevity they find it in themselves to become more than what others have made of them; the power of choice is intrinsic to them, a gift with which they are all born and can never be parted from. For these reasons, I have long upheld a truth that the fates of humans are their own much more so than the fates of Gods. Today, however, the foundations of this truth have been much less steady than I believed them to be.
I bid farewell to Burnett in the ruins of Karkhorum and left him to explore at his leisure. White men from the West are a rare sight in these steppes even as they expand to everywhere else, and those among them who seek knowledge rather than conquest are rarer still. I do hope that here – in this land shaped by blood and fire, where the sound of galloping hoofs is more frightful than thunder – a man of peace such as him will find vindication for his beliefs.
I ventured further south, past the grassy steppes and into the desert; my next destination was just across its red sands. The people of Mongol Uls call this region Gobi, a surprisingly soft word for a language as harsh as theirs. The desert, however, is anything but soft, and even a Tianzi cannot withstand an entire day under its cruel sun without resting. Thus, I paused atop a cliff of fiery stone and – protected under my parasol – watched wispy clouds move across the azure sky above, feeling a cool wind caressing my skin and fluttering my garments.
It was then that I noticed him, a mere silhouette on the other side of the cliff, so still that he could have been just another one of the bushes that sparsely grew throughout the dunes. He did not move as I approached him, nor as I inspected his strange visage with a curiosity that – admittedly – was almost invasive. I instantly knew he was a traveler, for his clothes and boots were old and dusty but well conserved, their colors mute as if to blend with the sands. He had dark grey skin, smooth and entirely hairless, and no ears to speak of – instead, a pair of flat round bulges protruded from either side of his head just behind his jaw. His nose was similarly flat, the nostrils like small groves delicately carved into his face. Four strong arms – the smaller set protruding just below the main one – rested placidly atop a Great Book, a tome so large and heavy that I wondered how he could have carried it this far into the desert. When he at last opened his eyes, I saw that they were polished orbs with black sclera and deep purple irises, his pupils a shape of many angles.
"Greetings, Venerable One," he said, and when he stood, I realized that he was much taller than any man of woman born. He held his Book close to his chest with his smaller arms and courteously bowed with the larger ones. "Your arrival is a surprise, but a welcomed one. I am Ulak Un'Lij Nar. In your tongue, this translates to Ulak the Drifter."
"I am Lady Tianhong, who Scribes," I replied, and I likewise bowed. "I do not know your tongue, nor where you are from, but I surmise that you are also a visitor to this land."
"Indeed," the Drifter smiled and motioned with his upper right arm towards both Heaven and Earth. "I am from a place far beyond this planet, beyond the twenty-seven Heavens of your Deva. I walk here and through countless other worlds so I may chronicle the doings of both mortals and Gods."
He then opened his Great Book, and though I did not know the language in which they were written, I understood the words inscribed atop the page: Chronicle of Ulak the Drifter.
"Here, in my Great Book of Records, I write down all things worth remembering," he continued. "This is my life's mission, my true calling – just as it is yours, honorable Tianhong. For why else would a Tianzi walk amongst mortals if not to forever preserve and cherish them in her memory?"
"You know much, Ulak the Drifter," I smiled. "And you are correct: I tread all lands under Heaven and record the tales of those I come across. This was the task given to me by Heaven, both a blessing and a duty. You and I share this most noble purpose, it seems."
The Drifter assented and extended one of his six-fingered hands to me.
"You would do me a great honor, Lady Tianhong, if you joined me in witnessing and recording today's events."
"And what events would those be, Ulak the Drifter?" I asked while taking his hand in acceptance of his invitation.
We walked to the edge of the cliff. Ulak opened his Great Book and, without taking his eyes off the sprawling red of the desert, began writing.
"Rebirth," he said. "A new beginning for one who has been gone for too long. In the dreams of another, I heard the call of black thunder and knew that I must come today to this very place. I could not miss the occasion, for in my travels I have met countless Gods and divine beings; many of them were on the verge of death."
His words dripped into my heart like droplets of soft rain, melancholic. I too had attested to the passing of the Gods of Old. These were painful memories still, no matter how well or for how long I had mourned them after they were gone.
"The death of a God is a most tragic thing," the Drifter continued. "Where they once stood, a void remains: a marker of what once was and is no more. Other Gods may inherit their duties, ensuring that the forces of nature and the mechanics of the Universe continue to function, that reality itself does not unravel through the loss of the deity – but as long as the God is gone, their absence will be felt, their presence sorely missed."
I solemnly assented in agreement. Gods who die leave traces of themselves for us to remember them by. Some work one final miracle upon the Earth, or give a remnant of their power to those they deem worthy. Honored Tenjin bestowed on me His final blessing – His Wind of Knowledge – with His last breath of life. Although this was a promise that He would always be with me, I missed Him very much.
"And yet, what is death to a God?" Ulak closed his Chronicle and looked at me. "What is death, if not another turn of the wheel in an unending path?"
"Samsara," I responded. "Even the Gods are bound by it. Through the never-ending cycle, all who die shall be born anew, trapped in the wheel that is existence. Not even the Devas are fully free from it."
"Indeed. Yet Gods are, as they themselves have said, universal constants. They exist forever, even when struck down and forgotten, even when reduced to less than whispers and dust. In other places – in other realms – I have witnessed them die and return in a mere instant with their power and sway over the world reinforced tenfold. Other Gods I have seen gone for so long that, upon their return, they have no followers left, no one to remember them, and must begin anew."
He paused to offer me some of the water he carried with him, and we drank in silence. Above our heads, clouds were beginning to coalesce and darken as if promising rain.
"You are here to witness the rebirth of a dead God," I began anew. "I am honored to behold such an event with you."
"Occasions like this one have a tendency to bring about curious coincidences, Lady Tianhong. Or is it perhaps fate that we are here together on this day of joy?"
I laughed.
"You are, as the men in the West say, silver-tongued, Drifter!" I said. "The fates of the divine are strange things. We walk paths set for us by wills not our own. The roles we play in the Universe are predetermined, our destinies inexorably bound to our patronage, be this fire, love or scholarship."
"The Gods of war shall battle endlessly," Ulak agreed. "The Gods of the sea shall forever reign in the depths. The Gods of knowledge shall never know incuriosity. I understand what you mean. The nature of Gods is equal to their domains, defined by their duties as much as they shape the world. For them, what is once is forever; their essence can never be annihilated, not even if they themselves crave oblivion. Yet still… Hmmm. Perhaps, Lady Tianhong, this is what death is to the deathless: an opportunity to become something different, a chance to break away from the role they are bound to."
"Do you mean… a way to change?"
The Drifter's eyes lit up as we both reached the same conclusion. Of course. For beings who are constants of the Universe, shedding their very nature requires a force powerful enough to sever them from the world, to change them from absolutes to nothingness and back again. And what is death, if not change? Humans and other mortals are defined by their own minuscule lifespan, by their inevitable end; through this finality of life, they are able to make choices, to reshape themselves and grow, to be more. Gods are the opposite in most every sense.
"And this God whose rebirth we are about to witness, do you think they will accept this change, Ulak?"
The Drifter held silent for a few instants and then turned back to his Chronicle. He parsed the pages and I read the many names inscribed in them. Ares. Viracocha. Pele. Nergal. Perun. All of them were Gods once gone and now returned. I sighed. Part of me had deeply hoped that I would find honored Tenjin's name amongst them.
"Most Gods whose return I know of have remained the same as before," Ulak said. "They recall who they are – who they once were – and act accordingly. I have little reason to believe this time will be different."
I understood. Achieving true change is no easy task, for it requires the supreme sacrifice: oneself. In changing, a person or God destroys a part of their own being forever. This is the truest death, the renunciation of ego, of self. It is a terrible thing to those who seek to remain absolute, as is the manner of Gods; to one who seeks illumination, however, it is part of the path to ultimate freedom – liberation from Samsara itself.
"What is the name of this god, Ulak?" I asked him.
"His name is Dayan Deerh. He once ruled over the steppes and deserts of Mongol Uls, bestowing power and fertility to those who were loyal to him. But he had a weakness, one that his own people were quick to exploit when he did not lead them to victory. Now, after two centuries, he returns."
"He was betrayed?" I asked in shock.
"He was drowned, for fire and steel were useless against him," Ulak responded. "The children of Temüjin blamed him for a devastating defeat, so they killed him on the banks of the river Chuluut."
"And now that he is reborn, will he know forgiveness, or will he bring with him the scourge of vengeance?" I asked.
The Drifter did not answer. The clouds over the Gobi had become a great dark mass, a herald of thunder and rain. Rain, I thought, brings fertility to the land, brings renewal. In the desert, the gift of storm clouds does not go to waste. But the storm also brings fire and ruin, desolation from the Heavens. These clouds could be harbingers of peace, but also of divine retribution. It is most appropriate that they announce his resurrection.
"Look," the Drifter pointed at the center of the clouds, where flashes of jagged light stabbed at the darkness. "Out of the eye of black thunder he comes."
In my mind, I envisioned Dayan Deerh as he had once been, as he would now be. To the peoples of the steppe, the patron of fertility and triumph must indeed have been a fearsome warrior, an accomplished horse rider, a possessor of savage power, an implacable leader and a maker of Khans. The image became clearer as I thought of his attributes: in his hands was a great bow whose arrows could make twilight bleed. A headdress of feathers and mirrors – the crown of a shaman – adorned his mighty skull. He rode a stout stallion with eyes like burning embers, off to reclaim the horizons that were once his. He was beautiful. He was terrible. He was like the peoples he had once ruled: untamable, unrelenting. If he indeed came back to punish and destroy, no soul under Heaven could possibly escape his fury.
The clouds parted with a roar, and a blaze – blinding, all-encompassing, holy – flooded the Gobi. Even my eyes, so familiar with the radiance of the divine, could not withstand it. I averted my sight. Dayan Deerh had arrived, reborn at last.
When the raging echoes of birth had faded and the sky no longer bled beams of golden light, I looked again to witness the God I had envisioned. But Dayan Deerh, lord of fertility, protector of the steppes, was nowhere to be found. There was no great horseman, no Godly purveyor of good fortune, no wrathful shaman emperor. There was only the red desert under the clear blue sky.
"I do not understand," I said, but the Drifter simply smiled and motioned again towards the sands. Then I saw him.
He was white and black, subtle and monochrome but for a large crimson dot upon his forehead, a fiery crown fit for a God. His gait was elegant, prudent, every step meticulously thought out before he took it. A sinuous neck – almost serpentine – held aloft his beaked head, his eyes two beads of watery darkness. When he flapped his wings, there was no noise of thunder, but a joyful whisper of calm wind that sang in our ears as he flew higher and higher, until he was but a sharp line in the distance, soaring out of the desert to chase the infinite horizon. In an instant, he was gone, not to war against his enemies, but to live the life he had regained.
The Drifter bowed, and I followed suit. We had witnessed something much more sacred than either of us could have dreamt of: a God who embraces change.
"He chose to be something different," I told him. "His rebirth is now complete, perhaps more so than any of the other Gods."
"He is the master of his own fate now," he agreed. "Wherever he goes now, I wish him peace."
We spoke little after that, for the words seemed to have escaped us, but what we talked was enough. I have learned much today; truly, there are more things in Heaven and Earth than are discussed in the works of poets and scribes. The power of change – of choosing differently from what has been dictated to us – does not elude even the Gods. I take solace in this knowledge, in this hope that belongs to us all. After all, if this is what we can do in death, what is there we cannot do in life?
As for Ulak, he bid me goodbye and hoped that we shall meet again. Before he headed back out into the desert, he gifted me his writing tool – made from a feather as white as the Godly Crane who took flight before us, as white as death – and again bowed courteously to me.
"To help you remember what you have witnessed," he added as I held his gift. "And for you to present to honored Tenjin when you meet Him again."
I write these words now with that very quill and thank the Drifter for his kindness and wisdom. And, despite his insistence that he is not a God, I do hope he will one day learn that he is in his own way divine.
