Ten Thousand Thorns_A Fairy Tale Retold

by Suzannah Rowntree

  For a long time Clouded Sky could not find the words to speak. Clearly, Harmonious Virtue thought he should abandon the Roaring Tiger troops to their fate and dedicate himself to the continuation of Wudang Sect. Harmonious Virtue was unquestionably a venerable and wise counsellor, but his heart rebelled every time he imagined telling the Mount Jing emissary that he would never return.

  At last he cupped his fists. “Shifu, will you allow humble disciple to depart? You have given me many things that are difficult to understand. Please allow me the time to think this over and make the right decision.”

  Harmonious Virtue bowed.

  “A teacher may open the door, but you must walk through it yourself. Take as much time as you need, my disciple. And here.” He handed Clouded Sky the broken spear in its wooden box. “Take this with you. It may help you to clear your mind.”

  A disciple led him to his lodgings. Clouded Sky was surprised to see that they went toward the disciples’ quarters, not toward the guest house, but he was glad to see his old cell again. It seemed more like a homecoming.

  He sat down to meditate, but once more he found it difficult to clear his mind. Worry assailed him. Was Harmonious Virtue right? And whether he was right or not, wasn’t it his duty as a disciple to obey his master?

  Yet it was impossible to contemplate Harmonious Virtue’s advice without emotion. For three years he had fought beside the Roaring Tiger troops. He knew the stories. The Emperor had slaughtered thousands of subversives, displaced whole towns and caused thousands more to starve. Everyone had lost a child, a sibling, or a spouse. The thought of giving up the fight made him feel ill.

  If this was the Way, he now understood why some repudiated the Way and resorted to dangerous and unorthodox martial arts.

  He shook himself. Such thoughts were in themselves dangerous! Perhaps, fighting with Roaring Tiger, he’d become too attached to the illusory world. Or Iron Maiden had infected him with her heresies. If he was to be Taoist Priest Harmonious Virtue’s successor as Wudang Sect Leader, he could not allow himself to be distracted like this. Clouded Sky closed his eyes, determined to put Roaring Tiger and Iron Maiden out of his thoughts.

  It took him a long time to clear his mind to the point that he could begin to meditate. Then, just as he found the necessary clarity, crack! crack! Something rapped against the shutters of his room.

  A bird? A mischievous disciple? He forced his jolting heart to slow and closed his eyes again, but the sound returned, an insistent rat-tat-tat that gradually increased in force.

  Finally he got up and yanked the shutters open.

  “Why disturb me? Why not just let yourself in?” he snapped.

  Iron Maiden hung upside-down from the gutter above, her face pink and smiling. “I wanted to be polite, Clouded Sky dage. You might have been asleep.”

  With her around? Unlikely! He swallowed the retort, and stood back as she slipped through the window.

  “Why are you here, Miss Iron?”

  “They wouldn’t let me in by the door. No women in male disciples’ quarters.”

  “That’s correct. You should go, heroine.”

  “But I needed to see you and they wouldn’t take a message.” Her brows knitted. “They said, ‘Go back to your quarters, Miss Iron. Martial brother Clouded Sky is not here.’ I wonder why they lied.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “I followed you when you came.”

  “You followed me?” Again. Clouded Sky took a breath. “Miss Iron, you can’t do that. People find it very disturbing. I find it very disturbing. Please, will you go back to your quarters? I need to meditate.”

  Clearly his manners were deteriorating under her bad influence. For a moment he hoped she might be offended and go away. But of course, her only response was to plant herself on his sleeping mat and clasp her hands loosely across her knees, making the room hers as easily as she had made his horse hers. “I was thinking about Taoist Priest Harmonious Virtue. What’s he going to do about the imperial guards?”

  “Didn’t you hear, Miss Iron? He’ll speak to them and send them away.”

  “I know, I just saw him go out the gate to meet with them. But what if they don’t listen?”

  “They’ll listen. Taoist Priest Harmonious Virtue knows what he’s doing; he’s settled worse troubles than this. He’ll convince them to leave us alone.”

  “What if they don’t listen? What if they attack?”

  “Don’t be afraid, heroine!”

  She laughed. “Who’s afraid? I know you and I can fight them together, dage. That’s why I’m staying here till your shifu comes back.”

  Clouded Sky swallowed. “Heroine, you can’t stay! I’ll lose so much face if anyone finds out you’ve been here. Don’t worry. Even if the Imperial Sword was mad enough to attack, all of Wudang Sect would help us fight back!”

  “Would they? Taoist Priest Harmonious Virtue said Wudang Sect must not fight the Emperor’s troops.”

  “Well, you heard him say that Wudang Sect is not political. Spiritual cultivation is the true goal of a warrior! But you can trust my shifu, heroine. For years, he’s helped the Emperor’s enemies escape to Tibet. It’s not his job to fight the Emperor, but that doesn’t mean he won’t help us if we’re attacked.”

  “Elder, you know him better than I do. But what if he’s wrong about the goal of martial arts?”

  It was Clouded Sky’s turn to laugh. “Taoist Priest Harmonious Virtue, Wudang Sect Leader, is wrong about martial arts?”

  Iron Maiden looked down at her feet, blushing. “A poor child who is wise is better than an old and foolish king who will not hear instruction, dage.”

  Clouded Sky could not contradict this. “So how is my shifu wrong about martial arts?”

  She sat silent for a moment, thinking. Then she smiled, and jumped onto the window-sill.

  “Come with me, and I’ll show you.”

  Before he could reply, she launched herself from the window and soared through the night air, the white sleeve of her dress rippling in her wake. Clouded Sky sighed. At least if they went elsewhere to talk, they would no longer be breaking the rules.

  He followed her in a series of shorter leaps that took him past the temple and the courtyard where they had spoken to Harmonious Virtue, over the roofs of the guest quarters and up the mountain to a small level area that he knew well. Covered with fine gravel and carefully weeded, it was the training-ground where he and Broken Spear had spent hours exchanging stances as disciples.

  Below them the monastery lay silent and peaceful, and beyond it the mountainside plunged into soft strands of fog, from which other hilltops emerged like islands in the sea. In the moonlight, the earth itself glowed like a lantern.

  Iron Maiden backed away from him across the gravel.

  “You have your sword? Good!”

  In a cranny of the mountain a bamboo clump was growing. Iron Maiden used her knife to cut a thin, flexible cane and trim the leaves. Then, gripping it by the end, she took her stance: knees bent, two fingers of her left hand raised behind her, and the bamboo cane pointing like a sword at his heart.

  It was a stance he knew. Clouded Sky drew his sword warily. “Wudang Sect Soft Snow Swordplay?”

  She didn’t answer. She just kept her eyes on him, a smile lurking in their depths. Then she attacked.

  It was like all their other duels. For a short time Clouded Sky understood and thought he could predict her stances. Then suddenly, she executed an attack of incredible speed and power, one he had never learned and could not comprehend at all. The bamboo slipped past his sword and halted within a whisper of his death acupoint. Clouded Sky stared at the quivering green tip and held his breath. Iron Maiden straightened and adopted another stance he knew.

  “Again, dage.”

  It was always humiliating to be so easily defeated. But this time, more curious than offended, he paid closer attention to what he was doing. This time, one of his feints fooled her, piercing her guard, b
ut she slid aside like water, and he felt the sting of bamboo across his neck.

  She straightened, watching him. In her eyes he could see the earth and sky reflected: the white moon, and the banks of white fog.

  He thought he was beginning to understand.

  “Again,” he said.

  They closed. Iron Maiden’s stances were fluid and adaptable. When he struck, she retreated. When he retreated, she advanced. Although he wielded a quick sword, she was never there when he struck. Instead, her bamboo cane twisted and danced where his did not. And whether she advanced or retreated, she kept the bamboo’s end flickering about him, looking for an opening.

  Back and forth they maneuvered. Again he was able to predict many of her stances—all of them from the various Wudang Sect sword styles. Then—he had begun to expect it by now—in the midst of a stance he thought he knew, she changed direction and caught him on the wrong foot. As she laid the point of her green sword against his chest, her eyes willed him to understand.

  “Again,” he said.

  This time he stayed on the defensive, letting her come at him fast and deadly. Letting her show him what she meant to show him.

  Then he saw his chance and moved, a feint with the sword. She bent backwards to avoid it and his leg swept her feet from under her. She flipped onto hands, then back to feet, but his face was there to meet hers as she straightened.

  His fingers against an acupoint on her neck.

  He looked into her eyes again and saw fright. Surprise. And then, unexpectedly, laughter.

  “You did it!” He didn’t expect her to look so delighted now that he’d finally defeated her. “Clouded Sky, dage, you did it!”

  He stepped back, sheathing his sword. “Heroine’s martial arts are just like mine—Wudang Sect sword styles. But yours take more opportunity to attack. And all your attacks kill or disable.”

  “Exactly! While yours merely threaten and retreat.”

  Her dismissive words goaded him.

  “Why not? Martial arts is about avoiding a fight as long as possible.”

  “It is good to preserve peace. But what if you are already in a fight? These are the martial arts we are talking about, not the making of tea! If one is in a fight, one attacks to win!”

  “Tea? What do you mean?” Clouded Sky shook his head. “Wudang Sect prizes the virtue of mercy.”

  “And victory?”

  “That is not a proper consideration. A martial artist does not fight to win victory.”

  “Of course one must fight for justice even if there is no hope of winning! But where is your reliance on Heaven? And these martial arts of yours!” Iron Maiden smacked the bamboo stick against the ground in disgust. “Why don’t you go back to your Mount Jing troops, and tell them what you have just told me? ‘My friends, victory is not a proper consideration for us, and therefore I will not learn any martial arts that will help me to gain victory over the Vastly Martial Emperor. I will make only a pretense of fighting him so that I will not feel bad when he takes your land and starves your families!’”

  “How dare you!”

  “I’ll tell you what I think. Fighting the Emperor makes you feel good about yourself, but actually defeating him—that would mean finding some other way to bring order and peace to All-Under-Heaven. I think you’re afraid of winning. What would you do if you actually defeated the Emperor? How would you deal out justice? How would you ensure peace?”

  “How can I give answers to such questions?”

  “If you don’t, someone else will! Or maybe you’re afraid that if the Emperor was defeated people would stop putting their trust in you, obeying you, and giving you money? Maybe with the Emperor gone, they’d need a different kind of hero. A man of peace, a wise man, not a warrior—and they wouldn’t need you anymore.”

  Clouded Sky opened and shut his mouth several times before he found the words to speak. “You can talk all you like, Miss Iron, but all I can do is my best. If the Emperor really does have the Mandate of Heaven, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  Iron Maiden swept up the bamboo stick and gave him a stinging cut to the knee.

  “Don’t be foolish! If the Emperor truly had the Mandate of Heaven, we would know it! We would know it because he would act according to the righteousness of Heaven, rather than committing these horrible crimes. Is Heaven pleased when people starve because corrupt officials take all their grain? Is Heaven pleased when the Emperor kills and relocates people just to force them into submission? Is this really the Mandate of Heaven? Or is it your own cowardice?”

  Too angry to speak, Clouded Sky grabbed the bamboo stick and yanked it out of her hand. Iron Maiden let go unconcernedly and walked past him to the edge of the cliff.

  “Your Sect Leader has returned.” She didn’t turn her head to speak to him. “I suppose it’s safe for us to sleep. If you won’t think about what I have said, dage, then think about what you have learned fighting me.”

  With that she lifted her arms and stepped off the edge of the cliff. For a moment she floated down through the moonlight, arms spread, her gown and sleeves rippling. Then she disappeared into the shadows at the gate of the guesthouse, and he knew she was gone.

  “I, a coward!” he huffed as he tramped down the narrow steps along the cliffside toward the disciples’ quarters. Arrogant and foolish peasant! Couldn’t she see that her excessive love of justice would only result in harm to everyone? The worst of it was that she stirred up unseemly emotions in his own heart. Clouded Sky took deep, slow breaths in an attempt to soothe his temper. At least he could comfort himself with the thought that he’d finally defeated her in a fight.

  But only by using one of her own stances.

  Doubt like a night traveller crept into his mind.

  Clouded Sky did not return to his room at once. Instead, weaving his way through the shadowed pathways of the monastery complex, he went a little way beyond the disciples’ quarters and emerged in a courtyard near the monastery gate, overlooking the south hills.

  He unsheathed his sword and began to move through the stances of Wudang Sect’s Mystical Sword Style. For the first time since his early days as a disciple, he paid close attention to every movement.

  He executed three stances and stopped. Then, eyes closed, he moved through the stances again, this time imagining an opponent before him.

  He took a stance, and attacked. Took a new stance, and attacked. Took another. And attacked.

  He opened his eyes again, the cold night air drenching his lungs at each breath. Was she right after all? Could these stances be used for offence in ways he had never imagined?

  Was his sword style really faulty?

  Iron Maiden’s fighting style was uniquely savage and effective. There were plenty of unorthodox martial artists in the world: low lives and followers of evil cults, despised by all righteous heroes. The Venomous Palms of the Yin Winds, for example, and the Black Stone Assassins. These were martial artists who never restrained themselves from any atrocity at all. Who fought only to kill.

  Was Iron Maiden one of these?

  And yet—his feet led him through another stance. His sword swept and flashed, releasing a burst of internal force that made the shutters rattle on the nearby buildings. Clouded Sky stood motionless, listening to the night, his heart beating.

  What if someone saw him?

  There was a power here that terrified him. Quickly, he returned his sword to its sheath and turned toward his quarters. As he crossed the entrance courtyard, a flutter of motion caught the corner of his eye. He turned, narrowing his eyes into the shadows.

  The monastery complex was walled and gated. Was it only his imagination, or had he seen a silent shadow drop from the wall above the gate?

  In the blackness under the roof of the gatehouse a thin crack of light slowly appeared. There was a soft groan of hinges. The streak of light grew and was choked by a sudden flow of shadows.

  “Intruders!” Clouded Sky shouted the alarm at the top of his voi
ce and dashed for the gate, his sword seeming to leap into his hand.

  Where was the gatekeeper? Immobilised? Dead? There was no time to wonder. A gang of twenty men wearing dark night-travellers’ outfits stepped into the moonlight. With a muffled word of command they suddenly disappeared in twenty different directions, using their lightness skill to scale the walls and roofs.

  One man remained behind, drawing his sword and taking his stance. The faint moonlight failed to illuminate his face. He was wearing a mask.

  The Imperial Sword!

  Clouded Sky launched himself into the air. “You dare to breach Wudang Monastery? Eat my sword!”

  The swordsman reacted with breathtaking speed, leaping into the air and lashing out with his blade. Clouded Sky’s own sword stroke went wide, and a stinging pain scored his flank. Clouded Sky landed and turned, pressing his hand to the shallow wound. It came away slippery with blood. For a moment he looked into the Imperial Sword’s masked face. Then the swordsman turned and ran.

  Clouded Sky shouted again and leaped after him, attacking so hotly that the Imperial Sword was forced to turn and face him. Despite his best efforts the emperor’s sword flickered faster than his own, and with each movement Clouded Sky felt hot blood seep from his wounds. His strength was already failing—and this opponent effortlessly blocked all his strikes. Although the Imperial Sword used stances and sword styles from a number of different sects, Clouded Sky could tell he was also familiar with Wudang’s techniques, able to predict each of his own stances.

  In desperation he unleashed one of Iron Maiden’s sudden, devastating attacks. His sword whistled through the air, converting a feint into a lunge. The masked man’s eyes widened and he dropped to the ground, sweeping a leg around to trip his opponent. Imperial Sword saved himself by a hair’s breadth, and threw Clouded Sky to the ground.