The court was already crammed with high officials and shuffling bureaucrats. Their whispered conversations ended as the commander strode in. He was clad in his standard polished armor, over which he boldly wore his robe of bear. As the putrid hide trailed behind him, the claws could be heard clearly, dragging across the smooth stone floor. The commander seemed more animal than the bear whose dead shell cloaked him, his face more savage than the ursine skull that framed it.
He walked disrespectfully tall and dangerously close to the Son of Heaven before dropping to his knees and bowing head to floor three times. The court was silent, the bodyguards were on edge, and the emperor was both displeased and disturbed. It was clear that the imperial arm of civilization had somewhere turned feral, and the emperor knew well that once an animal turns, it will never again turn back.
The commander rose to one knee and sounding hollow through the bear skull visor began to give his report. Stunned silence met its delivery, for it was spoken with the harshness and severity of a snarling animal, sometimes in a low growl and sometimes rising to a heavy roar. It was not the voice of a man, but some dark beast dressed in flesh and kneeling in the form of one who had once been human.
“The siege was long and hard fought; the rebels gave no quarter, and flatly rejected my emperor’s benevolent hand. They were well prepared, and it is with great sorrow that I must report the loss of one thousand one hundred and eleven men. All died valiantly in the service of The Son of Heaven. Casualties on the enemy side numbered in excess of thirty-two thousand. Although minor compared to the brave lives lost, the machines of war were lost during their routine deployment in the early assault. Notwithstanding, I am pleased to report a successful completion of mission, and the total annihilation of northern pestilence and rebellion. By the might and wisdom of the emperor, peace has been restored.”
The emperor weighed the commander’s report silently against the periodic sources of information gleaned during the year of the campaign. Without delving into the obvious contradictions, the emperor pushed on.
“Is there anything else?”
“Yes, Your Eminence,” growled the commander. “I bring two treasures from the rebel stronghold worthy of your reception.” With a dramatic flair he pulled himself to full height and shouted, “Now!” On cue, ten of his most trusted men carried in on their shoulders the rolled northern carpet and unfurled it as practiced, on the cavernous palace floor.
All present including the emperor were stunned at its unearthly beauty. The two dragons of north and south faced each other in a dance of celestial majesty. Truly it was a treasure worthy of an emperor. It was a living symbol of the unification of the northern and southern regions, two dragons now dancing as one. From the age of the First Emperor, it spoke in rich colors of the heavenly origin of imperial power and the unstoppable cycle of dynastic rule.
The emperor had the ten men that had carried it in, hang it in its rightful place of honor on the wall directly behind his celestial throne. The whispers of appreciation and admiration that swirled around the court like a sycophantic storm were cut short when the emperor began to speak.
“You have done well, Commander, you may ask one favor.”
Without hesitation the commander rose to eye level and addressed the Son of Heaven face to mangled face.
“More than fifteen years ago I embarked on a vital mission of imperial decree. It has been accurately reported to me that although I was successful in the emperor’s glorious cause, one criminal escaped and still lives, and I am told that his power grows. I suspect that it was he that stole the monastic library, and it may yet be recovered. Let me assemble a force of five hundred hand-picked men to complete your mission with the finality that it deserves.”
All including the emperor knew the mission to which he referred. There was a long silence as the Son of Heaven studied the animal before him and carefully measured the permutations of possibilities.
Finally the words, “Permission granted,” issued from the Imperial Seat.
As the commander prepared to take his immediate leave, he was halted by a question from the throne of power.
“You spoke of two treasures, what is the second one?”
The commander stopped his hasty exit and almost as a casual afterthought reached under the cloak of hair and hide. Smiling in his damaged way, he drew forth and held up the severed head of the rebel insurgent.
A collective shudder of revulsion passed over and through the imperial court like the icy touch of a northern wind. The few that did not quickly avert their eyes beheld a face that smiled at death and one that decay had strangely not molested. They looked upon a man whose features, even though bodiless, were much more human than those of the man that held it. In the void of shock and silence, the commander tucked it away, pivoted awkwardly, and marched out.
Ministers jostled to move rapidly out of his way, as unhindered, untouched, and unhurried, he left the shaken hall.
The Pox
Death has his time and perspective, and men have theirs. They are flightless creatures and so can see only the ground before them. Death soars in effortless circles sometimes gently and sometimes ferociously riding the winds. This higher view often leads to deeper understanding, or more accurately, over-standing, and does not fall easily within man’s grasp.
If it did, they would have seen death flow steadily from north to south like a mighty river, a river that fills the channel where men once marched. They would have seen it branching off like tributaries. They would have seen it stop at the imperial palace and radiate out from the wall behind the throne to the far reaches of the kingdom like the spokes of some great wheel. Instead they knew only that Death came, and for a flightless earthbound creature, perhaps this was enough.
Like the first rain drops of a gathering tempest, reports began to trickle in from the far reaches of the empire. A sickness had struck with the suddenness of a summer storm. Even the earthbound could now discern its rapid progression.
The soldiers had returned free of plunder, but not free of disease, and this is what entered their homes and embraced their families. The plague infiltrated like a spy and lay dormant like a sleeper cell. It incubated within the carrier unnoticed, it gave away nothing of its presence; it hid, it grew, it traveled, and then it struck. Innocent and quiet at first, it began as a minor irritation of the skin, a few red spots. Like brook to stream and stream to raging river, its symptoms grew to rage in torrents.
The red welts swelled to ugly sores which spread and festered. Hard and painful to the touch they soon covered the body and lined even the mouths of those infected. Even through the highest fever, the itch could drive men mad. The angry boils puckered and broke like volcanic craters. The strong survived and the weak perished. Scabs eventually formed and dropped off. Some of the lucky were left blind, all of the lucky were left pock scared and disfigured.
This was Death slashing from horseback upon the stallion known as War. It struck with the unpredictability of battle, a scythe that knows not wheat from weed. Young or old, man or woman, rich or poor, any could fall before it. Some survived while many perished, and others it left alone.
There were no walls high enough to keep it out, or thick enough to keep it in. Not even the walls of the imperial palace. For the emperor, the death of his people was only one consideration. With a great dying the economy grinds to a halt, and before plagues of great magnitude, even empires crumble. As trickle became flood, the seriousness of the situation weighed upon his shoulders, and with every passing day that weight increased.
The commander spoke to the dead young rebel often, sometimes about this accursed pox, and often about killing the smelly boy. He remembered little of the bargain that the rebel had offered and that he had refused, for overstanding was not his strength, and delusion was now his overlord.
All the commander knew was that the ranks of the military were decimated, and that he and those that still stood were pressed to bury the dead. It was a curse upon h
is head, not because of death or suffering, but because it had delayed his revenge. The monk would live, at least until the plague had run its course.
Within the imperial walls the emperor’s minister was also ravaged by the plague. Not directly, for that would have been a blessing, but indirectly like so many others. This man of wealth and power could do nothing to ease the suffering of his beloved eldest son. This minister, in spite of rank or wealth, could do nothing when Death came and took his boy. As the funeral fire burned, and the blackened smoke that was once his boy rose up, the anguished cries of a grieving father mingled with the winds that blew across the land.
This was the reaping of the lesser pox, the smallpox, and it was this black carpet that now rolled out to cover the empire.
Fathers And Sons
This Chancellor, once the emperor’s most trusted minister, ambled throughout the palace grounds like a wraith. He had always borne the responsibility of his post well, but now it paled by comparison to the weight that pulled him down and slowed his every step. He was without purpose, a man who knew that in reality his life had amounted to nothing. Sorrow was a heavy burden, and the fact that he would never really know his son added to it greatly.
His regrets were many. Their time spent together was as an official with his heir, he wished now it had been much more as a father with his son. There was no comfort and no solution, and for all his worldly influence, he was now utterly powerless. He had steered his boy away from all things frivolous, but would now give anything just to hear that childish laugh once more.
With no real way to escape his pain, he wandered vacantly to the only place that gave him small respite. As he approached this private spot, he froze when he saw another in his place. He stood quietly and watched carefully to see what the boy had come to steal. Instead he saw the page light an offering before the urn that held the ashes of his son. The smoke rose and circled as the boy bowed three times and thrust the incense into the bowl of alter sand.
An image of chopsticks stuck in a rice bowl came to mind. He walked forward, and at the sound of his closing footsteps, the page’s tear-wet face turned suddenly in his direction. The frightened boy stood clumsily and prepared to flee. “Stay,” the minister bid, and reluctantly but without choice the boy sat once more. “Why are you here?” the chancellor asked, and when the page answered, “I came to visit my friend,” his eyes could not hide their surprise.
He raked through memory for anything his son may have told him about this friendship, but there was nothing. He did remember the distain his boy had of the rough commander, and what once he thought irrational now began to make more sense. Their status was as opposite as night and day, but their ages were similar. In the adult realm of the palace, the minister was starting to believe that his son may have had a secret friend. The Chancellor asked bluntly, “What besides your years could you two possibly have had in common?”
The page responded with an unwavering stare, and with an answer that took the emperor’s highest official completely off guard, “Horses, Sir. Your son loved horses.” There was a time his boy walked into the palace smelling like the stable, and the memory of how he had rebuked his child now scalded him like bitter tears.
Over the course of the afternoon he gleaned many details from the page about a boy that he didn’t know. The minister heard about his son’s dreams of one day joining the military. Proudly he heard that his son was kind to the page and the animals that he tended. In a short time the minister realized that this boy knew his son much better than he did, and he took delight in every hidden detail.
The page eventually apologized but explained that he had his duties to attend to, and that any slip would bring harsh retribution. The minister did not want him to go but understood the workings of the palace. He felt much lighter as he stood to face the page whose position now grew more desperate with every passing moment.
“Sir,” the page intoned with one final recollection, “It was your son’s strongest desire to rid the land of the sickness that came in time to claim him.” With an awkward and uncustomary embrace the minister said, “Goodbye.”
The minister walked with new direction, grateful for the gift the young page had given him. He was clearer in thought and lighter in spirit than he had been since his son’s departure. Once inside his private chamber, he took his position behind his desk. He sat straight and breathed deeply as he looked at the blank silk paper that lay before him. Gathering in mind the spirit of his boy, he dipped the brush and began to write in his beautiful cursive script.
Before assigning his seal, he examined carefully his first official decree since the death of his son, and was well satisfied. The minister had written a summons to physicians, wise men, and magicians from all over the empire, to come to the capital and try to find some remedy.
The official proclamation was sent out across the entire kingdom. It went out over the land like the smoke of the many funeral pyres and touched the furthest corners of the realm.
The Guest
Guided patiently by Mah Lin, over time and through great effort, I grew more skilled with the handling of two blades. Under the discerning eye of his loving daughter, I made headway unraveling the mysteries of the written word. Step by step, proceeding in an orderly fashion, my body and my education flourished. I grew by leaps and bounds, for no man eats like one who has known starvation.
Selah and Mah Lin told me of monks who traveled to far off places, and yet in body never left the quietness of cave or cloister. For these masters, time and distance were not an obstacle nor were they now for me. While my flesh sat at the oaken table, my mind walked with healers and holy men, with warriors and wise men, with scientists and philosophers. For me this was the true magic of the written word.
To read is a wondrous gift. It is an invitation into the mind of others, to be a guest at their table. Even more extraordinary is that this visit transcends both time and mortality. Here within the library walls I heard with my eyes the words of great teachers that lived and died centuries before I was born. In the quietness of this stone cut room, and upon its thick oak table, I dined with greatness.
It was true that the long staff we created was a work of art, but to see Mah Lin train with it was the real wonder. Selah, too, had continued to hone her martial skills. On horseback she rode in the ways of Hunnish warriors; arrows flying in rapid succession from the string of her ancient bow. At full gallop she could fell an acorn cluster from the highest branches of my oak.
Her legs controlled her horse, the bow and a fistful of arrows clutched in her left hand, the right plucking, drawing, and releasing her deadly projectiles. With a girl’s delight she would charge at her father unleashing fierce volley while he practiced. Mah Lin would parry each missile with the bladed staff as easily as a mantis impales a cricket.
When not within my hands, the Five Element Sword and its shorter wooden ally were always on my back and at my waist. The intensity of all our physical training continued to increase, spurred by an urgency the monk chose not to reveal.
Until, “Arkthar,” he said on a cool fall day. He gazed northward with a serious expression, like the poorest farmer checks the weather. “Sickness in the body is the expression of an imbalance; Selah has taught you much about this theory.”
“Yes, Mah Lin, that is true,” I replied.
“I sense imbalance of another sort. I feel it gathering like a storm, ready to move from north to south.”
I was disturbed by the tone and demeanor of the monk. I looked at his bright eyes to see their focus.
“Protect and love my daughter for all time,” he said solemnly.
A silent “Yes,” was the answer of my eyes and soul.
Selah joined us now from across the field, her dark hair moved freely in the autumn breeze. She scanned our masked faces, which gave no clues of our private conversation, and yet, without so much as a question, she added, “I feel it too.”
The three of us walked toward the house. We knew
that our time of peace here in the eye of the storm was coming to an end. I spread the remaining bat manure onto our hungry garden. It had served us well over the last three years, as I looked at it I realized its time too, was coming to an end. It would produce little more, and most of its food had been harvested. Selah had preserved what would keep us through the mild winter months, and I wondered what the next spring would yield.
I entered the house as the monk and his daughter finished the spicing of the evening meal. They shared a laugh at my smell, for I had spread the guano with my hands. Selah handed me the small garden shovel that I could not find, together with the soap and water. When I was clean and ready to sit, the priest said casually to his daughter, “Set another place for our guest.” At the prompting of the monk, Selah used the finest porcelain. Beside the matching cup and bowl, she carefully laid a beautiful pair of rosewood eating sticks. We had never had company, and there was comfort in seclusion. We wolfed down our good meal in the powerful presence of the formal but vacant setting.
Mah Lin refilled the nearly empty teapot from the boiling kettle above the central hearth. As he set it back upon the table, there was a loud cry outside from Selah’s raven. The bird’s harsh call was followed by three weak knocks at the wooden door. Before I could move to answer it, our guest was inside and sitting before the empty bowl. Without hesitation Selah had filled it to the stranger’s polite protests of, “It is enough.”
I said nothing but stared at the old one as he happily ate. I saw the tattered black robes and the purple veins of his boney hands. They branched and twisted like the boughs and roots of the oak, or the streams that feed a river viewed from a great height, or the flash of lightning across the night sky. His glance in my direction pulled me back to the present.
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