by Oliver EADE
“It’s hard, you know! All those virgins so near yet so far! So this teacher you mention has a beautiful daughter?” The general was still staring longingly at the limp curtain as he spoke. “Well?” Jinjin’s anger swelled dangerously. “One for this side of that curtain, maybe?” questioned Ma.
The boy blocked the out words. The girl was his, whatever might happen.
“What if Chen Jiabiao isn’t truly one of us?” he asked.
He had no idea what he talking about, but to introduce doubt into the general’s brain, and give it an extra twist, seemed the best way to avoid immediate loss of his and Kong’s heads.
“If Feng is wrong, I remove his head and the girl is mine,” replied the general gazing at the curtain. “If right, you get a reward.” Reward? Only one thing I want, you worthless water buffalo! “See how I have the power to decide your fate and his?” the general nodded at Kong. “And you can forget the teacher’s daughter!”
Thus the general had sealed his fate in the mind of the urchin from Wong’s inn. Until then it mattered little to Jinjin which path he and his ‘servant’ should follow, either that of the emperor or the emperor-to-be. Ma had made the choice for him and predetermined his own death.
“Chen Jiabiao’s my cousin,” announced Ma.
Jinjin held his breath. Not a single muscle in his body twitched whilst he absorbed the shock of the general’s words. They cut through his brain like a knife, but he held fast. He thought again of the imagined face of the teacher’s daughter, refusing it permission to abandon him. Words emerged from somewhere, perhaps the girl in his mind urging him on. Jinjin knew from what his ears had learned at Wong’s that a man’s greatest enemies are those closest to him, and had this not just been confirmed by the general: the emperor and the empress, the emperor-to-be and his father? If sensible, the general would have doubts about his cousin.
“That’s why I came straight to you, general,” lied Jinjin. “No-one else knows. And the mute... well he can’t write, so what he knows no other person will ever know. I’ll get proof, one way or the other. Just give me time.”
General Ma sat down again and stared fixedly at the ground. He called for the guard who flicked aside the curtain and stood to attention.
“Take them away,” grunted the general without looking up. The statue guard came to life, strode over to Jinjin and yanked him to his feet. He pushed Kong through the open flap, then approached Jinjin.
“Gives me no pleasure to kill a mere child,” said the general to the boy’s back. “Take them to Chen Jiabiao’s tent. Tell him... “ the stone-faced soldier halted, “tell him to take these boys with him to Chang’an as soon as the emperor-to-be arrives. If he asks why, just say it’s the command of the General Ma.”
So the seed of doubt took root in that head-without-a-neck. Although Jinjin left the general’s presence with an unshakable determination to kill the man for daring to claim the teacher’s daughter, he respected, even liked him. But Ma had sealed all their fates by underestimating ‘the urchin’ - including those of the poet seated upon the Dragon Throne and the nephew of his first wife, already travelling east from the land of the “White Tiger.
***
The chanting ceased. The sun wu kong stood and stepped to one side.
“Please. We must eat before you set off,” he announced. “But tell me first, are you still intent upon this crazy notion of yours? Are you truly ready for death and ready to leave your motherless daughter without a father?”
“More than ready,” replied the teacher, sensing Meili’s spirit.
Back in the refectory, Feng and the old monk talked openly about many things: the precarious state of China, the strengths and weaknesses of the present emperor, the inordinate power of the court eunuchs - and the empress.
“She’s the one we must all watch,” cautioned the sun wu kong.
“The empress?” Feng, with Meili refusing to leave his mind, was unable to conceive how any man could do other than dote on his wife.
“The emperor has no interest in war, no true interest in any live woman, only the brush stroke women - and who knows what they look like under their skirts!” The monk was beginning to sound like the traitors he risked his life to expose. “But he’s a man who cares about his people. Those close to him should be helping him, the father of China! But enough of emperors and empresses. Let me tell you about Master Tsu. I’ve a map here.”
Master Tsu? Feng left Meili behind as he prepared to meet a mental Master Tsu.
From under his orange robes the old man produced a yellowing folded page and spread it out on the table in front of Teacher Feng. He indicated the location of the South Gate through which the teacher would enter the Imperial city, a broad avenue leading up to the palace, the harlots’ district and the narrow streets of the poets and the artisans’ quarter. Feng took in every line, every curve and the untidy sweep of the calligraphy up and down the page; he saw not just a page but alleyways full of people, magnificent buildings, thoroughfares bustling with carts and wagons and vendors. He saw Houzicheng magnified to colossal proportions.
As the monk explained directions on how to find Master Tsu, without any explanation who the man truly was or why Feng should seek him out, an image formed in the teacher’s mind, displacing Meili’s beautiful features. The painter was a slimmed down Kong Fuzi, sporting a wispy grey beard, with dark folds underlining inscrutable eyes and a long flowing blue robe; the same colour he’d seen used for the sea in a scroll painting he’d once admired, although he had never actually seen the ocean. He recalled once suggesting to Meili, half-jokingly, that should he fail the civil service exams they could uproot and transfer to a small coastal village where he might learn to fish, teach on the side and show little Feier the waves from the vantage of a rocky headland; and how they’d both laughed when their little daughter asked whether waves were made by the dragon of the sea whenever he breathed out. But he knew neither would ever hear the sound of the waves in this life, or discover the true colour of the ocean. Instead, he’d have to make do with an imagined colour now cloaking the imagined painter.
Apart from learning the whereabouts of the artist’s residence, close to the harlots’ quarter, Feng found out that Master Tsu taught painting at the emperor’s court and, like Magistrate Minsheng, had once been a monk. Both facts seemed of little use to him as he set off again in the direction of Chang’an carrying the bamboo murder weapon, a bamboo backpack of food, a water flask and the map.
Later that morning, he mingled easily with other travellers approaching the city gate.
***
Even the children tormented the girl.
Xiaopeng, both quiet and gentle, was eager to please and although a slow learner she’d always been much-loved by the other Miao children. Feier was almost a mother substitute for her little friend and as such had been unquestioningly accepted into the young Miao fold. With her knowledge and skills in calligraphy, all looked up to her, but this stopped abruptly the day Angwan disappeared, the awful day she learned of her betrothal to Zhang Tsientse. Not only had Old Xiang poisoned his brother against her, but also the other Miao villagers; to have the man’s vicious venom spread amongst the children she taught and loved was more than Feier could bear.
A conspiracy of silence hung like a storm cloud over the village and the only fruit of her love for the young priest was hatred - hatred for her.
There was no-one she could turn to for help, neither here nor in the Han village. Her baba had been her sole carer. They had no relatives nearby. There was no shoulder for her cry on. The teacher and his daughter were outsiders even amongst their own people, only tolerated for as long as Feng could promise better lives for their sons and daughters through education. In their village, the younger Feier had been excluded from childish play perhaps because she’d been the teacher’s daughter and also exceptionally bright. She’d
always been ‘different’, but never before hated. What loneliness, to be so despised! It made darkness seem darker as she and Farmer Li sat together after eating, each evening and after she’d cleared up, tidied the little house, made ready his bed in the pig-pen and stoked the fire. That same fire gave her no warmth or comfort in that silence. Pig smells took over and filled her mind; the pig smells of a filthy farmer, reminding her she could return to this world as a pig. But all of this was about to change.
***
Jinjin and Kong were taken to the far end of the camp where tents were more spaced apart, separated from the precision ranks of army tents. Outside one of the larger tents, a banner hung from a bamboo pole, limp in the still air. The guard disappeared behind the flap. Jinjin unfurled the banner and whispered the inscribed characters, Kong being ‘deaf: shui [17] and feng [18].
“Teacher Feng, the ‘wind’ and his daughter the shui, fluid, like a girl should be? I’ve heard it said that when a man enters a woman she yields like water closing around the male. This has to be a sign, Servant Kong! And Jinjin means gold... wealth! Wealth, wind and water.” Kong opened his mouth as if about to speak. “No, you fool!” exclaimed Jiinjin. “You’re deaf and mute, remember? Besides, you have nothing worth saying. Your name means ‘empty’.”
The guard re-emerged from the tent.
“Inside! Quick!”
After the heady perfume of virgins, this tent smelt distinctly unpleasant. Straw mats were stacked againt one side of the tent; at the far end, in front of a curtain similar to the one that separated the general from Miao girls, two of these had been spread out, each bearing a dingy brown cover. There were no head pillows.
The guard left. Jinjin approached the mats.
“You take the one closest to Nobleman Chen, servant. And if he does for you during the night, just make enough noise to wake me so I can get out of this stinking hole. Smells worse than Wong’s inn when full of sweaty merchants and travellers. At least the harlots there give Wong’s a whiff ofyin, ay?”
But what did Jinjin care about this place without girls? Soon the most beautiful girl in China would be his by right. He’d have no further need to impress her or her father. He stretched back on the mat next to Kong’s, already Lord of his imagined world. Kong dropped the provisions. He remained standing, gawping at his sturdy hands.
“Just remember you’re a fool,” commanded Jinjin, propping himself up on one elbow. “And forget your bloody hands. Difference between you and General Ma is that he is no fool! This is about survival, fool! Get that into your thick skull and you might survive.”
He rolled onto his back and gazed at the grey cloth of the tent. “Maybe I’ll reward the general with the little one who cries for her baba all night before I kill him. But whatever happens, never once question what I do! This tent belongs to wind and water. We go the way the wind blows and flow with the water. Never stop. Stop, and you become the target. Wong, he just could never understand. His place was a stagnant pool. Pfff! Jinjin will live up to his name. Gold. Gold for the... “
The guard returned.
“Stand, urchin!”
Jinjin sprang to his feet and stood beside Kong, but his and Kong’s eyes told different stories. Kong’s spelt fear, Jinjin’s anger. Moments later a familiar gaunt figure strode into the tent. Chen Jiabiao went straight up to Jinjin, his right hand gripping the hilt of his sword. The urchin boy struggled to read the man’s angular features, his sharp nose and fox eyes; if he’d been a woman and younger he might have been beautiful. From afar he’d appeared small beside the White Tiger trader, but close up he seemed large, at least a head taller than Jinjin. One question hovered in the boy’s mind: did Chen Jiabiao recognise him? As the nobleman looked him up and down, he felt like a scroll painting being examined for forgery by an expert. He took the initiative:
“Nobleman Chen Jiabiao, your humble servants greet you,” he began, before dropping to all fours. Anything to escape those piercing fox eyes! He felt for Kong’s arm and pulled the other boy down beside him.
“Tell me what you know about Teacher Feng, young cur! And his daughter. Don’t pretend you know nothing! My esteemed cousin has filled me in.”
Jinjin angled his head, taking in the sword, the hand, the squared shoulders, the thin chin and those cold, grey fox eyes.
“I don’t want to see your face, little dog. From where you are down there, tell me all you know.”
16 Jade Stem (yu jing) is a Daoist reference to the penis (alsoyin jingin pinyin).
17 water
18 wind
Duck, Duck and More Duck
Unnoticed, Feng took out the map, orientated himself and returned it to the bamboo backpack. He crossed the wide avenue and headed for a turn off to the right a short way from the South Gate. Beyond, at the entrance to the Imperial Compound, purple and yellow guards stood stiffly to attention. By contrast, the artisans’ street was narrow, dim and dirty. Colourful rivulets of paint-tinged water curled out into the street from open doorways, trailing around the displayed paintings of mountains, waterfalls, bamboo plants and exotic birds. Silent in the shadows, the artists who had created these painted worlds ignored the giggles and shrieks of children who ran and skipped from shop to shop. Calligraphers demonstrated their skills on paving stones with giant camel-hair brushes whilst others worked with wood, with bamboo and with metal. An elderly Miao woman sat beside a jumble of vibrant, patterned cloths. She looked up as Feng passed by, their eyes momentarily linked. Her pocked, wrinkled face would doubtless protect her from the White Tiger League and from city pimps, but still those eyes spoke of misery, of torment and disillusionment. They also reminded the teacher of Feier, now in the hands of Farmer Li and the Miao villagers; reminded him of his purpose. He averted her gaze and above each door searched for the characters ‘Master Tsu’.
The master’s house was only five doors down from the old Miao woman. Nothing about the place indicated this was the home of the greatest living painter in China. The tiny house was a fraction the size of the teacher’s humble village schoolhouse. The only thing that distinguished it was the absence of paintings in front of the door. Unbelieving, Feng re-read the words ‘Master Tsu’ several times before entering.
Still no paintings, only brushes and hints of colour on the floor. A half-open door led from the small room to a darker back room. Feng called out:
“Master Tsu? Are you at home? The sun wu kong of Xiangjisi temple sent me. Said you’re the one person who... “
“Ah, Teacher Feng. Yes, I’m expecting you,” answered the open door. “The man with the beautiful daughter - correct?”
Feng stepped backwards as a short, beardless young man holding a steaming cup of tea emerged from the dark. He couldn’t have been more different from his imagined Master Tsu, shorter even than the teacher, and pig-bottom ugly. No wonder he kept himself hidden away, but to have a large face like that stuck on top of a ridiculously small body and become the greatest of all painters was, Feng considered, quite an achievement.
Tsu’s eyes were lost somewhere behind puffy, drooping lids. His nose was a flattened two-holed button, his mouth a gash that tilted to the left, and rabbit teeth pressed dimples into his thin lower lip. A mole sprouting a tuft of black hairs decorated a receding chin. Nevertheless, thin and wiry, the painter appeared to be a man in good physical shape and his sleekly groomed hair and purple robe adorned with a white crane indicated a person of wealth. Feng could think of no earthly reason for someone of his means to live cheek-by-jowl with the struggling flotsam of Chang’an. Why did he not abide in a large house like that of Nobleman Chen?
“Ni chile ma?.” asked Tsu.
“No... I mean yes... I mean, the sun wu kong, he told me to... “
“Come, friend!” insisted Tsu, amused by the teacher’s confusion. “There’s a small restaurant just round the corn
er. Only frequented by artisans and musicians. Simple folk. Those who matter, like teachers and painters, huh?”
He chuckled and slapped a slender hand the Feng’s shoulder. What a wonderfully fine hand for one with such a hideous face, thought the teacher.
“Yes,” the painter continued, “the teacher with the beautiful daughter. The man whose enlightened ways also bring learning to the girls of our villages. Our emperor is less of a fool than certain people give him credit for. He knows all about you.” The man took a few sips from his cup then placed it carefully beside a neatly arranged collection of brushes on a low table. “Your bundle and pole we can leave in my room here. No-one steals from Master Tsu, I can promise you. They all look out for me. But of course, you’ve little left - apart from that belly of yours. The White Tigers took everything, I’m told, but...” he tapped the side of that grotesque head with elegant fingers, “but you still have your secrets. In Chang’an they must remain secrets. At least ‘ til this business is over.”
The teacher left his bundle on the floor by the door to the master’s room, for in there, he felt sure, might be secrets that should be kept hidden from his own eyes. Whatever the painter’s connection to the court, Feng’s only desire was to lighten the burden of guilt by finding Chang’s killer and returning Xiaopeng to her father. Besides, he was still unsure about the old monk in the monastery of Xiangjisi - indeed, all monks - and therefore about the master painter too.
He followed Master Tsu into the street. They crossed to the other side, stepping over heaps of waste food, donkey shit, and colourful splashes of vomit. A narrow lane led to a low building with a red lantern. A woman appeared wearing a food-stained, red robe, her hair curled into an unruly bun held in position with two black chopsticks. She bowed hastily and stepped back.
“Always, you come here to eat our food, Master Tsu. You do me a great honour,” she said with a short bow. Her cheerful, rounded face seemed to be stretched even wider by a mischievous grin. “Why, I was just telling a new customer, Master Tsu graces our establishment every day. Sometimes two times a day.”