The Jade Seed

by Deirdre Gould

  Ganit took her hand. "Have we not had happiness in our days?" he asked, "Even the smallest measure?" Brone smiled through tears, her heart full of him, a moment empty of fear, empty of anger. "It's too much," he continued, "too much to ask for another day and another day and another after that. To forever look to the next hour's desires, the next moment's breath. It is too much to ask. I could have died happy on the ice with a warm lotus in my mind and your name on my tongue. I spoke the truth then. Again I could leave this dying place, yes, leave even your arms with that memory unbroken, undimmed by reaching for moments yet unmade, at days that were not meant to be mine."

  "And our child?" asked Brone, her heart opening to him.

  "Will you have our child be born into this wasteland? This empty world, alone? What must it suffer then, no memory, no future, not even human but a cold and hungry mouth to weep. If you wait here until the end, and death somehow does not find you, you will never reach the grove of the seed. No, I would rather we die together, all in a moment than think of you here without aid, without the comfort of even another's voice."

  Brone wept, but she took courage at last, and they went to their rest comforted and ready to face the morning.

  In the gray dawn the travelers started, leaving the gold-green valley, the swift river of Lianzi's home. Up and up they climbed, up to the rocky plain where only empty dark soil awaited them. In Ganit's nightmares it had reeked as a charnel house, had been a pitted plain of fire and war. But it smelled only of dust and snow, as if there had never been a thing of flesh or green. It was the true, deep smell of death, of uncreation. He had thought he would be sick with the scent of rot, had dreaded only that, of all the dangers. But this emptiness was worse. Empty of smell, of vision, of touch. Brone was dizzy with the growth of the child, though she was not sick as she had been so many mornings. Instead she thought herself again on the frozen sea and faded in and out of twilight. It was after midday before she needed the shoulder of neither Ganit nor Lianzi.

  At first, it was a thick, blooming mist. A cold white cloud that reached the sky in billows, always moving, seething as boiling steam. It was Brone that first saw the faces and she thought herself mad with sickness as only carrying a child can bring. The faces were not horrendous, they bore no scars nor bristled with tusks, they were in fact, beautiful, perfect and ever changing, rolling away so new faces could bloom in the mist. But each of them yearned. There was sorrow and pain in each, terror and anger without ceasing. Lianzi felt Brone stay her steps and knew she had seen the ghosts. He too stopped, waiting for Brone to choose. Ganit stared at them, these two moveless figures breaking the horizon, Lianzi's golden cloth fluttering in the ceaseless wind, and Brone circling her stomach with shielding arms, as if already cradling the child. He looked across the plain where both had fixed their sight. The faces struck his heart, for it saw the pain there. And then he saw his mother's face among them.

  With a cry of dismay, Ganit sprang forward to grasp the image. "Stop!" called Lianzi, his voice unyielding. "Go no closer Ganit, until you have calmed your emotions. These ghosts feed on sorrow and pain and they will drain you dry. Even the ghosts of those you love."

  "But my mother weeps in the mist. Shall I leave her there to suffer?"

  "You see only your mother Ganit? But they were all someone's mother or father, daughter or son. You would try to save your mother, but that would not be enough. Your heart could not bear to leave these others behind." Lianzi was saddened and his face smiled not, but his voice was gentle.

  "You cannot save her Ganit," said Brone suddenly, out of the silence, "You will only become as they are. They will eat you up."

  "Shall they have pain everlasting then? I cannot move from here knowing we have done nothing to comfort these spirits. The guilt would eat me up as fast as the mist would." and Ganit strode forward toward the roiling fog.

  "Brone can save them," said Lianzi and Ganit turned and faced them. "If she has courage enough, we can save them together. But we must reach the lake at the center of this land. For miles we must travel, and the hungry ghosts will follow and close around us. If you or Brone succumb to fear or despair, we will be lost. But your compassion can carry you through. It will be many days."

  "I? How can I help them?" Brone asked.

  "These people died in terror or anger or great sadness. If they would move on, they must let go, not only of this world, but of their own vision of themselves. They must find the calm, still place at the center of all things. But they do not know how. We must teach them you and I." Again, the golden smile shone from Lianzi's warm face, "Deep in this land, there is a moveless lake. Thinking upon its reflection is said to transport the soul to what it most desires. If the ghosts look upon it now, they will see only their reflection. They cling to their identity, as a drowning man will grasp a reed in mad hope. All this brings is more suffering. But you Brone, you have the power to call forth life from nothingness. If you cover all the surface of the lake with bright lotus blooms, if you can raise them from the dark water, the ghosts will be mesmerized. They will think no more upon themselves." Lianzi opened his hand and Brone saw in it a still and brilliant star that sprung from his fingertips as a thin blade. He touched Ganit's forehead and Brone's as well, sliced deep with his bright flame, with his long bright sword. "Then I have but to divide the chaff from the seed. You have but to shed yourself, as a snake will do." Ganit felt his fear flow away, his anxiety bled out of that painless wound. Brone released her shame, the weight on her heart faded.

  Lianzi strode forward. "Now they are distracted by their suffering. They cannot see what you now know. No, not even though it stands before them with flickering sword in hand. So, we must make a miracle. They must wonder at it. This the lotus will do. So it has done for you. Long have you realized that there are worse things than death. Long have you been prepared for it. When they have arrived at the truth, then I may cut the chains that tie them to this world, tie them to their endless suffering." Lianzi turned back to face them, blazing and terrifying, wondrous and beautiful. "Are you ready Brone?"

  Brone walked forward into the writhing mist, into the grave of the world. Where her feet had touched the earth bloomed again though it had been charred and salted. Lianzi embraced Ganit. "Hide not your compassion, " said Lianzi, "let it burn as a constant flame, an unconsuming light. For it is your weapon against evil. As you love your mother, as you love Brone, so should you love all. Let not the needs of one blind you to all the others. Because you have taken this journey upon yourself for love, because you have received happiness and given it, expecting nothing more, you have been a righteous man." Lianzi smiled and turned his face into dark sea of suffering, his blade a lantern in the dusk.

  Ganit slowly walked into the darkling cloud alone. Immediately the three travelers were separated, their voices and paths drowned in the din and smoke of grief. It would be days until they met again.

  Chapter 9

  At first, Ganit tried to follow the flowers that Brone left behind, a graceful trail of starry blooms, glowing white in the acrid gloom. At last though, he lost them in the swirling dusk. At last he looked up, into the face and forms of the forgotten. Whether it was dawn or night, Ganit could not tell. He knew only that the unceasing wail of the ghosts had long ago reached a tempest force and had eaten through his concentration, slow, as water cuts through rock. His heart was heavy with compassion but he sought no familiar face, listened for no friend's voice amongst the mass. They all called his name. Some in whispers, some in shrieks, they created a constant rumble in his mind. Some of them wept for him to help them, others warned him off, threatened and cajoled in turn. After many, many steps, perhaps longer than a day, Ganit could go no further. His exhaustion overcame the howling cloud, the bare cold earth, the weeping faces. Sleep crept upon him and Ganit rested many long hours. Too tired to dream, Ganit's rest was empty and peaceful. He opened his eyes upon his dear mother's face. She wept as he had never seen her do in life and cried out for him. "Mother
, why do you stay here?" he asked. He looked up and all around him at the cauldron of grieving faces. "Why can't you let go of this place? All is ending, all is suffering. Linger not here, for it can only bring you pain." But they heard him not, so great was their own wailing. They saw him not through grief clouded eyes. Ganit grew impatient and began to walk on. After a long while, Ganit realized that he had not marked his direction before he rested or after he rose. A few moments only, Ganit worried, and then walked on, for he must come to either the edge or the center in some way, he thought. Still the wailing kept on, unceasing and its relentless voice wore into Ganit's heart. After many hours, Ganit began to speak to himself to keep the voices out. Old stories, old songs tumbled from his mouth to block out the angry air. He felt the gray ash of the land settling in his hair, on his brow, coating his skin in thin, papery husks. Ganit wondered if he were becoming as the cloud, if he would be ever a gray man of the mist, wandering in this reek of pain and sorrow, himself a hungry ghost, a grasping, needling vicious beast. Ganit spent his rest that day close to the mouth of madness, it filled his dreams with strange demons, armies of gray beasts, all starving, all slavering for flesh, for blood and breath. They closed around him as a shrinking knot.

  It was the silence that woke Ganit out of his deep slumber. The wailing had ceased and its absence now seemed bizarre to Ganit. He rose, fearing himself deafened. The smoke around him appeared lighter, moveless, empty of ghosts. Instead of relief, the silence threatened, close and cold. Yet Ganit saw nothing, heard only his own deep breaths as he had not done in days. He wondered first if he were dead, a hungry ghost where all the world would be sightless, soundless. But he felt no sorrow, no pain. Ganit walked on, not knowing what else to do. After many hours without even the sound of a breeze scattering the dust, Ganit wondered if the world had ended at last, if he were all that remained, a breathing speck in the great void. The longer Ganit walked, the more convinced he became that he was utterly alone. His body walked on, without purpose or urgency, long after Ganit's eyes ceased looking into the darkness for friend or foe. He was weary and gray when the beasts at last closed in, half mad in his loneliness, though Ganit strove mightily to restrain his mind's wanderings. But the beasts of Kishi slunk forward and a great growling rang from many throats and bellies. Ganit heard it not, saw not their fearsome, starving eyes nor their gnashing,bleeding teeth. Ever they dripped foam from their jaws, their madness oozing, mixing with the gray ash of the barren land. At last he turned and saw them, thousands of sparking eyes burning through the gloom, and he knew that death had arrived. Ganit watched the beasts crawl closer on shrunken bellies, their thin skulls covered with mangy skin, their rib cages like unfinished boats drifting on the mist. He did not fear them but his heart moved with great pity at their hunger. And the purity of his heart made Ganit to shine forth as the dawn. Again enveloped with cool flames, with painless fire, he opened his eyes and looked into the open maw of death.

  Many days had Ethon walked south, her burden lighter, her pain lessened. For still her last son slept, awaiting still his time. She came at last to the dead, barren plains of Kishi's wake, a day only behind Brone. The travelers' passing was heavy laden in the air. Ethon knew she would meet them soon. Grim and fierce, the copper horse plunged on, hardly noticing the gathering dark of hungry ghosts. Their pain was just to Ethon, the fruit of generations that had come before. Long centuries had she borne them to war, bloodied herself for their sport, toiled to make the wearied earth bring forth what it ought not. They were unnatural, these men, a plague, a vast pack of wolves, mad with bloodthirst. They slaughtered each other over and over, yet always were there more. The world of man was hell. Ever it repeated, ever changeless. Ethon had to make sure it ended this time, had to make sure the change was complete. The Messenger must not interfere, must not let the cycle renew itself. She would find Brone and the other traveler, the man she had taken, Oh yes, Ethon would find them and wipe them out. After her sons finished their work, nothing of the world of men would endure. Not even Ethon. After so many centuries of labor, the coming darkness was welcome to her, was bliss. Eagerness overtook Ethon and she began to run.

  A blazing star in his fist, Lianzi had walked into the ashen remains of the land. Though the weeping wail of the ghosts made his heart heavy with pity, it did nothing to slow him. On he pressed, never resting, though he walked thousands of footsteps, three days he walked and it was he who found his way to the lake first. Ever did the bright sword shine in his hand, bare and keen, lighting the way. He held it ever at his shoulder, a single tusk along his jaw, a straight arrow from his eye. It slowed him not, nor wearied him. Tireless, Lianzi glided over the barren soil, gathering the hungry ghosts behind him, leading them to the still center, the moveless lake. Early on the third day, Kishi, the iron horse of hunger, blocked the path of Lianzi. Lianzi was not surprised. "Centuries," he said, "has this day awaited its birth. You cannot harm me Kishi, though all the underworld come with you."

  The tusken horse, the mighty devourer stamped his hooves until the ground shook. "Even you cannot defeat me, Lianzi," he roared, a deep rumbling as the swallowing sea upon the shore, "I am the driving force of this world, the renewer and the destroyer. It is I who govern the planters and reapers, the warriors and priests. All would be still without me. The world would be but a grave. All life toils to satisfy me. Even you, Lianzi, as long as you would inhabit this world."

  "The illusions of this world are at an end Kishi. The need you create, the passions you excite, this world will suffer no more." Lianzi grew tall, his sword a brilliant spark, splitting even the fog with it's sharp blade. "This graveyard world is yours no more, leave it to be reborn without suffering. Depart and fester in its heart no more."

  Kishi laughed, deep and long, a shattering laugh as if the mountains of the world were cracking open all at once. The iron horse flattened his charred ears to his massive skull and pounded his hooves into the earth, sinking into the soil in his rage. But Lianzi moved not, nor swung his sword. He neither grimaced nor laughed but stood solemn and sad, waiting. Kishi lowered his head, his giant tusks as a boar's, ready to spear Lianzi. Kishi launched his great weight forward, thundering and creaking across the ground. Rage enveloped Kishi, as a red cloud filling his vision with Lianzi. On he came, yet still Lianzi moved not to defend himself, nor stand aside from the onslaught. Swift, swift came the bloody tusks of Kishi. At last Lianzi put up an open hand. All the millenia of the world caught up with Kishi, the iron horse. He corroded into red dust in an instant, his tusks bleached into white powder, for he was empty as a suit of old armor. All of Kishi's power was in illusion. Lianzi drew a great breath and blew the dust to the four winds. Lianzi walked on, reaching the lake within a few more strides.

  Ethon ran all of a day before her final son began to press his way into the world. Long and painful was this last birth. He neither kicked nor bit, but Ethon bled as she had never done, even in war, even where her scars ran deepest. He was as a twisted knife, a deep thorn that festered in Ethon's belly. At last Ethon gave in and waited in the cold dark of the wailing ghosts to bear her last dread child. For three days she moved no more but spilled her life into the ashy ground.

  For a time Brone stood still after entering the roiling cloud of angry spirits. She waited for Lianzi to enter, waited for Ganit to follow, yet they came not to her side. She called to each, but the shrieks of tormented ghosts drowned her voice, twisted it and mocked her. An hour passed and still she found herself alone. Brone struggled in her heart and began to turn back in search of her companions. The ghosts hovered like vultures, crowding to feed on her doubt. Brone saw this and battled herself, feeling at last that she must go forward and fulfill her task, whatever may come to Ganit and to Lianzi. It soothed her to remember Ganit's words, his heart speaking to hers. "Have we not had our measure of happiness?" he had said, "It is too much to ask for more. To ever be looking toward the next breath, the next step." After a short time, she released him from her cares, let him
go to his fate. She had known from the moment of meeting Ganit that he would be lost, that she could not save him. Brone had prepared herself against the time that Ganit should succumb to the death that devoured the world, every morning had been as the last in her heart. So Brone despaired not, but walked on, calm and heavy with compassion for Ganit and Lianzi. She looked ever ahead, into the deepest dark to where at last she could lay the seed, the jade star of the beginning, to rest. Ever as Brone walked, she tried to heal the land, calling the young pines, the bright grasses, the pools of rice. Even now, so long after Brone passed by, the land of ghosts is a garden, strong and green, ever spilling forth its fruit so that all one has to do is reach out a hand and receive the falling grains. She walked not swift as Lianzi, for her child made her weary. She wandered not as a shadow, lost not her purpose as Ganit. Brone rested often but moved ever toward the lake. So dark was the writhing fog that Ethon passed within but a few footsteps and neither knew the other. It was not until late on the fourth day that Brone found Ethon, her dark blood soaking into the ash of the land, copper flank heaving, stretching the deep tangled scars she bore. Brone started upon seeing the soft copper gleam in the deep smoke of this place, but she feared no longer to approach the mighty mare. Ethon's bright hide shone dark with sweated blood and she rested her head upon the dust in weariness. She marked not that Brone had come upon her in that moment of Ethon's greatest weakness. Brone called forth long grass, cool and smooth to spread around and beneath Ethon. Brone blew warm, sweet breath upon the air and Ethon thought she dreamed herself back in the warm sweet fields of her mother-mare. She breathed heavily and deep and the foal at last came through, a sallow son, gaunt and golden white. Ethon thought it breathed not and would despair, but then it moved, stumbling, not yet full grown as his brothers had been. Ethon shuddered and her breathing calmed at last. Brone watched the foal, its hide ever shifting as if it were shadow or the memory of a horse rather than the thing itself. Its eyes were blind, full milk-white as eggs and it smelled as the dry emptiness of snow does, as the cruelest winter will. Though it saw her not, the foal turned to Brone. It sniffed the air and seemed to mark her presence, for it bleated before it turned away and ran off on spindle legs. It was then only that Brone saw its tiny hoof prints. All that it touched had withered and blown back into ash. And Brone knew she had been in the presence of death. "So you have come to revel in my defeat? No matter, my sons will finish what I could not,"Ethon laughed with a clotted voice. Brone started and stared at the great copper mare bleeding still into the earth. "Even now I frighten you? All this time I needn't have worried. The Messenger could not have picked a more cowardly carrier." Ethon laughed again and coughed, her throat parched and raw from her heaving breath.