by Vivian Chak
Chapter 4: Li Xiang
Xiang seated himself at a writing desk. The room was sparsely furnished, but it was furnished as befitted a noble visitor to the monastery. Being built directly into the thick walls of the monastery, it promised a warm refuge from chilly evenings. Actually, some cool air seemed wanting. He had already become slick with sweat from the ordeal with his leg, and his encounter with the nun had done nothing to assuage the unpleasant sensation.
“I won't impose on your hospitality for more than a few days,” he'd said, hobbling after the nun. She'd moved faster than he had, despite her being older than his mother.
“Master Li, I'm afraid your length of stay is going to depend on your leg.”
“Truly, the leg is fine.” The nun had made a brief noise of disapproval to that.
“Did Buddha not warn against professing false knowledge?”
“Pardon a sinner. I merely speak from bravado.” The nun's hectoring really did bring to mind his mother. She did seem to be more easily placated, however, as she finished:
“Bravado is not as bad as malicious falsehood.”
They arrived at the apothecary, and Xiang submitted to having the makeshift bandage removed, gash prodded, and sutures added by steel needles. The needles bothered him the most. For one thing, they were a lot larger than acupuncture needles, and were going straight through him. And he had to submit to it. Xiang equated this to self-harm; consequently he had trouble staying still. In what Xiang supposed was an attempt to distract him, the nun began talking, though her questions were almost as discomforting as the needles.
“Before this day, you had never met young Lian, had you?”
“That's correct, though to my detriment,” Xiang said truthfully, wondering where this line of questioning was going.
“What do you mean by that?” He winced as the needle began a second row of stitches.
“Why, only that Flame is of a character that anyone ought to desire to have emulated.” The needle continued piercing his leg, to his agitation, and he attempted calm himself by emptying his mind and to refrain from retracting his leg. “She's steadfast.”
“Ah, when you were attacked. Forgive an old woman's curiosity, but oughtn't a young noble such as yourself be properly accompanied by guard?”
“My father desires that I not bring attention to myself,” said Xiang, realizing as he spoke, that perhaps he had done exactly that. The nun pulled the silken thread across his leg.
“A good practice for a Buddhist.”
“I confess I'm not one.”
“You're welcome to stay nonetheless. Take a week.”
This alone would displease his father. Xiang wondered how he would react to the additional fact that he was also bereft of horse. He put his brush to paper.
Honourable Father, your Filial Son sends his greetings.
Xiang wondered how he would explain that he'd destroyed his anonymity as well. He had been explicitly told to accomplish his research in the imperial library, and then immediately return to the capital for his upcoming governmental post.
I have accomplished the task you have set me—Xiang crumpled the paper in a ball. This wouldn't do at all. He hadn't really done what his father had asked—he hadn't even reached the library yet, but a part of him felt it necessary to assure his father that he was finished, in a way. Xiang gazed absently at his sword, propped in a corner of the room. It was a fine one that his father had given him, with a handle of ox-bone. To add to the opulence, both pommel and hilt had been worked with intermingling knot patterns. But the finest part was its blade. Though it was sheathed, Xiang saw clearly, in his mind, the ingenious construction—a pliant steel core that allowed the blade to oscillate when struck. Hard steel wrapping the core enabled the edges to be honed to a well-retained and unforgiving sharpness. He thought of how he had learned the sword, in conjunction with his studies for the imperial examinations. Knowledge and martiality coexist, his father had often told him. Abruptly, Xiang returned his gaze to the paper before him.
Honourable Father, I have accomplished the task that you have set me. He'd gone in a circle, he realized. Small wonder that his friends laughingly affirmed that Xiang was a name quite suitable. He shifted his leg. The silk stitches were itching him. Perhaps it was the afternoon heat. A knock sounded on his door.
“Enter.” He stood up unsteadily and pulled the door open. It was Lian Flame. “Ah, Flame meimei. I'm still to compensate you for your wraps, I presume?”
“They were, uh, only wraps. Though they are useful to my training,” spoke Flame quickly.
“Those wraps may have been essential in keeping me from bleeding to death,” said Xiang, tapping his leg. “At least, I would presume so, given the amount of stitches I've been graced with.”
“I would've given you more.” Xiang raised an eyebrow at her, and Flame added indignantly, “What? I don't sew well.”
“No lacquer needlework boxes for you then,” Xiang chuckled. “I've purchased three and more for my mother, as per my father's request.” His gaze followed Flame's notice of the sword in the corner. He had a sudden idea.
“Would you take a form as repayment?”
“You mean like one for a staff form?”
“One for sword.” He watched as Flame's eyes widened.
“Really?” She frowned slightly. “What am supposed to practise it with?”
“A rod will do. I had rod before.”
“What about that?” She indicated at the Tang sword that he had taken from the fallen bandit.
“That won't do. It never bodes well to use someone else's blade.”
“Why?”
“I've often conjectured that such swords will never stay long with their masters, as evidenced by the fact that one received it from another. But it's something my father's told me.”
Flame drew the old sword.
“It's like a dao,” she said, eyeing the blade. “Is it really a sword?”
“It is, but it's more common nowadays to carry the jian, or straight sword.”
“The ones with two edges?” Flame sighed. “It would be useful to have a real one to practise with. That way I won't forget your kuen.”
“Yes. I'm sorry I can't teach you the spear. You seem to have a lot of staffs on hand to practise with, even if they don't have points. It's said that one can be taught to fight proficiently with the spear in a week, a dao in a month, but a sword in a year.”
“Why is that?”
“The spear has the longest reach over the other three weapons; the dao has a blade thick enough to block with, but the sword—it is the thinnest, sharpest, and lightest of all three,” explained Xiang.
“Doesn't that mean it's made easy to learn?”
“It means it's made to kill.”
Flame didn't wince. Xiang wanted to smile sadly, but suppressed the urge. He folded his arms instead.
“You are sure you want to learn it.”
“Yes.”
“Let's go outside, then.”
In the monastery garden, Xiang taught her the form. It was somewhat short, but it was full of useful cuts and dodges, and he thought it would be easy enough for Flame to remember.
When he had made sure that Flame could remember everything, he placed the sword in her hand.
“It's really light,” she said, seeming surprised.
“That's the truth, as I stated earlier. Perhaps it's because you're used to a staff, but a blade requires a lot more wrist dexterity, and you'll be glad of its lightness soon enough.” He watched her repeat the form, sword moving quickly from cut to cut, though only the tip of the blade would have reached anything.
“Is this right?” she asked. Xiang nodded.
“But stab deeply. That is the primary point in swordplay; a jian is pointed to thrust, lengthened to reach and sharpened to penetrate.”
“What about cutting?”
“You could, but it was made thin and light to stab.”
“To kill?”
; “Yes. Try it again.” Xiang watched as Flame repeated the form again, grip tighter, sword biting deeply. By the end of several sessions, she seemed completely at ease. And Xiang watched with crossed arms, a faint smile occasionally flickering across his otherwise hardening face.