Act 9: The Oathbreaker (Part 1)
one
Spring had arrived, but the biting cold still seeped into Yakov's body, robbing him of all the warmth flowing through his veins. It was so cold, like falling into a snow cave, Yakov thought, but when had he ever fallen into a snow cave? He couldn't remember.
His body lay prone in a patch of thin snow, something licking his face—a warm, salty liquid flowing down his forehead, mixed with ice shards, like tiny insects crawling.
Yakov reluctantly opened his eyes.
First, he saw the familiar forest. The muddy ground was covered with coniferous shrubs and withered weeds, and black oak roots coiled in the soil like several thick pythons embracing each other, covered with fine snow. In the dawn, all the radiance of life appeared hazy and bleak, carrying a cold and cruel meaning—a furry bear cub nestled in his warm neck, its kiss pressed against it. Its fur was wet, like a newly hatched chick, or a drenched puppy. Its thin tongue was covered with ants, which it could not tell where they had come from.
The young Slav roughly shoved the bear cub aside, and the cub let out a weak, mournful cry. He got up from the ground and touched his face and head—it seemed that half of his beard was gone, and the other half of his head was bald. Yet his body was light, his muscles strong, and all pain and wounds had vanished. He was like a newborn infant, just arriving in the world, waiting to unleash his power and transform everything; or like a weightless object, about to float into the air, able to leap across half a hillside in an instant. He stretched out his palm, the rough lines of his hand soaked with blood, like tiny red plants growing in his palm.
Yakov turned around and saw the carcass of a huge female bear lying behind him, a dagger protruding from her eye socket. Her blood had drained, staining the pristine white snow with a sticky, syrupy layer.
The slave was overjoyed to find himself still alive. He lifted the bear cub by the scruff of its neck and brought back his spoils for his master.
It was as if a voice was speaking to him from heaven or within his own heart—"You know the way back," the voice said, as if congratulating him. Yakov knew the forest intimately, and he knew how to find the tracks of last night's hunt on the muddy paths. The Slav followed a large, chaotic patch of hoofprints out of the bushes, out of the mud, and into the bright, warm morning light. The sunlight was so warm, just like his bright future. He walked lightly, as if on a broad highway, like a triumphant general.
Yakov first passed a fresh pasture, where tender green shoots were sprouting, and the air was filled with the fresh scent of grass and earth. "Where is Master Batur?" he asked a fellow slave who was picking up manure on the ground. "Where is our guest?"
But the moment the slave saw his appearance, he dropped the basket and ran away in a panic. He scattered dung balls all over the ground, making him reek.
He's afraid of you. Even though you don't have a whip in your hand now, you still lashed him. That voice, both distant and close at hand, spoke with a strange hint of flattery. But Yakov's doubts were answered, and he continued on his way, carrying the struggling bear cub.
As he walked, Yakov suddenly realized that his chainmail had shattered, falling to the ground like rotting sawdust, scattered in fine fragments that he couldn't pick up no matter what. He thought that although the armor was valuable, his own was too worn out, and it was time to ask his master for a new set. He pulled his loose-sleeved robe tighter around himself, letting the clumps of wool envelop him, and trudged through the grass—until he reached a patch where the grass was waist-high, and even taking a step was difficult. Yakov suddenly felt as exhausted as if he had been doing hard labor in the pasture for months. His initial excitement had subsided, no longer surging in his chest.
In the distance, he saw white yurts appear out of nowhere, like mushrooms sprouting from the forest. Two men he recognized lifted the curtain and emerged. They both had cavalry-style haircuts and black goatees—"Where is Master Batur?" Yakov shouted again. He held up the bear cub in his hand, trying to sound more confident. "I want to see him!"
The Tatars pointed at him with calloused fingers, mocking him with utter contempt, hurling insults, and spitting in his direction. Yakov was puzzled; they hadn't dared to do this so openly before. He suddenly realized his arms had become heavy, requiring considerable effort to lift—the bear cub had grown larger, now as heavy as a fully grown sheepdog. Its fur had hardened, and its claws were sharp—Yakov held it close to his chest to prevent it from scratching him.
They've never liked you; they're jealous of your talent and despise your lineage. That voice, whether from heaven or in your heart, resounded again, angrily accusing you. Yakov stopped thinking about it; he simply remained silent, enduring the slander to protect his tiny hope.
The weather had become unusually hot for some reason. Yakov thought, perhaps because the midday sun was stronger, or perhaps because the wild beast in his arms was too lively. He wanted to take off his heavy wool robe, but dared not let go of the bear cub, so he clumsily pulled off one sleeve—miraculously, his leather belt had just broken from age. The sweltering robe fell to the ground, piling up in a dirty heap. A gentle breeze finally blew across Yakov's sweat-soaked back, bringing a slight, albeit negligible, coolness. He gripped the bear's body tightly and continued searching for his master.
The cool air made his steps lighter. Yakov looked at the yurts one by one, searching for the one adorned with colorful flags and flutes. But things didn't go as planned; not only could he not find the owner's dwelling, he also got lost among the yurts. The sound of waves in the distance reminded Yakov of the Golden Horn—but he had never been to any Golden Horn. Yakov felt his head was a jumbled mess. He thought, "I'll follow the sound to the sea." Perhaps young Master Batur was at the dock seeing off his guests—this thought suddenly made him anxious. Would he be too late to present the gift to his guests?
The young slave started running, carrying the bear—it had grown so large it was almost out of his control. The surrounding landscape shifted from lush green to the golden hues of harvest, like the glorious colors of a sunset. Yakov left the steppe; the yurts, banners, flocks of sheep, and horses dwindled, as did the Slavs who feared him and the Tatars who mocked him. The soil beneath his feet turned to gravel, and the gravel to reefs. Vibrant plants withered and died one after another beneath his feet, running away with him into the darkness, their backs to the setting sun.
Yakov ran for an unknown amount of time, sweat pouring down his back, stinging and itching the whip marks. When had someone whipped him? He couldn't remember. When one is in pain, time drags on endlessly. He felt his life being wasted pointlessly, like an object that couldn't breathe. His hair and beard grew painfully long, turning him into a savage. But he gritted his teeth and refused to give up.
Finally, Yakov spotted the Dnieper River bank at night—a Russian-style wooden house, built of round, stacked logs, with bells and withered herbs hanging from its door. It stood alone, starkly out of place before the river.
This house wasn't originally built by the water, Yakov thought, but he was too tired to think about it. The slave dragged the bear to knock on the door, his fists burning from pounding it. A heavily pregnant woman opened the door for him. "You're back," Tatiana, dressed in her blood-red dress, spoke like a ghost. "Why have you come back? You're such a fool."
She thought you were the same kind of person as her, that you would both perish here, sinking into the mire. The voice rang in Yakov's ears again, this time so close it seemed to shout into his heart, as if trying to awaken him. The slave dragged the bear inside—the bear was gone, and he had nothing in his hands.
"My bear is gone!" The slave cried out, clutching a head of blond hair, utterly distraught, as if waking from a dream. "The gift I was going to give to the young master is gone!"
His wife, who existed in name only, poured him a drink. Yakov never dared to drink what she gave him, fearing that the madwoman had added something strange to it. He sat down in the chair and looked down at his feet—only then did Yakov realize that his shoes were gone, his feet were covered in dirt, and his trousers were patched all over.
“I’m about to give birth.” Tatiana withdrew her withered hands, grinned at him, and said, “I’ll soon have a child.”
Yakov thought, that can't be his child. He'd heard that women could conceive through pleasure in bed, but his intercourse with his "wife" had always been excruciating. It was Batur's child, he thought; the slave girl had never lied. But what did it matter? A slave's child was still a slave.
“This will be the best gift I can offer him.” Tatiana took a tiny crucifix from beside the couch, placed it on the couch, and knelt heavily on the floor in worship. “What can I do for him? With my weak and insignificant strength, this is all I can do!” She wept bitterly, her face covered in sweat, as if enduring immense pain. “God, Father, Son, Holy Spirit! Please protect him and save him!”
Who was she talking about? Her master, or her child? Yakov glanced at it, unable to bear the depraved and ignorant scene, nor the inactive and cruel deity. A nameless anger surged within him, and he strode out, slamming the door behind him, preferring to abandon the warm hearth inside.
Outside, fine snowflakes began to fall again. It was completely dark; you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. The biting winter cold made Yakov shiver. He regretted not bringing a coat—but then he remembered he hadn't had any clothes warm enough for the cold. His breath, still warm in his mouth, turned into tiny ice pellets as he exhaled, hitting his face. Faintly, Yakov heard a woman's wailing coming from the darkness, not from the small house behind him, but from the distant hillside, from the field covered in withered grass. Yakov stumbled forward, but he couldn't see the source of the sound. The night was too deep; he thought, if only it were dawn now.
As if in response to his prayer, suddenly, a greyish dawn rushed up from the east behind him, illuminating the distant ranks. Yakov felt the icy snow seep into his veins, making his toes sting and numb.
It was a funeral procession, adorned with black and white flags, slowly making its way from the steppe. Leading the procession was a young and distinguished man, who was coughing violently, his mouth covered by a handkerchief—Yakov hadn't seen his master for almost a year. He laughed and cursed excitedly, but then realized he was too far away for young Master Batur to hear. No, he should be called Batur Khan, Yakov cursed again. He saw old Batur Khan's favorite concubines and female slaves in the procession, each of them scratching their faces until they bled, and the wailing was coming from there.
Batur's shadow led a horse with its tail clipped, carrying a corpse. The corpse was wrapped tightly in white cloth and wore a pure gold mask with two upturned mustaches carved on it. Yakov didn't know how he could see something so far away, how he could know that the dead man was old Batur Khan. But he could see it clearly, he could know it.
"The water that has been spilled on the ground cannot be swept up and put back into the basin; "No matter how much you sweep it up, you cannot put it back into the basin."
Once an arrow has been released from the bow, its trajectory cannot be altered.
The messenger sang a dirge amidst the funeral music.
"The great Batur Khan is dead!"
Yakov stumbled awkwardly back into the hut, searching for his clothes and shoes. "Where are my boots?" he asked angrily. "Where did the Khan put the warmest sheepskin coat he gave me?" No one answered him.
The Slav rummaged around in the cramped room. He suddenly noticed that the tables, chairs, and walls were quite old; the wooden frames of the windows were worn down, the wooden branches were cracked, and the cold wind was seeping in, making his fingers ache. He lifted the couch, trying to find what he was looking for among the piles of straw.
But he found only a small cross. Yakov picked it up with his rough fingers. He then realized that the object Tatiana worshipped every day was just a piece of trash made of two dry branches, not some gold or silver ornament.
"Tatiana! Come with me to see the Khan!" he roared angrily, clutching the ugly, twisted cross in his hand. "Where have you been!"
Yakov rushed outside again. In a short while, it was already broad daylight, and a thin layer of snow had accumulated on the ground. As soon as he opened the door, he saw a continuous trail of blood on the snow, the bright red footprints stinging his eyes. He walked barefoot along the red line. After a while, Yakov found himself facing a forest. He vaguely remembered that the forest wasn't actually by the river. The blood trail stretched into the forest path, leading to a familiar place. The dripping blood had gathered there from all directions, forming a long, scarlet dress.
Tatiana, dressed in her wedding gown, lay motionless in the snow, her face ashen. A thin, sticky umbilical cord emerged from beneath her skirt. Yakov's gaze followed the cord—it revealed a hideously ugly, writhing, crying newborn with pale gray hair. Its hands flailing wildly, seeking warmth, but finding nothing but the cold corpse and snow around it, it could only clutch tightly to its mother's ankles.
For some reason, Yakov remained unmoved, as if he had known all along. He thought indifferently that the madwoman was finally dead, a relief for her. He also thought that the baby wouldn't survive. He had no milk to feed the child.
But the newborn's cries grew louder and louder, as if it was desperately trying to prove to the world its desire to survive. With its gaping, toothless mouth open, it sucked on its mother's withered skin and actually gnawed off a piece of pink flesh.
Does it want to survive by drinking its mother's blood?
Yakov stepped forward, grabbed the baby from the snow, and pulled off its umbilical cord. The baby was truly hideous; its wrinkled face was a purplish-red, its body wet, sticky, and slippery, like a little devil writhing in pain and hunger. Suddenly, its face contorted, and grayish-brown fur spread from its baby hair, instantly covering its entire body. Its snout grew longer, its hands and feet thickened, its nails became black and sharp, and two small, round ears sprouted from its head. Its cries changed too, sounding like the whimper of a puppy.
"Monster!" Yakov cried out in terror, throwing the disgusting hybrid of man and bear to the ground, but the snow was too soft, and it continued to crawl. He groped around his body, trying to find a weapon—but what weapon was there? He had no scimitar, no bow and arrows, no horse, no armor.
Yakov finally remembered that his master had abandoned him, forgotten him, thrown him into purgatory, and exiled him to the edge of the world, where he could neither live nor die!
He climbed forward, his fingers gripping the monster's neck tightly, his thumb and forefinger locking its throat. His strength was so great that he snapped the slender neck bone with a crack. The freak had no chance to struggle or cry out; it quickly descended into hell.
A terrible sin overwhelmed Yakov like a sea of blood. His hand trembled, yet he hesitated to loosen his grip. Suddenly, the snow stopped, the sky darkened, the wind died down, and silence enveloped everything. Tatiana's blood-red corpse stared at him, her face frozen in a frenzied expression, like a sacrifice on an altar, like death itself extending an invitation. When one is not awakened from a dream, one always finds a way to endure it, suffering a thousand kinds of torment without realizing it; but once forced to awaken, even the strongest person will cry out in agony.
No! That long-lost voice finally returned to Yakov's mind.
"You must live! You must wake up!" the voice commanded in a tone identical to Yakov's.
Yakov fled desperately through the night, the sound of the waves growing ever closer. His mouth was agape, the biting air filling his throat, the icy snowflakes cutting his tongue. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally spotted a Rus' merchant ship sailing on the water, its mast flickering with fire.
"I am a free man!" the young slave roared in his native language, "Save me!"
He knelt on the shore, his limbs on the ground, as if worshipping the most noble deity in the world. An elderly priest, accompanied by a page, called out to him from the boat.
"Are you a Christian?" the priest asked cautiously.
Yakov paused, then looked up, holding a bloodstained, withered cross in his hand. "Save me!" he croaked, "Just as God saves His people, do good!"
"This ship is going to Novgorod," the captain said, emerging from behind the priest. "Would you like to go?"
“I’m willing to go,” Yakov said. “Save me!”
In Yakov's memory, he had never cried. Yet now, curled up in a secluded corner of the deck, tears streaming down his face. These tears were not for the gods, not for freedom, not for pain. He believed a strong man should never cry, yet he couldn't help but weep. He was both reckless and guilty, cold-blooded and sentimental, clear-headed and blind. He thought that from now on, he would live only for himself, never again believing any grand lies, never again suffering the slightest exploitation or enslavement. He would rather give up all warmth and joy than return to lies and oppression. He would be the most tormented, the only one awake. He had to step over countless corpses, had to shoulder the heavy burden himself, only he could save himself. From that moment on, he never cried again.
The sun was slowly rising in the east, and the shadow of the sails had left him. A new, cold dawn had arrived.
Yakov fell into a deep sleep to the sound of the waves. For the first time, he discovered that sleep could be so peaceful and tranquil.
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