He twisted his swollen mouth so that he appeared to be smiling. He bent down, searched with his hands on the boards, lifted up his yellow cowl, rocked it in his arms. Ma No was frantic with distress. “Better for me if I’d never met Wang Lun! Oh that I’d never seen Wang Lun, my yellow silken flower. In my hut on Nank’ou I spat on myself, here I must tear my own entrails.”
Took a lantern from the man next to him, held it in front of him, above him, stretched forward, cocked an ear towards the black silent crowd. Cranes flew over from the swamp. Then with both arms he swung the cowl around like a banner and cried, “Do you know where he’s going to, Ma No the priest of Kuan-yin from P’ut’o-shan, friend of the Wu-wei, teacher of the precious laws? Where he’s fleeing to? I’ll tell you gladly what I’ve known for weeks already, ever since Wang Lun made me come along with you. Ever since he gave me pot and beans and was too busy to tell me how to cook them. He’s forsaken me. He’s no right to set evil spirits on me if I forsake him. Yenlo-wang, king of the Underworld, knows the bitterness I taste in forsaking Wang. Do you know what this freedom is that Ma No is going to? Twilight Man? Sui, Tuan, Chang, any of you?”
Now he gave a feverish laugh that burst like a soap bubble, trilled in the soft cadence that today he discovered for the first time.
“I am going—to a woman on the other hill, who may already be waiting for me, dear brothers. So now you know. The secret is out.”
A sobbing and roaring of that terrible kind when old men cry erupted from the dark crowd. No one moved, raised his head. The little priest stepped down from the boards. He went past the front row of squatting men, no one looking at him. At the stem of the barque where the broken rudder lay someone plucked at his gown. Ma stood still. Out of the dark a gigantic man loomed over him, spoke down at him in a hard voice: “Brother, we’ve a branch waiting for you.”
Disdainfully Ma pulled his gown free. Ten hands grasped at the giant, who snarled in a cold voice, “He’s betraying us. The rules don’t mean a thing here. He’s for the nearest tree, brothers.”
Two men stood in his way, stolid peasants who had been a week with the group. They pulled his hands away. “You’re not a judge. We’re all brothers. If you hurt Ma we’ll cut your hands off.”
While the giant was still glaring at them they got him by the legs and tipped him onto the ground, pressed him down. He howled, scrabbled at their trousers. Torches, lumps of wood flew over them from behind. A crowd formed around the struggling figures, separated them. They were panting.
That dreadful crying rose convulsively from the dark crowd. “Where is Wang Lun? Why doesn’t Wang Lun come back to us?”
“Let us pray, dear brothers,” someone called out. “Let our circle form itself. The time of the Maitreya is not yet. Let us pray. We are lost.”
The men bent their backs, rubbed their foreheads on the wet moss. Over the grey field the imploring sutra of subjugation drained from a thousand mouths.
A young man, the engraver Hsi, unremarkable features, broad jutting chin, sprang long-legged through the rows, clambered clumsily over the backs of some, planted himself on the heap of planks, shrilled in ecstasy, gesticulated: “Only prayer can help us. Maitreya is coming. We must create the hour, the place, where Maitreya will come. Pray, for the sake of all five treasures, pray. Don’t lie there. Form the circle. You are my brothers. Stand by me.”
He grimaced fiercely, whirled his arms like windmills, threw himself foaming onto the boards, tumbled down from them in a spasm.
The dull weeping in the crowd deepened to a groan, to helpless wracking sobs. Necks craned towards the convulsing engraver. Eyes rolled the longer they stared; the field and the grey hill swam. Mouths gaped. They all smiled strangely and made faces as if they were excited and curious. Spittle dribbled down chins, they snuffled, they fell without noticing into a regular swaying to left and right. Then suddenly they all wanted to ask Hsi something. But when they stood up, their forearms, knees and necks started trembling. A shaking, sliding of limbs, rigidity, straining of necks backwards; their grins grew wider. It twitched pleasantly over thighs, abdomens, flanks, threw them about.
A red wave broke over the valley.
The Twilight Man and ten others wandered here and there through the field, the reed stalks, thorny twigs. They jumped on the chests of the fallen, stroked hands and mouths, fanned the dangerous humours from them, stabbed them with thorns under the nipple, on the crown, babbling, warding off, swerving, pouncing.
The little bent man on the broken rudder turned his head to every side, looked long at this one and that one. He had no thoughts. He beamed. Why had they all fallen down. How cleverly that one leaped. They must take red hot needles and stick them under toenails, to wake them up. When he heard sobbing nearby his ribcage heaved like a mountain in an earthquake, his throat became hot, a smooth hand kneaded his oesophagus like a sausage, up and down, twisted it; he cried with them. Soft and gurgling, taking care not to stop, making it flow for ever, this unknown warm spring that trickled over his lips, fingertips, nails, that he dabbed on temples and ears, washed and washed his hands in.
The stony howling in the valley died away. Everywhere they exchanged hoarse cries, thrust themselves from one another. They had rolled in a tangle of bodies. One got up rubbing a crushed shinbone. One sat gazing, as if at jewels, at charred fragments of wood under his knees, put a sliver to his lips, licked with the tip of his tongue. They wiped spittle from chins with slow, broken movements, yawned, belched, spat. Slack bodies brooded next to each other, wrinkled gloomy brows. Suddenly, as if touched by a breath, they focussed eyes on each other in recognition, lumbered to their feet.
A buzz, hasty questions: “Ma No’s leaving. There he is on the rudder, crying.” Some wanted to throw themselves down before him, he must stay, desperate. But these were brief twitches, muscle-imaginings.
The crowd, fearful again, restrained itself once more in great urgent expectation. A hand movement, a watchful squint, a throat clearing might tip the scales. Several couldn’t stand the tension; weak still from the excitement just past they sought to cast the burden from them somehow. It was best to consult the feng-shui, to determine the constellation of day, hour, place, wind, water, the vibrations of the land, win clarity from the throw of little wooden spills. A man sought at his belt for the spills in the midst of the silent throng; others saw, stood up at once, cleared a space for him. Others mistook this rising and movement, as if those consulting the future had declared for Ma No and were going to sit by him. They moved to join them. They were held back unsteadily; someone called out, “Speak up! Say what it is you want! Speak!”
The little priest from Nank’ou at first only half noticed what was happening. He had been afraid they’d abuse and beat him. But that no one had a thought of leaving him—him, the little penitential misfit, who cast his consecration from him and accepted hopeless banishment to the Cycle of Rebirth—this could not easily come through to him. And when it came through, it crashed over him. It burst his breast with elbows from within, heaved from his entrails over his heart that stood still, pulsated in a wild rhythm, bells rang, judgement trumpeted, spread through arms and throat; and when it tried to play about his lips his head nodded, dangled onto his breast. He swooned, came slowly to with ears full of hymns, clung to the Twilight Man. He was radiant. Warm water flowed again over his face.
He let the old man go, clambered onto the heap of planks. “Brothers, are we free?” he stammered, swallowing the tears. “Until today I’ve been carrying around a stone, an evil unruly spirit that stole me away. I pray to Kuan-yin, who has not heard me, I call to Maitreya, who shall hear me. I will stay poor, little, one of the Truly Powerless who does not avert fate; I will nourish no demons within me and become prey to werewolves. I will remain a poor son of the poor Eighteen Provinces. You do not revile me; ah, you do not revile me; you are good. I don’t know what I’m saying. I don’t even know myself; it’s too dark. Whoever’s soul is free can find the Western Para
dise. I haven’t yielded to the cravings of the flesh; I’ve purified myself for a joyous heaven; I’ve forced my imprisoned souls onto the path of the Supreme Lord and want to go and teach them and want to follow them. And find the magic key to K’unlun. With you, my brothers.”
He exulted much more in this vein. The morning field was quite empty. A multitude surrounded him, embraced him, kissed his feet, tore his gown to pieces.
Dazzling stripes coursed over the black clouds to the east. The universal smoky grey lightened rapidly. It was mined from within, sprung and blown away. The lush landscape widened. It flashed with little ponds. In the southeast, by the swamp of Talu, there was already a slender thread-thin gleam; now the sun bored a hole, a cylinder, a funnel, and long rays streamed down through it, igniting more and more fiercely the green of grass and trees.
The eyes of the younger men flickered over the stalks of grass up to the women’s hill. “Our sisters, our sisters,” they said, looked full of doubt at one another with quaking knees; several embraced trembling, stood there, comforted one another as if misfortune were about to fall.
A gigantic village schoolmaster stroked the boyish fellow who snuggled up to his sleeves. “You will seek,” whispered the schoolmaster, “Chi, the peach blossom.”
“Chi—I won’t seek her, I won’t. Oh, what is happening to us.”
Several stretched their bodies in the grass, threw themselves face down, chewed stalks, expressions dangerous; they grappled with uncovered memories, waited impatient on the tumult that would restore desire to them.
Many climbed to the summit of the men’s hill and lurched about beneath the green clouds of the catalpas: smiled, prayed, dreamed, never took their eyes from the women’s hill. Heaped up riches! A wave dashed over breasts, against hips.
A few of them stood up as a faint tinkling came from the women’s hill. Without a word they set off one behind the other, kept looking round at the rest. They reached the foot of the hill half running. In the tall grass black lumps with clothes, skulls, knees heaved groaning, opened eyes wide and shut them. They ran surefooted as forest creatures. Their eyes enticed. They called the lumps by name, showed their faces alight with promise; their smiles pumped hot throbbing blood into temples, eyes, feet.
The engraver Hsi ran ahead of the others along a path that led around a pond and avoided the camp road. Not far from the foot of the women’s hill they clumped together. Hsi called, “How shall we do it? Let’s trick them, brothers. Let’s pray with them.”
“Send someone to them, tell them to assemble.”
They heard someone call out, “This is terrible.” Someone pushed through the rest; it was the young man. He ran from them. Hsi crowed, “I’ll call them, you come behind me.” As he zigzagged ahead, the brothers seethed meekly, arms folded, heads bowed, ball by pigtailed ball, up the hill. The strident chirping of crickets accompanied their murmured “Amitofo, Amitofo.”
They stood on the women’s hill under the dense foliage. Under the foliage swarmed a throng, the sight of which made the hearts of these brothers contract deeper and slower and such full pulses surged through them that the soft forest floor beneath their feet swayed slowly with them, bore each surge onwards. Runaway wives looked out of curious and wondering eyes across at the brothers; it seemed to worry them still that the air had such unhindered access to their faces and everyone could see their mouths. Courtesans pushed forward, graceful among blind beggars, market women, bright points in the field of radiant flowers, bringers of happiness, hua-k’uei, their gravity incomparable; about their gentle persons wafted the breath of the Pavilion of a Hundred Fragrances. Timid daughters of respectable families ducked their little protected bodies down in the moss; they hugged their rosaries, breathed prayers as if they were facing a dreaded classroom exercise from the San-tzu-ching.
Below the leaf dark hill Ma No walked along the path through the camp. With a dismissive gesture a broad hand pushed aside the grey dawn mass in the sky. The white swans of light rose in pomp into the sky.
How the women’s hill began to tremble
and a thousand-tongued crying and screaming swept across the valley, was thrown back from the other hill
and the horror repeated itself tenfold, a deep rumbling, cracking, roaring mixed with the piercing voices
and eye shutting dread tried to flee the shadow of the catalpas and was dragged back
and after minutes of this fury white and coloured clothing spurted over the crest, collapsed, dived into the moss, rolled noiselessly down
and on the hill a strange silence set in, interrupted by long saccadic cries, catlike penetrating yowls, music to breathless swooning that gnaws its fingers, shrivels its soul as if in vinegar, whirls its body about itself in a frenzy of despair.
Then men’s voices rang into the valley: “Ma No, Ma No, the dragon’s flying away! Ma No, our sisters!”
It hurtled over the narrow alley in the camp; heads cocked upwards, eyes looked at each other; they stopped their ears, pounded breasts. It shattered over Ma No. As people dashed about him he thought himself for longer than a moment a lord of the underworld with a hundred arms, scourges, serpents, driving feverish souls within the walls of the Ice Hell, down and down from glassy smooth walls into the devouring acid bath; they rasped and grinned, he was bursting with joy, rocked his head. Running with blood it pressed in upon him. Already a weakness was daubing the entire inner surface of his skull. Half swooning he felt what was happening, groaned, propped himself up, balanced the load.
He looked about him with a cold glow. Realization, shock, with it a glittering sense of power leapt out of him, laid about him, coldly eyeing.
“It is willed. I shall take this upon myself.”
Two deep breaths. He turned round in a daze; the verdant landscape was unchanged. He discovered with concealed horror that something unknown had emerged from him, and conquered. That he had overcome Wang Lun. An intoxicating fear flowed through the marrow of his bones.
They lay distraught in the micanthus. Weak cries for help from the women’s hill. Ma No had led them into error.
Ma No’s empty, distant gaze wandered over them, turned away. They pressed their bodies into the ground. The hill crepitated back at them.
Immobility, hours long, sun-drenched wilderness. From the huts on the women’s hill sighs of enchantment rose unheard, stole faintly through the boards, curled like smoke, straying glance, dying notes of a tom-tom under the green overarching roof.
When the sun grew hotter the conches in front of Ma’s hut blew into the valley, five notes one after the other five times: the summons to a general assembly.
Bushes shook, leaves jostled together, backs bent, heads appeared.
For a long time nothing stirred on the women’s hill. Then spots flickered white, bright-coloured, between the tree trunks. Shadow-black men running, mingled flecks of colour, noises scattering, voices, ragged shouts, surge of sound. Bright sisters embraced as they came down, brothers hip by hip. A jubilant lightsoaked cloud descended into the valley.
Now the sisters dispersed among the serious men laughing, with jaunty movements, in wide arcs filling the space where the charred ribs of the barque still speared the air. Ma No, sulphur yellow and red, strode quick and firm into the milling throng that sucked everyone into itself.
He moved not a muscle when, striking up somewhere, borne by female voices, a hymn of joy rose loud, clear and sweet over the flowery field, a song they all knew, sung by the tender inmates of the painted houses when they glide invitingly across pools in their carved boats.
Ma No spoke: “May there be peace between us, dear brothers and sisters. May nothing weigh us down as we sail to the golden isles. Let us conclude that ancient peace between Yin and Yang. I rejoice that you have listened to me, and shall not forget it even were I to possess the Five Precious Things. We shall remain Truly Powerless. We shall follow the Tao, hearken to its course. Pray tirelessly, and you shall attain a miraculous power that will stay with y
ou for ever. You shall not vainly build wooden horses like that old man in the state of Lu, driven by springs of metal, able to draw men and carts. You shall not make such wooden horses of your souls, the souls that dwell in your lungs, your sluicing blood, your soft quivering entrails. You play a flute across the land and warm the air to make the corn shoot tall. Yeah, with the blowing of your reeds you shall cause the clouds to pile up in the northwest; rain will flow, typhoons arise. Eight steeds are ready, the sun makes sixteen stations, you shall traverse them in one day.
“Remain poor, be happy, harbour no desires lest you regret and so become impure and full of care. I see you, my sisters, you queens of tender joy, much of it is your doing that our affairs have taken this course. That the openings of our hearts no longer flow into the universal void. I was a bad son of the Eighteen Provinces, to trust in the wisdom of alien Sakyamuni and accept his heaven in the place of your, of our, flowery heaven. We stand on the steps to the Western Paradise. What you Broken Melons have given to us, we receive. We owe you thanks. We owe you thanks. I call myself, with you, a Broken Melon. And so shall we all call ourselves, here at the swamp of Talu.”
Airjarring whoops and claps, sinking to the ground, embracing.
A thronging, wall-solid, around Ma No, whose enigmatic impassive face none saw. Words emerged from him like the chirping of a concealed songbird behind a crumbling temple. His face had taken on a new resemblance, the expression of a flying animal whose headshape, eyes, feathers are modelled entirely by the wind through which it travels; perched on a branch it has an inexplicable appearance: for wind and flight are absent.
Midday. They scattered, the fickle, the earnest, the joyful, high spirited, the blind, the weak, strong men, light dancing girls, the ardent prophets.
The Three Leaps of Wang Lun Page 18