Meandering River, Ardent Flame

by Vivian Chak

  ***

  Flame took in her surroundings with pleasure. There were still plenty of mountains around her, but Fo Guang Shan, Buddha's Light Mountain, was already out of sight, and she expected that the rest would recede into the distance as they travelled south. She could still recall how they had loomed, jagged and tall, on the day she escaped to the monastery with her sister. She'd been unconscious for most of it, but the mountains were clearly etched in memory. Tall. Sharp-edged. Flame had never been able to dissociate their image from that of Magistrate Li, the man who had forced her into those mountains and torn her family to pieces.

  She looked at her elder sister. Jiang changed that day as well, Flame suddenly realized. They'd hardly spent a full day together after that. Flame had always assumed that it was because her sister was too busy with monastery duties, but it struck her now that it might have been something else. Looking ahead she saw Jiang occupied in conversation with the monk, Wong. Not that she minded. Flame supposed her sister probably preferred more knowledgeable conversation, with the prospect of her becoming a nun looming near. However, Wong did not seem to be the obvious choice, as Flame felt sure that he was not as fond of sutras as her sister was.

  In fact, Wong made her uneasy. He reminded her of the old bandit with the beard for some reason, and that was enough to make her wary. But Sister An had suggested that they travel with him to Longhua, as he was going there anyway. One never knew whom one would meet on the road. Flame had always found Sister An stifling, for always telling her what to do, but she had to admit that Brother Wong would probably get them to Longhua more quickly. Though it would still take them well over the ten-day huan,or week.

  Still, she would be free—free of the oppressiveness that Li had forced on Flame and her sister. Taking in the rice fields near the foot of the mountains, she quietly gloried in the fact that she would never have to set eyes on the grim-faced shishi,which reminded her of dogs, guarding the monastery gate again. Though Yongtai Monastery had provisioned for seven years of her upbringing, while Jade and Yue had both helped Flame feel welcome, it had never felt like home, and Flame had never found there the universal family that her sister often spoke of. But away from the mountains, into which she'd been forced to flee, perhaps she would be able to shake free of Li. She glanced behind. Wong and her sister had both stopped; Jiang was waving her arms animatedly. Flame went back.

  “We shouldn't just leave him there,” Jiang was protesting. Flame saw that she was referring to a man who lay sprawled beside the road, bald but for a queue from his head. His arms wrapped wetly around his stomach. Flame avoided looking at the spot.

  “You going to carry him, then?” snapped Wong. “He's not going anywhere. Besides, the local prefecture will take the hand you stretch out to him, and maybe your head as well.”

  “You're Jurchen,” Flame addressed the man.

  “Was...at inn with brother...for food...not fighting.” He rolled his eyes in pain.

  “What kind of dead Jurchen rebel goes to a Han inn for food?” growled Wong.

  “Truly...by Buddha,” gasped the man.

  “I believe you,” said Flame. She felt sorry that the man had only wanted to have a fill of warm food, and been filled with steel instead. The man drew his lips back in what might have passed for a smile, though the impression was ruined by the fact that his teeth were red.

  “We're leaving,” ordered Wong. The man seemed to notice him for the first time. His eyes widened.

  “Elder Brother...”

  “I'm not your brother,” said Wong, glaring. “He's most likely looking like you, now.”

  “No...he went...ahead. Paid first.”

  Jiang knelt to offer him some water.

  “That's going right out of him, it is,” growled Wong.

  “It will give comfort," stated Jiang, ignoring the monk. She offered her waterskin and helped the man drink it. Flame saw his other hand grip his wounded stomach more tightly as the movement gave rise to a trickling crimson stream. Wong bit his lower lip.

  “This will give him comfort.” The monk drew the scimitar from the man's bloody belt and showed it to him. The man nodded. He cleaned the waterskin as best as he could, on a clean part of his tunic and in the gravel as well, before handing it back to Jiang. Wong thrust the weapon expertly under the ribs and the man died almost soundlessly.

  “We'll go now,” he said, voice gravelled.

  “What about his body?” asked Jiang. The monk was already walking away.

  “You're not really a monk, are you, Wong shifu?” Brother Wong turned in reply.

  “And you're not really a Shaolin Buddhist nun.”

  Flame appraised the dead man. He'd closed his eyes before died, so she wouldn't have to do anything about them. She looked at the scimitar. Leaving it in might be bad for his ghost. Trying not to look, she grasped the hilt and tugged. The blade seemed to have lodged, as Wong had twisted it as it entered, and Flame felt her eyes itch as she unwillingly recalled how Li's blade had twisted through Ma as well. The trees, earth, and the Jurchen's ribs clamping the scimitar all seemed to blur together in a red haze. She felt a hand next to her wet crimson ones. It was Jiang. Her sister moved her hands away gently. The scimitar was out before Flame had finished forcing down the tears. Jiang stared at the man for a few seconds as Flame dried herself. When Jiang still didn't move after Flame had risen from rinsing her hands with sand, she went up to her sister.

  “The man's brother will come back for him,” Flame said.

  “How do you know?” Her sister's voice sounded somewhat inflicted.

  “Ah...well, because he has one...” It was a bad answer, and besides, Flame didn't know. All that mattered was that his brother found him. Flame wondered if the brother would come after Wong for sticking a scimitar into his family. He shouldn't, though. The Jurchen had asked for it. Anyway, his brother wouldn't know that Wong had done it, and if his brother's ghost told him, he'd probably be told that the scimitar had been welcome. To her surprise, her sister grasped her hand warmly.

  “Let's go,” she said. Flame gripped her sister's hand tightly in reply, and the two returned to the gravel path. Wong was waiting impatiently. They followed the trail through wood and stones all morning. By midday, they were done with traversing the monastery's farmlands. Night found them in Dahuting.