Upon the sands of Oirat,
A peasant’s boy ran wild,
Among the horses in the pasture.
His name was Bokemorin,
And as the years found the stars,
His might and willpower grew strong;
His hair flowed and ebbed in the dry airs.
Soon he was a man,
And famous among his tribe for strength and courage.
He once descended into the wilderness alone,
And returned not only with meat, but trophy.
He had slain the twin-headed wolf, Qoyorchinua,
A creature feared by all in the Oirat region;
A monster whom had butchered woman and children,
And left but blood for the tribesmen.
For years, children spoke of Bokemorin,
A strapping anomaly for the region,
And well-trained as a warrior.
He was not only famed for his power, but his love.
For if a horse lay ill upon the dirt,
Bokemorin lay along his side,
For hours and days.
Finding his inner being,
Mending the tissues torn by violence.
This man soon grew weary of Oirat,
And decided that in the midst of night,
He would run to a land unknown by most,
And a land feared by all;
“Mongkeqadan” the Oirad people called it,
A land where no man dare travel,
For the creature upon its harrowing hills,
Devour the souls of the innocent,
And absorb the guilt-ridden.
Bokemorin stepped into the murky mounds,
A stench of maggot infested feces rose deep from the soil’s base.
The shades of life surrounded a death-ridden camp,
And like the call of the Qoyorchinua previously,
Bokemorin was drawn nearer,
And nearer,
Until the presence of a malevolent spirit ascended.
Among the toadstools and dried lily carcasses,
An elegant fox trotted into view.
His mouth opened and he said unto Bokemorin,
“Hello my child, I am the father,
Father of the mountains,
Father of the sands,
Father of man.”
The young herdsman raised a brow and quivered at this,
Taken aback by such bold speech,
And he then replied,
“And you hold the secrets of this forsaken land?”
The fox began to weep tears of jade and declared,
“The secrets of this land are boundless, and the riches grand,
Seek the silken maggots and return them to my lair;
You will receive spoils no man has seen.
At this Bokemorin stoically answered,
“I am no man of riches, only of virtue, sly fox.”
And so the fox stepped into the brush of the swamp,
Yet upon his retreat he said,
“Do so for your people, young warrior.”
At this Bokemorin gathered his belongings and ascended the steep hillside,
In search of his grandest prize.
Upon the hill were three forms:
A silken tent, a luscious garden, and a deadened tree.
Within the silken fabrics, a beautiful woman took form.
She called out with an ancient shriek,
Sending Bokemorin’s spine a-rattle like the snakes of Oirat.
He then focused on the garden,
Which brought a softened tear to the eye,
And sent his soul awry.
He then turned to the dead tree,
Who’s leaves had left with the northern winds,
And his spirit laid at rest.
No emotion broke across his weathered face.
He slowly approached the tree,
And with his languished fingers,
Ripped the bark away and cast it into the breeze.
Beneath,
A golden hue took form,
And cast an ominous shadow upon the herdsman’s face.
Hundreds of worms slithered onto his hands,
As he shoved them into his densely woven satchel.
Returning to the deathly camp,
Bokemorin shouted for the return of the fox.
Just as before, the fox elegantly trotted from the depths of the forest,
And after a silent stare he said,
“You have done well my child,
Return to the lands from which you came,
But return with a helmet of sapphire,
A ring of jade,
And a sword of quartz!”
Equipping himself with these rewards,
Bokemorin bowed to his new acquaintance,
And followed the Eastern winds to the lands of Oirat.
Upon his arrival,
The children cheered for their hero and women wooed in his presence.
He triumphantly cast his trophies in the sun’s brilliance,
And crowed of his adventures to all.
However in the sun’s departure,
Along the mountainside a vision was made clear:
An army of hundreds from the land of Horchin,
Mounted upon steeds of mass and steam,
And armed with the finest metals of these epochal years.
The Oirad men clamored for war,
And looked to Bokemorin to lead them into a dust-ridden battle.
Fielding his helmet, ring, and sword,
Bokemorin rode into the sunset to meet the enemy,
Upon the morning’s break.
Charge! Yelled the men,
And a clash echoed down the canyons,
Heard by all the tribes of Mongolia.
Bokemorin’s sword shined brilliantly in the light,
And cut with deadly accuracy.
In the heat,
Men scuffled and weapons clanked,
With dust rising to cover the sky.
As the dust cleared,
However,
All eyes were on the Sword of Quartz.
It stood erect within the chest of a young scout,
His face still bare and his hair short.
Dasharigh, son of the Shaman of Oirat was slain.
Runners were deployed,
And upon Bokemorin’s return to Oirat,
He was met by the Shaman who held a bluish pot.
The Shaman told Bokemorin,
“You have been deceived,
And your feeble mistake killed my tender child.
For this, you are banished from Oirat,
Never to return to our sands,
And forced to wander the Earth for all days.”
At this Bokemorin said nothing,
But retreated the lands,
And traveled to a familiar camp,
One with mounds of mildew,
Casting odors of death among the maggots.
The fox elegantly trotted from his post,
And once again spoke unto Bokemorin,
“My child, remain in the lands of the unknown,
And be cast into the shadows of time.
It is the destiny of you and your people,
That the intertwining of your souls be unraveled,
And your own path be drawn.
At this, Bokemorin spit upon the cursed ground,
And returned his ring and helmet.
The fox stared squarely at the warrior,
Who furthermore ascended the hill with blood in his eyes,
And sweat on his brow.
He unsheathed the sword and returned to the three forms.
Striking the deadened tree with the Sword of Quartz,
Worms burst into all aisles of illumination,
And consumed the light in the forest.
Bokemorin then cut a flower from the garden,
Using the sharpened edge of quartz,
And pushed it into his forehead,
Where oozing pollen and water streamed down his face.
Then,
He fearlessly entered the silken tent,
And the woman’s form was slain on impact,
Screeching the horrible tone that once dehumanized the herdsman.
He once again spit upon the sands of Mongkeqadan.
The fox weeped tears of jade in the forest,
As Bokemorin strode with the Eastern winds,
Again towards Oirat.
At the seam of Oirat and Mongkeqadan soils,
Bokemorin wielded the flower plucked upon the hill,
And with the love and tenderness of his herding days,
Planted the flower in Oiradic sand with a kiss upon its petals.
Bokemorin had finished.
He sat upon the Oirat-Mongkeqadan border and fell into a deep trance.
Children still speak of his visions,
However no man knows the truth of his mind.
In the Eastern winds,
Flowers of unprecedented beauty and fullness grew,
And flowed as beautifully as Mongolian locks,
Until they reached the hut of a grieving shaman.
A tear touched his cheek,
And the image of a bare-faced boy grew among the flowers.
The Shaman of Oirat followed the trail,
And came upon a man aged beyond his years.
Bokemorin,
His locks sprouting grey,
Awoke from his deepest slumber and gazed,
Through the his own tears,
Into those of an elderly shaman.
He finally said,
“Dearest friend, I am forgiven;
For I have slain the beasts, and the innocent.
I am both man and monster;
But I found love,
In a flower’s petals,
And upon its dew,
I will glide into eternity,
And flow so fluently with the Eastern winds:
My soul rests in Oirat,
Yet my body must remain.”
And so the legend continues,
Of the warrior of Oirat;
Today his memory lingers,
In the floral trail of tears and dew intertwined in love.