May There Be a Road

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Life's roads, taken and, lead you to where you are now.
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Credit must be given to Louis L'Amour. His book, "The Walking Drum", first introduced me to the phrase "Yol Bolsun". While research indicates disagreement as to the correct translation, I prefer Mr. L'Amour's translation because of its literal and metaphoric inferences.

In any event, I hope you enjoy this story. Please vote and comments are always welcome.

*****

May There Be a Road

"Yol Bolsun!" I shouted to my father and the others as they mounted their horses, preparing to leave on their hunt.

The group of horsemen turned their horses toward me and returned the salute: "Yol Bolsun!" Wheeling their mounts, the men charged off onto their next adventure.

"Yol Bolsun, may there be a road," I thought to myself as I turned away. I couldn't wait until I was old enough to accompany the men, or better yet, leave on an adventure all on my own.

I am Tomasison, and I was 5 years old, the son of Abbica Khan, leader of our Khazar tribe in the year 878AD.

We were a wandering people, always yearning to see what was on the other side of the next hill. Our young were taught the secrets of the stars from the time we could understand. We grew up to know how to observe and navigate instinctually. At the age of five, I could navigate as well as any of our elders. By the age of seven, I was accompanying the men on hunting trips. By ten, I traveled with the men on exploratory journeys and served as rear guard on raiding parties.

On my twelfth birthday, I left on my first solo adventure, a journey that lasted six months before I returned. On leaving, my mother hugged me to her breast and ordered me to return to her safe. I assured her I would. What else can you say to your mother?

As I loaded my gear and mounted my horse, I heard my father shout, "Yol Bolsun!"

My eyes grew moist as I realized my father was acknowledging that I was a man by giving me our tribe's ultimate salute for Yol Bolsun, means literately, "May there be a road." And to we, a wandering people, there could be a no greater send off.

My first journey took me to see places and meet people like I had never seen before. Customs and languages that were foreign were, at the same time, frightening and exciting. That first trip, I was extra cautious, slowly approaching these strange and excitingly new people with their different customs. I learned new languages, a word or phrase at a time.

By the time I returned to my own people, I was hooked. The drive to explore as much of our world as I could was overpowering. I loved my mother and father, but I was driven to wander.

I had long talks with my parents, together and apart. Both understood, because that was the way of our people. Both had advice, Father reminding me I would someday be Khan and to remember our people, and Mother to implore me to return to her when I could. However, both acknowledged my need to fulfill my destiny and gave me their blessings.

At fourteen, I left home not to return for seven years.

During those years, I learned the lessons that would serve me well when I was to return to our people and assume the mantle of Khan.

From the Germanic people, I learned the art of war and the importance of organization. Both lessons proved invaluable, for as a nomadic people, we were constantly in conflict with other tribes. Proper organization made for less wasted time. This proved vital when we were caught by surprise. Everyone knowing their jobs and responsibilities lowered our vulnerability to surprise by minimizing the time needed to react and counterattack.

Similarly, learning the strategies of war and keeping up with the latest in weaponry, both offensive and defensive, enabled us to have the edge needed to prevail when it came time to fight.

France was an ugly place in which to live, particularly the cities. The Catholic Church, supported by the French nobility, banned all books, except those religious books they deemed holy. Healthcare and personal hygiene were nonexistent. Praying and holistic care were all the people had. Living conditions were horrific, people seemingly living in the same slop and mud as their livestock. Some really did live with their livestock by necessity, as robbery was a standard form of providing for the family.

One thing the French people had was a strong form of resiliency. There was a strong resistance movement to the Church's dogma. Underground groups of scholars hoarded books otherwise burned by the Church. Groups of young people came together under the cover of night to read and discuss the books. Doctors of modern medicine were hidden and moved around to protect them, so they could offer their services to those in need of more than holistic medicine could offer.

This was a dangerous game, because to be caught was to be executed by burning at the stake for being, or helping, a witch. This I saw with my own eyes. I will never forget the sight, sound, and especially the smell of the execution. There may be a worse way to die, but I cannot imagine it.

Living with the French reinforced my belief in cleanliness and strengthened my suspicion of man's religion. While I believed in God, it was always sickening to see God and religion used for man's profit.

Upon leaving France, I next traveled to Spain. If France was the example of how low man could descend, Spain was the guiding light of what man could accomplish. Cordova and Cadiz were centers of learning. They were places where scholars were the elite, next to the nobility, of course.

Parties were given just so scholars in the employ of a particular nobleman could be shown off. On the other hand, it was the employment of a learned man by the ruling elite that allowed said scholar the means of employing the working class as writers and transcribers. And employ them they did.

Hundreds of illiterate people were employed to transcribe and translate. A transcriber was given a page of parchment, ink, and a quill and told to copy the marks from the original to a fresh parchment. The worker didn't need to read or write - just copy accurately. However, it was copying that gave the lowly worker the opportunity to learn to read. This was not the main intent of the work process, but it was a happy byproduct.

At seventeen, I was employed by one of the more prominent scholars attached to one of the most powerful of the ruling class. I was employed because of my verbal command of five languages and a working knowledge of two others. My job was to work with the scholar to ensure the proper translation of words or phrases from one language to another. Sometimes, there is not a literal translation from one language to another. It would be up to me to find a word or phrase that would convey the original meaning.

For this, I was handsomely paid and came to be included socially with the upper class. Those in the ruling upper class, particularly the ladies, both married and single, seemed intrigued and drawn to my, not too far under the surface, savagery. But that is another story and not a part of this narrative.

One of the big things I learned during my time in Spain was the power of the written word. Spoken words are forgotten and/or twisted with time. The written word is forever.

Socializing with the ruling class also allowed me to observe the machinations and intrigue of the rich and powerful. I learned to be wary of the smile, because the barer of the smiling lips may be holding a knife behind his back, waiting to stab you when you turn away.

By then, I was twenty years old and was feeling the tug to return home. I had been gone six years and missed my family. So, I began my trip toward the area I knew my family and the rest of my people would be.

I had just finished crossing the Pyrenees mountain range, the mountains that separated the Spanish lands from the French lands, when I spotted a solitary horseman approaching from the west. He was riding easy and in the open, showing no signs of aggression. So, I sat my horse and watched his approach.

As the rider drew up to me, he raised his right arm and hand in a universal form of greeting. I did the same. We sat and studied each other for a few moments and then, almost on que, we tried to converse. I say we tried, because this rider spoke in a language with which I was unfamiliar, and he was unable to understand my Khazar dialect. Eventually, we found we could communicate in Spanish. And so, began a friendship that would last our lifetimes.

Peter, I would learn, was English, and his tale was a painful one. My new friend was a soldier and, upon returning home from a campaign, found his home and family destroyed by a band of marauders. The family home had been burned to the ground and was still smoldering as Peter arrived. His father lie dead near the front gate, evidence of his heroic battle to protect his wife and daughter all around. There were 3 distinct pools of blood, showing the truth of his fierce attempt to defend his family. The multiple stab wounds followed by the sliced neck coup-de-grace demonstrated the outcome, however.

Peter's mother had been dragged out back, where she had been raped multiple times, battered, and left for dead. She too, showed her strength of character by surviving long enough to tell Peter what had happened and who was responsible for the death and destruction visible, as well as the abduction of Peter's fifteen-year-old sister, Mary.

Peter had traced the band of brigands to a tyrant who lived in a castle in the City of Constantine, now beginning to be called Constantinople. It was Peter's quest to find and rescue his sister and deliver some measure of retribution to the person responsible for the destruction of his family.

As we traveled eastward, we came to know each other. We shared campfires and food. We learned each other's language. We shared our life stories. We fought off thieves and highwaymen, and over the months, we became brothers. I had never felt the strength of a bond to another person like I felt with Peter, save my relationship to my father and mother. Realizing this, I came to know Peter as my true blood brother, and he accepted me as his.

At night, over our small fires, we would talk out the problem of rescuing Mary. We discussed and rejected plan after plan of how we, two men, could overcome an armed castle. Every plan was suicide. Yes, by this time, I was all in with the idea finding and reuniting Peter with his sister. He was my brother, and I could do no less. The problem was finding a way that would not sacrifice all our lives in the process.

The answer came as we neared my tribe's home grounds. One day, we spotted a rider fast approaching from the northwest. Unslinging our swords, we waited. As the rider drew near, I recognized him as a member of my people.

"Yol Bolsun!" I shouted in greeting.

The rider, Barakis, drew up in surprise. Suddenly, recognition leaped from his eyes, and he responded, "Yol Bolsun Tomasison. Welcome home, the Kahn will be pleased to see you."

Introductions were made. Barakis was impressed that a man so foreign to him could converse in our own tongue. As we rode together, Barakis told us that our tribe was camped a half a day's ride to the south. We would stop for a day or two to rest ourselves and our horses. The months of travel had been hard on us, and we needed a break, despite the sense of urgency we felt to find Mary.

As we rode into my home camp, my mother turned from her chores and saw me. Dropping an armful of clothes, she screamed my name and came running as fast as her short legs could carry her. I jumped from my horse and into my mother's arms. I was home! My father came from around the hut, and we clasped our right forearms in a greeting that was, at the same time, a show of man to man recognition and intimate greeting. My father greeted me as his equal, and I showed him the love and respect he deserved as father and Khan.

Mother declared a feast was in order, and the women of the camp delivered in fine fashion. There was plenty of food and Glug, our ancestral drink, to last well into the night.

We were sitting around the fire; I was between Father and Mother, and Peter was to Father's right. Father engaged Peter in talk and soon had the story of Peter's families' destruction and his quest to save his sister. Upon hearing where Mary was being held, the Kahn dispatched a rider to the City of Constantine to survey the situation. Father told us we had family in the city and maybe that could be of help in planning our rescue of Mary. The Kahn also told us he and some of our men would also ride with us. When Peter objected, Father informed him that, as Peter had become my de-facto brother, he was now part of the tribe, and his family honor was now our family honor.

As my father and Peter clasped arms, I could see a moistening in Peter's eyes. He knew he again had a home and family.

Two days later, we rode out of camp fourteen strong to the cry of "Yol Bolsun!" from the camp. May there be a road.

We were two weeks into a three-week trip to Constantinople when the man Father had dispatched the night of our return celebration rode up to us. Dismounting, we gathered to hear what he had learned. As it was approaching mid-afternoon, it was decided to camp for the evening. After the horses were cared for and picketed, a small fire was built, and while eating and washing the food down with Glug, we listened to our scout's report.

We learned the castle we sought was on the Northwest edge of town. This was good news for us, as we knew we would not have to stage our retreat through the streets of the city. Rather, we could flee directly into the countryside.

The castle owner, Radik, was not liked in town. He hired from the local working class, but was a cruel and abusive employer. He paid low wages and cheated his workers of what he paid. This was good for us, as we were assured of help, or at least no resistance for our planned attack.

We learned Mary was, so far, unharmed. She was being held in the north tower, attended by a servant girl. The girl, we soon learned, was a member of our family and was more than eager to assist, as she and Mary had grown close over the time of Mary's confinement. Her one request was that we take her with us when we struck.

Through intelligence gathered from those who worked in the castle, we could get a solid picture of the castle layout inside the walls. We learned there was a small servant entrance on the north side. This entrance was normally closed and guarded by a detail of two. The main entrance to the castle was in the middle of the east wall. This entry was tall enough and wide enough to allow horse-drawn carts to pass. This gate was closed at nightfall.

Our plan was for me to enter the castle grounds during the day and hide out when the gates closed for the night. Peter and two others would approach the north entrance under cover of darkness. Peter and one other would be on horseback; the remaining man would command a cart to carry the ladies away to the north and west.

The rest of our force, commanded by the Khan, would stage an early morning attack on the main entrance as a diversion. This group would then disperse through the city streets to regroup and rendezvous with Peter's group at a predetermined location.

My job, under cover of the diversion, was to free the ladies from their locked quarters and escort them through the north servant entrance. There, I would hand them off to Peter's group and then provide rear guard, while the group escaped.

At exactly three-thirty in the morning, the Khan began his attack on the main entrance. Flaming arrows flew over the wall to land on the ground beyond. Small balls of flaming tar were also catapulted over the wall. Most landed harmlessly in the courtyard beyond; however, some landed on the thatched roofs of some buildings with-in the walls causing fires to erupt. This worked to provide the diversion I needed to approach and enter the north tower of the castle.

The attack had drawn the guards to the east side of the castle grounds. Mary's quarters were guarded by a single sentry, whom I quickly dispatched. Mary and her servant were ready as I unlocked the door. We made our way to the ground entrance of the tower. Looking out the door, I saw we had about fifteen yards of open courtyard to traverse to get to the north gate. The good news was that one guard had been drawn off toward our attack, leaving only one guard to overcome to gain our escape.

I told the ladies to wait in the doorway until I opened the north wall entrance. They should then run for all they were worth through the entry and look for Peter's group. I would follow as I could, maintaining a rear guard.

I exited the tower and ran at the guard, screaming my war cry, with my sword held at the ready. The guard, startled by my sudden appearance and blood-curdling scream, hesitated before turning toward me. The hesitation was all I needed, as I drove my sword through his leather breastplate. I snatched his keys and opened the gate, and Mary and her servant dashed through to freedom. Peter and his men quickly loaded the girls onto the cart and took off at a run.

I mounted the horse they had left for me and watched for signs of pursuit. After fifteen minutes, I noticed our diversionary attack was breaking up. I waited another ten minutes and then left to join our group at our rallying point.

I was the last of our group to arrive. There was no pursuit yet, but we took no chance. Abandoning the cart, we all, including the ladies, mounted horses. We then dispersed riding north, west, and east. If a pursuit party finally found the cart, which set of tracks would they follow?

Peter and I escorted Mary and her servant, whose name I learned was Constance. Four weeks later, we arrived at our home camp. Our party of fourteen had attacked a fortified castle and rescued two ladies held against their will. We had suffered no losses and only a few superficial injuries. This was a very successful campaign.

I hadn't had time while getting the ladies out of the castle, but during our trip home, I had plenty of time to notice how beautiful Mary was. By the time we had rescued her, she turned seventeen, and a pretty seventeen she was. We had talked as we rode, and the more we talked, the more attracted to each other we became. By the time we arrived at our home camp, Mary and I were in love. The night before we arrived, I asked Peter for Mary's hand in marriage. Peter, after making sure Mary wanted this, gave his blessing.

Peter had fallen for Constance, and lacking a father to ask, approached the Khan for permission to wed. Three days later, we had a double wedding.

Peter and Constance departed for England after securing Mary's and my promise to visit.

My name is Peter Cornwall, and this is Tomasison's story as related to me by Tomasison himself. He and Mary came to England to visit as he promised. He was, by then, Khan of his people. In all my years, I have never met a person of such character. As he said in his narrative, we became brothers during our adventure together. I am proud to call him my brother and my best friend. Yol Bolsun!

Peter Cornwall - the year of our lord, 909

I closed the goat-skinned covered journal and sat back in my seat. My name is Tomasison Larrik, and the Tomasison referred to in the journal is my namesake. I traced my fingers over the texture of the ancient leather and contemplated the words captured on the yellow parchment within. This was only one volume of the history of my family, but to me, the story of my namesake is the most powerful.

I am sitting in an airplane in route from my home in Turkey to Colorado, USA to attend the wedding of my grandniece. Abigail, Abby to family and friends, is my sister's granddaughter, so I think that makes her my grandniece. I get confused by all the "once removed" and other nuances of family relations. Besides, I am old. I can call her as I please - if it pleases her also. And it does.

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