Gentle Smoke bowed before Albert as would a highly ranked counselor before the emperor. The rest of them she offered a bewitching smile.
“Thank you for remembering me on all the feast days, especially when my granddaughter was forced by age to fail in her duties. I will gladly join in this venture—especially since an almost accidental side effect has been the awakening of my great granddaughter to her heritage.”
And so assuring that you and your family will not lack for offerings in the future, Pearl thought.
When Gentle Smoke stepped back, Loyal Wind stepped forward and bowed before Albert. Pearl noticed that Loyal Wind’s bow was noticeably deeper than the carefully measured courtesy Gentle Smoke had offered. His greeting to the rest was also more humble.
He is still hurting. Aware of his failures more than where he has succeeded, Pearl thought. Good in some ways, but dangerous in others.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” Loyal Wind said to Albert, “we have met after a fashion, when you summoned me into your presence.”
Albert inclined his head and graciously bowed in return. “I remember you, Loyal Wind, and thank you for the many times in these past few days you have come to our aid.”
Loyal Wind looked pleased. He gestured to one side. “May I present my partner on the Wheel? This is Copper Gong, the Ram.”
He motioned forward a very resolute looking woman clad in a sunflower yellow shenyi. Copper Gong was apparently in her mid thirties, although Pearl knew she had been almost eighty when she died. Apparently, like Gentle Smoke, Copper Gong was tightly focused on that time in her life when the Exile was new, and return home her greatest desire. Unlike Gentle Smoke, Copper Gong wore her hair simply, in a tight twist, eschewing any sense of feminine delicacy.
Copper Gong offered Albert a stiff bow.
“At last our descendants are set upon reopening our way into the Lands. I must apologize that my own lineage has fallen short of expectations, and offer my own services in their place.”
“Thank you,” Albert said.
Bent Bamboo, the Monkey, was the last to step forward and offer his bow before the emperor. There was no trace of the counterman at the ice cream parlor now, nor did Bent Bamboo seem to be dwelling on lost youth. He presented himself as a man of mature years, some silver in his hair, but not in the least decrepit.
His bearing was very formal, but laugh lines around his mouth and eyes showed his more playful side. Pearl felt a pang of sorrow at the thought of Waking Lizard, the Monkey from the Lands, and wondered where in the journey of transition from Life into Death that brave, merry, and curiously wise old Monkey was. All their auguries had been able to tell them was that on this journey, at least, they were not likely to meet Waking Lizard.
The judges of the underworld had better be kind to you, Waking Lizard, Pearl thought fiercely. Or I for one will be back to speak very sternly to them.
“Now that our company is assembled,” Albert said, “does anyone have any idea where we will find Yen-lo Wang?”
Gentle Smoke raised her arm and pointed with a perfectly manicured fingernail before letting her sleeve fall modestly over her hand. “I see the gates of the palace of the Fifth Hell where Yen-lo keeps his court.”
Pearl turned and looked in the direction Gentle Smoke had indicated. A rounded gateway was there, solid and yet somehow inviting passage through a thick, gently undulating wall of white masonry.
“How odd,” Pearl muttered. “I could have sworn there was no gate there a moment ago, not even the wall.”
Shen grinned at her. “I could have sworn that one step back—two at the most—I was standing in front of a completely average unfinished pine door set up in the middle of that little warehouse of yours. Forget it, Ming-Ming. The rules we’re used to don’t apply here.”
Albert had been listening. Now he nodded, shifted his shoulders to settle the fall of his shenyi, and made a little shooing motion with his hands to direct each member of the company—living or ghost—to their appropriate position in his entourage.
“Aunt Pearl, you take point. Uncle Shen and Deborah, you flank me about a pace behind. Petitioners, arrange yourselves as you see fit. Let’s not keep Yen -lo Wang waiting.”
As Pearl led the way toward the arching gateway, its shape almost perfectly round except for the flat area at the open bottom, she considered what she knew about Yen-lo Wang.
There were many judges in the afterlife, a heritage of the varied and often contradictory tradition that the Taoists had adapted from their competitors—if not precisely rivals—the comparatively latecomer Buddhists.
This Yen-lo Wang whom they were seeking was thought by many scholars to be one and the same as Yama of the Hindus. Indeed, the judges of the various hells were often referred to jointly as the Yama Kings.
The Orphans had chosen to make their appeal to Yen-lo Wang, rather than to one of his numerous associates, because of a tradition that held that at one time Yen-lo Wang had been the highest ranking of all the judges, until the gods had noticed that Yen-lo Wang too often took pity on his human subjects, granting the guilty lighter penalties and elevating some of the more extraordinary to posts as demi-deities within his administration.
The three from the Lands also had been familiar with this tradition regarding Yen-lo Wang, a fact which seemed promising, for sometimes the traditions of the Lands Born from Smoke and Sacrifice and those of the Land of the Burning did not overlap—a thing that had frequently distracted Shen and Righteous Drum in the course of their research. Discrepancies occurred most often regarding those strange beasts and stranger spirits who were classified under the general term “hsien” in Chinese.
Hsien. Pearl thought. Spirits or fairies or demons or immortals, and sometimes all of these, depending on the translator and his or her cultural bias. Sometimes, from the way the Landers speak of them, I’ve had the impression that hsien are as common in the Lands as bathing suits on a summer beach. I wonder if they are more like fairies or demons?
Pearl had reached the rounded doorway. The gates stood invitingly open, swung inward as if to point them in the right direction. Try as she might, Pearl couldn’t recall if this had been the case when Gentle Smoke had first directed their attention to the gateway.
Carefully, without trying to look too suspicious of this good fortune, Pearl checked for guards or porters.
None were evident.
“That’s strange,” Shen said softly. “Most traditions hold that Yen-lo Wang’s court will be guarded and at the very least bribes must be offered in order to gain entry.”
“Maybe,” Deborah said in an equally soft voice, “we’ll run into the guards further in. Maybe this is just some sort of general entrance.”
“Maybe,” Albert agreed, but he sounded as if he expected trouble any minute.
They passed through the gate into the type of garden the Chinese loved beyond all others: a representation of Nature so stylized that it seemed more natural than the genuine article. Shrubs, trees, flowers, statuary, rocks, and even walls were all arranged to give the impression of vast space, verdant greenery, and potential surprises around every bend. Pearl’s own garden was designed in asimilar fashion. As she led the way along what was clearly the main walkway, she admired the artistry.
She itched to turn down this inviting path to see what lay at the end or to pause to read the short poem elegantly calligraphied on a piece of painted wood. However, Pearl was not the Tiger for nothing. She knew that the unmoving goat in the middle of a forest glade might be, in reality, the tethered bait of a trap.
So although tempted, Pearl didn’t pause, didn’t stray. With every measured pace, she kept alert to the possible wandering of those she led.
Everyone stayed close, however, perhaps goaded into wariness by the element that was markedly missing from the scene.
“I’ve seen fish,” Deborah said at last. “I’ve seen more types of birds than I can name. There are butterflies everywhere, dragonflies, too. I heard small dogs ya
pping a while back. I’m sure I saw a golden-brown monkey climbing a fruit tree, but where are the people?”
“There should be gardeners at least,” Shen agreed. “The human element is as natural to a Chinese garden as are flowers and decorative statuary.”
They had passed through yet another undefended passageway as he spoke, and now Honey Dream, who walked a few paces behind Deborah, cried out.
“There! Over there, among the azaleas. I saw a man.”
Pearl glanced in the direction Honey Dream indicated, years of training the only thing that kept her from scowling that a girl Snake might see more than a mature Tiger. Then Pearl relaxed.
The man Honey Dream had seen was indeed standing near a thicket of magnificent pink azaleas, but he was in the act of emerging from a small building neatly framed by the shrub, closing the doorway behind him.
The man was dressed as a minor court functionary, wearing a drab olive robe whose only adornments were deep borders at the sleeves. His long beard was liberally streaked with white. His headdress was black fabric shaped in a fashion that Pearl knew would tell the knowledgeable—of which she was not one—his precise place in the bureaucracy.
“Our first challenge,” she murmured, and fought her inner Tiger’s urge to lay her hand on Treaty’s hilt and snarl.
That wouldn’t help, Pearl chided herself. Pretend you’re at some government office. You wouldn’t expect that pulling a gun there would speed you along—at least not in the right direction.
The functionary startled Pearl by stepping into the path and greeting them with a perfectly meaningless, perfectly courteous smile.
“The unrecognized emperor, Albert Yu, and his associates? You are expected. Please, follow me.”
The functionary turned in the direction of a wide, four-lobed opening in the wall, a door after the plum-blossom fashion. Carved stone steps made passing over the lintel easy to manage with perfect grace, even when wearing long robes.
Pearl glanced back and saw her own surprise at the of cial’s welcome mirrored on faces living and dead. Albert inclined his head slightly.
“We mustn’t keep Yen-lo Wang waiting, Tiger. Proceed.”
Pearl stepped gracefully over the curved lintel of the plum blossom door, following the functionary with a measured tread. The others followed suit. There was a quickly swallowed profanity as Deborah fumbled with her skirts, but otherwise the only sounds were the staccato notes of birdsong and the slight crunching of gravel beneath their feet.
They passed along avenues lined with plum trees and stands of bamboo. Decorative beds of chrysanthemums or elaborate pots of orchids accented these taller plants. Plum blossom, orchid, bamboo, and chrysanthemum were known to the Chinese as the “gentlemen of the garden.” It was certainly no coincidence that these were the same plants most often represented on the “flower and season” tiles of a mah-jong set.
We haven’t had time to teach the apprentices so many of the finer workings, Pearl thought. We have had so little time to prepare. Crisis to crisis, besieged on all sides.
She smiled ruefully to herself as she stepped after the functionary through yet another plum blossom door.
Or we had nearly a hundred years in which to prepare, and are now paying for our procrastination.
After they passed through this second door, more humans began to take their rightful place in the landscape. Courtiers in brilliant and complex robes that Pearl was certain would have set Des to muttering about anachronisms. Sages in simple attire, gathered in quiet discussion in a picturesque grove. Scholars seated at open-air desks, poring over long scrolls and taking notes with neatly tipped brushes.
Last, and for Pearl most important, there were soldiers, resplendent in elaborate armor, each of whom glanced at the functionary, read messages in the deep borders of his olive green sleeves, and then let their company pass without challenge.
Other than the guards, none of the humans gave their company more than passing notice. They did not ignore them, only politely averted their gaze from improper interest in another’s business.
The functionary led the way up a rise from which a palace was now visible. The palace was nestled into a hollow of a south-facing hill that overlooked an almost perfectly oval lake upon whose dark blue waters pleasure barges sported. The light laughter of women and sounds of lutes, flutes, and the higher see-saw notes of the two-stringed violin were carried to their ears by a sportive breeze.
When they had all mounted to this vantage, the functionary paused to allow them a moment to admire the perfection of the landscaping, then set off along a road that rounded the lake and led toward the palace.
The palace possessed many doors and open windows, some screened with beautifully carved lattices. The building was topped with curved pagoda-style roofs built from blue-green tile that contrasted nicely with the pale beige of the exterior walls and the red accents painted around the doors and windows. The roof tiles rose in pleasing asymmetry, as if the wavelets on the lake below had taken on solid form and risen to crown the building.
The sense that the palace might have as easily been at the bottom of the sea was enhanced by the carp and dragons set along the cornices—an old charm against earthquakes, for everyone knows that earthquakes come from the motion of dragons, and it is hoped that the dragon will mistake the carvings for her children, and therefore avoid harming the building by impetuous motion.
“If this is hell,” Albert muttered, “I might just be ready to die.”
“Afterlife,” Shen corrected softly, “and I’m astonished. From my studies, I had expected Yen-lo Wang’s court to be less a place of leisure, more formal, more austere.”
If the functionary in the olive green robes heard this, he did not react. He led them up a broad path toward the largest of the curve-topped doors.
Their shoes no longer crunched on gravel, but tapped against slightly roughened marble tile laid in intricate patterns and etched with auspicious signs and symbols.
Auspicious for whom? Pearl wondered. The judge or the to-be-judged?
Within the palace the air breathed the pleasant coolness that reminds one that one has been out beneath the sun. Liveried servants hurried forward, offering them iced drinks and moist towels with which to wipe their faces.
Pearl accepted a towel gladly, but—remembering both the Greeks’ Persephone and Chinese tales about fishermen who dined in the dragon king’s palace beneath the ocean, only to return home to find that, like Rip van Winkle, time had passed them by—she only mimed sipping from the thin golden goblet.
Glancing at her living companions, she saw that they were following suit, but that the five ghosts were drinking deeply.
After all, she thought, what do they have to lose?
When he saw they were all refreshed, the functionary in the olive-drab robe motioned for them to follow him once more.
“This way,” he said politely, indicating wide double doors at the far end of the entry chamber. “Yen-lo Wang awaits you.”
This time the functionary stepped to one side and let them pass through unescorted.
Pearl drew in a deep breath, adjusted her already perfect posture, and walked through the door.
As she entered the room the murmur of voices and scratching of pens stilled, so that the people within seemed a part of the ornate furnishings.
The audience chamber was vast, the floor tiled in enormous squares of a highly polished golden-brown stone. A wainscot of contrasting ice-blue bricks, bordered at the chair rail level in dark mahogany, provided a contrast. Above the rail the walls were painted a warm umber. From a red screen accented in blue, cream, and bronze hung banners embroidered with clouds and dragons.
Pearl had the impression the chamber had been very busy a moment before, but now clerks and ministers, flunkies and scribes raised hundreds of pairs of eyes to study the new arrivals. Chief among those who turned a critical gaze upon them was the one they had come to see: Yen-lo Wang, King of the Fifth Hell, judge of the dead
.
Yen-lo Wang sat in a chair upon a raised dais set in the center of the back third of the room. At least Pearl assumed he sat on some sort of chair or throne. His robes, styled like those of an emperor, many-layered and elaborate, hid his seat and most of the dais as well. On his head he wore an elaborate headdress that Pearl thought was a crown of some sort, one that left his face—adorned with a neat goatee and long but nicely barbered mustache—open to view.
Pearl was glad. She’d never much liked the square-brimmed headdress with its curtains of pearls or tiny gemstones front and back that emperors were shown wearing in so many of the old paintings. Those curtains were meant to shield the eyes of the Son of Heaven from seeing anything ugly, but in Pearl’s less than humble opinion, the more ugliness rulers saw, the more prepared they would be for the responsibilities of rulership.
When they had all entered the room, Albert spoke softly: “Time for me to earn my keep, Pearl,” and stepped around her to take the lead.
Albert knelt and performed the kowtow, touching his forehead lightly against the polished surface of the floor nine times—the highly formal three times three kowtow. Honey Dream had offered the argument that since an emperor technically outranked a king—even a king of hell—Albert was offering a terrific show of humility by kowtowing at all and only need offer three touches, but Albert had overruled her.
“I haven’t ever seen a situation where you get in trouble for being too polite,” he’d said. “This is a king whose help we’re seeking, and neither I nor my ancestors ever were emperors in fact, only in theory.”
When Yen-lo Wang motioned for Albert to rise, Albert did so with admirable grace, demonstrating that although he spent most of his time selling expensive chocolates, he hadn’t forgotten his physical training.
Albert then spoke traditional greetings in appropriately flowery cadences. Pearl found herself impressed.
Albert has taken his role so seriously, she thought proudly. Maybe we’re lucky the Exile extended until he could represent us rather than his father or grandfather.
Five Odd Honors Page 11