The E. Hoffmann Price Fantasy & Science Fiction

by E. Hoffmann Price

  Finally, Tai Ching said, “When you are ready to go your way, I will give you food to last until you reach the Silk Road. Or, stay and work in the small field. When not working, you may study, and learn according to your talents. Scholars have many reasons for leaving home and taking up the sword. Sometimes a man returns, and again, it may be better that a man does not return.

  “One more thing before you sleep. When I am not seen, you will not seek me. When I am in my study, you will not ask permission to enter. Otherwise, go about as you please. Nothing is hidden.”

  In the morning, slanting sun reached into the dormitory and awakened Li Fong. With no more self-intent than a puppet-show marionette, he roamed about. On the natural terrace, he noticed several patches of buckwheat, and scrawny little Turkish melons, peppers, and seasoning herbs. Quail regarded him without alarm.

  “Why not stay here?” he cogitated. “Far away and out of sight Father will not be embarrassed by my stupidity. He will merely be grieved, thinking I was killed and robbed. Lucky, not being in jail long enough for name to be entered in the magistrate’s books.”

  Back in the monastery, Li Fong ate cold porridge and drank cold herb soup. Presently, he resumed his prowl, and soon found the Great Book Room.

  After bowing to the image of the God of Learning, he stepped to the writing table. The ink-slab was still moist, and for the first time in many a week, be breathed the camphor-scent of ink. There was a packet of fifty yarrow stalks, and the Book of Change, the I Ching, foundation of all wisdom, and all divination. He would have been amazed had this fundamental book been lacking.

  What caught his eye and held his attention, then, was the opened volume near the I Ching. He turned the according-pleated strip, fold after fold “…pass through fire without being burned… through water without being wet…”

  He turned several pages, “…to ride the wind…see all, yet not be seen…become a Dragon and yet keep the form of a man…”

  Only one chapter was missing: the monograph on making or finding sufficient treasure to permit him to return home, and with honor.

  “You don’t need any such a writing,” a woman said. “Listen, and be patient.”

  Startled, he glanced about. He caught a flash of shimmering color, the gold of brocade. There was the frail tinkle of jade, and a breath of perfume. When he faced where the woman should have been, he saw only books on shelves.

  Shivering, Li Fong decided that he was not afraid. Startled, yes. Perplexed, yes. But afraid not at all!

  When he heard softly whispering footfalls, Li Fong was relieved that it was only Tai Ching who entered the Great Book Room.

  “Something interests you?”

  Li Fong bowed. “My interest is in what you are about to say.”

  The priest touched the cover of the I Ching, with its sixty four hexagrams which symbolized the fundamental Laws of Change. “I have consulted the Oracle. To teach you the elements of magic, so that you could be a helper, would not be an error. You might be useful here, as well as in the field.”

  The study of magic and philosophy, together with his duties in the garden and in the buckwheat patch, made Li Fong’s life as that of a soldier or of a coolie. His outdoor duties included moving rocks about, to build retaining walls, and then collecting and dumping basket after basket of earth, to make a terrace—just in case, some day, there were many students, and more gardens would be needed…

  And, hour after hour, chanting sutras. Hour after hour, intoning mantrams, or sitting on the floor, facing the wall. There were the rhythmic inhalation-exhalations, and there were exercises in not-breathing. Then, as a variant, all these exercises were repeated as he paced the perimeter of the combination meditation hall-dormitory, where twenty students could find ample space, or even forty…

  From time to time, Tai Ching came to observe the novice for a moment. At long intervals, he would offer a suggestion. During the conferences in the tao shih’s study, there were cryptic and seemingly pointless questions. Whatever answers Li Fong might give, he could never guess whether he was establishing himself as a hopeless blockhead, or, as a probationer in magic and alchemy.

  No praise. No blame. Nothing. Except, the ever present bag of groats and parched beans; four pairs of cord sandals, and a stout staff—just in case Li Fong felt that he had had enough of it all.

  One evening, Tai Ching set a mat beside Li Fong’s place. The Master seated himself. He had a small drum. He tapped it with finger tips, and knuckles, and with the heel of his hand. At times, with cupped palm, he made curious concussions which sometimes were a popping sound, and sometimes, a breathing. The old familiar verses, the often repeated mantrams became different from being patterned to accord with the moods, the rhythms of that small drum.

  To accord with the drum voice, Li Fong changed the depth and the cadence of his breathing. He became light-headed. His pulse began to play curious tricks, as it got in step with the drum. Suddenly, he could no longer feel the tiles beneath him. He was without weight.

  He was now above floor level. This queer feeling was beyond belief until he was looking eye to eye at the figure of an Immortal on the altar. Amazement broke the rhythm of his breathing. He toppled, sprawled, entangled in his mat, as he thumped to the floor.

  The drum ceased. The tao shih stood beside him as he clawed himself clear. He said, sarcastically, “As you begin to suspect, you were several feet off the floor. When you learn how to keep your mind on what you are doing, I’ll teach you the next step. How would you like to bumble this way when you’re a thousand feet off the ground?”

  He quit the hall.

  Problems came with Li Fong’s experiments in levitation. Unpleasant creatures began to collect about him, in a circle. They were somewhat human, somewhat reptilian, and entirely contradictory in their proportions, their coloring, and their locomotion as they ambled about the hall. Without any order or system, individuals would pause, gesture, jeer, and threaten. Sometimes he could understand their obscene mutterings. Often, their language was foreign. These apparitions were never extremely noisy. Nonetheless, Li Fong wondered why Tai Ching never came to inquire about the muttering, gibbering, yelping, and scrambling about.

  Inquiring seemed to be not quite the sensible thing to do… And, there was activity in the garden. But he did not glance up from his work when the shadow of great wings hovered about him. Again, he caught a glimpse, from the corner of his eye, of gold-flame-tawny-white plumage. He did not let his glance waver.

  He suspected at times that the tao shih was testing him with diverse illusions.

  Another afternoon, with sun quite low, a twisting little breeze stirred the dust into small spirals which caught up dry leaves.

  There was a breath of perfume somewhat like Hwa Lan’s, yet different.

  “…Soaring Dragon… Dancing Phoenix…”

  It was as though someone had spoken, except that there had been no sound for the ear to pick up. He straightened, drew a breath. Outdoors as well as within, the entire area seemed bedeviled.

  Then came what was speech, beyond any doubt, a voice.

  “When he tells you to walk—walk, and keep walking. No fear. You won’t fall. I promise you.”

  The voice cut off abruptly, in a tinkle of jade.

  Li Fong finally learned to strike and caress the little drum and at the same time, chant in accord: so that with his mat, he would rise to altar level, and higher. He was curious rather than dismayed when, after pausing for the images to regard him, he drifted toward the end of the hall. His course curved until, finally, he came back to his meditation spot. There, he settled slowly to the floor.

  The tao shih said, “You didn’t know where you were going.”

  “Yes, I did not know,” Li Fong answered.

  “Stand on feet,” Tai Ching commanded. “Follow me.”

  Taking the drum, he led the way. Tummmm—tum
pa-tummm—tum tupa-tuppa-tum and the droning chant which Li Fong repeated until he could feel, inwardly, the vibration of his voice, and of the drumming, and of the tao shih’s chanting.

  The standard routine, except— The floor now slanted slightly upgrade. Presently, he suspected that he no longer trod the pavement at all. And then he was following Tai Ching out and over the buckwheat patch. The mountain slope fell further and further away. He was pacing now, with the tips of tall trees at waist-height…knee-height…ankle height…

  Far out, the desert shimmered and danced. It seemed that in the glare and the glamour he glimpsed the ruin where his camel had left him stranded. One recruit would not, positively not, go to Hotien…

  Without warning qualm or twinge of apprehension, giddiness and terror closed in and took command of Li Fong. He began to sink. His eyes were now level with the tao shih’s feet. Little devils leered, jeered, mocked. Below, rocks began to loom up. He sank faster, faster, a dozen paces or more.

  “Sing, man, sing your mantram,” a woman said. “You won’t fall.”

  She was over-optimistic. Not falling, not really, but sinking, and ever more rapidly.

  “Sing!” she repeated.

  “Gate, gate, paragate, parasamgate, bodhi, SVAHA!”

  The mocking devils thinned, faded in sun glare.

  He felt a touch at his elbow.

  “Chant with the master,” she said.

  He found his voice. His wits returned. He caught the beat, the rhythm. He maintained elevation, but could not rise. He was nearly a tree’s height lower than his guide as they circled back.

  Li Fong stumbled and rolled when he stubbed his toes against the rocky mountainside. Tai Ching called from the monastery entrance. “I told you to keep your mind on what you were doing!”

  “Devils and spirits so I intoned—”

  “As if I didn’t hear you!”

  “You heard?”

  “You were bellowing like a buffalo.”

  “What sounds, Master?”

  “The mantram I taught you.”

  “That’s all that helped? You didn’t—”

  “I saw you gain control, so why interfere? A good scare, just what you need to learn wind-walking. Now, fire-walking—waver for the flicker of an eyelash, and you’re finished!”

  When he finally stretched out on his mat, Li Fong lay awake for a long time, pondering his adventure. The tao shih had been aware of his probationer’s plight, and had been ready to help, in the event of total failure. On the other hand, he had neither heard nor otherwise perceived the woman-presence.

  CHAPTER III

  Li Fong became accustomed to long hours divided between meditation hall and garden. He required less rest, slept lightly, and found it more and more difficult to distinguish between waking and sleep.

  One night, a blade of moonlight reached through a wall slot. The brightness aroused him, and then he heard the tinkle of jade, and savored perfume. He said, aloud, “I was afraid that a mantram had driven you away.”

  The Presence became ever more immediate, more compelling. Li Fong sat up. After a moment, he knelt. From the corner of his eye, he sensed motion in the darkness. And then she stepped into the moon patch. She was slender, silken-gleaming, and because of her stately headgear, the woman seemed quite tall. Medallions of jade and linked clusters of rubies and sapphires descended from a headdress shaped of kingfisher breast-feathers, and heightened with sprays of peacock plumage. “No mantram can ever drive me away.”

  Jade hair pins gleamed as she nodded, gestured reassuringly, and stood there, half-smiling and splendid. Li Fong put his palms together and bowed.

  “This beggar is Li Fong, surname forfeited. New name, not yet conferred. Homeless One, quitting the Red Earth.”

  “This ill-favoured hag may be called Mei Ling,” she said, bowing.

  “Your presence has made my days golden,” he countered, in words which were a play on her name. “In my heart I have thanked you many times for voice without visible presence.”

  “Soaring Dragon—Dancing Phoenix.”

  “You really were there, then?”

  Mei Ling smiled. “Perhaps as the Dragon’s Shadow?”

  “Dragon’s Shadow?” he echoed; the implications dazed him.

  “How far will you follow me?”

  “It would be polite for me to consult Master Tai Ching.”

  “You can go a great distance without ever leaving this place.”

  “What should I tell the Master, when I return?”

  “Whatever he asks, tell the truth.”

  Mei Ling beckoned, inviting him into the moon-patch. He moved, hesitated, halted. She said, “Where we are going, coolie’s dress and silken tunic are alike.”

  He stepped into moonlight and into the fragrance which Mei Ling exhaled. She was at once tangible as Hwa Lan, and also, entirely mist-and-moon glamour. Awe and apprehension combined to numb his wits. He glanced along the shaft of light.

  Mei Ling shook her head. “Leave that to Master Tai Ching. You and I go another way.” Her smile was sweet, most amiable, and also, cryptic, baffling. “I asked how far you would follow me. That was a mode of speaking. Really, you will, you must, lead, far as you dare.”

  “I—lead—where?” he groped.

  She pointed into the darkness, toward the further end of the hall.

  “But—but that’s solid mountain—”

  “Straight on, head-on!” From beside Li Fong, she stepped back, and behind him, laying a hand on his shoulder. The fingertips rippled, as though on the strings of a lute. “Unless you lead, how can you follow and go into my home?”

  This went further than the wildest Taoist paradox…

  Power trickled from her fingertips and spread into his body, invading his veins. Breathing into his ear, Mei Ling said, “If a leader waits to know where he goes, he will never start.”

  Borrowed fire made him step forward, and with assurance. A pace, another, and yet another, until he could discern the chiseled heart-rock of the great mountain: a solid, unbroken wall.

  Mei Ling moved in such close harmony that there were fleeting contacts of her body, sinuous and rippling. She whispered something which he could not understand. Then came an instant like that interval between wakefulness and sleeping. He should have come up against unyielding stone. Instead, he merged with the heart-rock.

  Li Fong knew, though not through any way which he could call “seeing,” that the rock was a void peppered with particles of blurred, indefinite shape, and of indecisive position. He himself was equally nebulous, an emptiness in which wandered indefinite shapes. Here and there, pulsing discs made pinwheels of fire.

  As he moved, the luminous gray space became ever brighter, and less hazy, until from indefinite emptiness he came into the solid, the shaped. And Mei Ling caught his hand as they stepped into and emerged from wind-driven mist, to enter an area of gardens, of pavilions—a tiny lake, with high arched bridge—trailing willows—peach trees burdened with ripe fruit. He looked about him.

  Mei Ling said, “There is neither indoors nor outdoors, neither heaven overhead nor tiled roof. We’re not enclosed by walls or by horizon.” Dazzling, glowing, she paused, her smile blossoming, as the gradual unfolding of petals. “You experience now what Master Tai Ching has been trying to demonstrate. By wind-walking, for instance.”

  “Mountain of the Gods—Home of the Dragon Lords—”

  “Not bad,” Mei Ling admitted, “but any name limits, it restricts, it separates-and that is maya, the Great Illusion.”

  They entered a small villa. Li Fong had the feeling that the corridors and inner courts were settling down and reshaping, to take steady form. Although he saw no servants, it seemed that an entire staff had just quit the place.

  As he went with Mei Ling into a cozy reception room, she said, “I arrange
d everything before I went to find you. The wine hasn’t had time to get cool. Do sit down and let me pour a cup.” Li Fong wondered whether, in an empire of dreams, he was repeating his experience with Hwa Lan, or whether he would awaken and learn that he had never been robbed nor jailed nor marched across the desert.

  As she tuned her lute, he recited,

  “…Soft as the murmur of whispered words, frail as the patter of pearls…”

  She smiled fondly, and carried on, “…dripping on a plate of jade…”

  Mei Ling accepted the cup he poured, and set aside the lute.

  He said, “Wine game riddle: Dancing Phoenix, or Dragon’s Shadow?”

  “Wrong question!” she retorted. “Penalty empty one cup!”

  “Wrong answer!” he cut back. “Penalty drain one cup!” Simple compromise: each drank, and Mei Ling poured again from the bronze jar. Then, “The next riddle for you.”

  “I listen.”

  “Watch, too,” she suggested.

  Her words were needless. He could never have done other than watch when, with both arms, and as though making ritual gestures, Mei Ling unfastened her tall and stately head-gear. She raised it clear of her gleaming black hair, and twisted sinuously to set it on a tabouret, well away from a table set with trays of dim dum, and bowls of loquats and apricots and peaches.

  “Riddle: Dragon’s Shadow—or, Dancing Phoenix?”

  “Both.”

  She laughed, mocking him in sweet malice. “Aiieeeyah! How stupid, how silly! Correct answer, Soochow Sing-Song Girl. Drink one cup!”

  Mei Ling coaxed the lute into full voice, and sang,

  “A lutist from Omei Mountain

  With a single touch of the strings

  Brought back memory of a long ago meeting

  By the nine-stage pagoda at the Lion Bridge.

  Now I sit in sorrow nine stages deep

  Facing a broken mirror—”

  “Sing-Song Girl, when Master Tai Ching teaches me the secrets of alchemy, I’ll make gold by the cart-load, and buy your contract!”

  She smiled at him through the dancing flicker of candle flames that stifled behind pinnacles of wax. She snuffed a flame or two, and once more with both arms made the stylized gestures of a sculptured goddess, and flexed her silk-sheathed body. Her finger tips caressed brocaded curtains for a moment, then flicked them aside, to reveal a shadowed and cushioned alcove.