Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [90]
“Your father heard about Suren’s death. He wanted to make sure you were carrying this, from the goddess of mercy, to help you in your grieving.”
This time, I accepted the amulet. I needed whatever compassion was offered.
“He is at the monastery,” Mama said. “Go talk to him.”
After all I had been through, I was in urgent need of answers, and I no longer felt certain that my father’s choices had been wrong. For the first time in my life, I felt a pressing desire to learn from his wisdom.
After resting a few days at home, I made the journey to the Buddhist monastery. It was a half day’s ride from Khanbalik, situated on a hillside overlooking the plains.
I was not sure what I wanted to hear from my father. I needed to fill this painful hole inside me, to find some meaning in life after the loss of Suren. I had to decide about my future, about the army and Marco. My father had never provided such wisdom for me before, and I was not sure I could speak honestly to him. But I sensed that he had deeper thoughts than he had ever expressed to me.
As I entered the front gate of the monastery, I breathed in the fresh mountain air, scented with the sweet smell of burning incense. This was one of the oldest Buddhist compounds in this part of Cathay, built almost a thousand years earlier. Each of the temples was spacious and imposing, with wise-looking Buddhas—past, present, and future—carved of wood. I wandered through a series of courtyards with twisted pines and cypress trees, stone monuments called stupas, and rock formations. The atmosphere was one of quiet serenity and humble contemplation.
I saw a monk and asked him where to find my father, Prince Dorji. He understood Mongolian but did not speak it. He took me to the Hall of Guanyin, the goddess of mercy.
There, a nun, with head shaved bald, was kneeling and praying on the stone steps, facing the statue. She was wearing simple gray robes and chanting a stream of foreign words. I guessed they were Tibetan, since the sutras were written in Tibetan. The air was thick with the smell of incense.
The monk cleared his throat and waited. The nun seemed totally absorbed.
Finally, she stopped chanting, paused, stood up, and walked toward me. Her looks surprised me. She was young, with a smooth, broad face, round like a moon. She seemed vaguely familiar, but I had never talked to a nun.
“Yes? How can I help you?” She spoke clear Mongolian. This was odd. I had heard of Chinese and Tibetan nuns, but had never known a Mongolian to become a nun.
Only after the move to Khanbalik, during my childhood, were Mongols introduced to this foreign religion of Buddhism. By tradition, Mongols worshiped Eternal Heaven—Tengri—and Mother Earth. We built ovoos in sacred spots in nature and circled them, tossing stones onto them to ask for good fortune. Ours was not an organized religion with temples and texts. Some Mongol tribes were Christian, such as that of Khubilai’s mother, but few had adopted the Buddhist or Muslim religions. My grandmother Chabi was an exception, a Mongol who had become a devout Buddhist.
When I told the nun my name, she smiled and examined my face carefully. “Ah, Emmajin! Follow me,” she said. She led me through a gate to another courtyard. At its center was a deep pool, surrounded by mulberry trees just beginning to bloom.
Inside a nearby room, my father was sitting cross-legged on a low bench, looking at some long, thin books laid out on a table. The pages were covered with curly connected letters arranged in neat rows. I could not imagine how they made sense.
Just seeing him, with his heavy-lidded eyes and deep under-eye shadows, brought back my feelings of bitterness. He had left my mother to fend for herself at court and showed no interest in me at all. What wisdom could I expect from him?
My father’s eyebrows rose, but he did not stand or approach me. Instead, he pointed to a low bench just opposite him. I sat there with my legs crossed. My father had