Heaven and Earth
JASON YANG
The rhythm of galloping hooves echoed across foreign grasslands, the jangling of armour ringing across the plains as mounted warriors rode around an outlier amongst them. The stranger, unlike themselves, was unarmoured, his ceremonial attire setting him apart. Cresting a hill, the riders slowed, their rustling metal silenced by a louder roar. On a field below, the clang of blades and loosening arrows played as two armies met. All recruits, the young riders witnessed the majestic and horrific display as allied Khaganate riders clashed against a local foreign army on foot.
All but him.
Batu, the eldest and leader of the inexperienced horsemen, turned from the battle, watching as their guest rode forward, distancing himself from them, dismounting, and producing a ritual mallet and drum. Striking the instrument, a drumbeat echoed as it played again and again, forming a continuous rhythm joined by chanting. As the ritual began, the rest of Altan’s warriors turned towards the figure, the drum’s pace, and the stranger’s chants, creating a tempo. With each strike, a calm, monotonous sound reverberated in their minds, relaxing with each beat, enthralling them.
Batu, able to, tore his focus away, looking elsewhere to find something to distract himself from their guest’s ritual. As he searched, Batu found his distraction, the warrior horrifyingly witnessing the land around him grow dark.
Looking up at the sky, he watched as storm grey clouds formed an unnatural whirlpool, the clouds above coalescing… No. Merging.
Returning his gaze to the strange man, Batu watched the shaman’s ritual unfold. Though as he did so, he found the practitioner’s gaze looking far, supernaturally taken, seeing the other world. Lost in his spiritual trance, the possessed shaman spoke, his words unnatural and incoherent. Each spoken word disturbed Batu’s mind, an uncanny voice growing more perturbed each second. Watching his voice, movement, and music, a part of Batu wanted to stop him, stop his seeming madness.
As if listening, the shaman abruptly became silent, the watching leader not knowing whether to be relieved or even more perturbed as he smiled.
The wind grew stronger. Blowing against him, his warriors, and the shaman as the land turned dark.
And something landed on his head.
Rainwater.
With the wind turned tumultuous, the riders quickly dismounted, hastily steadying their mounts as it began to rain. Looking down at the battlefield, they saw the khaganate’s steppe riders rally in the shower, whilst local warriors, surprised, recoiled at their foes’ sudden surge.
Light suddenly illuminated their midst, the witnessing warriors averting their eyes. Batu, the first to return his gaze, saw enemy soldiers sprawled across the ground. Steppe riders charged, trampling them under hooves, as another strike reverberated nearby. More lightning struck, each avoiding the nomadic lancers whilst targeting those opposing them. The infantry tried to run, struggling as the soil turned to mud, while the cavalry pursued the same conditions, mystically unencumbered. In moments, the pace of battle shifted in the khaganate’s favour, banners rising across the field as the enemy neared breaking.
Miraculously, they didn’t.
Their foes, suddenly holding ground, the moving nomadic cavalry tried to ride parallel to a static wall of blades, unfortunate horse warriors running into rows of spears. The riders on the hill watched, stunned, confused, as enemy lines reformed, while the entire force of steppe cavalry gave ground. The wind, however, still on their side, blew their banners furiously backwards, guiding the formation’s retreat.
As the armies separated, Batu heard the shamans’ chant suddenly turn angry. Before he could look at the shaman, Batu watched a figure emerge from the rest of the infantry line, unarmoured and also chanting—an enemy practitioner.
As the priest began his own ritual, each of their movements reversed the shaman’s. Amplifying his chants with anger, the shaman’s rhythm became aggressive, fighting back against the priest. With both practitioners growing louder, their appeals turned into demands, shouting at spirits to obey. As the two armies prepared to clash again, the sky grew chaotic, the shaman and priest calling ever more fervently, the two practitioners trying to speak louder than their adversary.
The wind abruptly picked up just before both armies collided, the riders atop the hill first thinking nothing till the practitioners paused their chants. Noticing, Batu turned to find a stunned expression.
Then, from the battlefield, a bright flash of light appeared. Once it died, countless soldiers reappeared, collapsed on the ground.
Before anyone could react, more lightning came, uncaringly striking both armies as they ran. The wind turned uncontrollable, throwing warriors and horses, soldiers trampling over their comrades seeking escape. Having had enough, Batu ran to the chanting shaman, yelling at him to stop. The shaman, uncaring and still in his trance, spoke, not in the words of spirits but of men.
“Tenger above, eternal blue sky, spare us. Wind cease thy movements, spirits stay your might,” he asked.
Nothing changed.
“Tenger above, merciful sky, end this pain and suffering,” he pleaded.
Still nothing.
With winds growing violent, Batu felt it turn savage. Wasting no more time, he yelled at his warriors.
“Remount, and fall back!” he screamed.
Before going to the shaman, he tried to break his mystical trance. The practitioner resisted, trying to maintain his greater perception.
“Shaman, wake yourself!” the rider shouted.
His eyes turning normal, the shaman saw as the wind began to pick up men and horses. Relenting, he remounted and rode hard away from the rising tornado, not looking back till he was far from the disaster.
When he finally did, a horse galloped passed him. Saddled but with no rider.
Arriving, the shaman dismounted next to the tent beside the canal.
Entering its hide flap door, the shaman entered the smoke-filled yurt, fires illuminating the five clothed figures, each wearing the same ceremonial robe as himself, with eyes blinded under layered cloth. All five looked directly at him, as if they could see.
“Zairan Altan!” one addressed him. “The Noyan officer tells you summoned a wind that destroyed his force.”
“You are at fault,” another angrily added, “the loss of a thousand warriors has angered many. How do you explain yourself!”
The five shamans watched him. Their greater perception, judging everything as a cool wind whispered outside.
The yurt stood outside a khaganate-occupied city, a land of foreign practitioners, now subservient to the Universal Empire. To the elders, Altan thought, it seemed he had murdered them. Sitting at the fire in the middle of the room, the young shaman began.
“Wise elders,” Altan, calm, started his testament. “The great wind created was not mine.”
Waiting for a comment, he only heard flowing water echoing from the canals, as the stream entered the city, the elders waiting for his excuse to be explained in full.
“When the opposing practitioner manifested, we fought in competing appeals, each attempting to shape the world’s actions to our designs. But I,” he paused for a moment. “I don’t know what happened”
“Did you anger the spirits, lose control?” One angrily demanded.
“No!” he defensively shouted. Realising his rudeness, he calmed himself before continuing. “I did not offend or lack the normal ability to control. Wise elders, surely you must have heard how a great twister formed. I am incapable of such feats.”
The older shamans said nothing. Watching, Altan saw something that surprised him. The accusing elder’s hands were trembling.
Looking around, he found each of the wisemen nervous or disturbed. One was trying to calm his breath, another formed a tight but shaking fist. Seeing the discomfort each one had, Altan no longer felt their gaze, yet still trembled.
One rose, looking down on the younger practitioner, trying to maintain an air of authority.
“Did you truly do nothing, unordinary?”
His tone disturbed Altan. His inquiry more a plea than a question.
“No,” he said. No structure of manners in his words. Just plain sincerity.
Every elder broke their unwavering gaze, looking at each other, their worry being released, revealing their true emotions. Fear. Fear of something disastrous.
Trying to speak, Altan was silenced, witnessing all five of the shamans freeze, seeing, no sensing, something approaching. About to ask what they saw, the young practitioner’s words were lost as a gale screamed deafeningly loud outside, the tent nearly blown over in the strong wind. All six of them ran outside the yurt, abandoning all refined courtesy and actions expected of their stations.
Exiting, they watched the city below fall into chaos. The canals, the city’s lifeblood, suddenly surged with life. The stream overflowed as it began flooding the settlement, humans taken by the torrent. The relaxing breeze, which cooled the city in summer, escalated into a squall, and once again, people were taken by the wind. Seeing local practitioners, trying to stop the torrent, the shamans joined in, adding their voices to their efforts. Altan, getting out his mallet and drum, desperately playing, trying to join in on the ritual.
As he began to follow, several of the foreign priests were taken by the raging water.
He continued the ritual. If he could join, he could help stop this.
One of the elder shamans suddenly stopped beseeching the spirits, and another, blown by a strong gust, fell, not resisting the wind.
Unshaken, Altan continued, trying to enter his trance and help.
And then it came, his senses plunged into the unseen world. Without looking at the spiritual realm, Altan began calling out to the spirits for action, the words leaving his mouth, as he despaired and finally saw it.
Staring into the mystical spiritual realm, the once serene world was now dominated by a vortex, swirling ever faster and faster. Still trying to stop it, he began pleading, yelling at the spirits to do something, to listen or stop this madness. But each word that escaped did nothing. Nothing at all.
“It is doing something,” one of the elder shamans stated.
Looking at the image of the wiseman’s spiritual presence perplexed, the older man looked back, his unobscured face lifeless. Surrendered.
“Look.”
Instinctually unbowed, he wanted to protest, too act and stop the unfolding disaster. In response, the elder stared at him, a silent message ordered in his expression. Just look.
Finally convinced, he looked.
Watching the hurricane as it swirled, he studiously observed it, trying to see what the other practitioner had.
Drifting his senses into the hurricane, Altan saw, as a part of its form, shoot forward, suddenly propelling faster and faster, a source of the storm. Peering his senses deeper, he saw nothing, but heard something that left him in horror. Voices, and not the words of spirits.
“Tengri! Spare us!” one said.
“Heaven above…” another came.
“Merciful sky.”
“Kami accept these offerings…”
Altan broke as he heard the concert of voices, and watched in horror as each yell, plea, and demand for control moved the storm.
No evil or malice made the disaster, no angered god, but the voice of thousands of mortals, all seeking power and control.
A flash of thunder broke his connection to the unseen world, as if the storm pushed him out of the spiritual realm. Remembering his mortal senses, he saw the city disappear, a hurricane replacing its location. Looking around, he saw the remaining elders silent, knowing what had happened and accepting their fate. It was themselves. Each voice pulling and pushing the spirits, and with each ritual and beseechment, it created the disaster. There was no hope of stopping it; each action taken worsened it. There was nothing to do.
Watching the disaster’s physical manifestation grow ever closer, a thought came to Altan. Reminiscing about every word heard, he remembered something.
Something that wasn’t said.
With nothing else he could do, Altan closed his eyes. The young shaman tried to reconnect with the spiritual world, attempting something—not to ask, plead, or beg, but to do something that had been forgotten, lost to every practitioner’s selfish desires.
“Thank you.” He plainly said, not knowing if they ever heard, as he was taken by the wind.
Hi, my name is Jason Yang, Australian-raised, Singapore-born, and half Malaysian and Hongkie. I am a passionate writer and want to write narratively deep and meaningful stories. Stories are an art form that is capable of many possibilities, and I want to explore their potential as a form of expression.
