Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction

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Issue 1 Publisher: Kunlun Press Editor: John Dishon Design and Layout: John Dishon Email: kunlunjournal@gmail.com Website: kunlunjournal.blogspot.com Š 2011 Kunlun Press, all rights reserved.

Preface Well, here it is. The first issue of Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction. I founded this journal on December 29, 2010 with little more than an idea of what I wanted to do and a vague notion of how I would do it. Almost four months later, I'm pleased to be able to say that Kunlun Journal is live. The publication of Issue 1 marks the beginning for the journal. Issue 0 was merely an advertisement piece, intended to drum up interest and show readers what I had in mind for the real thing. Here is the real thing.

Except for a short interview, Issue 1 is all fiction, just the way I like it. We start off with “The Way of the Warrior”, a short story featuring Genghis Khan, written by Duncan McNair. This is Mr. McNair's first published story, and I am honored for Kunlun Journal to be the starting point for Mr. McNair's writing career. After that is “Paintings of Orchids” by Alla Hoffman. This story features historical figures, and its simplicity belies a delightful subtext that makes “Paintings” a deeper story than appears on the first read.

Next up is “The Game”, by the “Grandfather of Wuxia in English”, Albert A. Dalia. Mr. Dalia is best known for his trailblazing work, Dream of the Dragon Pool, one of, if not the first wuxia novel originally published in English. I made an exception for “The Game”, as I intend to only include previously unpublished works, and “The Game” has appeared elsewhere. Most notably, this story appears in Albert A. Dalia's short story collection Strange Tales from The Dragon Gate Inn. In this story, Mr. Dalia presents a tale that would feel at home in the Liaozhai zhiyi, a famous collection of supernatural tales written by Pu Songling.

In the middle of Issue 1 are two old chuanqi, tales of the strange, both written by Pei Xing and published during the late Tang dynasty. “The Kunlun Slave” is a famous proto-wuxia story, often cited as a precursor to modern wuxia. “Nie Yinniang” is another proto-wuxia story, this one featuring a female protagonist.

Both of these stories were translate by yours truly, so all deficiencies in the translation can be blamed on me. I’m still learning to read Chinese. There was supposed to be a third translated story included here, but I didn’t have time to finish the translation, so it will appear in a later issue. A commentary on the movie Reign of Assassins will also be published later than expected, again because I just didn’t have time to write the article.

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Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction

Next, we have “A Eunuch Slave’s Life”, an excerpt from the currently unpublished novel Journey of the North Star by Douglas Penick. Mr. Penick has many published works, which are detailed in the “Contributors” section at the end of the issue. He has written for the stage, including opera and two documentaries.

Journey of the North Star deals with the reign of the Yongle Emperor of the Ming dynasty, as told through the eyes of a eunuch slave. “A Eunuch Slave’s Life” is the first chapter of that novel. Also included here is a short interview with Mr. Penick, which will hopefully give you a better idea of Mr. Penick’s diverse writing background.

Finally, included in this first issue is a novella by Winnie Khaw, titled A Summit of Tumultuous Winds. Winds reads like a play, and its unique style and syntax will certainly grab your attention. Winnie Khaw has written for the stage before, and it shows here.

And that’s it for what I consider a great first issue. I was impressed by the quality of submissions, though I would like to see an increase in quantity. If you would like to support Kunlun Journal, then spread the word as much as you can.

I’m looking forward to hearing what everyone thinks about this inaugural issue.

With that, I’ll sign off here and let you get to reading the first issue of Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction. Hope you like it.

John Dishon Editor April 20, 2011

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Contents The Way of the Warrior Duncan McNair 6

Paintings of Orchids Alla Hoffman 24

The Game

Albert A. Dalia 27

The Kunlun Slave Pei Xing 35

Nie Yinniang Pei Xing 39

A Eunuch Slave's Life Douglas Penick 45

Interview: Douglas Penick 54

A Summit of Tumultuous Winds Winnie Khaw 59 Contributors 122

The Way of the Warrior

by Duncan McNair

The valley was broad and flat, lush from the summer’s rain, and the encampment lay by the river. A dozen white felt tents lay there, wide conical yurts, with smoke gently streaming from the roof-holes. Around them were the herds.

Although fattened by the summer grass, they were few in number, and mangy.

The cattle and sheep and goats, the wealth of the tribe, were small. The horses, though, were strong and well-fed, for horses were beyond wealth.

From this encampment rode two people, a young man and a boy, side by side. Although neither had left his teenage years, they rode with skill and aplomb, and they trotted neatly towards the steep hills lining the valley. A grin plastered the face of the younger boy.

“Temujin!” he cried. “Show me the stunt you did last week. The one with the handstand.”

“Not for you, lad,” came the reply. “It’s dangerous. You wouldn’t be thinking of trying it yourself, would you?”

“I wouldn’t do that. Please will you show me?”

“No.”

“You did it for Borte.”

“That’s different.”

“I bet it is! I know what you and she get up to when she comes to visit. I saw you last season. I saw you put your hand—”

“That’s enough. You’re too young to be thinking about that kind of thing.”

Despite his best efforts, Temujin felt a grin splash across his face. His brother looked genuinely fascinated, but the little rapscallion was only out to cause trouble. Borte would suffer great loss of face if the tribe learnt about their touching games, for they were not yet married, and they were both scions of Khans. Once again Temujin grumbled in his mind against the rules that governed him; rules that he had to obey if he wanted others to obey them.

“Temujin?” said his brother, Odchugin. “You awake over there? I knew you 6

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction were a good horseman, but riding in your sleep? I bet you were dreaming about Borte.”

Temujin grinned and lunged his mount towards Odchugin’s. Odchugin whooped, kicked his horse’s flanks, and galloped away. They thundered along the grass, Temujin in hot pursuit, both of them shouting and bellowing from the sheer joy of the ride.

When they reached the base of the hills, Odchugin reined his horse in to a trot. Temujin caught up with him quickly, and raised a hand to strike as he galloped past. Odchugin turned around, saw the coming blow, and startled. Temujin saw the fear on his face in the split-second before impact as he rushed towards him, then, at the last possible instant, lowered his hand. He galloped past, then reined in his horse and turned around, laughing.

“Almost got you there, my brother,” he said. Odchugin started to laugh along with him, but artificially. There was a look of thinly-disguised fear on his face.

“Now, let’s find these sheep.”

They climbed the horses as far up the hill as they would go, then dismounted and left them to graze. Temujin led up to the rocky crest of the hill, but then, with no sign of the sheep, he said to his brother, “I will go west, you go east. There will be more chance of spotting them. If they aren’t on the hill, you’ll be able to see them in the valley. They can’t have gone far.”

Odchugin nodded, and said sarcastically, “Yes, my Khan.” He gave a mock salute and ran off, giggling, before Temujin could reach him. He had the urga, the lasso.

Temujin turned and walked in the other direction, his thoughts drifting back towards Borte. Despite this he never stopped looking around the hills and valley, for to lose a flock of sheep would be a very costly thing. The family did not have much wealth, and they had only just survived the last winter. A flock of sheep could mean the difference between subsistence and starvation. More than that, such a loss would brand him unlucky within the tribe, and that would be a bad thing for the eldest son of a dead Khan. After all, was he not in the line of succession?

These thoughts were dispelled when he saw the sheep: a patch of white blobs on the hill ahead of him. He turned and hailed his brother, then waited for the answering shout to drift along the hills back to him. The sheep looked up at the sound.

Not waiting for his brother to reach him, Temujin strode out towards the sheep. They were grazing happily. As he approached, the sheep all looked at him, and quickly dashed together into a tight cluster. They stood, alarmed. Temujin 7

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction broke into a jog, and tried to circle around them, to force them back into the direction he came from. It didn’t work. A big three-year-old ram, who had emerged recently as leader of the flock, led them away from Temujin and the direction he wanted them to go.

Temujin stopped. They could run faster than him. The sheep stopped, still alert. Temujin walked slowly around them. The big ram eyed him warily.

The ram bolted, and all the sheep followed. Temujin ran after them, anger fogging his vision. How dare they be so insubordinate? But still he could not catch them.

He stopped, and they stopped. If anything, they were further from the encampment. Cursed animals! He started to circle around them again.

There was a whistle behind him — Odchugin, with the urga. He was already swinging the loop of rope above his head. He let fly. The loop went right over the head of the big ram, and Odchugin tightened it. He always was a good shot, mused Temujin. Odchugin pulled the ram towards him, and the rest of the flock followed. He grinned at Temujin, saluted, and marched off, trailing the ram behind him. The rest of the flock followed.

They walked back towards the horses. Halfway there, Temujin noticed Odchugin dragging his feet, and saw that his gloveless hands were suffering with the rope. The ram was still recalcitrant, and it constantly tried to escape. “I’ll take the rope now,” he said. Wordlessly Odchugin handed it to him, and they carried on walking. Temujin pulled the fractious ram along, but it took a lot of strength.

When they reached the horses, Odchugin leaped gainly onto his, while Temujin looped the urga about his waist and put his hands on the horse’s back.

He started to pull himself up, and the ram hauled with all its strength. The timing was perfect. Temujin was caught off-balance and flung to the ground. He rolled once, then got control of the rope and hauled the ram in. It looked at him with smug unshameful eyes.

Rage filled his body, clenching every muscle. He stood up. It was anger beyond reach of thought; pure, reactive, blazing hatred. He burned. He pulled the animal towards him and lashed out blindly with his foot. The ram squealed. He grabbed its horns and flung it to the ground. He kicked it again, and again, and again, oblivious to its cries and to his brother’s protestations, letting the anger fill him and use him.

Odchugin’s shout startled him out of his rage. “Temijuin! Stop! What are you doing?” He looked down. Below him the ram lay, broken and still. His brother was staring at him wide-eyed. “Why did you do that? Now we only have three rams in the flock.”

“I... it made me angry.” Now that the rage had passed, he felt nothing but a 8

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction dark satisfaction. It had crossed him, and it had paid the price.

“Mother will be furious.”

“I’ll deal with Mother.”

They rode back to the camp in silence.

✴✴✴ As they trotted into the camp, the sheep following behind, a woman strode out to meet them. Temujin’s heart thumped. It was Borte. She was the epitome of classical beauty: round, sturdy, with a pleasantly flat face and a cute little nose. Her glance was enough to make Temujin feel like melting. Now her eyes were fixed upon his.

She ran up to his horse. “Temujin,” she said.

He dismounted. “Borte. It is good to see you.” He clasped her hand. Decorum prevented them from embracing in public, but her eyes spoke volumes to him. They were beautiful; pale brown, warm and kind. He stood, lost in her.

“Stop doing the gooey thing, brother!” said Odchugin. “I thought you weren’t allowed to do that in public.” Temujin dropped Borte’s hand. Odchugin wasn’t quite irrepressible, he thought wryly, but he could never be repressed for very long.

“You found the sheep,” said Borte, still looking into his eyes. He nodded.

Odchugin groaned.

Then a young woman came dashing out of one of the tents. A young man soon followed her. She ran towards a group of nearby horses, and he chased her.

Both were giggling.

“Isn’t that Alakha there, being chased by Dobunmergen?” said Borte.

“It’s about time those two got together,” said Temujin. Borte glanced at him sharply.

Alakha and Dobunmergen both mounted horses, and he rode in hot pursuit of her. She made a fine figure on the horse, thought Temujin, with her hair streaming over her back and a smile on her face. And she didn’t seem to be trying very hard to get away.

“What are they doing?” Odchugin said innocently.

“They’re getting married,” replied Borte. A little crowd had gathered in front of the camp, watching and cheering. The riders were several hundred yards away, and Dobunmergen was gaining fast.

“Why does he have to chase her?” said Odchugin.

“It is the custom,” said Temujin. “A wife not won by contest is not a wife worth having. So he chases her.”

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Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction

“What happens when she gets caught?” said Odchugin.

“Then he takes her,” said Temujin.

“Back to her tent,” Borte added hurriedly.

“And when they come out, she is his wife, bound to him until death,” said Temujin.

Dobunmergen had caught Alakha and lifted her bodily from her saddle, placing her on his. They embraced. He turned the horse around and trotted back to camp, to the accompaniment of cheers and wolf-whistles from the watchers.

Standing away from the boisterous group was a woman, tall and proud.

Temujin’s mother. She lifted her head as the lovers passed, and Temujin thought he saw a tear run down her cheek. But it couldn’t have been; his mother would not cry.

“What if she doesn’t want to?” said Odchugin.

“That doesn’t matter. As long as he can catch her, she will be his wife.”

Borte said, “Temujin, we need to talk.”

“Now?” said Temujin.

“Yes. But not here.” said Borte

“As you wish. Odchugin, will you take care of the sheep?” said Temujin. Odchugin nodded, and led the sheep away. He, too, sensed something tense, thought Temujin. He and Borte walked away from the camp.

When they were a respectable distance from the tents, Borte turned and said to him, “How long are you going to wait before you petition my father?”

“Borte—”

“Don’t you want to marry me?”

“Yes, of course I do, but—”

“Then why not get on with it? Ask my father’s permission, then just do it! We don’t need a feast.”

“Look, Borte, we’re still poor. My herd is small. Would your father have you marry a pauper?”

“We’ve been betrothed since we were ten! Don’t you think he might have become used to the idea?”

“My family was wealthier then. Before my father was murdered—”

“You can’t blame everything on being half an orphan. You have enough to live on. My father likes you! He wouldn’t say no.” Borte was trembling, and she looked on the verge of tears. “Why not just do it? Forget about permission. Chase me, drag me back to your tent. If you did that my father could do nothing.”

“He couldn’t separate us, but we need his support. He’s a powerful man, and taking you without permission would anger him.” Borte looked at Temujin.

He felt a surge of compassion for her, a breath of love and affection. “I’m sorry, 10

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction Borte.”

“Sorry just isn’t going to help. I can’t wait forever!” She burst into tears.

Temujin stepped forward and embraced her. She sobbed into his shoulder, trembling. He held her gently and stroked her hair. She was so vulnerable! He felt an overpowering urge to protect her, to guard her from all harm and make her safe forever. And he wanted her.

“Borte,” he said quietly. “Borte.” She carried on sobbing. “Tomorrow we shall ride to your father. I will get his permission.”

She looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. “Thank you. Oh, thank you. You don’t know how much this means to me.” But he did. He understood, because every part of him was caught up in that vast great whirlwind of emotion that had started when he first set eyes on her, and had carried him, spinning, to places he had never been before. He had discovered feelings he never knew existed. She taught him to enjoy life. All this he thought, but said nothing. He just held her close, tightly, and she clutched him just the same.

Temujin’s mother was waiting for him in the family tent. It was warm and dark inside, thanks to the heavy felt material. The floor was circular, with a short vertical wall rising to shoulder-height, topped by a flat cone of wooden supports holding up the felt roof. The door, of course, faced south. A small open fire burned in the centre, filling the single room with smoke, but shedding some light. Around the tent were pieces of furniture: tables, beds and stools, well-made but old, dating from more prosperous times. Hoelun, his mother, sat on a stool in the eastern side of the tent; the female side, under the protection of the sun god.

Temujin sat down in the west, the male side, beneath the aegis of the sky god.

“Hello, Mother,” he said.

“My son.”

“Borte and I will be married soon.”

“Does her father know this?”

“Tomorrow we go to seek his blessing.”

She nodded.

“Mother, I—”

“It is good that you will be married. Borte grows weary of waiting. Yet you must seek her father’s permission. It would not be wise to anger him."

“No, Mother.”

“I know him well. He is a patient man, and he has been a great friend to us.

To steal his daughter would be an insult. I fear the consequences, though he is slow to anger.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Unlike some of those around me.”

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Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction

Temujin looked at her. “Odchugin told you?”

“Yes.”

“Mother I... I am sorry.”

“Are you?”

“I truly am,” said Temujin. He meant it. Feeling Borte’s weakness had made him see how vulnerable she was, how easily she could die. Like the ram died.

What if a man should kill her in a fit of rage, as he killed the ram? He shuddered at the thought.

The fire crackled. His mother’s face shone red in its light. She nodded. “Yes, I believe you really are. Borte does you good.”

“I know, Mother.”

“You have my blessing for the union, whenever it be made.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

They sat for a moment in the flickering light.

“You begin a long journey tomorrow. I will give you hard cheese and salt meat. You must rest well tonight.”

The journey to the camp of Dey Sechen, father of Borte and Khan of the Khenti tribe, was four days on horseback. Temujin took his bow and long slashing knife, but no danger found them on the way. They arrived tired and worn, but safe, and definitely happy to have so much time together.

Dey Sechen welcomed them both with great enthusiasm. He commanded a feast be held in their honour. In his richly decorated tent, seated on a bearskin, before his closest retainers, he gave them permission to wed. He spread his hands over them in blessing and, for the first time in public, they kissed.

He insisted on providing a feast for the wedding, and they could not turn down the offer. After much discussion, they decided to hold the feast at the camp of Temujin’s tribe, the Khujirad. Dey Sechen gave them a full twenty cattle to drive home, to be slaughtered for the meal, and many skins of airag, fermented mare’s milk. They set the date for one month ahead, since it would take time for messengers to reach the neighbouring tribes, and for the guests to come. That would put it just before the onset of winter.

He dispatched messengers that very night, and bade the couple stay in his camp. They could only rest for a few days, though, because there was much to do before winter in the camp of the Khujirad, and he was the eldest man of his family. They needed him. So, with light hearts and songs on their lips, Temujin and Borte rode back home.

✴✴✴ 12

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction One of those messengers went north, across the mountains, towards the camp of the Merkids. It was a difficult journey, but when he reached his destination, the people welcomed him with food and warm lodging. He delivered his message to Merkid Khan himself, in the leader’s tent. Merkid Khan, seated in the place of honour opposite the fire, listened to the rider’s news and said nothing. He nodded, and motioned the rider away with his hand. When the messenger was gone, he turned to his chief advisor, and said, “What do you think of this?”

“I think it is time for revenge.”

The Khan nodded.

✴✴✴ Temujin and Borte returned to general rejoicing, but it was short-lived. Although all the tribe was happy for them, the short summer was coming to an end, and there was much to be done before winter. Few could spare the energy for celebration, though they hungrily eyed the cattle of Dey Sechen. News of the feast pleased all, for it meant that they would get at least one good meal, but they had to survive many hard months of frost and famine. To neglect their tasks meant death.

And death would certainly come to a few — the elderly, the infirm, the very young — but Temujin and Borte were grown and strong and full of joy. They worked because it was their duty, and they did it smiling. Temujin worked particularly hard, and helped other families with their labours because goodwill is a commodity beyond price, especially for the son of a Khan. All the tribe worked, and all were happy. True, the great cold was descending, and some would doubtless never see the spring, but what of it? The winter came every year, did it not?

And people died every year, did they not? Even the elderly and sick accepted their likely fates with equanimity, for were not life and death willed by the gods? Only mothers of weak young children railed against their doom, for their bravery was both indomitable and irrational.

So the nights lengthened, and a chill came to the air. Temujin and Borte were happy, for though their life was harsh, they were together, and the future was full of dreams of glory. Temujin’s head was full of thoughts about the alliance between Khenti and Khujirad, the weakness of his present Khan, and his likelihood of being chosen as the successor. And how, wherever he went, Borte would be at his side.

Borte only ever thought about the last.

Together they helped with the shearing of sheep — a difficult task, for if too 13

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction little wool was harvested, the family could not keep warm, but too much and the animals would die of cold. They carefully sought out the best pasture they could, that the animals would grow fatter while the grass yet grew. They made felt out of wool, to line their tents and clothing. They prepared hard, sour cheese, and put it aside for the hard times to come. And they slaughtered animals that were too weak to survive the winter, and salted away the meat.

It was on this task that Temujin left the camp one morning, alone. The goats were at pasture some miles down the valley to the east, and the herd was to be culled. He needed to choose the animals that were to perish in the name of food, separate them from the herd and bring them back to the camp. The sky was clear, the air was crisp, and Borte sent him away with a kiss. He rode out happily, and had his usual trouble retrieving the animals. They simply did not want to go to him, but he trapped them eventually, with the help of his lasso. He picked the skinniest, the mangiest, the ill-looking and the lame, but left the others. He roped the doomed beasts together and trailed them along behind him as he rode. There were no thoughts of darkness in him; he was truly happy, riding down the valley on a good horse, the autumn wind sweeping over his face, and his beloved waiting for him at the tents.

He first noticed something was wrong two miles away from camp: a column of black smoke rising to the sky, blown by the wind. He checked the horse.

The smoke came from where the camp was, he saw, and something in his belly clenched. He dropped the goats’ tether and spurred his horse to a gallop.

There! What was that? Some of the other horses, too far from camp. Why were they out there?

His horse's hooves thundered on the grass beneath him, and the air roared in his ears, but he felt no joy in the ride. Only a sick, wrenching dread. What was he going back to? The journey seemed to take forever. All his world was gone, his past and his future. All that was left was Temujin and the horse, riding forever through an ocean of pain. There was nothing else.

All too soon his agonised limbo came to an end. He crested the brow of a hill and looked down upon the camp — or what was left of it. The tents were burning, the herds were scattered, and corpses lay sprawled on the ground. From that moment Temujin’s world took on a crazed, dreamlike quality, as though he was looking at the scene through a thick distorting glass. He spurred the horse down, scarcely noticing the foam at its mouth or the heaving of its flanks, and raced towards his family’s burning tent.

“Borte! Borte!” he cried. There was no response. He heard weeping over the sound of his hooves, to the right. He wheeled the horse around. A woman lay kneeling on the ground beside a corpse with an arrow in its chest. She looked up 14

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction at Temujin. She wasn’t Borte. He turned swiftly and moved on. Smoke burned in his lungs.

He rode up to his tent, as close as the flames would let him. There was a woman standing their, grief upon her face, gazing into the flames. Hoelun.

“Mother!” shouted Temujin. She looked up with a start.

“Temujin! Leave now!” she said.

“Where is Borte?”

“They are waiting for you, and they will come back. Odchugin is away to the south. Go, and meet him. But run! They are not far!”

Temujin looked around. On one of the nearby hills he could see a small party of riders, heading towards the camp. They were no more than a mile distant.

“Where is Borte?” he said.

“They took her,” said Hoelun.

“What? I will not run from her captors! I would kill them all first.”

“They have already taken her away. The main party rode off with her, across the valley wall.”

Temujin looked at the riders, now closer and whooping to the air. He turned back to Hoelun. “Which pass did they take?”

“My son, they were two hundred in number! You could do nothing. Do not throw—”

“Where did they go, Mother?” Temujin spat. His anger bubbled within him, boiling hard and smelting hatred for those who took away his Borte. He looked at Hoelun.

“The first pass to the northwest,” she said, dropping her eyes.

“Then we will follow. Come with me.” Temujin moved the horse to her. She grabbed the saddle and swung up behind him. He spurred the horse, heading east at a gallop. The riders behind them were still out of bow shot, but they were closing.

Temujin and Hoelun thundered over the grass, but the horse was slower, and it stumbled often. Temujin looked behind. The riders were closer.

“My son,” said Hoelun, “The horse cannot carry us both.” Temujin did not reply. “You will have to leave me. The horse will fall if we both ride it much longer.”

“It won’t have to, Mother.”

“Leave me and I will be safe.”

“I passed some of our herd on the way in to camp. They are not far.” Temujin drove his spurs cruelly into the horse’s flanks. It whinnied, but ran faster.

From the top of the next rise they could see the horses: clustered together, peacefully grazing. Temujin whistled, and they looked up. He spurred his own 15

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction horse again, and it ran down the slope with a limp and stumbling gait. He reined it in next to the other horses. Like a flash of lightning Hoelun was on the ground and running. She leapt onto a fresh horse. Temujin did the same. Over the top of the hill came the riders, in bowshot range. They fired as they galloped.

Arrows thunked into the ground by Temujin, and he galloped away. Ahead he could see his mother, riding hard and holding the reins of another two horses. The rest of the herd were panicked, and following Temujin. He felt an arrow brush his scalp. He looked behind. Their original, faithful horse had fallen to the ground and lay panting. All the riders but one went around her. That one rode his horse over her. Even from that distance Temujin could hear her screams.

He caught up with his mother. “Bear northeast! Head out of the valley and we’ll lose them in the hills!” he shouted across to her. She nodded assent, and turned towards the high valley wall. Their little herd of horses turned with them.

Temujin looked behind them again. The riders had fallen back and stopped firing their bows. They rode in grim silence, pushing their tired mounts to the point of exhaustion. Ahead of him lay the valley wall, a steep hill climbing to a rocky crest and, beyond that, the mountains. They were heading into a different part of the hills from the place Temujin killed the ram, long weeks ago; there was a dip in the slope, a pass into the mountains. The horses could climb it, but it would be a long, hard trudge. And, of course, their horses were fresher than their foes’.

Sure enough, Temujin and his mother continued to gain ground as they climbed into the hills. Although their horses found the going tough, it was even harsher for the fatigued beasts of their pursuers. Twice they switched horses, leaping from one back to the next at full trot, a difficult feat at the best of times.

Temujin noted with pride that his mother was as nimble as she ever had been, despite her age.

They made it into the rocky pass long before their pursuers, but all their horses were slowing. Hoelun said, “The horses can go little further. We must rest them, my son.”

“We can’t stop. They’re still too close behind, and there are too many of them to fight. I will not leave Borte to rot!”

“Your death and mine will do her no good. We must find a place to hide,” said Hoelun.

“We would lose too much time that way. Borte’s trail is still fresh. We can still follow them,” said Temujin.

“That would do her no good! You cannot take her back from so many warriors,” said Hoelun.

“But I could see where they took her, and return with an army. Dey Sechen 16

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction would give me the troops. I know it,” said Temujin.

“There is no need to follow them. I know where they took her.” Hoelun paused. Her face was an empty mask, and she sat sternly in her saddle. “We can find her at the camp of the Merkids.”

“How— how do you know?” said Temujin. “Merkid Tribe! Did you overhear them?”

Hoelun said nothing.

“The Merkids! A powerful foe,” said Temujin. “But I will make them pay for this.”

“They will pay nothing if we die here,” Hoelun said.

“Let us hide, then. We can wait till they pass by, and head back down to the valley. Then we shall find Odchugin, and go to Dey Sechen.”

There were many ravines cut into the hills, cluttered with boulders large and small. Temujin and Hoelun were out of sight of their pursuers, so it was an easy matter to slink quietly into a little box valley, and tether the horses behind a boulder the size of a large tent. The walls of the valley were steep but climbable, thought Temujin, so they would still have an escape route even if the enemy came at them.

But the enemy did not come at them. They watched in silence from behind the boulder as the riders picked their way slowly along the pass, leading their horses on foot. Although they looked around them, they did not see Temujin or Hoelun, and the hidden horses made no sound. The enemy walked up to the entrance to the little box valley, and moved on. They were safe.

They waited until the way was clear, then rode swiftly down the pass back into the valley. It was the matter of an afternoon’s searching to find Odchugin where he was tending the cattle. He went quiet when he heard the news, but helped them set the cattle to graze while Hoelun kept watch. They killed one animal to eat on the journey, and left, even Odchugin silent and watchful, for the camp of Dey Sechen.

✴✴✴ “My daughter has been what?” said Dey Sechen. Temujin stood before him in the tent, Hoelun at his side. Odchugin was helping the Khenti men tend to their horses.

“Taken by the Merkid, my khan,” said Temujin.

“How could you permit this to happen?”

“My khan, they came upon us in great numbers. We could not defeat them.”

“Why the Merkids? What have — of course. Hoelun, forgive me.” Temu17

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction jin’s mother stood frosty and stern, as always. She nodded once, slightly. Temujin looked back at Dey Sechen.

“My khan, I must have warriors to raid their camp. Our tribe is weak and beaten. We could not defeat the Merkids. Give me men, my khan, and I will lead them to crush our enemy and save your daughter.” He felt himself tremble with anger and pain. “Give me that chance, O Khan! Help me and we may save her. Do nothing and I will have to spend my life uselessly, throwing myself alone at their camp. But I will not let her suffer!”

Temujin saw pity as well as sadness on the face of Dey Sechen, but no anger.

The old khan walked over to Temujin and put his hand on his shoulder. “My son,” he said, “Do not grieve without need. I am sure she is not harmed, or taken from you. They may only want a ransom.” Temujin looked into Dey Sechen’s eyes, and saw that he, too, knew the words to be worthless.

He dropped his hand and looked away. “I will give you the soldiers,” he said.

Temujin nodded, and felt something give way inside him. The taut cord of his soul untwisted slightly. Here, at least, was a chance for revenge.

“Thank you, my khan,” he said.

Orders spread through the camp like wildfire. Men and horses raced about to Temujin’s bidding. Dey Sechen had given him some two thousand Khenti warriors, and they spent the afternoon retrieving the cattle they would eat and the horses they would ride. Each man had at least four horses, and drove with him several cows. He would change horses as each one tired, and slaughter a cow every few days to feed himself and his compadres. No warrior carried more than his bow, his knife, his arrows and his clothing. There were no supplies to drag or camp followers to support. They moved as they fought: swiftly, and at a moment’s notice. By dusk they were ready. All two thousand men gathered around Temujin and swore allegiance to him in the light of the setting sun. They would obey him to the death, until the campaign was over.

After the oathtaking, Temujin dismissed them. They went back to their tents to make their farewells to their womenfolk. Each of them knew that he might not return.

They set out the next morning, Temujin at the head of the column, Odchugin by his side. They moved at a slow trot, for Temujin knew a horse could go no further than forty miles in a day, regardless of the speed. He wanted to keep the horses rested for the coming fight. They faced a five-day ride, and rested horses would mean the difference between life and death.

Dey Sechen and his guard of honour stood out to watch them go, but Hoelun 18

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction was nowhere to be seen.

The ride was uneventful, although the increasing chill made each man uncomfortable. They rode steadily every day, with Temujin moving up and down the column, offering words of encouragement, friendly mockery and laughter, for he knew that inspiring soldiers was a serious business. In his heart he wanted to do anything but laugh. It was only the thought of Borte that kept ribald jokes on his lips, for he knew that his men would obey him regardless, but they would fight the more fiercely if they loved him. So he moved from campfire to campfire in the evenings, drinking airag and eating toasted cow-flesh. He roused the camps at dawn, chivvying warriors from sleep with strong words and talk of glory. Odchugin followed him everywhere, for Hoelun had not objected to the boy’s demand to go with them. She had only nodded, her face seeming more tired than ever, despite her stern posture. So he went, though Temujin mused about the change in his mother. It kept him from thinking about Borte.

In the afternoon of the fifth day, Odchugin rode happier and prouder than ever beside his brother. Battle was not far off. Battle! His blood fizzed at the word. Soon he would be like the heroes of his mother’s tales: a warrior, proud and strong. He would slay many foes, and bring glory to the clan of Khujirad.

The people around him seemed quieter, though. The rough banter had been slim that morning, and talk was muted on the trail. Each man seemed — and Odchugin hesitated before applying the label to such veteran soldiers — nervous, or even frightened! How could they be, he thought? They had the chance of glory, like in the songs. Surely such men were not cowards, to shirk at the thought?

Even his brother had changed. He had become grimmer, more silent and stern. Right then he rode to Odchugin’s left, and he stared ahead fixedly. Odchugin looked at him, then made a face. He was ignored.

They stopped. A man of the Khenti, who knew the land, was guiding them, and he raised his palm. The soldiers dismounted. Temujin walked his horse forwards to the guide, and Odchugin followed. The troop leaders converged on them.

“Their camp is beyond that ridge, my lord,” said the guide, an aging man of forty summers.

“And the land is as you have told me?” said Temujin.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then we shall attack from here. This is how we will do it.”

Odchugin lay flat on the ground, just below the brow of a hill. In the valley below him lay the camp of the Merkids: a thousand tents, it seemed, and people mov19

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction ing to and fro. He could also see his brother’s army, split into sections. Temujin was close by the enemy camp with one squad of mounted warriors, and a squad of dismounted men were crawling laboriously up another hill close to the camp.

Two more groups of men sat waiting on their horses, in different glens around the enemy camp. Each man wore a red band around his upper arm.

Hurry up, thought Odchugin. The men climbed excruciatingly slowly. It had taken hours for the other squads to get in position without being seen. He drummed his fingers impatiently. He wanted to start! After all, he had the most important job in the battle. But he had to wait until the archers reached the tops of their hills. How long would he have to wait?

He turned and looked behind him. Temujin had warned him to do that, because the enemy may have patrols around their camp. The land was clear around him, and the brow of the hill was a few dozen yards away. If he was right at the top, he would be silhouetted against the sky, and much easier to spot.

He checked his bow. Strung properly, and the arrows were good. They lay on the ground beside him, next to the canvas sack. It had taken him ages to haul that bag up the hill, but it would be worth it. After all, it was the key to his part in the battle. He had to do it properly. He couldn’t let his brother down.

Both teams of archers had stopped moving over on the other hills. Although it was hard to see from that distance, the warriors were crouched below their hilltop, out of site of the Merkid camp. Odchugin sighed. At last! Everything was ready. He reached over and opened the sack.

Temujin squinted up at the hillside. His horse fidgeted nervously, sensing the worries of the men around it. Temujin could tell they were nervous, but he did not blame them. They would soon have to face many terrible things. He did not allow himself to be frightened, though. It would do him no good. Fear would not recover Borte, only cunning, determination and an iron will.

He could just make out the figure of his brother lying on his stomach, the bag by his side. Keeping still, as he should. The lad could see all the valley from up there, but if he got himself spotted, the whole plan would go up in smoke.

Temujin couldn’t even see the camp from his vantage point, so he had to rely on—

The signal! Odchugin had opened the bag and pulled out its contents: a small rolled-up tent. He spread it out across the hillside, then sprinted up and over the ridge. Temujin walked his horse forward. The first fire-arrows streaked overhead from the archers on the hill.

“Men!” he shouted. “This is it! Charge, for the glory of Khenti and Khunjirad!” Then he was overwhelmed in the galloping, surging mass of men and horses, riding furiously into the enemy, firing arrows until his bow cracked, then 20

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction using his long slashing knife to kill, and kill, and kill.

✴✴✴

Odchugin walked down from the hillside, shaking. The dead and dying were all around. Some had red armbands, but most did not. The groans of the wounded men rose up with the squeals of dying horses and the shrieks of grief-struck women. Odchugin put his fingers in his ears.

Most of those still living were Temujin’s men — and, of course, the women, for his warriors were under strict orders not to touch any woman in the camp.

They wailed for their dead husbands and fathers, and the killers searched the bodies.

Through the clamour Odchugin could hear Temujin’s voice raised in the distance, crying, “Borte! Borte!” He walked toward the sound, and tried not to look at what he could see.

Horses’ hooves sounded behind him. He turned around. A party of Khenti warriors were riding back from the hills, and with them was a single riderless horse. It was carrying baggage, though: a man, tied at wrists and ankles, flung across the saddle. The leader of the group, a burly old sergeant Odchugin had some acquaintance with, noticed him and led the group over.

“Where is our master, young lad?” he said.

“I don’t know, ... sir. I heard his voice over there. I think he’s alive.” Odchugin waved his hand in the direction he was walking. The sergeant nodded curtly and spurred his horse away. He had the same blank, hollow expression Odchugin could see on everyone’s face.

Temujin ran from tent to tent with a group of soldiers. Their horses had long since been killed. They faced no opposition from the few survivors of the Merkid.

Temujin knew the battle was won, but he did not care. There was no sign of Borte.

He called her name to the wind.

Yet another tent door opened, and a woman struggled out. Her wrists were bound, and she was unkempt and dirty, but Temujin knew her. It was Borte. She looked up and saw him. Their eyes met for an instant, then she looked down.

Temujin rushed up to her.

He noticed the soldiers had gone quiet. They were all watching. He cut her bonds and took her hands. She still did not meet his gaze. He said, “Borte.”

She sobbed. He said again, “Borte.”

“Temujin, they... he... took me.”

Something gave inside of Temujin. He looked at her, and all he saw was a 21

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction small, dirty woman crying her sorrows out. A door had opened somewhere in his soul, and the great cool torrent had poured out of it. He was left with nothing.

“Who did?” he said.

“Merkid Khan,” she said. “I... I’m sorry.”

He looked away.

Hooves sounded behind him, at a steady trot. He turned around. A small group of his soldiers rode towards him, leading a horse with a man lashed to the saddle. They stopped. Odchugin was close behind, on foot.

“My lord,” said the leader. They all saluted.

“Did you catch them,” said Temujin.

“Yes, my lord.”

“And did you kill them?”

“All but this man, my lord.”

“And who is this man?”

“The Merkid Khan, my lord.”

Odchugin reached them. He said, “My brother! I saw all the battle! It was—” Temujin held up his hand. Odchugin was silent.

“Bring him to me,” said Temujin. One of the troops dismounted and hauled the man out of the saddle. He fell unceremoniously to the floor, from where he looked up at Temujin with simmering eyes.

Temujin walked up to him. Merkid Khan closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them when he saw that Temujin was not going to kick him.

“Why did you do this?” said Temujin.

Merkid Khan laughed once, harshly. “You did not know?”

Temujin looked at him, and said nothing.

“Ask your mother if you wish to learn, pup.”

Temujin looked at him.

“Do you think I stole your bride for fun?”

“What made you want to take her away from me?”

“Hah! The puppy wants to know why I did it. Ask your father if you want to know that.”

“My father was poisoned, as you well know. If you do not answer my questions now I will make you suffer until you do.”

“Your father could tell you exactly why I did it, because he was the one who stole my bride from me. I was to be wedded to Hoelun, twenty summers ago, but your father stole her from me! Now I have taken my revenge; is it not sweet?”

Odchugin opened his mouth to speak. Temujin looked at him, and he quailed. He shut his mouth again rapidly.

Borte said, “Please, Temujin. This doesn’t matter. I could still be your bride.

22

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction He lives at your sufferance. When he dies, I am yours. It won’t make any difference what happened before.”

Temujin was silent. Odchugin looked into his brother’s eyes, and saw nothing but emptiness. He turned away.

“Bring me a long wooden stake and plant it upright in the ground,” said Temujin. One of the soldiers went to obey.

Merkid Khan took a long time to die. Temujin watched him to the end.

Without the love of Borte to quench his fire, Temujin went on to fiery things. He became Khunjirad Khan after the battle, and Khenti Khan upon the death of Dey Sechen. His armies were loyal and fierce and feared by all the tribes; feared so much that in 1142 he was elected Universal Leader — Khan of all the Mongols. His troops pressed ever outwards, and this man, who once gazed tenderly into Borte’s eyes, became the man who climbed to the pulpit of the mosque of Bukhara while his troops were slaughtering the city’s inhabitants, and preached to the terrified population: “I am God’s punishment for your sins.” He wasn’t quite correct. He was the punishment for his own sins.

23

Paintings of Orchids

by Alla Hoffman

Cheng sat in his store on a low stool, behind a short wooden counter. His brush, inks, and seal were beside him, neatly arrayed close to hand. The light was pale and waning, his storefront open to the breeze. He did not have a sign at his door, thankfully, nor did he need to display his work. He was well known enough that those who desired his paintings would come to him, and spare him further commercial endeavors. It was enough to live on, and these days even a man like him had to live with shame if he wanted to live at all.

A tall man approached where he sat, breaking off from the dusty road and bowing to him in greeting. “Good evening. Pardon me, but are you Cheng Ssuhsiao?”

He bowed his head in return. “I am.”

The man’s smile was very small, like a crescent moon. “Honorable Mr. Cheng, I wonder if it would be possible for me to beg one of your paintings of you.”

He nodded again, his heavy-lidded face stirring as he belatedly understood that the other man already knew exactly what he wanted. “But of course. May I know to whom I am speaking?”

Briefly the other man looked stricken, and he bowed again. “Forgive me for my rudeness, a thousand apologies. I am Ch’en Shen, a man of Chiang-nan like yourself.”

Cheng allowed the corners of his mouth to lift up a bit at that, and he began unstopping his ink well. “It is good to meet other men from home.” The conversation had the heavily layered quality that he had come to associate with conversations with like-minded men, in which all real content was hidden with nonsense.

Everything felt like painting these days, carefully layering prettiness over a wide stretch of discontent.

“If it would please you, orchids are a particular favorite subject of mine.”

Ch’en shot him a knowing look, which he ignored.

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Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction

Instead, he picked up the wood block that lay next to him, the calligraphy of the poem already carved into one of its faces. It stung every time he realized that he no longer did the calligraphy afresh for every work, that he had caved in to efficiency and made a stamp. It seemed an insult to the poem, but he had done his best to make the wooden characters elegant.

“Of course.” He took up a brush, dipped it in ink, and began to swab it across the raised characters. When he was done, he pressed the stamp carefully into the corner of a fresh sheet of paper. It came away, and the snowy expanse was marked with freshly gleaming black characters, like beetles crawling across the page. The line ‘the antique fragrance undying’ was lighter than he would have liked, but the strength of the characters held.

With that, he put down the block and took up his brush again. He chose a pale grey-green, diluting it further with water, and began to work in quick, unbroken strokes, smoothing out the shape of the leaves. They always wanted this painting and, though it was simple and quick to create, he had a soft spot in his heart for it. The very ease of its execution was part of its charm, its unassuming rootlessness expressing his—and all of the literati’s—loss better than words could. A few delicate touches with another shade brought the small flower in the heart of the leaves’ folds into view, and it was done.

Ch’en had watched all this time with interest and admiration—while Cheng knew that humility was a cardinal virtue of a gentleman, he also was well aware of the strength and grace of his brush. It was, after all, what fed him. Cheng then picked up his seal, intended to shame his imitators, pressed it firmly into red ink, and stamped the new painting with the name he had chosen. Southward-facing Old Man. It was a bold step, but no bolder than the others he had taken. He had never taken pains to hide his allegiance to the fallen Song dynasty.

After that, he began to clean his brushes and stamps. The whole process had taken little more than ten minutes. They allowed it to dry in silence for a while, watching the foot traffic progress before them. There were few Mongols here in the South, but their presence in the empire was so pervasive that even in the heart of the old capital Cheng and Ch’en now saw three go by in a row. The foreign conquerors’ clothing was rough and their voices grating to Cheng’s ears.

Eventually he told the other man, “It is dry. You may take it away now.”

Ch’en smiled. “Thank you. I am most honored. Allow me to make you a small gift.” The delicate ones always phrased it that way, never offered to pay, only to give him a gift in return for the one he had given them.

He appreciated the formality even as he saw past it every time. “It is not necessary.” The protest was important—he already regretted that it could not be 25

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction honest.

“Please, allow me to. It would relieve my feelings.” Ch’en reached into his sleeve and withdrew a string of coins. He untied the end and pulled off a surprisingly large amount of money.

Cheng did his best not to look surprised at the other man’s largess. “I thank you, my friend. But it is too much.”

Ch’en shook his head. “It is only a measure of my esteem for you and your work.” He laid the coins down on the counter. “I beg you to accept them.”

After a moment he nodded and closed his hand over the money, sliding it towards himself across the table. “Many thanks. May your days be free from trouble.”

“And yours.” Ch’en bowed and turned to go, pausing when he was a few steps away to look back with a small half-moon smile. “I am honored that you so esteemed my poem.” Ch’en went on his way then, only glimpsing a moment of the startled expression that crossed Cheng’s face.

26

The Game

by Albert A. Dalia

Every night wang ning would go down to the river to fish. A twisted old pine tree marked his favorite spot. Below the tree lay a cove known as the Star Pool. On cloudless nights, if one looked into the Pool, it was impossible to tell if the heavens were above or below.

Wang was very fond of wine and always brought a fresh jug with him to while away the night. Whereas the other fishermen would return from their night of fishing with nets partly full, Wang returned with a full net every morning. Others had also fished the Star Pool and returned empty handed. Some even thought the Star Pool haunted, for an ancient legend claimed that a star had fallen into the river and formed the cove.

Wang paid no attention to the stories or other men's luck at fishing. Every night he made straight for the twisted pine and the Star Pool. Promptly, upon reaching the site, he poured three cups of wine into the Pool and saluted it with a drink. Then he spread his net and sipped more wine as he gazed into the water to watch the heavens.

One night, a young man wandered along the bank and stopped to watch Wang fish.

“Old man, aren't you afraid of fishing here?”

“Afraid? Why? Should I be afraid of the beauty and the peace that this pool affords me? Ha!” Wang's eyes were as bright as the stars in the waters below him.

“Young man, you listen to the stories of old women. The Star Pool is the mirror of Heaven. Come sit with me,” he motioned. “Enjoy some wine and the beauty of the night sky.”

“I will share your wine,” the young man's eyes seemed to glow as he spoke.

“You are very kind to a stranger like me.”

“Under Heaven's vault we are all brothers,” said the old man as he raised his cup skyward. “Come, come gaze for yourself on its beauty.”

The moon rode high in the heavens that night, mirrored in the Pool as if it 27

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction floated beneath the crystal surface. The light bathed the area around the pine tree where the old man and his young friend sat. After a few cups, Wang spoke.

“You know why the Pool is so clear?”

The young man smiled at Wang. “No. Do you understand the source of the Pool's powers?”

“Oh, I don't know if it actually has any powers. I believe it's the wine I give it to drink.”

The light of the Pool reflected in the young man's sparkling eyes.

“Yes, the wine,” continued Wang. “Don't you notice how it clears the mind?

Well, it must be the same for the Pool. When I first came here, it was never as clear as it is now. Not only that,” he looked around to see if anyone else was within ear shot. “I think the wine attracts the fish.” Wang's bushy black eyebrows jumped with laughter as he downed another cup.

“So you pour the wine in to catch more fish?”

“No, no. You are young yet and might not be aware of these things.” Wang's face turned serious revealing the deep lines of old age. “The world is not only inhabited by us humans. The rivers, the mountains, the very stars we are admiring, all have proper spirits that abide in them. It is to these spirits that my libations are intended.” His old gnarled hand reached for the lines that secured the net. “Even if no fish ever entered my net, I would still thank the Pool for its celestial visions.”

The young stranger remained silent for a while. The old fisherman poured another round and this time, toasted the moon, his smile now restored. The young man sipped from his cup and nodded.

“Well, old man, your sentiments are truly noble. And though young, I have heard plenty of noble sentiments in my time that change as quickly as the night wind. It is hard to say how one will behave when adversity sets in.”

The old man lifted his cup in agreement.

“It is like this game of wei-chi (Japanese: go) for example,” said the young man as he produced a sack of black and white wei-chi stones from within his robe. “One can talk for weeks on its theory, but it is only in the playing that one perceives true skill.”

The old man's eyes lit up when he saw the wei-chi stones. They reflected like stars in the moon's gentle light.

“You play?” said the old man. His face seemed to grow youthful as he contemplated the stones.

“Why of course! Quick let us draw a playing board in the dirt here.”

“Ah! No need, no need. See here.” Wang motioned the young man to a tree stump. “I spend my nights drinking and carving. Here is our board.”

28

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction The young man's eyes sparkled as he admired the beautiful craftsmanship of Wang's tree stump playing board. Not only had Wang carved out a flawless board, but he had spent years polishing the wood. Its luster matched the moon that shimmered in the Pool below.

“Were you expecting someone?” the young man asked as he ran his hand across the radiant finish.

“Ha! Who knows what passes when I’m at this spot. Some nights are like lifetimes here.” He leaned over the board and whispered to his new companion.

“There is a certain magic about this spot, you know. The nights here are enchanted. But I dare not mention this to the local folk since they're such a superstitious lot.” He frowned and drank another cup of wine.

“Don't worry about me. I rather enjoy a little enchantment now and then.”

Both laughed and went about choosing the color of their stones and beginning the game. Wei-chi, though deceptively simple in its rules, is a game, so it is said, that can enthrall its players for many lifetimes.

In a few minutes, the game began in earnest. As the young man moved his stones, attempting to surround Wang's, the old man noticed the wind rising.

Then when he glanced down into the Star Pool, he saw a comet streak across the heavens.

But his mind was with the game. Many years before Wang had learned to play from observing the tides. He relaxed his mind and let the flowing waters guide his pieces. Wherever the young man attacked, Wang's forces gave way and surged around the attackers. He cut them off and almost captured them. But then the young man rallied and flew over Wang's forces to reappear at another point on the board. The old man’s forces were threatened.

Again, Wang felt the wind shift. He glanced into the Star Pool. For a moment, clouds obscured the stars only to be dispelled with the stars brighter than ever. It was an unusual display, for the Pool was generally calm. Tonight, the heavens were strangely perturbed.

The ebb and flow of white and black stones went on all night until just before the sun rose. The young man interrupted the game.

“I'm sorry, but I really must be getting back. I have left my family compound without letting my parents know. I must return before they awake. Can you forgive me?” he said bowing to Wang.

“Of course. We will leave the board covered and continue tonight?” Wang was hoping the youth would agree for he had never had such a masterful opponent.

“Certainly, I would never think of disturbing such a wonderful game. But let us replace the stones with markers. I cannot return home without them.”

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Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction

“Ah yes,” smiled the old man. “Your father would then know something is amiss!”

Both laughed and toasted again before they parted.

The game continued each night for two months. Finally early one morning, Wang told his companion, “It is near sunrise again, my friend, and our game has ended in a draw.”

“I must tell you, old Wang, I have much experience in this game.”

“There is no need to tell me, it is evident. I too must tell you something. I've never been defeated in this game and only a few times have I played to a draw.

Your skill is indeed great. I have never seen one so young play so profoundly. If it were not for your looks, I would almost say you've been playing longer than my sixty years of experience. Ha, ha!”

After the young man had carefully returned the stones to the sack, he smiled and bowed. The old man noticed a wei-chi stone on the ground, but the young man had disappeared into the thickening mist. Old Wang picked it up and ran after the youth, but the he was nowhere to be found. The old man pocketed the stone and went home.

Later, after the day had worn into night, Wang walked toward their meeting place. The moon was out in splendid array as he glanced up at the heavens. Yet, something was not right. The pattern of Heaven was out of balance with the season.

Wang studied the night sky. He saw it, or rather, he noticed it was missing. The Northern Star had vanished! How could this be? He looked at his newly purchased jug of wine. The seal was unbroken, so he couldn't have been drinking.

Wang rushed to his fishing spot to look into the Star Pool. Following his habit, he made the offering of three cups of wine to the Pool and then gazed into it.

Its waters were turbulent and muddy, as if some giant fish or, perhaps, dragon were moving restlessly beneath its surface. Wang felt a chill creep up his spine, over his shoulders, and down his arms. The Northern Star was missing and now the Star Pool was not responding to his libations.

The bamboo groves scattered along the shore began to sway. At first, Wang took it to be the wind, but then he heard bamboo snapping like rice popping. Before he knew, two large creatures broke through the groves and were upon him.

Terrified, Wang passed out.

He didn't know how long it was before he regained consciousness, but he wished he had remained senseless. The first thing he felt was the cold weight of the chains that wrapped around him. Grabbing him on either side were tall demons with maddened faces and fiery eyes. They forced him to the ground.

“Bow!” Their voices thundered out in unison, as the ground shook. “To 30

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction Yama, King of the Underworld!”

Wang managed to look up as his head was forced down for the third bow.

Far above, seated behind a huge tribunal table, was the fiercest being he had ever seen. Wang almost blacked out again. The demons quickly yanked him to his feet and the pain from the chains snapped him back to consciousness. He faced the Grand Judge of Hell.

The Grand Judge’s voice boomed out. “You have stolen the Northern Star! Do not deny it. For this you will suffer the agonizing tortures of Hell.”

Wang's mind raced. Hell! He was in Hell! Why? What had he done in whole life to deserve Hell? Nothing. His life was nothing. He was a fisherman. What can a fisherman do to deserve the tortures of Hell? Wait! If he were in Hell he must be dead! How could that be? Dead!

“Am I dead?” he cried out.

“Silence!” a demon screamed and hit him with a large bamboo pole. The pain made Wang cry out, which caused the demon to strike him even more furiously.

This continued until Wang could no longer scream.

“Now,” continued Yama, “that you have decided to behave properly in front of this court, tell us what you have done with the star and we will be lenient in your punishment. Speak!”

The demon guards pulled him up again to his feet. His legs had lost all their strength and he had repeatedly soiled his pants.

“How could I,” he choked, “a simple fisherman steal a star...your eminence?”

The demons dropped him to the ground and beat him mercilessly yelling, “How dare you, a stinking human, question Yama, Lord of the Underworld!”

They dragged him back up to a standing position.

“Now tell us what you did with the Northern Star,” smiled the Lord of the Underworld, “and we might let you off...how should I phrase it...gently?”

At this, the guards had all they could do from bursting into laughter. But not a laugh escaped. After all, this was the Lord of the Underworld's court and dignity would be maintained. It was just that they had never heard the Lord use the word “gently” in his court and they had served him for the last four thousand years.

“Your lordship,” old Wang panted. “The only skill I possess is that of a decrepit fisherman. Oh wise and noble lord, a fisherman can only admire the stars for the length of one nighttime. It is far beyond my insignificant ability to dare reach for such lofty beings.” Wang almost passed out from the effort until a guard stabbed his thigh with a fishhook. The pain brought Wang around.

“Perhaps you are not so talented. But you should not humble yourself so in my presence. I know of your wei-chi skills. Some even have the audacity to claim your skills are a match for the heavenly spirits. This is known widely throughout 31

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction Heaven and there are those who would like to challenge you to a match.” Yama's eyes shimmered red as he stared at Wang waiting for a reply.

Wang suddenly understood what was going on. But he could not tell what he knew. He realized that this decision would seal his fate, but he accepted it. Wang Ning had never failed his friends.

Yama immediately understood Wang's change of mind. His eyes flamed as he issued the order. “You defy this court! So all you have is your skill as a fisherman, then it is on this that we shall punish you. Let our fisherman experience death as one of his catch.”

The guards dragged him away with a large iron hook that shoved through his mouth out the side of his cheek. The pain was incredible, yet he did not faint.

The chain holding the hook was hoisted up and he found himself dangling over a rocky shore. The weight of his body caused the hook to rip through the side of his mouth freeing him to fall from a great height onto the rocks below. His body was broken upon hitting the rocks. The pain was overwhelming, but he did not faint.

Two demons came up to him and collected him in a large net. They dumped him out on a table and took a fish-gutting knife to his belly. His body was torn open and gutted as he had done so often with the fish he caught. Wang screamed when the knife ripped into him, yet remained conscious.

They then scooped him up on a large pitchfork and dumped him into a huge red-hot skillet coated with oil. As the heat seared his naked, gutted body, he cried out in excruciating pain. The demons responded by turning him over to his other side. When they felt he was cooked well enough they took him off the skillet put him into a large plate.

Then they began to eat him. Other demons joined in the feast and all seemed enjoy their meal to the fullest. Wang was reduced to bones, only his head remained untouched. At least until one of the demons decided he wanted the eyeballs.

The next thing Wang remembered was being on a wooden platform that was hoisted into the air. He couldn't see, but felt himself rising, higher and higher. The wind around him began to increase. He could sense a growing brightness. Still higher, he felt himself soar until the platform seemed to drop out from underneath him. Then he fell, picking up speed in his decent.

“What more could they do to me?” he thought. He hit something. Coldness enclosed him. Deeper and deeper he went. An icy pressure squeezed him.

He could see! It was water! He was in water! There, far above, was the surface where the sunlight danced. Wang forced himself to move toward it. Gradually he began picking up momentum, faster and faster. He couldn't remember being able to swim so strongly, but figured it must be the pain and fear that were giving him 32

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction such strength in the water.

Just as he broke the surface, he remembered he couldn't swim. Into the air he shot. Quickly he glanced at the shore. There...there was old Wu with his ever accurate crossbow in hand aimed at Wang! “Wait!” his mind screeched, and then he caught sight of his tail!

“I have been reborn as a fish,” was the thought he had as Wu's bolt tore through his gills and heart.

“No!” screamed Wang. “Never again will I take a sentient life! I swear!”

“Old Wang, Old Wang, what's the matter? Come, come are you ok?”

It was his young friend's voice. Wang's eyes popped open. He was lying on the ground next to the wei-chi stump board. He looked around. It was dark; must be night. This was earth, not water.

Then the young man's face came into focus. He handed Wang a cup of wine,

“Here, drink this. You've fallen asleep waiting for me and fell on the ground.”

Wang got up and felt himself. He was all in one piece - no blood, no broken bones, no ripped face, not even wet.

“Ha! Ha! Ha! I'm not dead!” He drank down the wine, “And the wine is real, I tasted it!”

His young friend smiled. “Thank you old friend for saving me.”

“You know?”

“Of course. Where is that wei-chi piece?”

Wang reached down under the stump and rooted around in the leaves.

“Here.” He picked up the stone and handed it to the young man. “I saw it fall out of my hand when they grabbed me.”

The young man quickly replaced it in the sack.

“Now that everything is back in order I must leave you.”

“Can you not accept me as your student,” said old Wang, “and teach me the Way of the Star Pool?”

The young man did not answer at first. He walked over to the Pool and gazed into it. It was still clouded. Then Wang walked up next to him and poured out three cups of wine. The Pool suddenly cleared and the stars rose in it. The Northern Star led the way.

“Let me make this proposal to you,” said Wang. “If you must leave, then let us play one more game. Since our games have ended in draws, we must reach some conclusion to this matter; otherwise your trip here has been of little consequence.”

“Yes, you have a point. Set the board, but be careful of the pieces,” the young man said and smiled.

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Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction

“I understand my friend, I understand....” ✴✴✴

With that game this story ends. Wang and his young friend are said to have disappeared after that night and their whereabouts are unknown. The Star Pool also disappeared, but the outcome of the game has yet to be decided. One only has to look up into the night sky and watch the stars move, or see how the tide changes to know that Wang and his young friend are still playing.

34

The Kunlun Slave

by Pei Xing translated by John Dishon

During the Dali reign period of the Tang dynasty, there was a young man named Cui Sheng. His father was an illustrious official who, at that time, was good friends with a high minister. Cui Sheng was a member of the Thousand Ox palace guards. One day, Cui Sheng's father sent him to pay a visit to the minister, who was ill. Now, Cui Sheng was young, with a face as smooth as jade, an upright man, well behaved and refined. The minister ordered a maidservant to raise the curtain and invite Cui Sheng inside. Cui Sheng paid his respects and passed on his father's well wishes. The minister really liked Cui Sheng and asked him to sit down and chat.

Three courtesans of incomparable beauty came forth, holding a golden bowl, into which the courtesans poured syrup over fresh peaches. The minister ordered one courtesan wearing thin red silk to carry the bowl to Cui Sheng. But he was young and shy with a beautiful courtesan standing before him, and wouldn't eat.

The minister then ordered the girl to spoon-feed Cui Sheng. He had no alternative but to eat while the girl laughed teasingly at him. Afterwards, Cui Sheng asked to take his leave.

The minister said, “When you have free time, you must come see me; don't be a stranger to this old man.” The minister then ordered the girl to see Cui Sheng out.

As he was leaving, Cui Sheng turned around and saw the courtesan hold up three fingers, turned up the palm of one hand three times, then pointed to the mirror she wore on her breast and said, “Remember.” She said nothing else.

Cui Sheng went home and told his father of the minister's condition. Returning to the academy, he became lost in confused thought. His face became thin, and he spoke less. He was dazed and all day he went without eating. He just recited the poem: 35

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction I wandered to the upper reaches of Mt. Penglai And saw the starry eyes of the Jade Maiden.

Through the red door half-closed, the moon penetrated, Where through the half light a snow-white beauty worries.

None of his colleagues knew what it all meant. His family had a Kunlun slave names Mole. He went to see Cui Sheng and said, “There's something gnawing at your heart? Why don't you tell this old slave about it?”

“This is something deep in my heart,” Cui Sheng said. “How could someone like you know about it?”

“Just tell me,” Mole said. “I can certainly take care of whatever is troubling you. No matter how difficult, I can handle it.”

Cui Sheng was swayed by this slave's unusually confident speech. He told the slave the whole story.

“This is a small matter,” Mole said. “If you had told me earlier, you wouldn't have had to put yourself through such agony.” Cui Sheng told Mole about the courtesans's hand signals.

“That's not difficult to interpret. When she held up three fingers, she meant that the minister's house has rooms where the courtesans live. She is in the third one. When she turned her palm up three times, that makes fifteen, for the fifteenth day of the month. The little mirror on her breast refers to the moon, round like a mirror, on the fifteenth of this month. That's when she wants you to meet her.”

Cui Sheng was excited and overjoyed at this explanation. He asked Mole, “What can you do to untie this knot in my heart and grant me my wish?”

Mole smiled and said, “The fifteenth is the day after tomorrow. Get two bolts of black, tough silk and we'll use it to wrap ourselves up tight. The minister has a fierce dog that guards the gate to the courtesan's quarters. No ordinary man could get in.; if he tried, he would certainly meet his death. That dog, he's as all-seeing as a god, as fierce as a tiger. This dog is one of the famous breeds from Caozhou. In this world, aside from me, there is no one who can kill it. I'll kill it for you.” Cui Sheng rewarded the slave with meat and wine.

One the night of the fifteenth, at the start of the third watch, Mole took a meteor hammer and left. In the time it takes to eat a meal, he returned and said, “I've killed the dog. This time there won't be anything in our way.”

After the third watch, Cui Sheng put on the black silk suit and Mole carried Cui Sheng and flew over ten courtyard walls until they reached the courtesan's 36

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction quarters. They stopped at the third room. The gates were not locked and the lights were still on. They could see the girl. She sighed deeply, seated as if she were waiting for someone. She wore no ornaments in her hair and no make-up. SHe looked resentful and upset. She was reciting a poem: Deep in the cave, the oriole cries, longing for her lover Under the flowers secretly removing the pearls The big sky overhead flutters and breaks, all messages cut off She can only play her jade flute to relieve her sorrow.

All the guards were asleep and all was quiet. Cui Sheng slowly lifted the curtain and went inside. After a moment the girl recognized it was Cui Sheng. She quickly leapt off the couch and grabbed Cui Sheng's hand and said, “I knew you were smart and would understand my code. That's why I only used sign language. But what magic do you possess to enable you to come here?”

Cui Sheng told her about Mole's idea, and how the slave had flown him here on his back.

“Where is Mole?” the girl said.

“Outside the curtain,” Cui Sheng said.

The girl called Mole in and offered him wine from a golden bowl. She told Cui Sheng, “I'm originally from a wealthy family from the north. The minister was commander of an army and forced me to become a courtesan. I couldn'y kill myself so I was forced to be dragged through this disgraceful existence. Although I present a pretty face, in my heart I am depressed. I eat my meals with jade chopsticks and light incense in golden censors. I dress in the finest silks and sleep under embroidered quilts have all manner of pearl and jade ornaments. Yet these are not what I want. I feel like a prisoner here. Since this virtuous servant Mole has such incredible magic, why not help me escape this prison? If you could grant me my wish, even if I should die I would have no regrets. I'm willing to be your slave and serve you. What do you say?” Cui Sheng was speechless.

Mole said, “If you're resolved to escape the tiger's mouth, this is really a small matter.”

The girl was very happy. Mole first asked to carry out her clothes. It took him three trips to carry her dowry out, and then Mole said, “I fear it will soon be dawn.” He carried Cui Sheng and the girl on his back and flew over more than 10 high walls, and neither the minister nor the guards were aware of it. They returned to the academy and hid the girl there.

The next morning the minister discovered the girl was gone and they found the dog dead. The minister was greatly surprised and said, “My walls are high, 37

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction grounds are heavily guarded, the gates secure. Someone would have to be able to get in here, yet there is no trace of anyone. Surely this was the work of a knighterrant*. Don't let the word get out, lest we bring upon ourselves further disaster.”

The girl lived in Cui's home in seclusion for two years. One day in the spring, she took a small carriage to Qujiang to see the flowers when a member of the minister's household spotted her. The minister was informed of the discovery.

When the minister heard the news, he in disbelief and he summoned Cui Sheng to question him. Cui Sheng was afraid and dare not cover anything up. He told the minister everything and related how it was Mole who had carried him on his back and taken him there.

“This is all that girl's fault,” the minister said. “But, she has already served you for several years and I can't condemn her. But I want to rid the world of this pestilence.”

He ordered fifty armed soldiers to surround Cui Sheng's residence and told them to arrest the slave. Mole, dagger in hand, flew over the wall, light as a feather, fast as a falcon. Even though arrows fell like rain, none of them could hit him, and in an instant he was gone. The Cui family was panic-stricken. The minister was also somewhat regretful of his actions and was afraid. Every night for more than a year the minister guarded himself with servants armed with swords and halberds.

More than ten years later, a member of the Cui family saw Mole in Luoyang selling medicine. His appearance was the same as it had been before.

38

Nie Yinniang

by Pei Xing translated by John Dishon

In the zhenyuan era of the tang dynasty, Generalissimo Wei Bo had a General named Nie Feng, who had a daughter named Nie Yinniang. Nie Feng loved her dearly. When she was ten years old, a *master* nun came to beg alms.

From the entrance she saw Yinniang playing and was impressed. The nun said,

“Great General, I want to ask your daughter come learn kung-fu. I hope you will agree.”

Nie Feng not only didn't agree, he became furious. The nun saw that Nie Feng was unwilling, and before leaving said only one sentence of explanation, which worried Nie Feng. The nun said,

“Even if the general locks his daughter away in a safe, in the end she will be taken away.”

Nie Feng, in order to guard against the unexpected, deployed many guards to look after his daughter. One night, without even a rustle of leaves in the wind, Nie Feng, thinking of her safety, hurried to his daughter's room to check on her.

When he arrived, he saw that Yinniang was really gone!

Nie Feng could not believe such a strange thing should happen. He ordered everyone out of the official residence to go look for Yinniang, but after searching for many days, inside and outside the city, searching everywhere, still not a trace of Yinniang was found. Even though the couple was heartbroken, they had no choice but to accept the fact that their daughter was missing.

Five years later, one day the nun master who had taken Yinniang returned to the General's manor. The nun faced Nie Feng and said,

“I have already taught Yinniang kung-fu. Now is the time for the daughter to be returned to the General.” After she had spoken, she was gone. After such a long time apart, the whole family was happy, so that they dropped down and 39

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction cried tears of joy. Nie Feng thought it was strange, his daughter missing these past five years, and he repeatedly questioned Yinniang.

“What have you been doing these past five years?”

Yinniang answered vaguely, “In the beginning, I just studied scriptures and incantations, nothing else.” Nie Feng was not satisfied with her reply; he felt she was hiding something. Yinniang's poor parents pressed for an honest answer.

“Honestly, it's not that I don't speak the truth. I'm just worried you won't believe me.”

Nie Feng and his wife all at once said, “Good daughter, just tell us the truth!”

Yinniang nodded and promised to tell what happened during her absence.

“Five years ago, after the nun took me away, we traveled I don't know how far.

At dawn we arrived in a peaceful, quiet place where there was a big cave. There was no one around, only a dense forest and many apes and monkeys. When I went inside the cave, there were already two other girls there, both the same age as me. They were both bright and clean, and I didn't see them eat anything, yet they were able to flit from cliff to cliff, and were as dexterous and surefooted as apes climbing a tree. The nun gave me a pill to swallow and a sword about two feet long, and told me to go with the other two girls and practice my kung0fu on the cliff. Slowly, my skill improved so that neither apes, tigers, or leopards were a problem. After three years, I can pierce the eagles flying in the sky and my sword become shorter, from two feet down to five inches and my kung-fu also progressed so that neither bird nor beast was my match.

“In the fourth year, master took me to walk around in the city, but I don't know what state it was in or what county. At that time, master pointed to a person that passed us and enumerated the crimes he had committed. She handed me a curved dagger and told me to kill him, and to be discrete about it. In accord with the master's instruction, I killed that evil person in the street. A shocking thing to do in broad daylight, but no one saw me. I brought back the head of that evil person and handed it in to the master. She took out a potion and poured it on the severed head, which in the twinkling of an eye turned to puddle of liquid.

“In the fifth year, not long ago, the master told me, 'There is a bad person guilty of the most heinous crimes. It's the usual: he's a tyrant, harming the innocent. I don't know how many people's death he is responsible for. The government won't punish him. At midnight, go secretly to his house and rid the people of an evil.' So I took my dagger and easily slipped between the doors and hid on top of the roof beam, waiting for an opportunity. At dawn I returned to the master's side. Master blamed me for coming back so late. I told her, “I saw him playing with his child and I couldn't bear to do it then, so that's why there was a delay.'

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Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction

“Master admonished me and said that next time make a quick decision, just don't endanger your safety. Then Master said, “I'll open the back of your head so you can hide the dagger inside. Just take it out from there whenever you need it.”

After she was done, Master said she planned to take me home.

“She said, 'Your kung-fu training is complete. Go home. Twenty years from now we'll meet again.'”

Hearing his daughter's incredible story, Nie Feng was dumbstruck. His heart shivered. Towards his daughter he felt an indescribable fear.

The same night Yinniang returned home, she disappeared again without a trace. In the morning she came back. This time Nie Feng dared not ask too many questions. He regarded Yinniang and her strange abilities with fear, and gradually the tender feelings he had for her subsided.

One day, a young mirror polisher was doing business in front of Nie's house.

Nie Yinniang faced her father and expressed her hope to marry the mirror polisher. Nie Feng didn't agree at first; Yinniang was the daughter of a General, and should marry a man more appropriate to her status, but Yinniang insisted on choosing for herself. Nie Feng had no choice but to obey her wishes.

Except for polishing mirrors, Yinniang's husband had no other talents.

Luckily, Nie Feng provided for the couple everyday, so that they lived a comfortable life. A few years later, Nie Feng died. His superior, Generalissimo Wei Bo heard that Nie Feng had a daughter of unique talents. Wei Bo hired Yinniang to help him.

After a few years had passed, discord developed between Wei Bo and the Military Governor of Chenxu, Liu Changyi. Wei Bo ordered Yinniang to set out for Chenxu to assassinate Liu Changyi.

Liu Changyi was no simpleton himself, adept at divination. He had earlier foreseen that Wei Bo would send Yinniang to deal with him. That morning, Liu Changyi sent troops down to the north gate of the town to wait for Yinniang.

He told his men, “You will see a couple, husband and wife. The man will be riding a black donkey, the woman a white donkey, one riding in front, one behind, coming towards the city gate. When they reach the gate, you will hear a magpie cry out. The man will use a slingshot to try and hit the bird, but he will miss.

The woman will grab the slingshot and use a small rock to shoot down the bird.

When you see this happen, quickly invite them to my residence; say the invitation is at my request.”

Sure enough, Liu Changyi's troops saw the event exactly as it had been described. The troops lost no time inviting Yinniang into the residence. The troops said, “Mr. Liu hopes to see you. A long time ago he asked us to come north of the city to wait for you. If we could trouble you to go with us to his residence.”

41

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction Yinniang was surprised he had seen through her plans. She thought to herself, this person is truly not an ordinary man; he knew that I would come. I should not pass up this opportunity to see him. So the couple went directly to see Liu Changyi.

When she saw Liu Changyi, Yinniang immediately knelt and apologized, “Governor Liu, we are really sorry!”

Liu Changyi helped them up and reassured them, saying, “Don't be so hard on yourself. Actually, everyone has his master. To serve one's own master is normal. Now, compared to Marshal Wei, can you see what kind of person I am? You should see the difference. I really hope you two can stay with me. I'm sincerely inviting you; please don't doubt my intentions.”

Yinniang had long ago noticed that Governor Liu and Marshal Wei were not equals, so she responded readily, “I can see you lack good help. I would love to stay with you because I admire your conduct. “

Liu asked Yinniang if she needed anything. Yinniang said that 200 coppers a day would be enough. Liu then let the servants prepare their room and board, but the servants discovered the donkeys the couple had rode in on were missing.

At once people were sent to look for the donkeys. They didn't expect to learn that Yinniang kept the donkeys in a cloth bag. Inside the bag lie two pieces of paper, cut in the shape of a donkey, one white, one black.

One month passed. Yinniang told Liu Changyi, “Marshall Wei doesn't know I'm living with you here. I have not sent him any messages reporting the results of my mission. For sure he will send others to replace me and assassinate you. Cut a lock of hair and tie a red string around it. I will place it by Marshal Wei's pillow in secret. This will show that you are really not afraid of him.”

Liu Changyi did as Yinniang instructed, cut the lock of hair and tied it with red string, and gave it to Yinniang. Four days later, Yinniang returned and said, “I have delivered the letter. Tomorrow night he will send Jingjing'er to kill us both. I will think of a way to deal with this problem, don't worry.” Liu Changyi had confidence in Yinniang's plan, so he was not afraid of Wei Bo's own machinations.

The next night, two scarves, one red, one white, rising and falling, tangling by the foot of Liu Changyi's bed. Yinniang put her unique kung-fu skills to good use, slashing the air fiercely. Suddenly she appeared and reported, “Jingjing'er has already met with death.” She took out a potion to deal with Jingjing'er, which could be used to dissolve the body so that no one could see that he had ever been there.

Later, Yinniang once more advised Liu Changyi. “When Jingjing'er doesn't report back, Wei Bo will send the skilled Kongkong'er to replace him. His magic 42

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction is truly excellent. He is unpredictable; even I am not his match. This time it will all be up to your good fortune. Be sure to wear this Yutian jade when you sleep.

I will change myself into a small insect and hide in your intestines and wait for an opportunity to strike. Kongkong'er perception is very high; if I hide in the room he will detect me. There's no other way, so please make sure you get all the details.”

Liu Changyi listened to Yinniang's plan. During the third watch, Liu Changyi had merely closed his eyes. He didn't dare relax enough to fall asleep. Suddenly, he heard a clatter around his neck, but he didn't know what had happened.

Yinniang jumped out of Liu Changyi's mouth and congratulated him.

“Governor Liu, you are safe. Kongkong'er's habits the same as an eagle. If the first attack doesn't succeed, he will leave. Actually, he is quite proud; he always feels ashamed if he fails. Even as we chat he is already far away!”

After Liu Changyi had heard Yinniang's explantaion of Kongkong'er's methods, he lowered the jade from his neck and looked at it. Amazingly, he saw a deep line had been cut into the jade! Liu Changyi knew Yinniang had already saved him once. He gave treated them even more curteously than before.

After a few years, Liu Changyi was summoned to the capital. But Yinnian was unwilling to follow him into the capital. She asked Liu Changyi to think of her past service to him and their mutual affection, and she asked him to give her husband a good position so he could live comfortably.

Yinniang said, “I want to wander around the world and seek out worthy individuals. I only ask that you take care of my husband.”

Liu Changyi knew he couldn't keep Yinniang any longer. He granted her request. Since then, who knows where Yinniang has gone off to? When Liu Changyi died, Yinniang came to the capital, riding her white donkey, to pay her respects. She only showed her face and then she was gone.

Later, Liu Changyi's son, Liu Zong was on his way to Lingzhou to assume the post of provincial governor, when on the road bound for Sichuan he came across Yinniang. Her young looks had not changed at all, still riding that white donkey.

These old friends were delighted to see each other again. Yinniang carefully studied Liu Zong's face. She was shocked to discover a problem with Liu Zong's body.

She warned him, “Little official, you're in trouble. You'd better not go to Lingzhou to take that post.”

Having said this, she took out a pill and handed it to Liu Zong and gave him special instructions. “Next year, you must leave Sichuan and go back to Luoyang.

Forget about the post. If you don't, you won't escape the calamity that will befall you! This pill can only protect you for a year. Don't forget what I've told you!”

Liu Zong had just taken this post. How could he give up officialdom and 43

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction fame? Besides, nothing has happened to harm him now. Liu Zong did not believe Yinniang, but he knew her heart was in the right place. He prepared many gifts of cloth for Yinniang, but she declined them all. Yinniang could see from Liu Zong's eyes that he would not listen to her advice. They parted, Yinniang repeatedly telling Liu Zong to take care of himself.

A year later, Liu Zong had not listened to Yinniang's advice to resign and return home, and as she had predicted, Liu Zong was framed and killed in Lingzhou. After that, no one ever saw Yinniang again.

44

A Eunuch Slave's Life

by Douglas Penick

I have lived in the heart of the world. Amid many others of my kind, this eunuch slave has hurried silently, day and night, through the vermilion corridors of the Son of Heaven’s palaces to serve his needs as ruler of the world. Despite my utter insignificance, the Lord of Time has been so kind as to use this eunuch slave as one of his innumerable instruments in determining the way of life of unseen millions.

There is nothing so special in this slave’s character or talent that would merit such extraordinary fortune. But the Yong Le Emperor, Son of Heaven, Absolute Ruler of all China saw fit to lift this homeless eunuch slave out of the faceless stream of humankind. He is the sole author of my fate.

This eunuch slave was given to the Yong Le Emperor when I was a child.

The Emperor provided for my sustenance and education and so made me useful.

This eunuch slave was then entrusted with attending the Emperor and writing down his words. Although this slave labored to fulfill these tasks without calling attention to myself, the Yong Le Emperor granted me titles and high offices. Such things did not continue after the Yong Le Emperor left this world.

Following that Great Emperor’s death, Grand Secretary Yang Jung, most trusted of the late Emperor’s many officials, insisted that this eunuch slave provide a private account of the former Emperor’s reign, telling of my life and circumstances as well. Nothing can make a slave capable of such an undertaking. It is contrary to law and custom that a slave speak of a Son of Heaven. It is incorrect that one of such utter insignificance as I should speak about myself. Only with greatest misgivings and trepidation do I obey. Only because the Grand Secretary was so deeply trusted by the late Emperor can I bear to begin. Only because there is no alternative, this eunuch slave begins. ✴✴✴ 45

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction This eunuch slave was born in Korea where my father was a minor noble, and a distant connection of the then ruling Koryo family. He was a scholarly man, a devout follower of the Buddha’s way, and lived quietly with his family on his estate near Kapyong near the center of the country. The fifty families on his estate lived by farming, tending apple orchards and harvesting the nuts from the pine trees on the hillsides. My father also served as a magistrate in the surrounding area.

During the twentieth year of the Chinese Emperor, Hong Wu’s reign, in Korea, General Yi Song-gye deposed the last Koryo King, exterminated or exiled his courtiers, and redistributed their land holdings. He accepted the mandate that the people conferred on him and ascended the throne, taking the name T'aejo.

In order to establish his government according to the highest standards, he organized the country according to the Chinese system and instituted universities to train scholar bureaucrats according to the teachings of Confucius.

I was three years old when the Koryo dynasty fell. General Yi’s soldiers arrived suddenly and seized our house and captured all my family. My father and my eldest brother were executed in the front courtyard. My mother, my three sisters were taken away and sold as slaves. I never saw them again. My brother, who was two years older than I, and I were both taken and castrated.

For centuries, it has been a common practice to treat the families of defeated enemies in this way. There are many who think that death would be better than such a fate, and certainly many who have had a more full experience of life than I never recover from their losses.

For myself, the surgical violence was so swift that, as I recall, this eunuch slave experienced only terror, savage pain and darkness. My genitals were removed suddenly and completely. There was no trace of my male organs left. The recovery period, in which one was denied water for three days and made to walk continuously, was far more painful. But my pain was made perhaps physically less severe and my suffering greater by the sight of my brother’s slow death. For weeks, despite all the doctor’s efforts, he thrashed and sobbed feverishly, and then lay crying, each day less, until finally he did not move at all. The heat that had consumed him faded, and with it, the last vestige of my family life. Thus I lost all that had given me a place in this world.

I was nursed back to health and, when it was certain that I was well, I was sent to a school where eunuchs were trained for service. This school had been established in the previous dynasty, but had an increased importance for the new ruler. Eunuchs were cultivated to serve in the court, to be given as tokens of 46

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction special favor to loyal retainers, and, most importantly, to be sent as tribute to the Chinese Emperor.

Accordingly, young eunuchs were tended carefully and tutored not just in the Chinese language and in the protocols of service but also in the rudiments of literature, geography, calligraphy, music, and so forth. These were the topics that would make us most useful, pleasing and valuable. The regimen was very strict and we were beaten for the slightest infraction. Those who were devoid of talent were soon sold off as common laborers and those with modest skill remained in Korea. The most accomplished were sent to China as gifts.

This eunuch slave then lived as part of a separate world, a world very different from the lives of normal people enmeshed in the continuity of family and clan. Cut off from any family life, this eunuch slave was made one whose only connection to human life is service. My survival and my place among other human beings depended completely on loyalty and usefulness. My instructors made this very clear. I had no particular ambition to exceed the accomplishments of my classmates or to go to China. I absorbed myself in training and sought to disappear within it. This became the only safety I could imagine. And so while others of my kind seemed to develop some kind of camaraderie, I did not. As is said in an ancient ballad: “Without kin and family, how could one feel pride?” This slave was created only as a gift, a token of faith between two rulers and came to live as such.

When the new Korean King had ascended the throne, one of his first acts was to send an embassy to China to the Hong Wu Emperor’s court, requesting that the Emperor support his dynasty and accept Korea as a vassal state. This first embassy was led by the new king’s eldest son and arrived in Nanjing in the twenty-first year of the Hong Wu Emperor’s reign. They brought tribute gifts of virgin concubines, eunuchs, horses, porcelain, and many other valuables. The Emperor was pleased to accept the Korean King’s gifts, and responded with a proclamation in his own hand recognizing the dynasty, a gold royal seal for the dynasty’s use on official documents and other valuable gifts. Ever since then, many kinds of trade have flourished between the two nations. At first, Korea sent tribute missions to the Emperor every third year, but later they were more frequent. I was one of three young eunuch slaves sent as tribute on the third such mission.

This eunuch slave was ten years old when I arrived in China. All who live in the countries on the Empire’s borders know that China is the most ancient, the largest, the wealthiest and the most powerful civilization that exists or has ever existed. China’s land mass is more extensive than that of any other nation, and its Emperors have ruled there for more than three thousand years. Chinese philosophical views, Chinese rites, Chinese ways of governing, Chinese man47

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction ners, Chinese arts, Chinese manufactures, Chinese architecture and engineering, Chinese military skills are all incomparably evolved. They are the models for all the countries on their borders. All outside the Empire know that China is the source of their own civilization. All know that China alone has cultivated time in the same way that lesser nations cultivate land. All outside the Empire know that their own cultures are crude and momentary reflections of China’s brilliant continuity. All other nations know that China is civilization itself.

When a foreigner looks in the mirror of Chinese civilization, inevitably he finds himself wanting. He is aware that the Chinese long ago took account of things he does not yet quite understand. In their cruelty, corruption, wisdom and humaneness, they fully inhabit the continuous and irreconcilable contradictions of this world.

But this eunuch slave was merely a frightened child, but I remember the strange pervasive smell of vegetable rot. I remember the brown river broad as an ocean filled with all kinds of boats and I remember seeing a bleached white corpse floating past our boat. I remember an overwhelming mass of sweating men shouting and carrying huge bales of goods along the wharf. I remember the red and gold palace gates looming into the sky. I remember vast courtyards and an endless maze of dim corridors. I remember seas of blue silk robes and urgent whispers.

As with all other tribute goods, this eunuch slave was inspected by officials from the Ministry of Rites and then by high-ranking eunuchs from the Bureau of Ceremonies . My clothes were pulled off to make sure that, having no male genitals at all, this slave was indeed ‘completely pure’. I was then questioned and tested to ascertain what my particular talents might be. I was a strong child, tall for my age, and not ill-favored. Even from an early age, I had shown an aptitude for calligraphy and could speak and read Chinese quite well. I believe that this eunuch slave gave an impression of seriousness and modesty.

This slave was also examined by Shin Guisheng, a large eunuch in his late thirties who impressed me with his fine robes and his sleepy and indifferent manner. This slave was surprised that Shin spoke Korean and to find, as he told me, that he had been born in Pyongchang, a town quite near my birthplace. Shin seemed very pleasant, and he put me at ease as he inquired into my past, my abilities, and my character. Then Shin Guisheng leaned forward and whispered in my ear: “Little slave, you must understand that in this empire all life is a sacrifice to the Way of Heaven. The Emperor has been raised above all men as the Son of Heaven. It is his obligation to carry out Heaven’s command concerning whom and what is to be sacrificed and it is for him alone to know when that sacrifice 48

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction shall be carried out.

“Little slave, when you look at the mountains and farms of this great expanse, know that the earth is wet with human blood. When you gaze in awe at these great palaces, do not forget that the soil beneath is filled with human bones. All whom you see now and will ever see here, walking busily to and fro concerned with important or menial tasks, know this in their hearts. They may forget this truth, but it is best not to.

“There is always a sharp knife poised by all our throats. At the Emperor’s slightest glance, or at the bidding of one who acts in his name, it will strike.”

I was terrified. I threw myself to the ground and pressed my face to the cold stone floor. Although I was only a child, I believed him, and in all my life thereafter, I have never for a moment forgotten what he told me. Shin then patted me on the head and, with a smile, dismissed this eunuch slave.

At the time, I thought that Shin had been concerned for me because there were very few Korean eunuchs in China. I believe that he was responsible both for advising the Emperor to accept me, and for having the Emperor give me to his third son, Chu Te, Prince of Yan . I was separated from the two other tribute eunuchs with whom I had arrived. One was kept by the Emperor and in turn given to his heir, later the Chien Wen Emperor. The other was given to the Prince of Hsiang. I never saw either again. The first disappeared when the Prince of Yan captured the capital, and the second was said to have died when the Prince of Hsiang committed suicide with all his family by setting fire to his palace.

A year later, after this slave was taken into the Prince’s household in Beiping, Shin sent a few friendly messages and small gifts to me. Later still, I found out that Shin Guisheng was feared throughout the court as one of the Hong Wu Emperor’s chief spies and assassins. I understand now that had he not died suddenly two years after our meeting, he would have attempted to use me to spy on the Prince. At the time of his death, it was rumored that he had been poisoned.

Shin’s advice was not the only shock when this eunuch slave first arrived in Nanjing. I was shocked that there were so many eunuchs there. This slave had been taught that, when the Hong Wu Emperor first founded the dynasty, he had considered reliance on eunuchs to be a sign of corruption. He did not permit eunuchs to become educated and forbade that they should attain any rank. However, over the years, the Emperor found the disloyalty of his ministers and officials hard to bear. No matter how often he had them flogged, the problem would not stop. Increasingly, the Founding Emperor had turned to eunuchs for help in his many tasks.

The Founding Emperor’s initial intentions were still made very clear. Soon after this eunuch slave had been inspected and accepted as a gift, I was brought 49

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction by a senior eunuch from the Bureau of Palace Servants and shown a large stone plaque that had been erected outside that Bureau. On it were inscribed the words: “Eunuchs are not allowed to involve themselves in affairs of state. Those who do will be executed.” This command was written and signed in the hand of the Hong Wu Emperor himself.

This eunuch slave was instructed to prostrate three times to this tablet and told to read it aloud three times. When this slave had done so, the eunuch who had brought me there warned me never to forget this Imperial Injunction.

But in spite of this injunction, by the time this eunuch slave arrived at Nanjing, the formal institutions to which eunuchs were appointed were both extensive and complex. Most important was the Bureau of Ceremonies . This bureau oversaw all Imperial ceremonies and protocols; it maintained the rules of etiquette and precedence, and was responsible for promulgating the Emperor’s decrees. The Bureau of Ceremonies also was in charge of the discipline, dress and deportment of all the Emperor’s eunuchs and had the power to exact summary judgment on any violator.

The other major eunuch institutions were the Bureau of Palace Servants, the Bureau for the Maintenance of Imperial Temples, and the Bureau of Imperial Seals. Then there were the lesser Bureaus which were responsible for palace food, for the emperor’s clothing, his horses and other animals, his weapons, for the tribute gifts, for cleaning the palaces, for manufacturing court needs, and less formally, the Emperor’s secret police.

The buildings that housed these many agencies were clustered outside the walls of the Emperor’s palace. I was dazzled by the scale and opulence of their scarlet walls, their gilded roofs and marble balustrades shimmering in the sultry air, hinting at the power of those who inhabited them.

This eunuch slave was unprepared to encounter the vastness and great variety of eunuch society. This slave had been reared in the company of twenty or so young eunuchs who ranged in age from four to fifteen years old. We were looked after and tutored by ten older eunuchs. We were kept away from ordinary people, and on the rare occasions when we were taken outside our compound for walks, we could not help but noticed the glances of pity and revulsion which greeted us.

Perhaps for this reason, we eunuchs in Korea always carried with us an atmosphere of shame.

But here were thousands of eunuchs from across the empire and beyond.

Some wore lavish silk brocade robes and had their own eunuch attendants, while others were dressed in the plain garb of common servants. Some were scholars and others artisans, some served in the Emperor’s household, others as his guards, as his secretaries and in many other ways. Many eunuchs had never seen 50

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction the Emperor at all. For the first time, this eunuch slave had the sense of being part of a broad vigorous caste of beings, all striving to surpass the other in making themselves indispensable to one man. Later, I came to see that many of my kind were as self-serving and rapacious as any men, and perhaps worse since they were excluded from the bonds of family and clan which act as a restraint to selfindulgence.

After half a year in the capital, it was decided that this eunuch slave would be given to the Emperor’s third son, the Prince of Yan , and accordingly sent nNorth with a caravan bringing many other gifts. After a three-week journey overland and by boat, the caravan reached Beiping. In contrast to the lush moisture of the south, here the air was dusty and the landscape somewhat bleak, but this eunuch slave was deeply impressed by the thick maroon walls of the city that dominated the tawny plains.

On arriving, this slave was taken to the Prince’s palace. There this slave was inspected by the Prince’s Chief Eunuch, then interviewed by the Prince’s main advisor Tao Yan and finally questioned by the Prince himself.

It was well before dawn when an older eunuch roused me brusquely and ordered me to dress. I was still half asleep as I was pushed through a dark cold labyrinth of halls and found myself suddenly in the warm humid light of a bath chamber. The Prince was just completing his bath and stood naked and dripping before this slave. He was a large man in his forties, but powerfully muscled and he seemed to radiate heat. His skin was darker than most Chinese and his body, particularly the lower parts, were covered with black hair. Steam from the hot bath water rose off his body into the cool morning air. He had an imposing beard, a strong nose, and he glanced at me with the slightly protuberant dark liquid eyes of a hawk. I found myself quite afraid.

Eunuchs began to rub him with towels, and afterwards the Prince began to dress. As his robes were being buttoned, while his back was to me, he suddenly asked this slave about the new Korean King. This eunuch slave could only whisper that I knew nothing. The Prince shrugged , and at his nod, the eunuch who had brought me led me away.

That afternoon, this slave found that the Prince had assigned me to the eunuch’s dormitory and had provided me with two sets of plain winter clothes and two sets of summer robes. This slave was granted a small stipend to cover the cost of food from the palace cooks and to pay for purchases of needles, thread, shoes, medicine and so forth from the merchants who were allowed to sell goods within the palace walls. Should this slave wish to bathe, I was permitted to use the public baths in a nearby Buddhist temple. The Prince also gave his eunuch slave the name by which I have been called ever since, Ma Yun. 51

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction

At that time, the institutions for the Prince’s eunuchs were similar to those in the capital though much simpler. This slave was eventually assigned to the Bureau of Ceremonies and remained there throughout the Yong Le Emperor’s life.

Through his Majesty’s generosity, this slave later came to occupy the post of Vice Director of the bureau for the last five years before his death.

However, at that time, the Prince had perhaps about seven hundred eunuchs, and while most were servants, a surprising number were warriors and diplomats.

This eunuch slave saw many of these impressive and powerful beings who had received the Prince’s complete trust, as they came for audience or went off on missions, and indeed their self- assurance and dignity was inspiring to a ten-year-old orphan eunuch slave. There were about a dozen eunuchs of my age of whom very few were native Chinese. Most were gifts or had been captured in war and castrated as small children. We had the very lowest ranking of all the eunuchs and all above us were free to beat and punish us. So, by dint of constant correction, our accents became good Chinese accents, our manner of speech became humble and our conduct and manners were made appropriate to our circumstances.

I believe it was the Prince’s principal and most trusted advisor, Tao Yan who was first kind enough to notice that this slave might be of more use if I received a scholar’s education. Thus, even while this slave swept the palace hallways, I was sent to study the classics. I applied myself with great diligence to these studies.

This slave’s attainments as a scholar were passable, and I have continued to study the classics, the histories and the odes to this day.

This slave’s affinity for literature was in some ways an outgrowth of misfortune. Our family had been relatively poor. We had only eight household servants, and for this reason, my mother herself often sat with us at night and told tell us stories until we fell asleep. It is to her that I owe my life-long love of literature and my good memory.

My mother would tell us stories about gods and demons, heroes, tales of voyages to far- away places, the family lives of animals and the mysterious world of fox spirits. As I listened to my mother’s clear melodic voice, my body seemed to dissolve. The weight of my bedclothes, blankets, the smells of my siblings, the sounds of other voices in the house, and insects outside faded slowly away. Particularly when it was spring or summer, I would feel myself conveyed on the rhythms of my mother’s voice, out into the deepening twilight, and on into the world of other beings. I would fall asleep and my mother’s stories became the world of dream.

Later, when my family and our home were gone, such dreams were a refuge. Their appearance was the only evidence of my earlier life. Still later, when I learned to read, I discovered further worlds of refuge: human worlds of justice 52

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction and harmony, of beauty, of love, worlds of gods beyond this world, and worlds of final cessation and of peace. Always hovering beyond the pains and insults of daily life, these remained beacons of true hope for people such as this eunuch slave. So, though certainly not a scholar, this eunuch slave became a person devoted to reading, to books and to words.

Then, through the kindness of Heaven and the tenacity of one teacher in particular, it seems that this slave’s calligraphy was well received. This teacher was Shen Du. From his youth, Shen had been well- known for his calligraphy as well as for his writings in poetry and prose. Though early in his life he had been implicated in some sort of lawsuit and had been exiled, later he had served the Hong Wu Emperor and been a tutor to that Emperor’s eldest son, Chu Piao. Also during the Hong Wu reign he served as an assistant to General Chu Neng. Later still, his calligraphy attracted the admiration of the Prince of Yan , and so Shen, his brother and his son, who all emulated his style, were sent to serve the Prince.

They wrote out all his most important commands and memorials. They continued to serve in this way after the Prince ascended the throne.

This eunuch slave was assigned to study under Shen Du who developed my skill far beyond what it would have otherwise been. Shen Du was always very courteous and his corrections were always most revealing. Unfortunately, his brother, Shen Ts’an thought that to instruct a eunuch was to waste the family teaching lineage. He treated this slave with contempt. Similarly, Shen Du’s son, who held the same opinion and was, in addition, a very jealous person, sought every opportunity to disgrace me.

Nonetheless, after three years, this slave’s abilities were considered adequate.

I was assigned to the department responsible for transmitting the Prince’s decrees where it was my task to copy out official documents. This eunuch slave was content that my place in this world was to be a blank page, keeping faith only with my lord’s text.

Eventually, it pleased the Prince that his slave serve not only as an official in his Bureau of Ceremonies , but as one of the eunuchs whom he chose to accompany him throughout the day. Since I had no influential sponsors in the eunuch directories, it was again perhaps Tao Yan who intervened and suggested this to the Prince. It became this slave’s task to stand or kneel near the Prince until my services might be needed. Thus I might be requireds to take dictation of private notes, arrange slight changes in the schedule, have someone summoned, or provide any other small service that might give ease to the Prince in the performance of his extensive duties. It was in this capacity that five years after my arrival, this slave accompanied the Prince of Yan at the end of his campaign to secure the throne.

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Interview Douglas Penick

Douglas Penick is the author of “A Eunuch Slave's Life”, excerpted from his novel Journey of the North Star. He is also the author of The Warrior Song of King Gesar, Crosssings on a Bridge of Light, and Secret Annals.

Tell me about Journey of the North Star. What made you want to write this book?

My interest in the Yong Le Emperor began when Trungpa Rinpoche began to explore and develop teachings on enlightened society. He focused on the legendary Kingdom of Shambhala and wrote that four historical rulers who had embodied virtues implicit in realizing a secular path to enlightenment were Ashoka Maharaja, Gesar of Ling, the Yong Le Emperor, and Prince Shotoku Taishi.

I wrote texts on Gesar (for the Munich Biennale, recorded on Sony CD) and Ashoka (performed at Santa Fe Opera and planned for NY City Opera next year) for the composer Peter Lieberson. I started work on Yong Le as a big theater piece, but that project got put aside for a lot of reasons.

Nonetheless, I wanted to persist. As I studied more, it seemed that of the four sovereigns I just mentioned, the Yong Le Emperor was not a particularly obvious choice. And then, delving further, I became fascinated by his great range of vision, his impulsiveness and by, what seemed to me the core of his character, that he usurped the throne (an irredeemably bad thing to do in the Chinese scheme of things) because, sincerely he could see no other way to fulfill his father’s wishes.

I also became completely absorbed in a world that engaged so many of the profound social and political issues of all humankind and had done so for so very long. Reading Chinese history is like participating in a vast contemplation of virtue and power in government, the inseparability or division of secular and sacred worlds, the conjunction of social and individual life, the relation of men and women, writing and continuity. On and on and on. It is endlessly provoca54

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction tive.

If my understanding is correct, Shambhala is not a physical place, but rather a state of the mind. Is that correct? What virtues the Yong Le emperor have that could lead one to such a state?

Well, traditionally, Shambhala is considered 1) a real place on the face of the earth,2) alive always in the human heart, and 3) a Pure Land (like the Pure Land of Amitaeus or Manjusri) but in the human realm.

Trungpa Rinpoche wrote that the Yong Le Emperor “receives the command of peace, bliss and blazing luminosity/And subjugates the ghostly confusion of of phenomenal existence.” I began writing about him in order to explore what Trungpa Rinpoche might have meant here. I'm not satisfied that I've penetrated this conundrum.

Why portray the Yong Le Emperor through the eyes of a eunuch?

I wanted someone who was a blank canvas; someone who would follow the emperor like a shadow, take down his words, see him in private, and do so with utter fidelity.

The point of course is that he is both a eunuch and a slave. The eunuch aspect is not so much that he is sexually impaired but that he has no family relationships and will never have them. Thus he is utterly isolated in the web of relationships that make up Chinese identity. His existence and survival depend completely on him being a perfect reflection of the Emperor’s moment to moment thoughts and needs. So he is the perfect vehicle to present a chronicle of the Yong Le Emperor’s life.

However he also lives in a shadow world of bureaucracies, spies, servants and so forth. Here also he can lose his way and disappear utterly.

You have two other books out (Warrior Song of King Gesar, Crossings on a Bridge of Light) which deal with a legendary Tibetan king. Tell me about those. Are these fictional works based on the Epic, or are they translations?

Re-tellings?

I read Alexandra David-Neel’s prose-only version of the Gesar epic a very long time ago, but it was only when Peter Lieberson asked me to write a libretto about Gesar for a chamber opera that I began to look into it in earnest.

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Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction At the same time, partly from seeing Peter Brook’s extraordinary version of the Mahabharata, I began to sense how broad and deep a stream of human experience is embodied in these great epic traditions. These epics exert a great, if sometimes subterranean, force as a binding factor in cultures and civilizations, even as they articulate a great range of individual paths. Also, in the case of the Mahabharata and Ramayana, they spawn a proliferation of further stories, religious cults, songs, theatrical and poetic performances. In other words, they are alive.

The epic cycles of Gesar are similarly vital. Unlike the Iliad, or Odyssey, Beowulf or El Cid, Gesar is still being sung, written, danced, recited in new forms with new episodes. Though the core of episodes remains the same, it is constantly evolving.

So I found, when it came to writing the Gesar text (and I decided to do the whole thing before I made excerpts for the performance), I had entered a living stream which proived a lot of very immediate inspiration.

For the core episodes I relied on David-Neel, Hessig, Zeitlin, Stein anad a few others, but I also got the feeling for it all from Trungpa Rinpoche and later from Orgyen Kusum Lingpa. But particularly when it came to the songs, I was on my own.

So, to give you the short version, I can’t read Tibetan and so ended up calling what I’ve done a ‘new rendition’.

How did you become interested in Tibet?

In the late 60s, I was somewhat curious about Tibet and read books by Anagarika Govinda, Giuseppi Tucci, John Blofeld, etc. which were the only things available at the time. But it was when I met Chogyam Trungpa, Rinpoche and became his student that my interest deepened.

Trungpa Rinpoche was emphatically not interested in transmitting the Buddhist teachings in a way that was tied to Tibetan culture. However after a while, it was natural to want to know where these teachings were coming from and how they had been practiced there.

Simultaneously, there were many more Tibetans coming to the West and many more Westerners learning Tibetan, so there was a lot more and a lot more accurate information.

Why did Trungpa Rinpoche not want to discuss the Tibetan aspects of his teachings?

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Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction I think I've created a big misunderstanding here. Trungpa Rinpoche never shied away from discussing anything, and frequently did discuss and promulgate the teachings as they were practiced in Tibet.

What I meant was that he did not wish to promulgate cultural modes and habits as if they were themselves Buddhadharma. He wanted his students to understand and do the practices he had received and practiced in Tibet thoroughly and completely, but he did not want them to act 'Tibetan'. He also recognized that the form in which the dharma flourished in Tibet had relied on a feudal apparatus of large landholding monasteries, and that this had led to an outlook in which realization implied a role in temporal power. He did not believe that this, and other cultural aspects (such as the Tulku system) would help the dharma take root in the west. (And again to prevent a misunderstanding- of course, he did think that Tulkus genuinely occurred, even if he did not think that the system that evolved around them would be so helpful.)

You've written a number of performance pieces. Could you explain some of the projects you've worked on?

I love theater. I like the physical presence of the performers in motion and the physical quality of the voices in the air. I also enjoy the growing sense of interconnection amongst the audience members, so very different from the absence of same at the movies. But I really don’t like realistic plays or staging. If I go to the theater and there’s a living room or kitchen or bar or bathhouse on the stage, I’m immediately unhappy. I love Kathakali, Kabuki, Peking Opera, Noh, Wayang, Buraku and other kinds of puppet theater and sometimes Western opera and dance. What I find most intriguing is how, out of the simple existence of body, voice, light and space, amazing atmospheres and moments can rise and fall. It’s a kind of magic.

I’ve been lucky in having had the opportunity to do some work for stage, though I’d have to say that I’ve never accomplished what I think is possible here.

I have too much admiration for Peter Brook, Arianne Mnouchkine, Robert Wilson, Meredith Monk among others to think that I know how to do much.

But I’ve come closer with some plays I did for children (with adult amateur performers) where the idea was to do something that could be mounted in a week. Thus I split speakers, movers and musicians- a very old approach which enables people to do what they’re better at and avoid what they don’t do so well. I worked with a wonderful director, Nina Rolle, and some of the plays went really quite well.

I’ve also performed with my wife Deborah Marshall who is an extraordinary 57

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction classical clarinetist. The junction of words and music is also a wonderfully magical thing.

How is writing for the stage different from writing a novel or a short story?

When I write a novel or prose fiction, I have to delineate or elicit the parameters of the reader’s imaginative space; I have to ‘set the stage’. Writing for theater, that space, the stage exists, which is somewhat easier.

Writing for the stage is also far less lonesome than writing books, essays, poems, etc. Getting things published is not a big social experience. Putting on even a little play is intensely social, but it involves continuous compromises, adjustments, and changes since it’s the show that counts, not the text. Not everyone finds that so much fun.

What is Ashoka about? How did you break in to writing opera?

Nobody really wants a librettist. The Santa Fe Opera Company commissioned Peter Lieberson, and since he wanted me, they did too. The opera, Ashoka's Dream is about the Ashoka Maurya, the only emperor to unify the Indian sub-continent before the British. He renounced warfare and capital punishment and other such means he and his father had employed in their conquest and made non-violence the law of the land.

The excerpt published in this issue is only the first chapter of a novel. What are your plans for the full novel? Will we be seeing it in print any time soon?

We'll see. Right now, Peter is feeling well and there might be a commission for a 1 act opera.

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A Summit of Tumultuous Winds a novella by Winnie Khaw

Part One “This would drive even Buddha insane.” — A Chinese Tall Story 2005

Chapter 1 The light of a once resplendent sun sank below the horizon.

Meng Yao, a prosperous merchant, and his wife Nuo sat on the veranda savoring the last rays. Passersby politely hailed the couple with the respect usually afforded to wealth and propriety.

Though not of noble origin, Meng Yao had acquired an estimable position in the town due to a kindly disposition and an open pocketbook. The house in which he lived reflected its master: solidly built, welcoming, stately yet not imposing, of few decorations and lacking almost entirely in vivid imagination.

In the closing years of a comfortable life, Meng Yao and Nuo had taken to the tradition of sipping tea in the evenings as quiet spectators of the bustle in the streets. Daily they reclined in the serene married existence of a man and woman who in the midst of fierce arguments and chilling silences and the raising of a spirited daughter—alas! no son—had discovered a deep mutual affection for each other.

Lack of the latter indeed saddened the two, but they spoke no more of it, for the time for action had past. As for other wives and concubines, someone of Meng Yao’s status ought to have them, but he was a simple, peaceful man for all his worldly success and disliked to think of the loud conflicts within the households of his friends and their squalling harems.

After the fact that she would bear no more children became evident, Nuo had urged him to think to his descendants, even procuring a renowned matchmaker. The woman bowed herself in, ingratiatingly praising the endless merits of so good a man as Meng Yao, several of which attributes Meng Yao wryly said he had not known himself to have possessed. Nuo turned to leave the room, as a good wife ought, as the matchmaker began to prattle of the virtues of this woman and that, her assured fecundity, youth, and her numerous charms.

Meng Yao looked at his wife’s rigidly straight back, her head held high. He 60

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction then smiled at the matchmaker and courteously ushered her out, to the woman’s astonished protests.

And that was the end of matchmaking.

So the husband and wife lavished their attentions onto their single female child, Bao Zhai, an exceedingly bright and animated little figure who flitted about the house like a restless butterfly in a meadow.

On this day their conversation turned to an incident Meng Yao had long since dismissed, for many guests entered their home and left after a benevolent reception. That is, but for some poor relations, or professed vague relations, who came and never went forth again. They straggled on the periphery of the house, a matter distasteful to Meng Yao’s clerical nature—not part of the inhabitants proper, but certainly benefiting from the munificence of leftovers. Such was custom that, if someone could claim kinship, be it ever so suspiciously obscure, he obtained some grant. And so every rich man has his heavy burdens, and his nagging relatives and hangers-on.

“Recall you the strange man with the peculiar colored hair, who sought shelter at our home some months ago?” Nuo mused suddenly, though it was clear she had been ruminating on the subject within herself for some time. “I had never seen one so white and red, an apple-like countenance.”

Somewhat surprised on this departure from the usual exchange on trivial accounts, Meng Yao nodded slowly as he thought for a moment. “Indeed. He referred to himself as a priest, yet like no priest I have seen, a head strange-shaven, no traditional beads clasped about his person, and always a thick manuscript in those ink-blotched fingers.” Mangy bonzes wandered the streets, their habitual bowls outstretched in wordless supplication. And like the nominally pious, Meng Yao visited the temples on festivals and observed monks about their duties there, those responsibilities consisting of meditation, prayer and collecting alms. That last garnered the most enthusiasm for holy gatherers, Meng Yao perceived, but he said nothing and silently contributed his offering as a social obligation.

Nuo continued intently, “‘In majesty they walked unclad, without ornament, their raiment the nakedness of their bodies, suffered no shame, nor discomfort, for the exposure.’ So he said of our supposed forebears.” She smiled to herself, reckoning that such a beginning flattered mankind better than that of lore in which humans crawled as lice from the insects that infested the giant Pan Gu’s body.

“Parading about in, as the priest would say, ‘the emperor’s new clothes,’” Meng Yao chuckled quietly. “All deference and long life to our ruling Son of Heaven.” So the people praised their emperor. “Such an exhibition to entertain 61

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction the world!”

“‘Though greater still shall be made before the end of days, still, I will love you, O creation I have tenderly wrought with my hands,’” Nuo quoted in a serious tone. “Is there such a deity, who so loves the innovations of His sublime mind?”

She glanced at her husband, who looked back questioningly. “I believe I would worship one as Him.”

Nuo gazed out into the darkening spaces, past the familiar roofs and into the now dim sunset, but her husband continued to look at her, tracing the careworn lines on the still lovely face with his eyes. Suddenly fear crept into him, fear of the power of this unknown deity, who distanced old loving companions by mere talk of Him.

Meng Yao abruptly coughed. “Dear wife, I worry for Bao Zhai, our dear but flighty child.”

His wife started somewhat, interrupted from her thoughts by motherly feelings, and so returned to the earthly world. She sighed in turn. “When we pass away, who shall care for her impetuous pell-mell ways, so guided by fancy and whim?”

Chapter 2 Bao Zhai flung herself down onto the bench, set artfully amidst the flourishing garden, and gazed at the sky as her friend, the handmaid Yu Sheng, sat beside her peeling an orange. Folk paintings of birds and flowers decorated small folding screens nearby.

“Again,” Bao Zhai demanded in a manner both imperious and pleading.

She lifted a radiant face to Yu Sheng, whose own quieter attractions spoke of calmness, even to resignation, to a woman’s placid lot in life. Not for Yu Sheng the chattering among the young unwed girls of the day, who giggled shamelessly of the vogue heroes, handsome and posing with their swords, in the pugilistic world; sensible intelligence and feminine subservience to men qualified this particular maiden’s character.

Yu Sheng’s father, a well-meaning man who failed in every business undertaking, had sounded an old friend, Meng Yao, who had thrived even as the father of six grew steadily poorer. The two men readily made agreement that Yu Sheng, the oldest daughter of the impecunious man, would have boarding, food, a small pension, and what bonuses she earned besides as a companion-servant to Meng Yao’s own more fortunate child.

Though through the years Bao Zhai threw shrill tantrums and more material things at Yu Sheng’s head, the maiden bore the torment with irritating equa62

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction nimity. As they developed from childhood to adults, learning from one tutor and sleeping in the same room, so a sisterly bond arose between them. Then, too, only Yu Sheng would, long-suffering, tolerate Bao Zhai’s freaks of nature, common to many girls, yet because Bao Zhai would carry things to excess, inordinate in matters such as this.

Jun Jie bore the dubious distinction of being latest in Bao Zhai’s fits of fixation. A much-vaunted champion, boosted by advertisements of the highest order, the suave Jun Jie, had various legends told of him, each more fantastic, the number of defeated foes growing, than the last. The man had spawned a monstrous franchise, and as the places he frequented as well as the clubs to which he belonged profited, they gladly spread his fame.

“Regale me with the tale of how the magnificent warrior Jun Jie fought and soundly defeated several enemies though they sought to attack him in a cowardly fashion, with hidden knives and the like,” Bao Zhai pressed urgently. “‘Noble rage impassioned shook the earth.’” She leapt to her feet and mimicked what she imagined his actions had been. “I shall devote a rapturous ear … to the story.”

Her friend lifted a skeptical eyebrow and paused to swallow a piece of fruit.

“Again, Bao Zhai?” she chided. “Surely each word is already engraved deeply in your mind.”

“Not profoundly enough,” Bao Zhai retorted, impatiently shaking off the proffered orange piece. When Yu Sheng shrugged, she pouted winsomely. “Come now. ‘His eyes shone with lofty beaming blaze …’” She seated herself again and curled up. Despite having heard the tale countless times before told in the same manner, Bao Zhai listened, in raptures, as though for the first time.

“... as diamonds emblazoned on velvet, hallowed fire,” Yu Sheng recited the oft-repeated words in a bored fashion. Bao Zhai prodded her warningly. Yu Sheng winced and tried to invest more feeling into the story. “And as he engaged in combat to save the beautiful maiden from ravishment and theft in the dangerous streets of the night—”

Bao Zhai nodded eagerly, her mind already ahead on the part to come. “— the spangled host above kept their bright eyes in close watch on this new champion, who would surely outshine all other warriors in the world,” she interrupted in excitement.

Jun Jie posed confidently before his enemies, a stance ridiculous for all but outstanding heroes such as Jun Jie. A young woman cringed behind him as armed men surrounded them.

“Within the hulk of that fearsome monster, my foster father, had been entombed all the evils of the world, vices horrible of blackest midnight,” Jun Jie thundered impressively to the rough-clad, evil-smelling robbers. “You—you— 63

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction ah, no less?” He snorted contemptuously. “You I know—an underling of pig herders, those tenders of beasts that grub about in the miry clay.”

Yu Sheng continued, with some attempt at infusing emotion, “Shrieks of woe rose from the foul attackers. No more would the criminals eat their unblest bread—no longer would they torment poor victims on unguarded roads.”

“Conquering my enemies, I arose in splendor,” Jun Jie pronounced, “laying them and theirs to waste. Mild peace,” he scoffed, “never shall come to me, nay, not stealing softly as a lover to my bed, nor blasting my face as a blustering wind.”

Bao Zhai finished in an ecstatic spirit. “And so Jun Jie won everlasting fame—” though of course this telling said but a tenth of the extent of his actual deeds. “How handsome and noble he is!”

Chapter 3 Bao Zhai entered her father’s study, where he sat alone, gazing out into the last stirring of business in the street as the day drew to a close.

“I am glad to behold you well, Father,” Bao Zhai declared warmly as she seated herself next to him. She laid her hand on his. “Of late you have appeared preoccupied as with some weighty matter.”

“The subject indeed weighs heavily on me, my dear, and presses me more daily.” Sadness had etched deep lines into his kindly visage. “Since the passing of my wife, your mother, I have pondered over the future of my only daughter, as I wish for her to comfortably and respectably settle before my death.”

Bao Zhai peered at him curiously, trying to decipher his meaning. “My life?

Is there to be a change?”

“I suppose there is no purpose in deflecting the affair, as it is to arrive undoubtedly,” Meng Yao decided, after a considering pause. “You are to marry.”

After the initial shock, a happy thought occurred to Bao Zhai. “To the hero Jun Jie?” she asked in delighted surprise. “Dwell I but in your good pleasure, my father. You have discovered all secret thoughts of mine.” She rose and twirled gaily about the room, then stopped to bow to Meng Yao. “With the passing of every year I learn yet a little more of your wisdom.”

“Nay, and, I will say, I mistrust so flamboyant a character as that self-proclaimed champion,” Meng Yao expressed disapprovingly. “To Qi Qiang, the son of your mother’s bosom friend, Lady Ning, wife of Master Jian Guo.” Bao Zhai’s brilliant glow immediately vanished. “I to be wed to the most invertebrate of weaklings?” she exclaimed in horror, falling heavily into a chair.

“Never! Father,” Bao Zhai implored, hands outstretched, “I will do whatever else you wish, but I cannot comply on this thing! Would you destroy my life forcing 64

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction this ruin upon me?”

Her father frowned. “Your mother too wed me under duress,” Meng Yao reminded her, testy at his daughter’s dramatics, “unwillingly, yet in time we grew dear to each other.” He grew gentler. “So too will the pair of you grow to be.”

Shuddering in denial, Bao Zhai stormed from the room.

Meng Yao stared after her. “You are dead, my wife,” the prosperous merchant said heavily, “I am here, and, save our daughter, loneliness my constant and only companion.”

In a lovely feminine room of light-colored silk and gauze, Bao Zhai sat on her bed, picking at the covers distractedly and sighing. Yu Sheng, calmly embroidering, finally put down her sewing as this behavior continued for some length in obvious desire for attention. “Tell me, Bao Zhai,” she coaxed, “what written cares mark your forehead, that smooth, pale page, with rude lines of ink?”

“The most terrible of fates awaits me,” her friend burst out. “I am to be wed— to Qi Qiang, that soft, mindless weakling!” She threw a pillow at an unoffending wall. Bao Zhai rose and began to pace the room. “That creature is an insolent scullion if he believes himself worthy of me,” she railed. “The harborage of the young hero Jun Jie in my heart leaves space for none other!” The girl dissolved into angry tears and fell back upon the bed.

“There is naught to be done for it,” Yu Sheng advised pragmatically, coming over to pat her soothingly. “Why fly in jittery motion as a wounded bird?” She herself perceived no reason for excessive emotion. Bao Zhai, endowed with radiant beauty and reasonable intelligence, even if of a temperament unsuitable to her gentle sex, had as enticement a considerably substantial dowry, which made her natural attractions outstanding and her faults tolerable. Clearly the doting father Meng Yao would arrange a match desirable to all significant parties—that is, excluding the bride and groom, Yu Sheng admitted to herself wryly.

“The ashes of the hearth will yield an outstanding champion before any hope for that half-wit becomes truth,” Bao Zhai snarled. “His subdued ineffectual nature is not a salutary repression of winged ambition but a mere uselessness of person. Undoubtedly he has never struck a strong stroke in his life entire.”

Yu Sheng listened unwillingly to her rampage, aghast at the blatant disrespect exhibited to Bao Zhai’s future husband. “Such petulant vituperation and obstinate carping I could not have believed possible in a woman of a man!” she murmured to herself anxiously. “Will the groom lower himself to uxoriously grovel before his tempestuous bride to quell her humor?”

Woefully crumpling Yu Sheng’s delicate embroidery in her hands, Bao Zhai pursed her lips in frantic thought. “You now know of the intolerable position in which I find myself.” She suddenly stopped suffocating the cloth and turned, 65

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction staring speculatively at her companion. “Friend Yu Sheng, you find this dolefully aggravating Qi Qiang desirable?”

“I suppose he is not wholly of an unattractive appearance,” Yu Sheng replied cautiously. “Aiya, Bao Zhai, you rave as a maid lovelorn,” she reproved. “Has your enamored virgin dream bequeathed to you a single love-token? True, a maiden of tender years—”

“You know of the mortifying custom in which the bride may not reveal her face until after the ceremony,” Bao Zhai cajoled excitedly, quickly rising and standing in front of Yu Sheng. “By then, when the unobservant groom lifts the veil, ha, the deed is done!”

Yusheng stared at her, open-mouthed at this new audacity. “Bao Zhai, you quack as a duck with the knife at her throat, fluttering wildly for escape!” She shuddered. “Nay, I could not possibly do as you ask.”

Thwarted in her clever scheme, Bao Zhai collapsed, throwing a pillow at Yu Sheng, and buried her face in another. “You are a false friend, to so abandon me in this needful hour!” she wailed.

Chapter 4 In a large pavilion, Qi Qiang and Teng Fei fought a friendly battle of wushu (kung fu), in testing the other’s martial merit.

“Whatever has become of our scholarly companion Cheng?” Qi Qiang wondered as he parried a blow. “We have not been in company for some time.”

Teng Fei shrugged, laughing as he avoided a kick. “No doubt in absorbed reverie, poring over dusty manuscripts on the creation of empires and writing treatises on the destruction of men by alcoholic drink, war and pretty women.”

In his absorption with the joke, Teng Fei nearly fell victim to a feint. “Mere meditation on that last, mind you.”

The honorable judge Yun Xu conversed on genial topics with Cheng, a young man he respected as a great intellectual and future high official, at his table. Lan Fen, a former courtesan with a good deal of painted beauty and petulant charms, entered at that convenient moment. The judge smiled in welcome to his muchadored, pampered and very expensive concubine, motioning for her to sit.

“Aiya, the people these days wear apparel of an appallingly embellished nature,” Lan Fen complained without introduction as she readily complied. She complacently smoothed her dress, of astonishing similarity to the robes she had described. “Indeed, should the clothes speak aloud, an absurd grandiloquence would issue from their air-empty openings.” Jade bracelets clinked delicately.

“Heh,” Yun Xu chortled good-naturedly at her shrewd observation. “My 66

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction dear, were the soldiers to enforce sumptuary laws , a prolific number of every class would find themselves under duress of jurisprudence. One has only to look a person from head to foot to find some misdemeanor.” He turned to Cheng.

“What think you?”

“Why,” Cheng smiled deprecatingly, “at the least, in the south we have not to smell the sad stink of unwashed bodies beneath ebullient clothing.” He lifted a cup from the array of dainties spread on the table and sipped his tea.”I am grateful for such fortunes, else breathing would become a difficult enterprise. Those in the north, alas, with hordes of lice afflicting existence, have not the sense to rid themselves of them.

The steward entered and whispered in his master’s ear, and the host rose half-heartedly from the enjoyable conversation, the former dutifully standing as support at Yun Xu’s elbow. “Ah, I must see to household matters.” He smiled indulgently at his concubine. “My dear Lan Fen, kindly entertain my guest with your mellifluous conversation.”

“Do return soon,” Lan Fen replied demurely, her thick eyelashes lowering.

Yun Xu nodded to Cheng and laboriously left, leaning heavily on the steward.

After watching to ensure that Yun Xu was safely out of the room, Lan Fen turned to Cheng, the corner of her mouth lifting flirtatiously. “Am I not a woman of lissome proportions?”

Cheng responded coolly, “Aye, with sybarite, wanton wiles you hesitate not to employ in snaring unsuspecting men.” He set down his cup and met her gaze.

“Malcontent woman, satisfy yourself with the covetous eyes the judge lays upon you, and cast about not with an ardent net for other prey.”

“If I, as a butterfly, flutter about you and alight,” Lan Fen persisted, “would you give up your nectar to me? I would suck it greedily into my mouth, breathing in heavenly fragrance,” she narrowed her eyes significantly, “from the essence of yourself.”

Cheng grimaced in revulsion. “Your uncoiled tongue, drenched in sweet falsity, never stills but continues to undulate. Cease,” he commanded curtly. “I am deaf to further entreaty.”

Her tone grew sharply shrill with annoyance at this rebuff. “Little you understand, for all the precocity and bookish knowledge exhibited in the presence of others!” She pressed her case persuasively. “Yun Xu knows you as a man of great learning; rather than expending great troubles in acquiring official status and the like, could you not remain here as a scholar attached to the great and wealthy house of a respected judge, as no few do? As well,” she finished alluringly, “I am unremittingly committed to your desires.”

“Kindly discontinue,” Cheng said brusquely, and rose to leave.

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Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction As Qi Qiang and Teng Fei took a rest from their exertions, Ding Xiang entered the pavilion. The two friends immediately rose and paid their respects to the stately reverend. “Master Ding Xiang, may this day find you in good health.”

“I am well,” Ding Xiang replied serenely. “I hope the same of you?” Renowned as a peerless warrior in his younger days, Ding Xiang had entered calmer years of late as instructor to students in the great Daiyu Sect.

So far as the world knew, this was the truth. Few alive knew of his ruthless grasping for power in the hierarchy of pugilistic groups, that he had slain his own master when the man decided to choose his son over the more deserving Ding Xiang, and seized control of the then still relatively obscure Daiyu Sect. So he had set about constructing it to its present predominance despite opposition from more powerful martial orders, a highly respected school for promising youths of noble houses, established by various and often unscrupulous means.

A compromising history, perhaps. But that of other pugilists ranked hardly better, and many worse in this age of warring factions. He was not one of those who raised their eyes to the imperial throne, though perhaps in his younger years he had dreamed occasionally. And now he rested on his estimable gains with the satisfaction of approaching old age, content, yes, but to be feared if aroused, a dragon stirred from slumber on gold and jewels by a would-be thief.

“Yes, Master,” Qi Qiang and Teng Fei said deferentially to Ding Xiang, who seemed tranquil as the Buddha himself.

The master indicated for them to resume their practice. After some time, Qi Qiang and Teng Fei paused, looking to him for further instructions.

“Qi Qiang,” Ding Xiang said slowly, “You are to return to your father.”

Qi Qiang inclined his head. “I thank you for a personal relay of the message, Master Ding Xiang.” A short silence followed. “Is there aught else of import to be spoken?”

Ding Xiang eyed him and Teng Fei keenly, then after consideration, shook his head. “Perhaps later. You young men,” he commented approvingly, “have improved immensely in the time spent here. I hope to behold yet further progress.”

Nodding again, he left the pavilion.

Directly after the master’s departure, Teng Fei relaxed, lounging about, and Qi Qiang, while still somewhat tense, sat down.

“Our superior has conferred on me the task of netting sparrows and unearthing rats (menial tasks),” he remarked suddenly, “and so I carry out his wishes though it imperil my life.”

Teng Fei grinned at the exaggeration. “Much as the use of a pearl to shoot a sparrow, you must suppose.”

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“Pressed too hard,” Qi Qiang warned laughingly, “I may dash both jewel and head against a pillar.”

“Are you the fox who struts before the tiger in show of his dominance over all other creatures,” Teng Fei scornfully teased, “that you deserve respect, and so merit freedom from labor?”

“Mercy!” Qi Qiang raised his arms in mock fear. “You throw rocks at a wretch who has fallen into a well. Verily I do curse the tongue that vilifies me and the mouth agape roaring like doggerel.”

Teng Fei grew sober. “Aside from this recondite exhibition, let us discourse on the more serious matter of reality.”

“Indeed,” Qi Qiang shrugged, though in truth wary of the subject. “What would you say on this ludicrous subject?”

“In grave speech,” Teng Fei admonished, “at present, you live in perilous uncertainty.”

“Why say you that?” Qi Qiang asked, attempting to keep his words light.

“True, the master conscripts me for such errands as threaten my moral standing, operating secretly within a judge’s court to determine his level of corruption in procuring peaches out of season as bribes. Yet I am no sage,” he finished diplomatically, “able to determine the lofty probity of our patriarch’s thoughts.”

“Friend Qi Qiang, jest no more,” Teng Fei said in exasperation. “Of late, have not assignments been of more dangerous bent?”

Qi Qiang shut his eyes briefly. “Has not my father himself entreated Master Ding Xiang to exhort me to work demanding higher skill than that of others?”

“I utter this warning: the chief could perhaps be engaging you in such activity using your father’s wishes as vindication for the jeopardization of your life,” Teng Fei passed a hand over his face. “Though aught should occur, remember that I am your friend, and ever shall amity be between us.”

“I would sooner forget I possessed eyes and ears, friend Teng Fei,” Qi Qiang assured him sincerely, “for so you are to me in matters in which I am ignorant.”

Teng Fei stretched. “Farewell, brother!” His words said, Teng Fei’s expression lightened. “Should I again view your hideous countenance ere my eyes dim with age, they will certainly blind early.”

“In justice’s sight, so screened by dissolute subterfuge in the business of office buying as you do, it is too blinded to raise dissent for the mere reason of the occurrence in truth.,” Qi Qiang rejoined. He murmured to himself as his friend vanished into the distance, “for admittedly unprofitable banter, I for a short time forfeited wondering on the occasion of my return.”

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Chapter 5 Jian Guo, a high official famous for his stern and impartial justice, dominated the large study as he sat at his table. Across from him, Qi Qiang stood uneasily.

“What think you to make with your minstrelsy?” Jian Guo heaved an irritable sigh. “Have I sired a girl and not a boy?” When Qi Qiang said nothing, he continued, “While I may bend to your effeminate countenance, though drawn with imperious lineaments, those with hearts contrived of stone and iron will lower their visages upon you.”

Qi Qiang forced himself to speak before the intimidating presence of Jian Guo. “Father, I beg leave to play in moments empty of what you deem more appropriate occupation.”

“Wear you the sober, stately gold of lions or the yellow fluff of chicks?” the official demanded coldly. “Your feminine pursuits, my son, will avail you nothing in the undertakings to come.”

“What mean you, sir?” Qi Qiang frowned in confusion.

“I have determined it suitable occasion for you to marry.”

“To Li Ling?” Qi asked eagerly, in astonishment. “I had not realized the observation of our close relations had been made. You are beyond kind as well as perceptive, my father.”

“No, not Li Ling,” Jian Guo said shortly. “The daughter of the wealthy merchant Meng Yao. Widespread word claims her beautiful, intelligent, and reasonably skilled in the martial arts. A competent match for our family, though perhaps of somewhat lower stature than desirable.”

The young man shook his head. “I must refuse this honour, my father. A sweetheart expects my return to her.”

“She will await you much longer.” Jian Guo signaled that the interview had ended by turning his attention to the papers on the desk.” The wedding date is set and you are to prepare your affairs for it”.

“I fear evil has sunk its fingers into this disparate union,” Qi Qiang protested earnestly. “Gloomy dreams wove shadowed shrouds and flung them about my bed.”

“Have wisdom in this; babble less and in coherency speak.” Already absorbed in other matters, Jian Guo waved his son away absentmindedly. “Leave 70

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction me and attend to your mother. I hear from the physicians that she may soon pay the copper fare to cross death’s river.”

Teng Fei sat in stiff silence with his wife Wen at dinner, staring at the impeccable, polished surface of the wood.

Wen twisted her fingers together beneath the table, murmuring to herself, “Matchmakers arranged the terms of marriage, assessing the merits and requirements of both families. His appearance grew more and more handsome, his disposition the more dashing, as the gnat-like woman strove busily to seal the bargain and take a percentage of the profits. A business transaction, nothing more.”

“My mother,” Teng Fei muttered, “beheld a lady of unintelligent and thusly inviting mien, and lo! A marriage occurred between her unfortunate son and the blushing maiden.” He tapped the table, pondering on how to make conversation.

“Who has died?” he tried to joke, though the attempt fell through at Wen’s serious expression.

“My husband,” Wen said respectfully, “I serve you this meal, which I humbly fear is as horse’s provender only.” She whispered resentfully under her breath, “Though it better befits a horse-like frame than the human master it feeds, if I betook myself to be guided by this buckish behavior, mounting any mare in sight save his own!”

“Nay, wife,” Teng Fei reassured her. “Even prosecuting perusal would lend to the food only more delight.” He ate quickly, wondering, “How am I to make good my escape from the shallows of this creek, whose waters I have drunk to my full?”

Silence reigned. Teng Fei swallowed uncomfortably.

Wen bit her lip and asked, “How goes your livelihood? On many nights you must guard awake against assassins for that high lord, and I fear for your health and safety.”

“Well. I thank you for the considerate inquiry.” After a pause, he inquired, “What of you?”

“If you perceive no difficulties troubling enough to speak of in the household, then I do my work well enough,” Wen replied pleasantly.

Looking about the immaculate room, Teng Fei smiled wryly and shook his head, then prepared to depart. His wife stared at his retreating figure in lonely despair.

“Remain a moment, husband,” Wen suddenly burst out. “Hearing vile slanders on your good name, I yet hesitate to name them for propriety’s sake.” Her hands clenched, and she said indistinctly, “Were I not here to stay him, his rampant habits would run riot and disseminate with notoriety the natural bent of his nature. What a calamity to be brought on the honorable name of this family!”

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Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction “Am I not a man of good repute and carriage?” Teng Fei countered, “And, though I unleash the Warring States Period unto this uncertainly peaceful time, I must say I think it instinctual for men to hearken after women’s flesh.” He finished cautiously, “I speak honestly with you; therefore, contract fainting illness not suddenly, as you are wont.”

“As a sumpter at his continual plodding you bray these unseemly sounds,” Wen flared angrily to her husband’s back. “Would that you were as tractable!”

She sat heavily in a chair, unwanted tears stirring in her limpid eyes. “Can nothing cross this impassable stretch between us? Ah, my husband, why can you not hold me only?”

Chapter 6 Qi Qiang knelt in grief at his mother Ning’s deathbed. She raised a feeble hand to his bowed head. White cloth and color swathed the room in preparation for the woman’s expected passing.

“What measure may a son take to repay his mother the pangs of his coming, with only his soft helplessness as incentive to forgive the crime?” he whispered.

“Dear child,” Ning murmured weakly, “surely you do a mother’s pains o’erpay with this loving gesture of filial obedience to your father in marrying the young mistress Bao Zhai.”

He heard the request in unmitigated horror even as he smiled and nodded his head in agreement to soothe his dying mother.

“Pendulous fortune, finding other means unavailing and neglecting worldly ends, lets fall tricks of unmitigated desperation through the one I cannot refuse!”

Some days after the funeral, Li Ling and Qi Qiang came to a stop in the lively profusion of the garden around them, made public by a wealthy humanist.

“What have I to do with you? Worn by use, ridden to exhaustion—I acknowledge you not,” Qi Qiang said coldly. “Forget of me, Li Ling,” he implored silently.

“If tears for me fall, they are unwholesome dews. Cease to gaze with eyes intent in pained vacancy, for I cannot bear the weight of accusation in them.”

“Give you not even the hue of hope to me in this hot and copper furnace-glow of anguish?” she begged. “Is the past we shared worth naught, that you would immediately surrender to your father’s wishes regardless of prior obligations and desires?”

“I want them no longer, and did at no time enact anything owing responsibility to you,” Qi Qiang spoke without emotion, praying that she would cease, for if she did not, he feared he would relent.

“My spirit is broken, Qi Qiang,” Li Ling said with dignity, even as tears 72

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction flowed, “ as is my heart. If I depart now, ‘tis tormented disgust that drives me.

White my smile, lips a reddened plumage; and black my soul, darker than night and bereaved of light. Mine is a heart emptied of dreams, and what remains is uncomely and burst.” Holding her head high, she walked away quickly.

“Aiya,” Teng Fei reprimanded as he strode to his friend, “that was a cruel assortment of words to fling at a beloved.”

“You are as many-eyed as a peacock, but with truer vision, capable of comprehending any prevarication I could conjure,” Qi Qiang said unhappily. “Therefore, I will not equivocate before you. I had no choice in the matter and thought it best to break ties with Li Ling as a future with her is impossible.”

“I understand. You desire not to involve her in your troubles. A wife you do not love is safe, unlike a mistress you adore.” Teng Fei pushed thoughts of his own marital troubles in lieu of assisting his friend through this emotional crisis.

“That I might wander as I will and on such idle paths,” Qi Qiang said, looking into the distance, “winding even with rivers to their source on a moment’s whim.”

Teng Fei decided to change the subject. “Our leader bade me inform you that you are to continue keeping watch on the suspicious activities of the Jing Sect.”

“Night spreads its wings of brooding darkness,” Qi Qiang murmured distractedly. “Ebony shades conceal the numerous dangers strewn in my path, and there hang in the sky no moon nor stars to guide me.”

“Let not your thoughts stray to doomed paths, for, ungirt by mirthful walls, will they not turn there soon enough?” Teng Fei tried to calm him.

“And love’s jealous drawbridge will not haul me back nor deliver me from remaining held fast in slough.” Qi Qiang gazed sadly at the disappearing figure of Li Ling.

Teng Fei indulged Qi Qiang’s misery by seeking to draw his attention into brighter topics. “—a lively foliage of bright locks embowered, indeed, o’erfruited, her head—”

Cheng walked to the slowly pacing pair. “Teng Fei! I heard, friend Qi Qiang, that you are to—”

Teng Fei pulled Cheng away and whispered into his ear. Cheng nodded wisely as a man of the world.

“Surely the fair hues of Miss Bao Zhai’s flesh would tempt even the ranting, soiled Taoist monk,” Teng Fei spoke encouragingly. “And speak not of her divine face, for I hold such remembrance as to beggar description. Alas, her maids are a fright beyond imagining. I speak not mocking gibe, rather truth, motley though it be.”

“Yours is not a honeyed mouth,” said Qi Qiang, amused despite himself, 73

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction “rather a vociferous pit, and I am no hornet-eyed carp-mouthed yokel to be taken in by it.”

“Is this not an ornate, landscaped gathering of colored blooms, tiny twisted trees and bizarrely shaped architecture? A curious world in miniature. That our lives could be so ordered in the Coming Together of Four Things—!” Cheng enthused.

“In the lapse of years, I must dismiss the reminiscences of times past, sweet bygone days,” Qi Qiang murmured.

“‘Beautiful lady,’” so I spoke, “‘surely you ought to breathe misty moons from those lips in the chill of the night air, and not these unseemly curses.’” Teng Fei shrugged in bewilderment. “Ought she to have uttered obscenities, on the unreasonable grounds that I observed, ‘Dear maiden, you have amplified in flesh some considerable amount since last we met—’”

“—I, Master of the Frugality Studio, claim this place as ‘my small desire for peace and tranquility!’ Is that speech not enough to make one burst of laughter?” Cheng chuckled sarcastically. “Clowns ought to find a living of another sort, for theirs is no longer of humorous interest after hearing self-deceived words as these.”

Lost in his own thoughts, Qi Qiang found it difficult to attend to the comic conversation. “I gravely fear myself unequal to the coming contest of wills.”

Cheng saw his efforts wasted. “Inebriated with abstemious intoxication, he walks with no one and speaks to nothing.”

“Doubtless you think yourself mad, foolish, wicked, and deceitful. Poor man, with himself at war,” Teng Fei thought sympathetically.

“Nebulous I float, unsure of destination, as flotsam on the seas, drifting, shaped by the tides that propel me to where I know not,” Qi Qiang opined.

“Ask you now for redemption, when you stretch o’er destruction’s brink?”

Cheng questioned lightly.

Qi Qiang roused himself somewhat, smiling slightly, “Am I to be delivered to the ineffectual hollering of hollow horns, who name themselves orators but bellow of passing wind? Then, do so! Their words shall but go through an ear and from the other.”

Chapter 7 As Bao Zhai and Yu Sheng shopped in the marketplace, Bao Zhai caught sight of a strange priest, of a devilish mien unsuited to his profession, chopping meat for sacrifice (a very un-Buddhist religious practice).

“Why,” Bao Zhai said in outrage, “they name themselves sacrificers but are 74

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction butchers!”

“Once, Bao Zhai, allow my fears to defeat your courage,” Yu Sheng pleaded.

“He appears villainous, but looks to be only a man of unfortunate mendacious appearance

“His bald crown displeases me,” Bao Zhai fumed, unreasonably, “and I am loath to acknowledge this monotonous creature with no cadence a worthy disputer in this contretemps.”

The priest happened to hear the discourse unfavorable to him. “Am I to collapse in obeisance before a mere chit, supercilious and who dares derogate my venerable head when rather you had better call for benisons upon it?” he demanded angrily.

Bao Zhai tossed her head. “An oblate devoid of plaits and plenteous of a shining hollow plate—I make bold to denigrate this queer dearth!”

“At loss in this ridiculous quarrel, I ask for abatement of hot tempers,” Yu Sheng placated, “and that both desist.”

In his childhood days, Qi Qiang had refused to to join in the games of roosterfighting, a favorite pastime of young boys and the cause of many a loss of pocket money. Jian Guo had watched this squeamish behavior with distaste, and to beat such tendencies out, had subjected Qi Qiang to seven strokes of the bamboo rod.

The fragile and loving Ning, helpless to interfere, had watched with great distress.

“My husband, perceive that Qi Qiang shows only pity for the poor creatures,” Ning pleaded.

“Ought I to approve compassion when it descends to folly?” Jian Guo inquired irritably, raising the rod again.

“My poor son! True, the young behave cruelly to their inferiors, yet is it justice to blame the humbler, helpless class, when the government act as an unsound representative?” Ning murmured. She fell to her knees. “I beg you, fain be merciful, and lift your heavy hand from our son.”

Jian Guo threw the stick away in disgust, and Ning tenderly cared for Qi Qiang’s hurts.

Later, when he had healed, the young Li Ling led Qi Qiang to a hidden grove she had discovered, and there he secretly practiced dance steps such as Li Ling had learned from her mother, who served in places where such frivolities brought business.

“Qi Qiang, what sort of man do you admire?” Li Ling asked curiously, curving her body into the correct posture.

He considered for a moment. “There is Cheng, from whom ‘poems pour like sailing of clouds, flowing of water, spewing of smoke.’ He promised to author a 75

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction work in which I could play a part.”

“But, Qi Qiang, your father—surely he rejects sentiments as those,” Li Ling said nervously. “Not only he, but others of high standing consider performers the rubbish of society, to be discarded.”

“Yes, my father disapproves of my wishes,” Qi Qiang said bitterly. “What he takes for wrong, he smashes to his will as an aggravating fly.”

After returning home, Qi Qiang performed a droll act for Ning, making odd expressions and doing acrobatics.

Ning clapped her hands. “Splendid!” she laughed. “Qi Qiang, my son, you delight my heart as no other could do.”

Qi Qiang ceased his antics and looked at her gravely, the expression strange on his youthful face. “Sorely do I wish to evoke happiness from you, mother, but had better try extorting colored cheer from ashes of wannish white.”

Her face slowly crumpling, Ning began to cry. Stricken, Qi Qiang tried to comfort her.

“Grief suffuses me,” she wept, “blackening the sun in smoke and the earth with blood. None can in equal measure match the gloom brooding within.”

“Why is this so, mother?” Qi Qiang asked earnestly. “Exists there human action which can alleviate such sadness?”

Ning tried to smile and wiped her face with a handkerchief. “Worry not for my womanish tears. They drip as water drops on stone, availing nothing.”

“Yet in time a hollow forms in the rock,” Qi Qiang protested, “and then none may amend the damage. “Dear mother, I wish not to stand helplessly by.”

“I dare not bear a contentious manner before your father,” Ning admitted tearfully. “Truly is a woman frail in the face of strength greater than hers! You speak of happiness for your poor mother, who cringes in an agony of adoration for a hard man who cares nothing for her. Pity me, my son,” she pleaded. “Curse not the accursed.”

Jian Guo entered and contemptuously took in the scene. “There you sit, idle as a ship drawn upon a painted ocean. I scorn to look at you, boy; not a man but the intelligent chattel of women. Therefore I have determined to charge you to the cooler care of a the Daiyu master and his sect of disciples. Leave tomorrow.”

In a courtyard, Qi Qiang prepared to leave for the Daiyu Sect, where he would spend the next few years. Li Ling entered. “I fear to find you much changed on the return,” she said sadly, “from the boy who, in going, went a fair and sweet youth who loves me.”

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Chapter 8 Bao Zhai defiantly raised her veil in the red-decorated wedding room, to the murmurs of the guests. Qi Qiang attempted to cover the inappropriate action.

“You appear most lovely, Bao Zhai,” he said gamely, “bright in beauty—a lotus flower face—as to bewilder sight, surely biding to be a winsome wife.”

“‘Tis only the gracious gleam in your eye which so perceives me,” Bao Zhai replied sweetly. She said in an aside, “And you are a sight so frightful as to cause my mouth to blurt rice.”

“Begin, you who are to be joined in flesh as in well as in spirit,” the presiding judge Yun Xu trumpeted pompously. “The bride and groom pray to Heaven!”

“Halt!” Bao Zhai called out. Numerous eyes turned to her in surprise. “I raise a strenuous objection that ought to be recognized for its veracity. It is said in law that, should he of the marrying pair be himself lower of stature than the bride, he marries into her household.”

“What mean you, daughter-in-law? Of a certainty the discrepancy between our houses’ ranking stands acknowledged before all.”

“Is the truth so sure, Master Jian Guo, honorable magistrate of this prefecture?” Bao Zhai inquired skeptically. “For inexorably, erroneous conduct has not laid its begrimed hand on your estimable name. But what of another, less respectable and most closely affiliated with the adverted citation, so as to humble that term with its own abasement?”

Meng Yao hissed in panic, “Bao Zhai, do not agitate discord on this most joyous of occasions.”

“I speak in principle and express a necessarily acknowledged reality. The grandsire of the man who would be my husband, originally a mere clerk, committed fraud to obtain his office as governor, feigning to have acquired high honors in the triennial examinations,” Bao Zhai announced. “Out of deference to the mentioned civil authority, I will not continue to mention on how such was accomplished. However, let it be known that the governorship presently engaged was conferred in hereditary fashion. Therefore, the husband here holds no excess dominance over his wife, and indeed she is as the man in affairs.”

The crowd of guests murmured and grumbled.

Jian Guo’s expression darkened. “It will be as a hen announcing the dawn.

Truly she owns a shrill utterance as a woman, but has she the proper right or authority? And, despite my regard for such desperate measures as to stoop to this 77

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction malignity, it speaks solely of destitute inspiration and a profligate imagination.

As any man having knowledge of the affair could affirm, it matters not what my late father has done, for I myself steadfastly achieved what I have gained.”

“Do not dilate further, Bao Zhai, on matters meaning nothing to those on whose judgment only the subject weighs,” Meng Yao said angrily.

“Respected bride, would you have the groom remove the screen from your place of governance and so coerce a withdrawal in disgrace?” Teng Fei interposed.

“Brother Jian Guo, please disregard the interruption. I have failed by raising a brazen, spoiled daughter, and defer to you in shame to act as you will,” Meng Yao lowered his head in embarrassment.

“I give no notice to foolish talk that sound beneath me. Brother Meng Yao, worry not over what deserves no concern,” Jian Guo assured him calmly.

“Let us have peace, I beseech all,” Qi Qiang requested. “I incline my head to my wife as she to me, not in appeasement but respect; the bride is neither inferior nor supplicant.”

The guests applauded.

Yun Xu proclaimed, “Now surely serenity has been restored. Continue the ceremony.”

“I will follow you in all suitable happiness,” Bao Zhai said sullenly, “and in appropriate time conceive a son who, too, obeys his father and my husband.”

“I greet you, honored consort,” Qi Qiang responded without emotion, “and hope you unite with me in gladness for the prosperity of both our houses.”

Cheng mused thoughtfully, “Were the twain joined in love, their words would have sung to the puissant melody of, ‘Our lives will be lived together as one’ and ‘may my existence end with your days,’ or that most deathly of life-vows, ‘Hear me, all who have blood and breath, and hold thou, Earth. Beloved, you have unbolted the gate of my heart and lodged within the citadel; no other shall lay siege to it again, and conquer.”

“He calls upon God to bless him and invokes not in vain,” Bao Zhai raged inwardly, “for folly in action and idiotic mouthing follow his steps ever after; above in the serene heavens must a deity laugh at his own cleverly ironic antics. If this caitiff has courage in battle, it is but ice on summer seas.”

“In marriage as in war rages a licensed fury from which none wear a wholly defensible shield. I fear, should my new bride unlock her refined paint-reddened lips, to stand subjected to a torrent of scurrilous abuse so as to tear me piecemeal.” Qi Qiang closed his eyes sorrowfully. “Li Ling, most earnestly I plead, weep no more. Already I enter a conflagration and it engulfs me; must I do so, knowing that into it I cast the wood felled from my cool arbor of solace?”

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Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction Raising her gaze to the starred sky, Li Ling mourned, “My love’s loss has drawn an eclipse over me, darkening the envisioned world. Yet still I futilely cleave to love when it benefits me not and indeed induces only self-bereavement.

On our day of joining, you swore to vow, in words of our own making, “‘Dear one, tenderly I name you Beloved, the lips brushing my mouth.’”

After the ceremony, the guests talked and mingled in the red-decorated rooms with paintings of tiger skins.

“Ha!” the jester sang loudly, prancing about. “I have, with magnificent success, traded my daughters for twice their worth, a straw hat! No longer will my hairless old dome suffer the stroke of the sun when I walk to town to drink with the fellows and make merry. I thank the god of all scoundrels, cheating thieves and businessmen for this accomplishment, for I would not have thought any would buy the lot. Ah, but my ingenious scheme to disguise them as monkeys improved their prices immensely. Now, my pleasure is complete. Nay ... I have still to sell my wife and mother-in-law in the same manner! A squawking bird and perhaps …”

The guests laughed, saying, “I hope this risible fool speaks not in prophetic strain.”

A portly female peered carefully at a dessert before placing it in her mouth.

“I have a palate relishing only the finest of dainties, and so refrain from glutting myself on even viands. With exactest perusal I examine these nuptial delicacies to ensure quality of offering.”

“I would make entire dominance of foolery,” the jester exclaimed peevishly, “abide in the world as sole tyrant of it, but alas, men scramble to wrest the title from me.” He wheeled close to the altar. “Here, wedded pair, an honored place beside me!” he offered.

A slightly inebriated Teng Fei indicated Lan Fen to Cheng, wondering drunkenly at which of them she looked so flirtatiously.

“Friend Cheng, I believe that pretty maid designs for a man’s attention,” Teng Fei informed him, “and surely she aims true; with charms so incisive as hers, a man’s heart cannot but be wounded.”

Cheng shook his head in disapproval. “I advise otherwise than to approach what you hold so dangerous a person; she directs any appeals to a better judge than yourself.”

“The warbling tune presently at play and drifting aromas arouse a titillating fleecy cloud in the air. Tomorrow will rouse the slumbering morn to a dappled dawn of joy,” the judge predicted with woefully askew fortunetelling skills.

“At the wedding, a prince must wait to discover if fate has not made an ugly play of him in the form of his bride.” The jester scrunched his face hideously, in 79

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction an expression of piteous self-sacrifice. “Having discovered the truth, he then asks himself, ‘Is there nothing I will not do for my country?’”

“No good comes of unlike and unlike joining,” a guest observed, “the amalgamation brings about only factions and disunity. Supporters of this union, of politic use, speak of Peace and her too often absent sister, Prosperity, but the broiling storm that is to come from dissenting sects, one yearning for concordance, the other, war, shall obliterate that hope. Or shall it be otherwise?”

Draped in red, Bao Zhai paced agitatedly in the crimson marital chamber, while Qi Qiang at the elaborately set table sat as silent and still as the paintings of crabs and fish that hung all around.

“Do you desire me? “ Bao Zhai inquired bluntly. “We ought to hold discourse on this matter directly.” She sniffed in disgust. “If you do, it is to your misfortune and the leaden-stepping hours will drudge on in agonizing slowness.”

Qi Qiang stared at her with an uncomprehending, blank expression.

“The smiles that dimple my cheeks play not for you,” she finished moodily, sitting on the table’s opposite side to face him with a decidedly masculine directness, exuding the air of a gambler whose bluff has come to high stakes.

Qi Qiang’s jaw tightened as he met her hostile glowering. “Your fair words come sweetly to my ravished ears,” he assured her with equal sourness. “I see within you a beauty as in a rose unbudded, a fragrance hidden and held thrifty.”

Bao Zhai’s glare grew even more pronounced at this acidic sarcasm. “You are in all likelihood that sort of enervated lecher, an unmanned creature, a foul notwoman, a gaping-arsed lover of the same kind,” she shot at him.

Qi Qiang grimaced in acute horror at the unimaginable words from a gentlybred lady. “A kind assessment, loving wife,” he choked. “I must reveal that I hold no such affection for men.” The newly-wed husband cleared his throat with considerable effort. “Now that the atrocious truth has been disclosed, let us discuss our sleeping arrangements, riven by dissension though we are.”

Bao Zhai rolled her eyes at this new evidence of his slow grasp of situations.

“I of course occupy the bed, alone. I will never in tame willingness yield my pillow.” The loving wife threw him some cushions from the bed and lying down, turned her back. “You may find your own place of rest, and unfortunate it would be if never you rose from it.”

The happy husband caught the comforters and firmly shut his mouth before he said some ungentlemanly remarks. However, he could not resist the parting comment, “Had I wished otherwise, the thought provoked only a vain deluded joy. Certainly we shall do as you will, and repose deeply lulled by the welcome, loving comfort of the other’s presence.” Qi Qiang thought, heartsick as he lay 80

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction down on the floor, “I am as a stranger lost in my home, my wife maugre jewelsbedecked, wears nothing to conceal her contemned loathing.”

Chapter 9 The crimson rays of the sun faltered into the gently moving horizon of the placid sea. Lien stared out into the brilliance. “I know my part in the world’s bizarre performance, though fellow players caper about their acts in gruesomely brilliant execution, incognizant of meaning.”

In the city streets, the effervescent Biyu danced to an applauding audience.

Li, the crown prince from a minor kingdom, watched in interest from a sedan.

Some days later, Li, disguised as a regular man, watched Biyu as she served the appreciative customers in a fairly respectable tavern. Their eyes met.

In a private room, Li undressed Biyu, and predictable events followed. Disapproving of this tryst with a mere street performer, Li’s mother the queen sent guards to capture Biyu. The girl hid, and as became custom in her life, ran.

She found shelter with a group of elderly nuns. In their care was Lien, a seemingly half-retarded, half-demented youth. After a period of lulling peace, Lien had a premonition which came to pass. Royal guards attacked the abbey and all within were slaughtered, save for Biyu and Lien, who had fled in time.

In the countryside, Biyu cared for Lien, making a pretty home of an abandoned cottage. Lien in turn grew more normal and affectionate towards her. As they played, Biyu stared off wistfully in the direction of the Li’s palace, glimmering on a hill. Lien frowned. One day another premonition struck Lien; Li appeared. He had become king and wished to take Biyu back with him. Aware that Biyu now was fulfilled, Lien left without informing her. He wandered, growing increasingly more sentient as he matured into himself.

Cheng, Teng Fei, and Qi Qiang chatted easily with each other as they strolled down an obscure street. “We march unafraid through rubble-strewn streets,” Teng Fei called out, “into the dark crotch of the city! Hail to us, I say, for heretofore untold courage in braving the depths of direful terrors from which no man has emerged untouched!”

Qi Qiang frowned. “I suppose it inconceivable for a man of self-boasted charisma with women to desist from so dispraising them when absent from their gentle presence.”

“Know you, ignoramuses,” Cheng added solemnly, “to go through the city on foot, one must make way through thirteen arched and towered gates. On canals and rivers, five water gates bar one’s entry.”

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Teng Fei chuckled. “Imagine the scarcity of offspring should a woman be so difficult to penetrate.”

“Indeed, the trouble of gaining entry makes the man wonder at the worth of the goods within,” Cheng shrugged. “The main avenue stretches well over a hundred yards, however, staving a hole in your argument.”

“Yet without the proper form of transport, it is near impossible to pass through,” Teng Fei rejoined laughingly. He clutched his chest in supposed amazement. “Ah, behold, Shangri-La opens her celestial folds, mirth spilling from her parted lips, and lets the awed audience look their full at the bright aurora revealed.”

Teng Fei guffawed, Cheng sighed in exasperation, and Qi Qiang made a disgusted face. As the sky began to rain and the earth to rumble, they took shelter in one of the nearby stalls lining the streets.

“The heavens menace the earth this day in the clouds’ monstrous quality, sending dreadful heralds of civil strife in heaven,” Qi Qiang murmured, his voice nearly lost amidst the pitter-patter of water-droplets. “What portentous forebodings are these? Why the sway of earth, shaking like a thing unfirm?”

“Indeed, the tempest drops near hoarfrost,” Teng Fei grumbled beneath the the shaky, dripping eaves.

“White ash falls, the powdery cold blood of holy wrangling far above,” Cheng said in a resigned manner. “The white ships with their pure sails drift in the sky, then flounder, and their passengers fall from aboard, descending on hapless pedestrians who scuttle for shelter.”

A hoary, trembling voice carried through, startled the three companions, for they could have sworn no one had inhabited the stall alongside them. “To be such an age, not this form stooped grown, with intellect languished to infancy, and indulge in unrepressed pleasures! How I miss the god of happy revelry and general self-prostitution! Long has it been since we parted! Too far a time have I dwelt in honest misery!”

The friends stared at this weird conjuration.

The old man resumed, “To heaven and fate be resigned, children of savior line, or traitorous heritage. Your destined hour comes.” He paused to wheeze in a breath. “Know you not that, despite intentions, the good is often interred with bones while evil lives on? No? Then wallow in filth and muck, and with drowning eyes perceive the higher ground you have left.”

“Truth under the garb of fiction?” Teng Fei scoffed. “Attractive apparel indeed; so much so, I care but little to see what lies beneath.”

Cheng shrugged. “Offal matter can illuminate the dark world? Judgment has fled to brutish beasts and men have lost their reason.”

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Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction Qi Qiang frowned, troubled. “Should Death in his hunting find quarry among us three, it would be as a lamp lowered into a well and thereby darkened, shining its light only to echoes and stone.”

The old seer chortled, “Pluck away the blade, and blood follows. The centipede with all its legs falls for the length of those hundreds. The worm dies, yet dying does not descend.” He shuffled away, gibbering, and disappeared into the watery mist.

Part Two “Now look at me, neither trusting nor to be trusted, and always in the shadow of a greater man.” — The Promise 2005

Chapter 1 Two men sat at the restaurant table, sharing stories. The first said in a loud whisper, “Ever heard tell of Emperor Yao Zu’s first son?”

A young man at a nearby table started at hearing these words.

The second man replied dubiously, “Was he not a simpleton? Unfortunate, that the emperor’s first male child would be struck dumb in near infancy.”

The first nodded sagely. “Ah, I was but a boy at the time of the peasant rebellions.”

Smiling courteously, Lien entered the conversation and inclined his head to the two. “Good men, allow me a moment,” he interposed. “Did the boy not die in the confused bloodshed?

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” the second man said, a bit leery of the stranger. “Lad, what good do old tales impart to the tellers?”

“A gratuitous cup for them, gentlemen.” Lien raised a hand to summon the waitress. “I confess, a history of the rise and fall of dynasties and the cause for them has occupied my pen, and of late I contract upon the innocent who suffer 83

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction through no fault but birth and circumstance, as well as the intriguers deserving worse yet gaining much more than justice ought to serve them. Later in experience I continue to the fortunes of those men who bring about the creation of empires.”

The men, warming to the attractive youth, chortled good-naturedly. “A hearty enterprise, young man! Cite us, then, when the work is completed, eh?”

The first man explained, “However, the lost prince has become a folk story to be told only as such. And lost he was, for there flitted word that once the revolt settled, he could not be found.”

“As an unsupported conjecture of old wives,” the second gossip went on, “it is rustled about that the boy was not the emperor’s son at all. The man—for though possessing the mandate of heaven, Yao Zu is man nonetheless—has never fathered another son. Not one. The present heir, always with his effeminate boys and pretty eunuchs, has the thinned blood of a nephew.”

The first gossip gulped a drink. “He must be dead, the royal son. Otherwise, would he not have come forth to claim his inheritance?’

The stout waitress arrived, balancing a large tray with steaming buns and more brimming cups. “Likely stories, thin as noodle strips! A god may have brought forth the first prince for all that you well-meaning fools prattle.”

An unkempt old man entered the premises, going from table to table, mumbling nonsense as he held out his hands to beg pathetically for money. The customers began to grumble, and the waitress summoned the restaurant owner, who angrily grabbed the old man by his grungy clothes and was about to hail him bodily off the premises.

Lien, taking his leave of the men, stepped in and politely indicated that he would pay for the old man. He, unused to benevolence, stammered his thanks incoherently. Lien smiled kindly. “Thank me not. Time only separates you and I, and does not a shared gift, given us without consent, unite closer than blood?”

After a brief look, the seer peered at Lien more closely, and his bloodshot eyes widened, and his mouth opened and shut. “Why dwell amongst mortals on earth?” he asked incredulously. “Fain thou not to ascend high on glorified clouds and drink of elixir?”

Lien gently signaled him to quiet. ““An erroneous deduction or a macabre joke you have made of my position, sir. I am hardly so exalted a figure as you pronounce. Oft prestige comes of springing from lofty lineage, not greatness of deed nor largess of manner.”

The seer’s eyes shown oddly. “So unfortunate runs the course’s end of an effervescent life, young mortal, for the reason that thy mind as a compass directs at but a single point.”

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Lien laughed softly. “The utterance of an oracle! Truly your craft is great, as mine boasts the value of a counterfeit coin from the hand of a usurer, gathering no profit!” He grew serious. “Good man, speak no more of these things, for truth ought only to be whispered of in these places where men frequent their presence; it is as burning sun to the soft-bodied creatures coiled desperately in their shells.”

Shaking his head, the seer demurred, “I dwell not always in right, but roam a peregrine, hoping only to stumble upon it again.” His blind gaze clouded in white mists. “Thou shieldest thyself in broken armor.”

Lien raised his head to stare dreamily into the distance. “Blood will then flow, red and ragged as a cloud of sunset, and so as final to the day, from the rents revealed.” His lips curved slightly. “And so he passed beneath the earth, now dirt, and sea, then foam, and the living dismissed his ghost.”

Pressing some coins into the old man’s dirty hand, Lien departed.

Emperor Yao Zu sat a regal figure on his throne, giving audience in a room decorated with two dragons, one blue to repel evil spirits, and the other with a cloud to bring rain. His father’s long-forgotten words regarding his lost son rang in his mind dully: “Whether he is to be ill-fated or the greatest of sovereigns among men, a dragon hidden in the pond, I know not.” The nurse had fled with the child, distinguished from other babes only by a lovely imperial hairpin, when news of the uprising had reached the palace.

Eunuchs assumed the powerful positions of generals and imperial councilors. Civil officials attempted to purge the government of this weakening corruption, but this ended in a destructive scourge of the bureaucracy.

A eunuch made obeisance. “Highest majesty, we deeply mourned the death of your illustrious father, yet rejoice in your affluent and certain continuing magnificent reign.”

An official muttered, “The fool knows naught but sententious speeches intoning much, but the denouement reveals little done. Improvidence leads only to scourging calamity.”

“Indeed, great emperor,” another eunuch enthused, “a prodigious penchant for the Three Perfections—calligraphy, poetry and painting—betoken a long perpetuation of the dynasty’s lustrously brilliant line.”

“Abject pestilence pillages the poor without mercy,” a second official sighed sadly to himself, “and still these eunuchs with their unctuous wiles serenade the emperor with their nonsensical praise! When eviscerating uprisings and privation come to them, they dare to wonder, ‘Why these precipitous horrors, not variegated but prevalent among those we have ignored?’”

The first eunuch added flatteringly, “I am most pleased to inform you that 85

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction the royal pleasure park to which you graciously assented has been completed.

Majestic lord, the outcome is truly a wonder! A true illusion of exotic animals, peaks of man-made mountains, tiny quince trees, an immense boulder of divine significance carried by a huge cargo ship, and in its carriage bridges torn down— ”

“I may excite the envy of fools, but the wise will pity me,” Yao Zu’s shoulders drooped invisibly. “You would have me be a king, and I am but a pauper; a god, yet I am only a man. To every face I turn for succor, and on near each one furrows a leering malice, eyes gleaming red with blood-thirst.”

Chapter 2 Qi Qiang and Bao Zhai entered a restaurant, engaged in verbal combat.

The owner trotted forward, smiling, “Warmly I greet and welcome you, honorable guests, to this humble place.”

The couple nodded and resumed their arguing.

“I dare not intercede in this impious war,” the owner said nervously to himself, “raging even in Paradise.”

Bao Zhai stamped her foot. “I will not put my feet to such a starved bank of moss. Ought I to cut such delicate soft soles on flower petals too corrosive for their comfort?”

Qi Qiang’s lips pressed in a thin line. “I would be content with a little obedience. Prostrate, you strain to rise from within the trammel of sovereignty, cursing your conqueror, but, upon a glance, should be meekly obedient to his command.”

“You dream what will never be reality,” Bao Zhai said scornfully. “I cannot submit to such a feckless buffoon as you, nor will I peer through dungeon grates in such freedom you care to grant me.”

“It is not I who play tasteless jokes.” Qi Qiang threw up his hands. “Sacrosanct Buddha, have I not my penance done by this marriage and suffered travails sore enough? Or have I more to do yet?”

“That mad and savage master you name Father—the broad bright sun could not be so abrasively commanding. His biddings are as charnel crusts to a man white with leprosy and choked with soot. I acknowledge your reign as asserted only. You claim majesty; I accede not to that contention and deride your arrogate as an usurped sway.” Bao Zhai tossed her head proudly.

“Very well,” Qi Qiang agreed. “I stand demoted to mere escort, accompanying my mistress to act as protection from harm and to yield money liberally should she need it for expenditures, frivolous though they may be. Have you ar86

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction gument with this offer?”

Bao Zhai shook her head adamantly. “What outside security require I? I too know the martial arts. As to the other bid, I have as companion my friend Yu Sheng to bear coin with me.”

“Should you defeat me once, I will recognize you the superior and leave you to your own company.” Qi Qiang smiled slightly. “If you do not, I must follow in association, as our fathers wish us to do.”

A brief battle ensued, Bao Zhai demonstrating some talent considerably diluted by only haphazard dedication to training while Qi Qiang had spent the last year in a rigorous martial arts academy. Qi Qiang emerged the victor.

“Surrender with grace, Bao Zhai,” her husband advised “Meek-eyed charity extends her hands to us both and bids one propitiate with the other. Let us have abundance where only famine has subsisted, and harmony of domestic architecture.”

“I aver that you had not this skill when I knew you in childhood,” Bao Zhai replied bitingly. “Yet your fatuity remains a deplorable failing if you imagine me willingly to agree with this blighted proposal.”

“Judge me not from that period, I ask of you,” Qi Qiang requested tiredly.

“Truly I have altered in character and ability since that time.

“Pride yourself not too highly,” Bao Zhai warned spitefully. “Still Jun Jie surpasses you; you are as a lesser fowl compared to an eagle.”

Qi Qiang sighed. “No matter what worthy deeds I perform, naught will convert your mind, replete with prideful vice, on this affair. I accept this judgment, unjust as it may be, as a fixed thought, to be perhaps changed in future conceptions if demonstrably proved false.”

Cheng and his close acquaintance diligently hunched over their respective works, each admiring his own.

“Sweet nightingale,” Cheng called out, “shut your twittering beak. How am I to author the greatest of compositions whilst dissonance disrupts this brilliant mind?” He sighed, then turned back to his scribbling. After some time, he finished with a flourish and held the paper up for inspection. “O sages of capacious mind, read you not this extraordinary work of the pen?”

The painter also completed his work. Cheng and he complimented each other’s works, trying to out-praise the other, then falling to what they really wanted to say... that is, extol their own work.

“Behold the lovely body I have painted, the likes of which have not been seen this age,” the painter congratulated himself.

“It need only twitch to prove its living animation,” Cheng assured him, his 87

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction voice betraying only slight impatience to move on to his masterpiece.

“So beautiful she is,” the painter admired, “that the desire to throw myself prostrate before her and lie so, neither consuming sustenance nor slumbering, ‘til she come alive and wed me, spreads throughout my body.”

Cheng advised, “Indulge not the inclination, else you will wait long.”

“I bend not my head to hear,” the painter protested. “Though it be true, need you say it?”

Cheng lost all patience. “Profound stupidity as this, too loathsome and longlasting, ought not be so firmly established in the minds of men. Rather than these miserable hovels of ignorance tossed about on patches of thinking mud should there be built grand, stately mansions reared on pillars of rational thought.”

The painter, affronted, gathered up his magnum opus. “Clearly you trouble not to deny superior intellect, and I worry not over acknowledging it,” he said with all the dignity he could muster. “You have not the inerrancy of Confucian scripture.”

Chapter 3 During a raid on a village which had refused to pay taxes, a soldier saw a passably attractive woman and roughly took sexual advantage of her. A year later, the woman had a child beside her and was shunned everywhere she went. In desperation the woman wandered into the wilderness, where nomads took pity on her.

The child grew into a powerful man and charismatic leader, Rong. Embittered by his childhood, he led the nomads into forays against outlying villages on the empire’s frontier.

The elders quavered before the fierce Rong in the village meeting house. “We humbly beg forbearance of you, great warrior,” the first pleaded. “Lay waste not to this wretched place, unworthy of contending winds.”

Rong threw back his wild head and laughed carelessly. “What care I for this paltry spot? The more matters an intelligent cipher, and of him you I will rob if you cede him not. Look here: a corpse comprises the ground, and blood the reedy plant growing out. Will you lie stretched out and down?”

The elders groveled. “We are men aged white, in the hoary color of a spent life. Have mercy!” The sound of footsteps approached the tent. “Ah, here comes the scribe of our village, a noble-born youth.” Eagerly they exited as Liang entered. The young man cautiously eyed the massive sword hanging at Rong’s waist.

“Weapons have no knowledge of eyes, nor discerning thought,” Liang said matter-of-factly. “They slay or maim any without vouchsafe. Deem you it wise, sir, to hold close so compromising an ally? A sheathed sword shows the true value of 88

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction its wielder.”

Rong replied shortly, “In the hot breath of war, one cannot but act rashly to preserve his life. Only a man of poor fettle would engage in the permutation of a sword for a pen. Yet, it seems I have need of such as you.”

“Pluck, then, a reed in thickened color fluid dipped, and stain the desired surface,” Liang suggested coolly. “This slender writing implement inks the most superlative of utterings, records the mighty happenings of the past and fantastical imaginings of the future. So do likewise chaffy commentators, though of higher ranking than I, compose the events of civilians and government.”

“And of he the ne’er lust-wearied emperor of men,” Rong snorted, “who cannot rule himself, yet presumes to govern the country.” He indicated the roughhewn table and threw a parchment at Liang, ordering him to write an edict proclaiming open war against the emperor.

In an upper-class house, the pretty maid Ehuang served Liang and his older brother, who smiled at Ehuang. Some months later, a pregnant Ehuang was thrown from the house, and Liang, greatly sympathetic to her plight, went with her. They settled in a small village on the outskirts of the empire, where Ehuang lost the child. Then Rong came with his army.

Ehuang and Liang traveled with Rong’s nomadic procession in the fields. She sighed regretfully. “I greatly regret the dense foliage of perishable bloom we left behind.” A wistful smile touched her lips. “A veritable museum of collected art treasures it was, populated by the four gentlemen—bamboo, pine, chrysanthemum and orchid.”

Liang shrugged, smiling, and reminded her, “Forget not of other company, as behind some rocks debauched monks leered at women bathing in oblivion of an audience.”

After some time of trudging on, Ehuang remarked, “The children pipe pleasant songs of merry glee.” She wiped perspiration from her brow.

Liang looked at her in concern. “I would happen upon a quiet bower sweet in dreams so that you may find rest. Is there no roof to cover you from this terrible sun?”

Several men approached them, laughing coarsely in admiration at Ehuang’s loveliness. Their careless molestations grew more impudent. Ehuang shrieked in terror, and Liang fought furiously to save her, though his strength was futile against the greater numbers of stronger men.

Rong, who stood watching some minutes, was impressed by Liang’s earnest efforts and the bond between him and Ehuang. He curtly ordered his men away, and they, sullen at this robbing of their fun, returned to their places.

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Chapter 4 The well-dressed inspector took shelter for the night at a poor man’s home. The man’s wife, embittered by poverty, catered sycophantically to him. The meek husband served as host, while their children had been ousted from the house to make room for the guest.

The inspector smacked his lips after the meal. “Now, what of that child I beheld earlier?” he said casually.

The woman quickly asked, “Child? We have many, sir! Please tell us which you mean.”

“I believe it to be a boy,” the man said slowly, “though certainly his beauty shone even amid the filth of this place as a woman’s loveliness shines in a bath.”

“Surely by his words he indicates that useless Delun,” the woman said hurriedly to her husband, preparing to fetch the indicated child. To the inspector she said, bowing, “I shall quickly bring him out.” Greatly excited, the woman listened at the door to the conversation occurring within the wretched hut. Sometime later, the man walked out, deeply troubled. The woman ran to him. “I heard all.

Why stand you as though you have grown roots?”

The man shook his head. “To sell our son to a man of whom we know nothing—”

His wife stared at him incredulously. “Nay, not merely a man! A noble, by his dress and airs. If Delun should go with him, he will have the finest of food and clothing. Aiya, old man, what turbid insinuations do you fear?”

“Then,” the man asked uneasily, “why did he speak so highly of appearances?”

The woman shrugged carelessly. “His peculiar tastes only. Come, your children and wife starve, and behold! an opportunity of double blessings!” She hastened into the hut to ensure the visitor lacked nothing.

Delun ran toward his father, waving his hands. His friend Xiang, slightly older than he, watched him, smiling. “A dream of exciting import drifted upon me,” Delun said in exhilaration. “I on feet bared to the elements ran swiftly on the lake’s shimmering surface, yet never fleeing, for whom would I fear when the very damp swells shied from me, leaving alone prints of absence on the watery paths behind, always behind? Father, does this not auspicate good fortune?”

The man cried in agony, “My son!” He knelt down and embraced Delun fiercely.

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Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction Delun patted his father’s back comfortingly. “What ails you, Father?” The man said nothing, only wept.

The Inspector came forward, extending a hand. “Come, my son,” he said to Delun. Delun was sold to the palace, where the imperial heir, Shan Yuan, personally chose him as one of the boys to be castrated. For some years, his name changed to Wu Que; he was refined and educated.

“I am as planking on the sea, afloat and drifting on the waves, waiting but for rot and deterioration to sequester me from existence.” Wu Que glared bitterly at the lounging figure of Shan Yuan in the distance. “Such flame kindles in me as I cannot put out.”

Chapter 5 Commotion reigned outside a reception hall decorated with lotus flowers signifying high government officials. Servants rushed in, a considerable number of them battered, though none seriously. De Ming snarled, “Look not at me with the marbled stare of dead men!”

Teng Fei entered, bowing. “Sincerely I desired, Highly Regarded Official De Ming, to offer my martial services in a quieter manner. Yet, these minions allowed me not that favor.”

“Forgive us, my lord!” the head of De Ming’s bodyguards babbled, “This man advanced past the gate ere we could block his passing.”

“I stated my purpose in coming,” Teng Fei said coolly, “and was compelled to make a cheek by jowl show of it in lieu of a man’s honorable belief in my words.”

Deeply impressed and deciding he had better humor this powerful stranger for the moment, De Ming clapped his hands, “Impressive, young man! With no ceremonial grandeur you bated aside lowlier serviles with the ease you would have tossed feather mountains.”

Teng Fei smiled. “I confess to no patience for walled cities captured through laborious siege warfare.”

De Ming dismissed his guards with a contemptuous wave, and inquired, “Profess you to any virtue, then? What do you call yourself?”

“An appreciation for good living and a consequently conspicuous consumption of it.” Teng Fei bowed again. “Teng Fei, my lord, humbly presents himself to you.”

“Teng Fei, eh?” De Ming pondered a moment, then smiled in pleased recognition. “Of Daiyu Sect, a promising student of that fine school.”

“Most honored I am to be spoken of so highly by your lordship, particularly as I deeply admire your lordship’s discernment in artful tapestries and household 91

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction decorations. In song bards sing of curtains embroidered with strings of pearls, divan ornamented withs gems . . . truly wondrous!” Teng Fei praised. De Ming missed the sardonic tone in his voice.

“Do poets indeed produce such lyrical tunes of me?” De Ming asked, delighted. “Rumour-mongering, surely. Well, enough of pleasantries,” he said sternly. “A strong martial background, yet impart the reasons I would require so exclusive a capacity.”

“I pretend not to scholarly arts, yet roughly raised as I am, have heard better lettered men say, in the wilderness crouch concealed modest robbers, in the city less cautiously range mediocre felons, and seated among the highest of officialdom, outright criminals. In times of want I will, as barbarous nomads, open even a vein in my mount’s neck and sip blood if by that action I may survive,” Teng Fei explained.

“Ha!” De Ming laughed boisterously. “Bow not so modestly; I am no fool, and know of your fine upbringing, and heard of an honest mind well-adjusted to high-born treachery. Very well. I shall reward richly. For peril of your life, abandon not the cause of mine.”

“Rather would I sow with dragon’s teeth a field of rocks, and from it anticipate scented flowers grown. I shall guard this ward as the pupil in my eye, or according to your orders.” Teng Fei inclined his head.

A group of self-satisfied, indolent officials, Cheng accompanying, reclined in a steaming pool. Paintings of the scholar’s life cycle in eight scenes adorned the walls—first birthday celebration, studies, wedding procession, inauguration as magistrate, inspection tours to magisterial region, sixtieth birthday celebration, appointment to honorary government position at an advanced age.

“As district governors,” Cheng extolled, “you wise men enact judges, resolving disputes, maintaining order, overseeing tax collection, supervising public works, and the like. Share with a menial, aspiring poet some proposals for the appropriate course of action in such situations.” He murmured to himself, “Indeed, graciously in proud display demonstrate the full measure of ignorance. And, cormorants, show the luckless fish speared from the deep sea!”

“I have traveled much further and broader than you can imagine,” a plump man boasted, his fat flesh rolling in the waters.

Cheng smiled sardonically. “And had not to move the distance, I imagine,” he said in an aside.

“Foul insects swarm about me,” another high-nosed man complained, “congesting the very air I breathe with their filthy bodies.”

“To amass to your bedeviled person a great so many tormenting flies—are 92

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction you not a rankly smelling dung pile?” Cheng inquired silently.

A squint-eyed man cried, “I could hardly forbear laughing at the boorish grievance! Have I, too, not worse scores to settle in my piteous life of public service?” He subsided into the foaming waters. “Demanded I, ‘Read you not the printed promulgation?’ Replies he, “‘I heard the announcement, yet marked it not. I am a poor man of no learning. What means it?’”

De Ming entered, looking shrewdly at them all. The group saluted him and returned to their loud complaints. Someone requested to know what punishment had been dealt.

“Therefore I had him beaten into a dog’s clamorous whining with forty stripes.” The squint-eyed man snorted. “A condign punishment for so inconveniencing a magistrate, a figure of uprightness, as myself. Stern words proved but idle scorn to the impertinent fool!”

“‘Although my days of public service are many, I will not let them surpass in number my days of leisure.’” Ah, truly said, and philosophical perfection!” they chorused approvingly.

De Ming held up a hand. “Detestation of your betters roves the surface as a snake despite its attempt to conceal itself in the hole of your mouth,” he observed astutely to Cheng.

Caught, Cheng laughed and rose to leave the chamber amidst the muttering.

“And you, sir, strain at gnats while elephants stampede.”

Chapter 6 In a pavilion decorated with the 10 longevity symbols - sun, clouds, mountains, rocks, water, cranes, deer, turtles, pine trees, and fungus of eternal youth, Daiyu Sect students waited for Ding Xiang to speak.

“His hair droops,” Teng Fei murmured, “a wan flame about his head and garments out-creased by the wearer. I surmise that age has blown the light from the magnificent fire. Of a tower that sprang sublime in ancient times, the base in near-rubble remains.”

Ding Xiang regarded the group assembled before him, thinking to himself in anger on what Qi Qiang and other spies had reported to him. “I rest not in quiescence as treacherous fiends conspire to overthrow me.” His lips creased and he quipped inwardly, “Indeed, though for such an opulent tomb as that of the late Emperor Bojing I would wish for death.”

“In failing dotage, as they verge on decline do his eyes make enemies of all reflected in them?” an adept thought, shifting restlessly.

“This woman Hui Fen,” Ding Xiang began sonorously, “inclined to lunacy 93

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction after the exile of her familial relations by royal decree, seeks after a deranged scheme: to subdue all pugilistic sects under her rule and collapse the empire’s government.”

“Nay, this cannot be!” a senior muttered. “The old man totters on senility.

Hui Fen has thus far submitted to the higher powers of those few sects which exceed hers.” All said submissively, “As you say, Master.”

In a middle-class house, Wei Min, a radical young man who fervently believed the nation to have grown decadent and slothful, sympathized with the barbarian Rong, while his conservative father and brother wished to uphold the present government.

“Such a man as this Rong, with so sweeping a mandate,” Wei Min exulted, “surely heaven ordains him to rule all nations! Heaven does not mourn the certain losers; nay, for Hell welcomes them, and the ground shall hold corpses scattered as bloodied fibers of hemp.”

“Master Wei Min, say not such things!” the maid Fen Fang begged in a panic.

“Ascribe not to the inscrutable will of God what man can explain by incompetent stupidity, eh?” Wei Min inquired scornfully, angry not at the timid Fen Fang, of whom he was fond, but the attitude of so many complacent others.

“What you say offends the sensible ear, wets the sensitive eye,” Wei Min’s mother suggested timidly.

“Though the present government rules with wholly irresponsible power, yet you follow it?” Wei Min asked incredulously. “Do you burn incense to shattered idols, kneel to a dethroned god?” He turned to the door.

The father warned, “Should you go forth from this room, you are not my son.”

Wei Min smiled bitterly, and returned, “That is well, for you have never been my father!” He spat at his sibling, “And Zi Hao, a eunuch I disclaim as my brother relation.” He left. Fen Fang, casting a despairing look behind her, ran after him.

Zi Hao sighed sadly, murmuring, “The same mother, the same father… yet not the same heaven.”

Chapter 7 Qi Qiang read the indignant letter from Bao Zhai, a reluctant smile quirking his lips. “… and so, Qi Qiang, presume not to lecture me on proper etiquette. I know very well the best method of behavior in this stagnant society, but I choose not to act accordingly.” She finished her tirade by snapping, “A grave malady has alighted like birds’ droppings on these people who piddle about their lives, an 94

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction affliction to make murder appear malaise. It is apathy!”

Bao Zhai ended the missive by remarking, “Speedily you left, and tardy much in return. I avouch that I find your presence more bearable when it remains absent.”

“Those who have endured the trial of marriage have described it the tombstone of love, a testament of what was vibrant and is now dead,” Qi Qiang observed thoughtfully. “Propinquity breeds but unhappiness and resentment of its enforcement. Perhaps, without the remembrance that we are wed and the blessing of magpies and tigers, this union will survive.”

Slowly, and perhaps inexplicably, Bao Zhai began to look forward to Qi Qiang’s letters. She smiled as she read one.

As Yu Sheng rested in the shade of a large, leafy tree, Jun Jie approached her with an arrogant swagger.

“Consider the prospect of a night with me,” he advised her pompously, “I entering the threshold as you share your body’s fair dwelling. If you please me, my harem will behold an addition.”

“Sir,” Yu Sheng stammered, taken aback at this unbelievable address by Bao Zhai’s hero, “truly you flatter an inconsequential maid—” She desperately cast about for an exit from the terrible situation, and thankfully spied someone nearby and coming closer.

Teng Fei raised his eyebrows as he approached. “You must be bold in the sight of many, to crudely threaten a beautiful young girl.”

Jun Jie glared at this intruder. “Ignominious meddler, who are you to intrude in business not yours? And I hardly menace her, only bequeath an offer so as to honor her charming attractions.”

“Why, an inquisitive observer who takes interest in the doings of the company about him.” Teng Fei shrugged.

Yu Sheng looked from one man to another, and suddenly worried for Teng Fei, who could not possibly compare with the great Jun Jie’s reputed martial abilities.

“Intervene not, young man,” she said reluctantly, “and retain the inquisition only; do not attempt to attain the answer.”

Jun Jie threw out a hand, intending to give Teng Fei a glancing blow. Teng Fei deftly moved out of the way, and the two opponents drew off, facing each other.

A city time crier called out the hour.

Jun Jie cursed, muttering to himself, “I must to home. A monster-wife awaits me there, and will devour me for my absence from her lair. Sullen I ply my task as I beneath the yoke of wedlock bend.”

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To Yu Sheng he said grandly, “I grant you leave to depart with this nugatory fool, maid. As you hesitate to select between the better of us, I ought not squander further time here, and consider your beauty’s bloom blown away in the weak and witless breeze of this man’s specious chatter, empty as a pauper’s purse.”

He strode away abruptly with dignity.

Yu Sheng sighed in relief. “I feared to rupture his frail-strung heart,” she explained to Teng Fei, “and so spoke not my mind.”

Teng Fei grinned. “I protected you from dreadful disaster. Of course, I expect splendid repayment.”

“From the wolf’s jaws to the tiger’s claws,” Yu Sheng laughed ruefully. “Oh, woe is me.”

Teng Fei laughed with her. “The great personage Jun Jie! Ah, him I know well; a man most intelligent and skilled, best suited for pouring slops into the trough of pigs.”

Chapter 8 A black-clothed assassin, Shen, crept silently through the shadows and prepared to enter De Ming’s house by stealth. However, he saw Li Ling and hesitated, and at that moment Teng Fei caught sight of him. The two dropped into a darkened corner of the courtyard, engaging in combat. Shen clearly excelled in subtle martial arts, but Teng Fei exceeded him in open fighting. Shouts came from alerted guards and servants.

Teng Fei dealt a harsh blow, and Shen, staggering back, disappeared into the night, Teng Fei, realizing that he had sustained some slight wounds, stared thoughtfully after him.

Li Ling and a friend walked by an abandoned warehouse. They heard some sounds within and checked to see what they were. Shen lay on the ground, unconscious, nearly hidden in a corner of the building. After sending the curious girl elsewhere, Li Ling tended to Shen’s injury. The young man woke and tried to rise.

“After the toil and travel I have exhausted upon you, stranger,” Li Ling chided, “pray do not rise so soon and destroy my handiwork.”

Shen stared and said to himself, “A sight of fine gossamer, brilliant-hued butterfly wings, celestial feathers and heavenly air! I recognize this vision—Li Ling, De Ming’s ward. What does she expect in recompense? Never has one treated me kindly without anticipation of return.” To Li Ling he stammered shyly, “I thank you for undeserving kindness. Please allow me to go my way.”

Li Ling shook her head ruefully. “I have worked my utmost to ensure your 96

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction complete recovery. Still, do not move hastily, or, as vulgars would say, ‘the wind will blow from your carcass.’ Concern yourself not over payment; this is as a sentient creature ought to treat the other.”

Bowing uncertainly, Shen took his departure.

Li Ling murmured, “I dare not ask the reason for this injury. Despite suspicious circumstances, he appears a most gentle youth.”

As he walked along a busy street, Teng Fei felt suspicious eyes on him, and turning, he saw Shen watching him. He approached Shen, saying easily, “I pronounce a sentence of death on the found criminal.”

Shen smiled. “I welcome you to the execution of this conviction.” He slipped away into the crowd. Teng Fei attempted to follow, but soon lost sight of Shen. He arrives at a secluded alley.

“I admit,” Teng Fei called out apologetically, “I crowed too loudly and too soon, a bird chirping in joy of a spring not come. Reveal yourself! I assure thorough honor in this meeting, and my continued silence throughout this chase measures ample credence.”

A measured silence ensued. Then Shen stepped forward. “Why do you follow me in secrecy unknown to others, nor fretting channels that would aid you in the pursuit? What of your fostering patron?”

“Employer, I correct.” Teng Fei made a sign of admiration. “That subtle movement of escape—performed excellently—has dwelt in my stomach as a pestilent gall since last we met. Does an otherwise engaged schedule prevent you from parceling the knowledge?”

Shen stared at him incredulously. “I have not the time to recounter light words with anyone who traipses after my steps, not pellucid to my cause. What is your purpose in accosting me?”

“A frivolous one, by your account,” Teng Fei admitted. “Let us be friends.”

“Each eyes the other in suspicion, both at cross intentions, and still you persist in this nonsense—” Shen turned to leave. Teng Fei leaned forward and spoke quietly to Shen.

“Hence, wherefore the apprehensive dubiety?” Teng Fei inquired innocently.

“Truly I have been sensible of malcontents and loiterers in this vast world,” Shen said in amazement, “yet never yet encountered a person who in so full a measure embodied one.”

Teng Fei made a rueful face. “Need you so pernicious an observation make of me? Had I been a blood-doused murderer, a more acerbic address could not be said.”

“Am I to drink wassail at mazy intelligence meant to stultify me?” Shen re97

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction torted.

“An immutable victim is no suitable immolation, I asservate. Come, I prithee, invest some benign endowment of trust in me, as I have witnessed for you.”

Teng Fei smiled ingratiatingly.

Shen raised his eyebrows. “A fat-witted comedian whose abstruse jokes of quiddity I do not comprehend. Very well; as you have confided to me so will I justly return.”

Teng Fei sat eating in De Ming’s kitchen when Li Ling entered. “Lady Li Ling?”

She smiled. “That title hardly became me when I, smothered in a dressing of cream, launched a half-baked cake at your head.”

“And missed, the true mark of a lady,” Teng Fei laughed. “Qi Qiang then gallantly leapt to your assistance, wearing the impenetrable armor of flour dust, and—” “Slipped on the milk, staggered through a clatter of utensils, and ran into a cabinet, managing to knock himself unconscious. The innovation of metal as a protective covering better suits warriors than powdery foodstuff,” Li Ling observed.

“Qi Qiang’s affectation for you continues unabated,” Teng Fei said seriously.

“As mine for him.” Li Ling sighed. “It seems Fate frowned upon our joining; perhaps it were better so, and I may yet find a love companion to accompany me through life’s grinding labor.”

Teng Fei looked at her sadly, then cleared his throat. “Permit me a brief narration to chill the flesh from bone and, incidentally, to divert from our minds somber thoughts. It was night. I sat, innocuous, at a tea house, of no harm to anyone, when a frightful creature propositioned me. At that moment a pallid wind blew the lamps dark, and I experienced a foot making its way up—”

Chapter 9 In a study room, the first examiner sighed, “I pity much the simple candidates from the countryside, who, on their first arrival, find themselves lured into its counterfeit delights: gambling, drinking, whoring, and the like, and then must return home, shame-faced, with naught to show but the muddled accent of crafty city dwellers.” He peered closely at the new paper he held in his hands. “Ah! but this work is indubitably extraordinary!”

The second examiner, in another study room, exclaimed in surprise, “ Why, this fellow applied only a short while of the time allotted, quick as horses rushing past in fright! His pen must have flown over the paper, as though exercising no 98

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction exceptional care, and yet the work is quite excellent.”

The third examiner remarked caustically, “Successful scholars decide upon eligible girls of choice, with parents competing to offer the largest dowries.

Doubtless the composer of this decrepit draft should be fortunate to find a pretty baboon to wife.”

He took up another exam, and read it with growing amazement. “In his poetry the man ‘carries the wind and sleeves the moon!’ If only other candidates were of similar learned virtue; if so, they would not obtain scores of so low a merit, and then angrily douse effigies of innocent scholastic inspectors such as myself in oil and set them ablaze. Or, if especially incensed, further disgrace the figure by mixing the ashes in night soil. Indeed! The act demeans their own feeble minds. As well, the unfortunate rampancy of deception ever worsens; scoundrels cheat for position and wealth, days of government service far outnumbered by those of a retirement in which the obligation of merrymaking is dutifully and busily observed.”

De Ming and several of his supporters stood in accusation, with Cheng the amused defendant. “I accuse this scholar-posing sot,” De Ming began, “of penning commentary derogatory to the present government, and request, with the acquiescence of several of my honorary fellows, the removal of his person from the premises of the empire.”

“In addition,” a crony added, “we petition for the burning of his literary pretensions.”

Cheng’s lips quirked. “I wager you that, with this banning of books, the prices rise.”

Struggling to ignore him, De Ming continued, “We of the civil bureaucracy strive to serve our Majesty the Emperor and interact positively with the mercantile class in its financing of our endeavors. We humbly postulated for the tautening of the empire’s purse cords, so that its precious contents may not spill out to unknown hand.”.

“Forget not the eunuchs,” Cheng advised, “with whom you deal in scores of bribery and graft to obtain the ear of this man who above all men possess heaven’s mandate to rule.”

“Furthermore, the sightings of peculiar men on our shores worry the farseeing, and so strident exertions have been committed to strongly discourage their presence, for only thereby may we maintain our powerful and peaceful state. And of these estimable efforts, this boastful “Three Not-Worths” makes worse than nothing!”

“So mulish in your daintily savage arguments!” Cheng returned harshly. “I 99

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction well understand the meaning blotted, struck out in dark strokes, from the presented document. Showers of snowy mist, your cunning actor’s lines, cast false purity over the dirty footsteps and drops of blood left by practitioners of what you advocate.”

After a deliberation not a moment longer than deemed proper, the judge decided, “We proclaim that this man Cheng, who demonstrates no sign of remorse for his wrongdoing, be exiled to the lonely plains of the wilderness, never again to show his face within a civilized province while this great administration lasts (ten thousand years may it endure!).”

Chapter 10 In an upper-class brothel, Cheng sat with Xiang, now a well-favored and muchsought courtesan.

“How kind you are to visit me in my humble abode!” Xiang bowed her head submissively. “Please, do not hesitate to request any accommodations. However, as you have not paid for the mentioned provisions—” Cheng graciously inclined a hand to her. “I understand wholly—so I am to ask for nothing. Yet, the pleasure of your company so beguiles me so that I must—”

Xiang resolutely held out cupped fingers.

Cheng sighed. “A cutthroat leaves livelier victims! Very well, mistress.”

Cheng dropped some coins into her waiting hand. Xiang tucked them in some unseen pocket and smiled. “Despite other customers whom I service, am I not faithful to you? I expect honesty in every transaction.”

“And do you not receive it as often?” Cheng inquired testily. “So this is one of the famed gentle sex? A screaming harridan, a screeching harpy, a scarred hide?

Surely not one fit for the idylls of a king nor songs of dalliance.”

Xiang began to undress. Cheng stared intently at her. At the sound of a small door closing, they both burst out laughing. “Must we,” Cheng tutted, “journey this road on all occasions? Mayhap I’ll not always follow you.”

Xiang calmly rearranged her disarrayed clothing. “A small concession to necessity; as well, another fellow traveler, more obliging, can be found immediately after your defection.” She sat near him at the table. “Brood no more, friend Cheng. Tell me of your troubles.”

“Troubles?” Cheng shrugged. “I have none, save rumors whisper unmercifully that exile by irate higher powers awaits me. Dry grape skin binds their imperial hides of good humor. And so I go to sea.”

“Exile?” Xiang gasped in surprise. “Why, surely I am not of the divine circles 100

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction in which you dwell, yet—is there no remedy for the sore you have opened?”

Cheng’s lips curved sardonically. “It appears not. My bosom companions must not know, and you, well, I confide perturbations to embossed walls and adorned furniture, if they catch my fancy, as you do.” He patted her hand.

Xiang regained her composure and smiled. “Were you gone, I would have more leisure to engage in less rigorous activities than this to earn my keep.”

“I doubt not,” Cheng assured her. “Ah, let us not speak of this.” For some time Cheng and Xiang conversed on various topics.

“Care I enough for dogma that I should persecute in its name?” Cheng scoffed. “Nay, I think not! I hope I have learned better philosophy than that of the ignorant God-believer.”

“In these forlorn days the young men,” Xiang remarked sadly, “vibrant in strength and so contemptuously derisive, spit on their elders and steal from them, and the old weep, ‘Alas, have pity on your father, for that coin was to have been for my burial.’”

Cheng shook his head. “Rounder paunches cannot be found than on the bellies of monastery monks, of whitest sanctity, praying in proper Buddha bodily form for the desiccated dead. And as for the lords tossing the bounteous largess of spittle to poor men, why, gold composes their horses’ dung!”

The jovial judge Yun Xu came to court to discuss some business with officials more intimate in the governmental sphere than he, as well as to hear the latest capital gossip, bringing his newly made concubine Xiang and Lan Fen. The two argued furiously as they awaited their patron in a chamber.

Lan Fen spat, “A former meretricious occupation reveals itself in your bedizened gear.”

Xiang laughed coolly. “You curse both the locust and the grasshopper in one breath. This apparel belonged to our lord’s first wife.

“The locust indeed,” Lan Fen snarled, “a starveling who would lick even the saliva from the tiger’s jowls and caterwaul in triumph of that accomplishment.”

“The sky promises much thunder but delivers little rain.” Xiang smiled scornfully and made to pass, but Lan Fen barred her way, determined to emerge victor from this engagement.

“Yun Xu took a fancy to you only in some strange spasm of passion,” she hissed, “he wished to pass a night without paying for the paltry services.”

Xiang lost patience. “The jangling wit of a haughty-visaged howling cat, odoriferous with peddled perfume—” Wu Que entered. Though this duty did not correspond with his usual responsibilities of tending to the emperor’s concubines, famine and peasant unrest 101

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction had caused many important-ranking men to flock to the capital city and palace, supplicating themselves for favors and assistance—and therefore he found himself relegated to lower tasks than he was accustomed, such as serving a relatively minor functionary’s harem. Having passed childhood, likewise he had grown from Shan Yuan’s bed. “Honored mistresses, is there aught you require? Or ought I to depart withal?”

Lan Fen’s lip curled in utter contempt. “What has a eunuch with which to satisfy me?” Tossing her head, she flounced from the room.

Xiang held out a placating hand to the still bowing eunuch. “The bawd has venal appetence as would shame—” she paused suddenly, and, brows furrowing deeply, came close to Wu Que. Tears started in her bright eyes, and she flew into his startled embrace. “Pray disregard the prisoner who breathes air in purgation after durance of living immured and bound. Is it not Delun who stands before me?”

Wu Que stood still for a moment. Then his arms tightened around her, and he wept. “Surely I am a slow-gaited fool.”

Chapter 11 Qing Zhao gazed out the window, into the garden, and said dully, “I am with child.”

“Cries will resound as the cracking of rock, some in gladness, but most in envy and black hatred,” a maid replied with wide eyes.

“Hoary stone I see all about me,” Qing Zhao whispered, “a joyless wood, and so bleak is my life, the lowing sigh of the wind. I weary of the drudgery of late in the world.”

The maid protested, “The lake drowses in the distance, koi prance in their gleaming splendor, wound in light in the shining sun of the brightest beams.

Why does my lady ever languish in the likeness of love? See, here lies spread fare, savory and sumptuous, bounteously served for your pleasure.”

The exquisitely delicate profile remained still. “I hunger only for what I cannot possess. My heart urges me to paths I dare not tread.”

“The emperor comes!” a strident eunuch’s voice called. “All hail!”

The maid hurriedly assisted her mistress in standing. “Quickly, my lady, appear not so sorrowful, else the emperor will wonder at it and question.”

Yao Zu entered, smiling fondly at his favorite concubine. “I look to a pleasant passing of the hour in the lull of your voice, melody sweet, and stolen glances that stir my heart, and revel in feminine beauty.”

“All as you wish only, my lord,” Qing Zhao replied quietly. She then tried to 102

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction smile and touched a golden necklace he had given her. “This yellow metal speaks divine tongue. Your heart is of gold, they say. Does it truly bring forth coin?”

Yao Zu laughed and returned, “Yes, in drops of blood.” He gestured for her to join him as he seated himself. “Would you be rich, my dear?”

Qing Zhao shyly lowered her head at his playful banter. “His majesty’s attention is beneficent and fleeting as the wind, furious and whimsical as the storm.”

She whispered in his head.

Yao Zu smiled fondly, exceedingly pleased at the news of Qing Zhao’s pregnancy. “Is she not as a star that shines even in day? And this very hour I proclaim the Lady Qing Zhao to become Precious Consort, the heart within my bosom.

Here, Wu Que, entrust her to your unfailing hands.”

Wu Que bowed his head to the newly elevated woman. “Surely your presence is one fairest under heaven and gladdens the halls of whatever house you grace.”

Qing Zhao murmured, “Cup the glow, blow with gentle breath the breeze.”

She swallowed hard even as she accepted Yao Zu’s proffered hand. “Touch and on me trace a path of fire. I find no man who can content the fervency within me.”

Two eunuchs, who had been listening at the door, now crept away. One whispered to the other, “Impossible! All the emperor’s harem, save one, over long years have been unable to claim him as father of a male child.”

The other hissed back, “The emperor’s adoration of the mother is such that, if the child be a boy, his majesty may very well confer upon him the title of crown prince.” The two looked at each other in great concern and consternation, for they had already thrown their backing to Shan Yuan, the emperor’s nephew and present heir.

Chapter 12 De Ming paced in agitation at the news his spies had recently imparted to him.

“Is it not said, ‘There cannot live two tigers on the same mountain?’ Attend to me, my gentle ward. This assassin Shen poses the greatest of dangers to me. To offset the exigency, heed well my instruction. Engage his affections and his past allegiances will fade in favor of pleasing you.”

“His very shadow shies from me,” Li Ling protested meekly. “How, then, am I to near substance?”

De Ming glowered darkly, then struggled to control himself. “Only obey me—you shall appreciate my reasoning presently.”

Long after her guardian left, Li Ling sat lost in her thoughts. “Such finagling sits ill with me.” A slight smile touched her lips as she recalled Shen’s shy stammering in her presence. “Were I to say, ‘My heart beats, far from divers causes, 103

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction only bound fast to you,’ I fear the words might have some bearing on truth.”

That night, Teng Fei met with Shen, arguing furiously, “I have expostulated already, but you persist in unbelief. Think you I wish to malign Li Ling, who is as my sister? Yet I must speak for your sake.”

Shen shook his head. “Say no more; I hear no words averse to Lady Li Ling’s prosperity and happiness.”

Teng Fei growled in frustration. “Hear me! The villain De Ming must die; the deed is best done by your hand.”

“Lady Li Ling has pleaded with me to spare his life,” Shen replied with finality. “I cannot act otherwise.”

At De Ming’s mansion, Teng Fei imparted his worries of Shen to Li Ling. Deeply concerned, Li Ling went in search of him.

Shen stood, head bent low, in acknowledgment of his master’s justified rebuke. “It seems I speak to a parrot for all the sense you have of meaning. Should a deity alight upon the earth and reveal to you divine inscription, he need hardly have foreboding that the decrees of heaven might be divulged.”

“At the behest of a maiden who pleads for his life, I cannot act as you commanded,” Shen responded quietly.

The elderly master burst out, “De Ming conjoined with equally corrupt scoundrels to influence the destruction of martial orders as ours. To you I entrusted the obligation of paying in kind, and you have disregarded my words. A derelict as you deserves no honorable death with a sword. Here: take your miserable life as one unworthy enough to do so.” Casting a last sneer, he left the room.

Shen stood very still for some moments, staring at the tiny vial in his hand.

“Qualms and fears I had none until I encountered one in whom I invested my heart set against the man who raised me in all I am. A quandary of choosing between life and death, love and duty. Dearest Li Ling, forgive me; to my master I owe this last service.” He tipped the bottle to his mouth and drank.

Terrible foreboding filled Li Ling as she crept in. Crumpled on the floor, Shen turned his head. “Is it Li Ling who stands before me? My sight fades and I cannot perceive your face, though it remains surpassingly lovely in imagination.”

Li Ling pressed a hand to her mouth to choke back a sob, falling to her knees beside him. “It is I, and I who should die, for though I love you so, in folly I followed the dictates of a deceived mind rather than communing with a truthspeaking heart. My dear one, live for the entirety of life, and when you should perish—may my ghost then follow yours that same moment—pass to death in peace and happiness.”

Shen tried to smile, his lips barely moving to form the words. “That you love 104

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction me in truth and not fabrication gives me such joy as I have never known in this life of mine, standing atop a rolling log. Descend not with me as I fall, and in this I wish you still possessed a mind free of care. Our love, brief though it was, I hold dear forever.”

Li Ling grasped his hand and held it against her wet cheek. “Though I suffer for it, recognition is a sweet pain if it means the recollection of my beloved. The memories of time spent with you—that remembrance I carry in my heart for all my life.”

Shen did not answer. He was dead.

“White frost wreathes the slender thews and limbs of the trees in a colorless garland,” Li Ling whispered, her body shuddering with tears even as she spoke without tremor. “So is the icy pain constricting my heart at the mere thought that you will depart. If it must be so, then I wait only until I may join you on your journey. Travel not too far ahead.” She reached for the half-empty vial.

So appeared the scene as Teng Fei entered.

Chapter 13 “Hear me,” Yu Sheng declared resolutely, prepared to duck, “Jun Jie, that farfamed model of renown, in reality stable soil much exalted to shining gold—”

“Impossible! I heed you not! Be silent.” Bao Zhai snatched up a letter from Qi Qiang and threw it at her friend.

Yu Sheng picked it from the floor. “What is this?”

Bao Zhai waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, some otiose waste of ink and paper. Speak no more of it. Our respective fathers have enforced the edict of periodically suffering the torment of each recalling the existence of the other.” She glared. “Look not at me in so reprimanding a manner; am I to fly about in frantic irrepressible joy at Qi Qiang’s very mention?”

“Perchance you may know this, trivia to civilians, of great moment to warriors,” Qi Qiang wrote. “Sword-smiths of a nearby string of islands have created the greatest of blades in the world.”

“Qi Qiang evidences a sure grip on learning in the possession of even other places,” Yu Sheng suggested hopefully.

“I must sit a Weaving Maiden in the sky,” the willful Bao Zhai scoffed, “forever at woof and warp, to persist in ignorance of the knowledge he seeks to impart.”

Yu Sheng grimaced. “Bao Zhai, have mercy on your husband, for the sake of pity.”

“He is my husband” Bao Zhai wailed, “for that I cannot forgive! Qi Qiang 105

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction cannot give me honorable restitution for the wrong he has done me, nor endure enough penal infliction!”

Qi Qiang continued, “In the past swords were of one piece construction; these smiths have inserted a core of softer steel, thus increasing flexibility and durability in one inviolable blow.”

Ignoring Bao Zhai, Yu Sheng finished, “He goes on to say that, if only in show, the appearance of women has eased the loneliness of men, bettering the latter to an unbounded degree, as does this new innovation in sword smithy.”

Qing Zhao walked out onto the balcony, with Wu Que a distance away.

“Cherish you thoughts of a lovely woman?” Qing Zhao asked suddenly.

“Love you indeed?”

Wu Que considered her question. “Not in deed, my lady, for I cannot, only in heart.”

“Could you then care for me,” Qing Zhao pursued, “as I desire you so greatly—a stone disturbs the still waters of the most tranquil lake, and I am far from such serenity.”

In alarm Wu Que’s eyes widened, but he kept his tone light. “My lady, know you ask beyond what mortal’s coil may grasp? Shall I spin the world again to that past into which we may never again tread? Would you wage war with time for the sake of one such as I?”

She sighed deeply, staring out into the broad expanse of the lightening heavens. “I would, most beloved one, could I only attain it. As the sun infuses the grey skies with morning light, so do you tincture my feeble soul with a higher life.”

“Have a care, my lady.” Wu Que signaled to her to lower her voice. “Insensible walls may hide fatal demise.”

“Am I not beautiful in the eyes of men?” Qing Zhao asked him wonderingly.

Wu Que gazed upon her, and said quietly, “In the eyes of men, lovely as a lambent lamp, set amidst the darkness of the heavens yet lighting the deepest depths with its countenance. The voice of flowers, the sun in water, a face that gazes at the moon to find herself its reflection in loveliness. Brows, tapered shadows and hair a brilliant blackened lacquer. In the eyes of men, your ladyship’s skin in luxuriance glows softly pearl, and sparkled eyes a pool darkened in a starry evening.” He paused, and finished, “But I see not as a man.”

“You are blind in all matters of account!” she flared. Then, ashamed of her outburst, she changed the subject. “The Empress despises me, does she not? What does she say of the Brazen Whore for whom her Lord holds undue affection? Or have I addressed the summation of all that she has spoken?”

“In the law is indited a line proclaiming the Emperor’s entitlement to one 106

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction hundred consorts, though most live sufficient with ten,” the young eunuch reassured her. “The present finds delight in one; therefore, should the Empress resent your gracious ladyship, her rancor is perhaps ill-imposed.”

Silence fell for some time. At last Qing Zhao murmured, “It is said, a man so loved his flowers that he feared, in night’s placid darkness, they would sleep and so fall, and he had tall candles lit to shine on their scarlet finery.’ She raised her despairing gaze to Wu Que. “And am I such a bloom, basked in a false light to create belief in the imitation of waking? Do I dream only? Imagine I rouse—shall I descend to an unforgiving ground?”

Wu Que hesitated, then said, “If you will, Lady Qing Zhao, think on this: snow-laden bamboo, heavily deformed under grim burdens, in spring rebounds to its former lines.”

Qing Zhao’s finely etched lips twisted. “Smell a horse as a blossom? Shall I correspond one as the other? Said I so, that life as mine bears unbearably upon me?” She turned from him. “Speak not the finishing pithy—when the mount returns from trampling flowers, on even his hooves their fragrance may be scented.”

The eunuch bowed his head. “I say no more. When the hawk flies, a thrush finds refuge beneath sheltering leaves.”

Chapter 14 In a meeting tent with servants milling about, Cheng, Qi Qiang, and Teng Fei argued heatedly.

“Obstreperous, witless dullard!” Cheng exclaimed. “Do I speak to a load of wood? Seek you a position even in the devil’s hierarchy?”

Teng Fei spluttered, “You find fault with me, flinging such obloquies? What of Qi Qiang? Was he not the spectator only in this facetious farce? Had he the courage to enter the performance and play his part?”

“I? You dare vociferate imprecations against me? Did I not bestir myself to the utmost of hazards to preserve that hapless hide of yours, repressing my own misgivings on such action? Enough of this travesty. The next we meet—”Qi Qiang narrowed his eyes.

Cheng thinned his lips. “Yes? What say you? You shall turn traitor? If by some improbable means a paper dragon breathes fire, he firstly burns himself.”

“The battlefield, whether in actuality or some other arena, shall be our next place of meeting. I stand no closer than required to hurl spittle at your despicable person,” Teng Fei hissed.

Qi Qiang laughed and turned to leave. “As you say, friends. Had the Jade Em107

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction peror looked upon the earth and found a shortage of asses, he assuredly thought not of you.”

A strange youth entered the imperial chamber and as he strode toward the throne. The guards, mesmerized, made no move to stop him.

Hui Zhong, one of the emperor’s many daughters, whispered to herself, “As a delicate butterfly arched upon a petal, wings folded and held close, the youth stood unafraid before the Dragon countenance; beautiful he was, beyond man’s reckoning, and I knew him to be a god.”

He halted and knelt. “Hail, Emperor Yao Zu!”

Yao Zu stared at him in great astonishment. “Who art thou, changeling?”

Lien calmly met the shocked gazes of the men in the room. “Great Lords, cast to yester times a glance, I pray you. Near twenty years past a son was lost to you in the chaos of rebellion and thought long dead. He returns this day, living, if you will receive him.”

He took a small, exquisitely jeweled pin from his hair. Yao Zu descended from his throne, ineffable joy on his face. “With eyes wrung I did behold my late empress place this ornament among my young son’s dark strands, biding a faithful maid keep the child safe. Indeed, you are my son, and I your father!”

Part Three “You made me understand what being moved is about . . . I’ll repay you with a lifetime of happiness.” — Da Ren Wu 2006

Chapter 1 Biyu lay quietly, holding Li with something almost like desperation. “My lord, know that I would submerge Jinshan Temple in the finding of you? Yet, as the wind blows, the cloud moves. My beloved, I would live in inaction and quietude.”

Li turned restlesly. “The time for such things costs blood that expects to de108

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction rive neither benefit nor guerdon; men have not yet shed enough, nor I mine.”

Biyu clung to him. “Any one vigorous onslaught against enemies may take it, and I repine tearful at the mere conception of it, left luckless and forlorn!”

Li stood abruptly. “I cannot, even at the suit of your tears, comply with a selfinterested request as that.”

Clutching the sheet, Biyu ran after him. “My lord, leave me not!”

Later that day, Li half listened to an obviously well-off man bemoaning his troubles, and looked out to an endless line of poor petitioners outside the palace.

Suddenly Li dashed the crown from his head.

The poor toiled from dawn to dusk, wearily wiping their dirty brows in scenes of oppression and hard labor. The peasantry was overtaxed and subject to conscription for long terms as laborers and soldiers. In opium houses, people lay everywhere, on benches, some on makeshift beds, wisps of white smoke filling the air.

At the imperial dwelling in the clouds, Lien played a stringed instrument soothingly as Yao Zu mused and confided in him. “This present nephew heir of mine, though I have striven to pray otherwise. . . I suspect only vices abound in his nature, and he bows duteous to them. On the surface a silkened gallant, beneath coarse beast, altogether a cultured savage, of no gracious deportment.”

Shan Yuan entered, smiling unpleasantly. “Aye, gods amend me! Elderly lord, prosper you! I cry you mercy in belonging to this degenerate race of princes.

I invite the inclusion—recall that I am indeed your successor.”

“The battering-ram knocks down a wall; can it build one up again?” Lien commented noncommittally. “Would one dam the river to give a fried fish water?”

Shan Yuan reddened. “Dare you speak such words to me? Mis-hear I must, else my wits reel crazed, that a mean wretch so rationalizes.”

Lien shrugged. “Nay. They would reason as ‘the ocean to a well-frog, ice to a summer insect, Tao to a pedagogue.’ Ought I to dress in fine garments for a man who in his nighted life shows his face to a wall?”

“Throwing heavy stones from a sling may fell a giant, but not I!” Shan Yuan’s nostrils flared. “You seek a ‘seed in a granary, ant-holes in a marsh,’ essay a search for discussion of mere obfuscation. It all matters nonsense. The wings of a fly hum as busily.”

A slight smile moved Lien’s lips, and he ceased to strum. “A man whose domain contracts to the limit of his heels addresses largely heaven’s vault for understanding. The mouths of mountains merely echo what is heard.”

The shining length of a sword flashed from its sheath. “Rogue whoreson dog, 109

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction I take exception to what you say. Draw!”

“The sea is ceaselessly filled, yet does not overflow.” Lien rose easily and inclined his head to Shan Yuan. “Continuously drained, but never empty. In curbing an opprobrious madman’s rage, I traffic with lunacy. Perhaps this poor deed shall render a fault undone from past times.”

They began. Shan Yuan lunged at Lien with his sword. After some moments of this, Lien sidestepped and Shan Yuan fell off-balance, over the balcony. He would have gone completely over the edge had not Lien seized his arm and pulled him back to safety.

Hui Zhong wandered with Lien in the imperial gardens. “The clouds turn up an empty white palm in the sky, and the round lip of the sun sinks lower, pouting as it takes its leave into the far-off sea.”

Lien grinned at her. “Good hostess, I charge you with the harborage of beneficence boundless, ever-flowing as the water and not the short life of the blazing torches.”

The maiden returned his smile with a touch of skepticism. “Have I with this small motion made a vassal of him whom I favor? Man then bows too easily pleased with what his efforts have gained him.”

A cooling breeze wafted.

Lien spoke lightly. “Is not man’s life but a flake of sea foam? Men strike at air, embrace sand, and anticipate an effect, finding a consequence only of weary or dirtied limbs.”

“A cordial potent and flavored with bitter substance!” Hui Zhong paused in her steps. “My lord brother, I see in your eyes black ice over unquiet waters.”

“In yours I perceive dark wells of passion in whom no one has dipped a vessel.” Then Lien shook himself. “Young Princess Hui Zhong, I fear to sow in the virgin field nettles, seeds of strange pricking foolishness and instead weed good wheats. Heed my words as jest only.”

Hui Zhong gazed at him, enchanted. “In my heart flutters bright lights, as of darting minnows in the sun.”

Chapter 2 Teng Fei awaited admittance into Li’s presence. “And so,” he mused, “I am sent from my duties regarding De Ming, as one who only is suitable—in all hopes may survive the journey—for the carriage of a bribe the righteous paladin Li, to commend to his own hand. Protested I mightily rather for the protecting of his person, but my words went unheard in the midst of De Ming’s frightened lallation.”

110

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction When he reached Li, the great hero laughed derisively. “Your master seek safety from me? I make no collusions with cowardly curs.

Teng Fei grimaced delicately. “Employer, sir.”

Li looked at him sharply. “A cautious differentiation, equal to these uncertain times. To whom do you owe allegiance?”

“My friends. Few count themselves among the number, though company I have aplenty. Yet I respect a man as you, who rises as occasion demands.” He bowed his head in acknowledgment.

“Uttering this voluble speech—surely this is not a tongue that profanes itself by speaking scurrilities.” Li’s boyish grin faded. “Enough of both prologue and discourse. Though I liken to regarding you a fellow, our dividing fates allow it not. A plea of however weight holds no precious esteem here for a man such as De Ming.”

“Mine is to be a bright fading, a brilliant beam flashed to shadow, should I have a say. I will, by the Jade Emperor in Heaven!” His tone grew serious. “I mean no flourish of praises for De Ming.” Teng Fei spoke quietly to Li. Li listened, astonished. “Can an ambitious scheme, hatched in young immortality, as that succeed? I sense the withholding of selected information, indubitably for the soundness of health for the companions mentioned. Yet, I have heard of these happenings, and wondered at them. And here now the answer presents itself.”

Teng Fei nodded affirmatively. “The truth matches the address. Our meeting shall not end on a note of perjury; on this I take oath.”

“Ha! The last remark, a vow of vapors, clears all doubts.” Li raised a hand, capturing the attention of his men. “Friends, enlivening raillery etches its place in the grimness of existence. At times we must allow for the savoring of even drollery. Here stands Teng Fei, a man who for some time has lent his steadfast aid to our campaign, marking for punishment those corrupt debauches who corrode the government and who, as inferior satellites, revolve around De Ming.”

That night, as Teng Fei met with Li, De Ming ran out of his bedroom to see his house on fire. Rebels rushed in through the gate and murdered him.

Chapter 3 The anticipatory army held a sacred ritual to determine the fortune of a future expedition. Said Rong to Cheng, “Join with me in concert, and we will be as a tiger given wings.”

“You are kind to honor me with so goodly a designation,” Cheng replied evenly. “The time for a shifting of eras arrives swiftly, calling for doughty doings, 111

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction and I sit not calmly to await it.”

An eclipse occurred. An armor-clad giant in the sky appeared and disappeared.

An elder quavered, “The sun has hidden her face from us!”

“An ill omen for further advancements, surely,” was all Cheng said.

Liang looked at him and mused, “A wondrous occurrence, yet a natural happening nonetheless, and so easily interpreted to any way. This scholar-painterpoet Cheng, so trusted by Rong because of his status as exile from court, assuredly has sympathies with it still.”

Alarmed by Cheng’s words, the nomad elders bickered over what to do, while Rong awaited their verdict impatiently. The arguing continued until too late in the season to attack. Furious, Rong set off with a smaller band of faithful followers.

Led by Li, the imperial armies were now on the offensive. Skirmishes followed.

Wei Min, on Rong’s side, and Zi Hao, supporting the emperor, faced off against each other in battle. The elder overpowered the younger and maneuvered to a position to kill him, but realized that his fraternal loyalties waxed stronger than any idealistic allegiance. The two brothers parted.

Li emerged victorious from those bouts, and Rong withdrew for the year.

Nevertheless, as Li looked about him, he said bitterly, “The dead lie strewn about, pared as skin from fruit. Many more victories as this, and I will have lost.”

Paraded through the streets, Li was celebrated everywhere, but with a kind of complacent joy. Li gazed at the wealth and luxury of the elites, and the poverty of the lower classes.

Though Liang was a noncombatant, a stray blow had injured and paralyzed his lower body. Ehuang tended to him while Rong looked on, distraught at this change to his now friend.

“Am I a prostitute, who, in choosing a husband, looks only for an exclusive client?” Ehuang contended.

Rong gritted his teeth and said sorrowfully, “A payment hardly commensurate to the cost of a goodly life!”

Liang shut his eyes in contemplation, and then turned to Rong. “I am immured in this ruined frame and can no longer expend infinity of labor in worthy sustenance of the maiden Ehuang. Only a falsely fulsome love would keep her close now.”

Rong nodded firmly. “I hear in iron and granite understanding. Fear for nothing.”

“After I grew round-wombed as a shameless strumpet with your brother’s 112

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction child, it was you who in meritorious conduct cared for me.” Ehuang shook her head, fighting back tears. “Never will I leave you, my dearest friend, brother and husband—let your arguments be adduced in any which way.”

Liang stared at her in incredulity, and finally smiled. “It is only after the cold season arrives that we learn that the pine is the last tree to lose its greenness.”

Chapter 4 In an upper-middle class home, Hui Fen’s father finished writing a scroll. As he put away his brush, soldiers came in and announced that he and his family were exiled for penning critical statements concerning the government.

Then came the desolate mountain, exile in the wilderness, and with it harsh living conditions. Hui Fen’s family died of exposure and starvation, save for her.

“For a parchment and misguided words inked onto it, too wise for their time, came this decree, marking death to my life.”

The rebels threw a suspected man into the dark cavernous room, crowded with conspirators. “I condemn this man as a spy.”

“What grounds have you?” Qi Qiang inquired carefully.

A man spat, “He comes from enemy territory, that hole housing blind worms in the dark of intrigue and corruption!”

“Would you denounce the birds as well?” Qi Qiang continued. “A mole burrowing a home from across the further hill, within the rights of those not our own?”

“No levity now,” another rebel growled.

Hui Fen chanted, the cold light of righteousness in her face, “Wearing High God’s anger, we will sweep through the land and begin an uprising against the present ruler, this foul ravager of children and women, coarse fosterer of crimes, loathsome despoiler of youth.”

Wu Que looked on, saying nothing of his thoughts. “He has but a marvelous aptitude for misgovernment, nothing more evil.”

“We would have him wise and great, noble and good, wise judge of deeds, and protector of the realm, a glorious emperor. I speak words from the mouth of the populace!”

“Bloody cowardice stained his retreat, not strategy, in past battles as he turned in flight, in despair of his life only. What is obeying destiny but the concealment of cowardice?”

“They are all to die. This self-abdicating Li, who has renounced a throne for the foreign cause of a thing he calls liberty, calls for the extermination of the royal family, yet there remains some doubt that he may retract the order concerning 113

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction the younger children. We must strike immediately before he does.” Only hours before, she and Li had engaged in the aggressive sexual intercourse of two strong individuals whose interests happen to coincide.

“I respect with the entirety of my heart your wishes, but that same conscience disallows me to be guided by them. Though, truly, the royal family, oblivious to hardship, live destroyed by luxury.” Wu Que turned his blanching face away.

Qi Qiang and Wu Que drew apart from the others some distance.

“I have learnt the accents of your name that I might abhor the sound,” Qi Qiang hissed between his teeth. “Claim you of deserved homage defrauded from your worship? I dash the holy sacrifices to the ground, and if you wish to partake of that feast, writhe in the sodden mud for it.”

To Wu Que he said evenly, “I perceive some ambivalence in your countenance, brother. Fear not, for I too harbor them.”

Wu Que nodded in cool agreement. “As that is so, and I know of your deputation as an agent for Daiyu Sect, we must together fend off assaults to the innocents within the palace.”

Chapter 5 The glorious vision of the goddess Chun Hua glowered. “Time travels past in swift elapsing, yet you persist in refusal to act. Shall the moment come when you step forth from shadows, cease to reflect on tarnished surface the glories of others?”

“Perhaps, if those I echo fall silent.” Lien’s brow furrowed in thoughtful reflection. “And this man to whom I devote my life—blazes he as a star or a meteor, shines a lasting vision or mirage? Why fret so, goddess, on the petty matters trodden by wiser feet? Is not success but a rainbowed sphere borne aloft in the air, vanishing on touch or, on bursting, smarting the eyes of those gaping in reverent fascination?”

Chun Hua snapped, “The gods embody the aspirations of the world, beautifying and purifying the darkly convoluted souls of men.”

“So the gods took to themselves power and profundity.” Lien laughed softly.

“Would you dare to negate the need for gods?” Chun Hua demanded. “This feeble upright creature can boast of nothing we have not supplied him. Why should all of the heavens rise up in arms when a breath of air will suffice to topple his precarious seat, decorated with paste jewels to manufacture an image of kingly thrones?”

“I concede, goddess, that finite knowledge can provide us with no reasonable certainty; no amount of sheer thought can kindle faith.” He murmured wistfully, 114

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction “Where is the God to whom I may cry and he answer, ‘Give unto me thy best, and I shall give thee better,’ that I may know that he is God in his immeasurable vastness, I only a tributary to His glory? Or have I to learn more of His wisdom?”

Seething, Chun Hua vanished from sight. Lien turned his gaze to the descending sun.

“Shining orb gracing the heavens, never again will I view thy crimson face, blushing at the acts of the world. Wan moon, pale with sickness, I will not perceive thee better thy health in kinder times than these. The waves will leap in furious joy on the sands, flirting with the shore in wanton abandonment. Breezy winds rustling the leaves and stirring the grasses, blow on! Cheery flames lick thy hearth in homage in hot glow, rage in the wild to destruction. And I shall see all this no longer, as I will be buried in the deeps, should I be so fortunate, known only by the dark earth as a mouldering ruin.”

The sounds of many heavy running feet could be heard. Guards burst in.

“We arrest you in the name of the emperor!”

In the throne room, everyone of the least importance gathered. Said the herald pompously, “This man stands accused of high treason against his state. He arrogated the position of prince by ingratiating himself with His Majesty the Emperor, then . . . and surely all here will soon corroborate with these statements . . .”

Qing Zhao said in confusion, “I would have thought him the only man in court without artifice, and yet, it seems he was the greatest deceiver of all. For what reason should he act so, when he is the emperor’s beloved son and favorite?”

Lien laughed quietly “A record of a truly astonishing man, this recitation; I would not have recognized myself in it! Am I a god, to stride through waters and emerge dry-shod?” To himself he murmured, “The hands of death hover over me, but have not yet taken hold. I pass through a parade of zodiac animals, here a snake, another, a rat.”

“Thereafter, he in design let flow words that only a government official ought to hear, into the malevolent ear of enemies.”

Lien took an impatient breath and turned to Shan Yuan. “Dally the truth no more, Prince. Have you not long upon me gazed with blood in your eyes, afraid with needless fears? Broken in pieces and humbled, and the husks thus being bruised off, I lie prostrate, unable to defend against or fend off attack.”

“Furthermore, the aforementioned personage, from the testimony of credible witnesses—”

Shan Yuan interrupted, “I have not the time to indulge in this clumsy horseplay! Suffice to say, the perfidious traitor has betrayed his father and homeland!”

He sneered to Lien, “Do you not repent? Nor, perhaps, call for Fate to amend her 115

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction treacherous ways in seduction?”

Lien held his gaze. “If Fortune has me cuckolded, she has only made herself a whore.”

“I would have proclaimed you heir to the Imperial Dragon Throne,” Yao Zu lamented in a trembling voice. “My son, my son!”

“The pen is my scepter; the cowl, my crown; these coarse garments, robes of state,” Lien said in a strangely gentle tone. “What more would I have than these?

How vain are the pride and ambitions of this world!”

Hui Zhong whispered, “Above the moon stares with one blind eye, misted with an unshed tear.” Hysterical, she ran from the room.

“Foolish brother,” Shan Yuan said scornfully, “you know not what you have lost by these traitorous doings. Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws, and he is helpless. Burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood, and she dies.”

Lien returned tiredly, “Foolish man, you know not what you have said by this derisory delivery, the very sounds of intellectual poverty. Of the depleted armaments of the tiger, the claws remain, and as for burning the phoenix, it is so that she regains life.”

“I have long endured the work of evildoers, grievous sorrows, but never this betrayal that causes such pain in my heart.” Yao Zu helplessly watched the proceedings, utter despair and sadness on his suddenly aged face.

“Love, everlasting yet not sufficient; though that brief dream coursed on in bleak regret, still I would rather not wake. As those creatures on high in heaven’s air, though not so cheery, my soul sings, longing to be free of this world.” Lien shook his head vehemently. “Nay, ‘tis a lie, said only to placate a lonely spirit wandering in vacant regions. I would live longer on the earth; fall to the deepest depths of hell if only love would accompany me in descent. Is there not eternity?”

He pulled a sword from the scabbard of a nearby guard and plunged it into his heart.

The audience held its breath as Lien staggered and then collapsed, dead.

Yao Zu stumbled forward to the body and wept. “A father who stands by the body of his son, mourning for his passing, has lived too long.”

Shan Yuan curled his lip. “Do you bewail his death as you would an innocent hare’s? Nay, for his deserves no pity. Suspend the corpse, that it may be the feast of airborne marauders.”

Chapter 6 Yao Zu wandered aimlessly through the palace, his steps becoming increasingly feeble and his face slack. “Strains that soothed of yore,” he mourned, “please no 116

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction longer. Traitorous Life, I curse you for remaining faithful to me when you have abandoned my beloved son.”

Rebels overwhelmed the guards and hurled themselves toward the palace. Eunuchs and, accidentally, beardless men, were slaughtered. Wu Que signaled for Qi Qiang to take the royal family and its servants away while he stayed behind to create a diversion.

Qi Qiang protested, “Nay, do not—”

Wu Que looked at him with fervent intensity, resigned to his fate. “Courage has found me, cringing and alone; for am I not destitute of all things of meaning?

And so, I have naught to suffer, and willingly go forth, though I come upon death.

Go, now! It would be ill should these insurgents find you and report to their masters your kindly presence to those here.”

“Shorn of worth?” Qi Qiang said in deep admiration. “A wight of more man than other men, who wear virile varnish only. Farewell!”

Wu Que fought with the rebels and killed most of them, and the others retreated. He then came against Hui Fen; the two mortally wounded each other.

Qing Zhao hurried back to find Wu Que, clumsy in her fearful anticipation and perhaps not a little because of her heavily advanced pregnancy. Corpses littered the ground and palace steps. The smell of blood reeked in the air.

Her eyes widened in dismay and she cried out wordlessly, stumbling to a halt beside the fallen. “Alas! Fate has with adamantine pen inscribed mortality on my beloved’s face. Profusely do I weep, stricken in grief, at this composition of her ugly hand.”

Wu Que stirred from his dying stupor. “Precious Consort of the Emperor, I ask that you relay to Xiang this message: Despite a true heart’s natural recoil, she yet loved me for the truth of myself, that I hold within a sooty heart embittered, a desolate waste. Though, from my own shortsighted foolishness, imperfect glimpses only I have perceived, still I have seen love in its full passionate spirit.”

Qing Zhao moaned, “Oh, Wu Que, say not final words. Though I die ten thousand deaths in ugly jealousy, I cry that, surely, you will deliver this comfort to the woman, my impeachable rival, yourself.”

“My lady,” Wu Que said with great effort, dragging forth the words, “if I have delivered you and the emperor’s callously ignorant kin, though indeed they have created so calamitous a day as this, as well as others to follow, I die a worthy death. The beggar who has lived his life in a mat shed beneath the city walls, and dies in a ditch, can ask for no better.”

Qing Zhao wept. “Do not us all, susceptible to death and whom you preserved, merit a dreadful end, and not the innocent, who die as I speak these inef117

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction fectual words?”

“Justice exists not in this world but as a phantom, wandering itinerantly, seizing with shadow the conscience of men at pleasure.” Wu Que’s voice fell to a faint whisper. “I look to another plane for a judgment greater than retribution.”

Some moments passed, and they said no more. Wu Que was dead.

“Within this bright exterior lies only a blackened hollow, a decorated tomb concealing the dead.” Qing Zhao clutched her stomach as terrible contractions shook her.

She miscarried a child, a boy.

At some distance from the entrance to the palace, Biyu sobbed hysterically near Lien’s body, which she had cut down from the scaffold.

“The Heavens held aloof, but heavy thereunder mist mantled the distant peaks. My grieving will never find a surcease, though the moving lustre above burn all the world to ash and I with it. May I be damned to be with my dearest one!”

She tore at her hair and knocked her head against the rocks.

Some weeks later, a bridge, in danger of being washed away, stretched out over a river. A battle took place nearby. Biyu, now insane, wandered onto the bridge. Li saw a chance to end the battle by killing the opposing captain. At the same moment, the bridge collapsed. Li made his decision. He hacked his way to the captain, took his head and waved it in victory. The river washed the bridge away, and flowed on.

At the end of the battle, atop a tall hill, Li surveyed the wreckage of the empire, which had divided into disjointed provinces. Various people had assumed power. “Victories of war touch me not, nay, if I benefit the oppressed, I conquer,” Li spat bitterly. “Ha!”

Ghosts whispered, “I spit blood in your face and smear your hands with the gore of those you have slain. Wallow in the filth, O Conqueror, and may you never be clean of it. Great potentate, sleep to the broken moans of the dying, wake unto the mutilated countenances of the living, and always, forever, remember the dead, for they will not rest.”

Teng Fei, Cheng, and Qi Qiang reunited, wiser and fast friends.

Qi Qiang grinned. “We had good sport at the making of our disaffection with one another, done to play our roles convincingly.”

“The company of functionaries endeavored to harness your tongue?” Teng Fei laughed. “Better to attempt collaring a cat in the manner of a dog.”

Cheng shrugged humorously. “You a bodyguard for the paradigm of corrup118

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction tion; why not cut shrubbery with a sword?”

“And redress such as you deserve for the royal wives’ succor would clothe you in poverty, public contumely,” they chided Qi Qiang.

Cheng turned aside for a moment. “For the sake of a decadent empire I misled a man with a righteous cause, which ended in subsequent failure.

Teng Fei’s smile grew pained. “Truly, though I kill no man, yet men die because of me. Had I not abetted Shen’s infatuation with Li Ling to further my own plans, their lives would course on in peace if not happiness.”

Qi Qiang shut his eyes. “Had I remained behind, a palace eunuch would not have out-manned me. I strove to pour a cup already empty.”

To lighten the suddenly chill atmosphere, Cheng announced, “As the adage says of the three great unifiers of another country, though we ourselves have succeeded only in the wholesale fragmentation of one, I piled rice—”

“I kneaded dough—” Qi Qiang continued.

Teng Fei finished gaily, “And I ate the cake, eh? A fine snatch!”

Chapter 7 Teng Fei found Wen lying down in her bedroom, heretofore separate from his.

“My dear,” Teng Fei began happily, “I learnt something of love a little while ago, and that new lesson festinated my steps to find you. Wen, I pledge to you as my sole affection. Pray give an opinion favorable to my labors.” He waited with confidence for her reply.

Wen shrugged and turned her back. “I had retired to the bedchamber for rest, but discovered none. Beware; the brace of what I have to utter shall hasten you away as quickly as you came.”

Teng Fei became uneasy. “Say aught. I stand staunch in resolution.”

“In six month’s time, these arms of mine shall cradle a newborn,” Wen said flatly.

Her husband gaped. “A child? Our child? I had feared the worst, and you, my wife, offer the most jubilant of tidings! We shall parent a daughter, fair as her mother.

Wen sniffed. “So confidently you assure yourself of uncertainties,” she snapped. “There, now you stand out of countenance.”

“What mean you, wife?” Teng Fei asked with trepidation

Wen smiled with some malice. “Hazard a guess.”

Stunned, Teng Fei sat down heavily. “Am I not the father? Indeed, purblind as I have been, I deserve a blow as this. With the sharpness of the piercing stroke an alert warrior could cleave a hair; I can only suffer merited anguish. Surely 119

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction now I commiserate with a lonely woman whose philandering mate thinks only of himself and his pleasures. Allow me to kiss these stalks of white scallion in pleading for past grievances; let us begin anew. I will no longer be Teng Fei of old.”

Wen relented. “Nay.” She rose and laid a hand on his, smiling into his dejected face. “The soothsayer assures me of a double blessing in deliverance.”

“My dear one!” Teng Fei clasped her to him.

Cheng sat in his study at an overburdened table, writing. “Man becomes event for merry transforming to mirth when, though he hopes otherwise, his good cause, in the womb nourished by indignation because the present misdeeds of the world so revile, delivers in suffering and tremendous destruction. The Mandate of Heaven construed to smooth the usurpation of rulers, has yet to bestow its legitimizing crown on a fitting savior. Shall later generations vindicate our wellmeant actions? Who can tell of consequences but those experiencing the future?”

Bao Zhai stood on a hillside beside a pond. The wind scattered blossoms everywhere, and they floated on the water’s surface. Qi Qiang watched her from a distance. “To my ears sway the whispers of the changing winds and thunderous swellings of the storm, and I know not for what voice I listen.”

She turned and saw him. For a long moment they stared at each other. Then Bao Zai smiled and held out her hand. “Hearken to mine, Qi Qiang, and permit it to guide you. Return home to me.”

The delighted husband took hold of the outstretched fingers. “Autumn, with its wild red tinge and shudder of gold leaves fluttering to its descent, delights the senses of the bold.”

“And the sweep of winter sleet ‘churns the waters to foaming snow’, stiffening drowned men to corpses.” Alas, why do I find my eyes steeped in heaps of refuse?” She immediately winced inwardly. “This unruly tongue speaks what I would not say. Surely my husband bears these serrated words with heaven-taught tenderness.”

A soft smile graced Qi Qiang’s face in response. “To the respects of fortune I pay tribute; that I chance to again hear these loving sounds, I at times thought would not come to pass.”

Chapter 8 Sitting at the sea’s edge, Li looked into the endless waves, only reluctantly shading his eyes from the blazing glare of the sun as it signaled the end of the day. “All this, wind-blown remnants only!” he cried, then murmured, “I have saved the 120

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction world, and discover I have no place in it.”

He could almost hear Lien’s voice at their last meeting as he departed, so quietly the former prince had dismissed the words as a sigh. “And so: the West, the discoverer; and the East, the discovered.”

The sun shone gold on the waters.

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Contributors Albert A. Dalia Albert A. Dalia is a scholar of medieval Chinese history and religion turned wuxia (heroic fiction) novelist. His first wuxia novel, Dream of the Dragon Pool– A Daoist Quest, was published in 2007 by a NYC literary press and its Chinese translation by Taiwan Commercial Press in April, 2011. He has lived in Taiwan for fourteen years and is presently teaching in the Boston University Writing Program. Albert is also working on a wuxia trilogy set in his beloved Tang dynasty China and hopes to eventually return to Taiwan to live, write, and resume his bicycling through its mountains. Further information about Albert, his background, and his publications can be found on his website: www.aadalia.com.

Alla Hoffman Alla Hoffman was born in Washington D.C. and lives in Chicago, where she is busy learning about dinosaurs, Yiddish, and plat maps. Somehow, she’s still at risk of graduating from the University of Chicago this year with a major in history and a minor in creative writing. She has had a previous piece of flash fiction published at 365 tomorrows.

Winnie Khaw At present I am 22 years old and aspire to be a successful published author sometime in the near future. In 2007 the CAPPIES (a high school critics and awards program) performed a one-act comedy play I wrote. In 2008 I was accepted into the Orange County Playwright’s Alliance for an adaptation of The Love of the White Snake and The Butterfly Lovers. I presented on an original Chinese fantasy novella and the history of Haiti in 2009 at a California Honors Symposium held at Stanford University. In 2010 I began attending Chapman University as a junior creative writing major. In 2011 I am attending the Sigma Tau Delta (International Honors Society) convention to present on an original comedic scene, and the Honors Western Regional Conference for a dramatic collection of Chinese supernatural romantic tales (I await further news regarding my submission for the Honors National Conference). This April 2011 the Kungfu Action Theatre 122

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction podcast will feature a short original wuxia story. For my other writings (consisting of essays, recommendations, and reviews) please visit http://aeskis.wordpress.com. If you have any comments or questions concerning my creative work (I’m especially welcoming to publishers/literary agents/etc :p), or if you just want to chat about mutual interests like Asian dramas/films, fantastical/historical fiction, classic literature, etc, please feel free to contact me.

Duncan McNair Duncan McNair is an Anglo-Canadian-Scot living in England and practising as a barrister. He wrote much of this story in a ger in the mountains outside Ulaan Baataar.

Douglas Penick Douglas Penick was educated at Princeton University, studied with R.P Blackmur, Gregory Vlastos, Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, Orgyen Kusum Lingpa, Cheng Man Ch’ing, among others. He worked at the Musueum of Modern Art (NY0, Food Restaurant (NY), Naropa Insitute, Vajradhatu Intl., Santa Fe Oopera.

He is the author of The Warrior Song of King Gesar (Wisdom Publications, Boston, Mass. 1998/Mill City Press 2009) (French Translation Amy Le Cam, Editions Guy Tresdaniel (2003); Crosssings on a Bridge of Light (Mill City Press 2009) Secret Annals (forthcoming in French- Editions de Grand Est).

His performance pieces include King Gesar (from the above with Peter Lieberson, composer) Munich Biennale premiere with, Emmanuel Ax, Yo Yo Ma, Peter Serkin, Omar Ebrahim, et al (Sony Classical); Ashoka’s Dream (Peter Lieberson, composer) premiered July ‘97 at Santa Fe Opera (G. Schirmer); L’Histoire du Soldat (from text by CF Ramuz, Boulder Chamber Players 2004); The Vermilion Stage (radio play for KGNU Boulder/Denver: T.T. Lenk Producer, 2005); Soldier Cry (w/Joan Anderson–Naropa University); The Tibetan Book of the Dead:Live—Asia Society workshop/ music: Phillip Glass (2007); and ;Luminous Empriness (Naropa University Theater 2009); as well as videos The Tibetan Book of the Dead (English language version) for NHK Japan/ National Film Board of Canada: a two part series. Prize winner at Banff Film Festival, and King Gesar for Bravo! Network (Lesley Ann Paten, Prod.) Shorter pieces have appeared in, among others, Porte Des Singes (Paris); Windhorse, Bombay Gin, The Widener Review, Parabola, The Shambhala Sun, Pure Vision 123

Kunlun Journal of Chinese Historical Fiction (Melbourne,Australia),Cahier de L’Herne (Paris).

He is currently working on two new novels, a collection of short stories, and two new pieces with Peter Lieberson. He is represented by David Nelson of Waterside Productions.

He is married and lives in Boulder, Colorado.

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