battered vessel to land.
Slowly the distant spot grew larger, until a shimmering emerald island materialized, complete with a broad, towering mountain peak. Approaching the shoreline, they found heaving waves battering a rocky coastline, which rose up vertically. In a panicked moment, the ship became caught in a crosscurrent that drove them toward an inlet surrounded by jagged boulders.
'Rocks ahead!' the old ship's carpenter cried, eyeing the protrusions off the bow.
'Every man to the left side of the ship,' Temur bellowed as they bore down on a dark wall of rock. The half- dozen men on the starboard railing ran, scampered, and crawled to the port side and frantically slapped the water with their makeshift oars. Their last-second surge nosed the bow away from the rocks, and the men held their breath as the port hull scraped against a line of submerged boulders. The grinding ceased, and the men realized that the ship's timbers had held together once more.
'There is no place to put ashore here,' the carpenter shouted. 'We must turn and go back to sea.'
Temur peered at the sheer rock cliff rising above the shore. Porous black and gray rock stretched in a high jagged wall in front of them, broken only by the small black oval of a cave, cut off their port bow at the waterline.
'Bring the bow around. Row again, men, at a steady pace.'
Clawing at the water, the drained men propelled the boat away from the rocks and back into the offshore current. Drifting along the landmass, they saw that the towering shoreline eventually softened.
Finally, the carpenter spat out the words the crew waited to hear.
'We can land her there,' he said, pointing to a large crescent-shaped cove cut into the shoreline.
Temur nodded, and the men guided the vessel toward shore, a final gust of energy flowing from their limbs. Paddling into the cove, the exhausted men drove the ship toward a sandy beach, until its barnacle-encrusted hull ground to a halt a few feet from shore.
The weary men were nearly too spent to climb off the ship. Grabbing his sword, Temur painfully staggered ashore with five men to search for food and fresh water. Following the sound of rushing water, they cut through a thicket of tall ferns and found a freshwater lagoon, fed by a waterfall that rushed down a rocky ledge. In jubilance, Temur and his men plunged into the lagoon and happily gulped down mouthfuls of the cool water.
Their enjoyment was short-lived when a sudden pounding broke the air. It was the boom of the signal drum aboard the Korean ship, thumping out a cry to battle. Temur sprung to his feet in a single motion and called immediately to his men.
'Back to the ship. At once.'
He didn't wait for his men to assemble but vaulted ahead in the direction of the ship. Whatever pain and weakness his legs had felt before vanished under the replenishment of fresh water and the surge of adrenaline rushing through his body. Bounding through the jungle, he could hear the drumbeat's decibels rise in his ears as he moved closer until he finally burst past a cluster of palm trees and onto the sandy beach.
The veteran soldier's eyes quickly scanned the surrounding waters and immediately spotted the source of the alarm. Midway across the cove, a narrow canoe sailed toward the grounded ship. Seated inside, a half dozen shirtless men rhythmically muscled spade-shaped wooden paddles through the water, driving the canoe swiftly toward shore. Temur noted the men's skin was colored a deep bronze, and most had curly black hair kept shorter than his own. Several of the men wore necklaces with a hook-shaped bone dangling across their chests.
'Your orders, sir?' asked a frail soldier who had been banging the drum, finally ceasing the alarm.
Temur hesitated before answering, knowing that a harem of old maids could defeat his emaciated crew in their present state.
'Arm with spears,' he ordered calmly. 'Defensive line behind me on the beach.'
The surviving remnants of his command staggered off the boat and out of the jungle, lining up behind Temur with the few remaining spears still aboard. The ragged force had little strength left, but Temur knew they would die fighting for him if necessary. He felt for the grip of the Japanese samurai sword he now wore at his belt and wondered if he would die with its blade in his hand.
The canoe made its way directly toward the men on the beach, its rowers silent as they propelled the boat to shore. When the bow scraped the sand at the water's edge, the occupants jumped out and quickly dragged the canoe onto the beach, then stood solemnly alongside the craft. For several seconds, the two parties eyed each other suspiciously. Finally, one of the men from the canoe crossed the sand and stood before Temur. He was short, barely five foot tall, and older than the rest, with long white hair wrapped with a bark strip into a ponytail. He wore a string of shark's teeth around his neck and gripped a wooden staff made from twisted driftwood. His brown eyes sparkled with luster, and he smiled broadly at the Mongol, displaying a crooked row of bright white teeth. In a melodic language, he spoke rapidly, offering what seemed to be a nonthreatening greeting. Temur simply nodded slightly, keeping a sharp eye on the other men by the canoe. The old man jabbered for several minutes, then abruptly returned to the canoe and reached inside.
Temur tightened his grip on the Japanese sword and gave his men a knowing look of caution. But he relaxed when the old man stood and held up a fat thirty-pound yellowfin tuna. The other natives reached into the canoe and retrieved other fish and shellfish carried in reed baskets, which they placed at the feet of Temur's men. The famished soldiers anxiously waited for approval from the Mongol leader, then voraciously attacked the food, smiling thanks to the native hosts. The old man strode up to Temur and offered him a drink of water from a pigskin bag.
Having gained mutual trust, the natives pointed into the jungle and motioned for the shipwrecked men to follow. Hesitantly leaving their ship, Temur and his men followed the natives through the jungle, hiking for a mile or two before entering a small clearing. Several dozen small thatch-covered huts surrounded a fenced corral where small children were playing with a herd of pigs. On the opposite side of the clearing, an even larger hut with a high roof served as the home of the village chief, who Temur was surprised to learn was none other than the old white- haired man.
The residents of the village gawked at the strangers as a feast was hastily prepared and the Asian warriors were welcomed into the community with great honor. The ship, clothes, and weapons of the strangers were evidence of great knowledge, and the men were prized surreptitiously as new allies against potential enemy combatants. The Chinese and Korean warriors were simply glad to be alive and welcomed the generous offers of food, housing, and female companionship that the friendly villagers extended. Only Temur accepted the hospitality with reservation. As he chewed on a slab of grilled abalone with the village chief, his men around him enjoying themselves for the first time in weeks, he silently wondered if he would ever see Mongolia again.
***
Over the next few weeks, the men of the Mongol invasion force took up residence in the village, gradually assimilating into the community. Initially, Temur refused to settle in the camp, sleeping in the rotting ship each night. Only when the storm-ravaged hull timbers finally gave way and the battered remains of the ship slid to the bottom of the cove did he reluctantly move to the village.
Thoughts of his wife and four children played in his mind, but, with the ship ruined, Temur began to give up hope of returning home. His crew had gladly accepted their new lives on the tropical outpost, viewing their station as far preferable to the bleak life in China as soldiers of the Mongol emperor. It was an attitude Temur could never accept. The scrappy Mongol commander was a loyal servant to the khan and knew it was his duty to return to service at the first opportunity. But with his ship in pieces at the bottom of the cove, there was no viable means of returning home. With a bitter reluctance, Temur gradually resigned himself to a castaway's life on the large island.
***
The years trickled by and gradually softened the resolve of the old warrior. Over time, Temur and his men had learned the lyrical native tongue of the island community, and the Mongol commander enjoyed swapping adventure tales with the white-haired chief. Mahu, as he was called, bantered on about how his ancestors had sailed an epic voyage across the great sea just a few generations before in mammoth sailing ships. The island had called to them, he said, with a rumble and a billow of smoke from the mountaintop, a sign of welcome from the gods to come and prosper. The gods had smiled on them ever since, providing a land of temperate weather and abundant food and water.
Temur chuckled at the description, wondering how the primitive natives who barely traversed to neighboring islands in small canoes could find their way to crossing the ocean itself.