Jade Man's Skin

by Daniel Fox

  But. Weak, afraid, yes, and in awe of her already; he could not face her perpetual anger or the constant abrasion of himself. He would go mad, he thought, if he really tried to spend his life in management of her. Perhaps he was mad already, to think it was his proper task.

  She said, I have looked, little thing. I have found people who do that, who melt iron and cut at it with tools.

  She showed him, in her mind there, but he knew it already; he had been with her, fractionally, as she drifted over the island, where so many men were working to build he knew not what. A hill all dug over and laid out in terraces and foundations; a vast camp, and hordes of people running; a line of structures that leaked smoke, looking curious from the air but familiar from the shadows that they cast, with blocks of stone or iron close at hand. Those were forges, with their anvils and their quenching troughs. For certain there would be someone there to do this thing for him. Few people liked to see a boy in chains.

  Even so: No, he said. No, not on Taishu. There will be people on the mainland who can do it. I can find them. If he freed the dragon entirely, she might make the strait entirely impassable. If he had the choice, he would not willingly be on the wrong side of the water from Tien. But, he said, how would I get there?

  It lay between them, obvious and unmentionable, dreadful to contemplate; he was almost surprised that she managed at the last to give it voice.

  I could … carry you?

  No, he said again. No, you cannot. I cannot allow it. How could I trust you? What, put himself voluntarily in the claws of a creature who only needed to squeeze, to pierce, to crush the life from him and she would be free already?

  Or else to swallow him, of course. That too.

  They looked at each other, caught either side of a quandary; she said, I do not know, then. What to do.

  Can you find me a boat? he asked helplessly. Let a boat come, if it will—but I don’t know how you’d tell the men to sail it here.

  I will find a way, she said. Doubtfully. He was astonished to find her suddenly so vulnerable, where she was so immense; and then she lifted into the air and flew away, and he was astonished to find himself standing in the utter dark, because his little fire had failed and he hadn’t noticed, because he had been seeing at least somewhat through her eyes.

  two

  Old Yen had walked into Santung with three companions. The doctor was dead; Li Ton was arrested; Tien was gone to play doctor herself, as well as she could among her uncle’s things. Old Yen walked out of Santung alone.

  No: not alone. Not quite.

  To the edge of the city, to the height of the ridge he had an escort. The high priestess of the temple came, with several of her sisters. The city was as nervous today as yesterday, the streets were just as tense—but he stood in no danger from the soldiers, apparently, so long as he was accompanied by women, shaven-headed and unarmed. The generalissimo had issued a fiat: nuns were inviolate, no man was to touch them. Santung’s punishment was over. It was his city now, and he meant it to flourish. Which meant that it must lie within the blessing of the gods, which meant that their temples and their devotees were sacrosanct again.

  More, the soldiers had adopted these. Hungry for something other than blood, perhaps for a woman’s face that didn’t scream at first glimpse of them, they brought gifts to the temple, offered help in its restoration, came to pray at permitted hours although the Li-goddess was a stranger to them. In the streets, now, they bowed at the sight of a nun, gave words of respect and duty.

  Old Yen walked among women, and was protected by them, but only to the city limits.

  From there, all the long road to the headland and the creek where his boat—he hoped!—lay waiting in care of the boy Pao, he had to walk alone.

  No: still not alone. Not quite.

  The nuns had carried the child until they stopped. The priestess took him then, smiled a farewell into his silent eyes and laid him gently in Old Yen’s arms.

  How long had it been, since he held—or held any responsibility for—a child of this size? Not since his own sons were so small, and that was long ago. Simpler times. They had grown, and quarreled with him, and moved away. His grandsons were being raised on the other side of the island; he saw them seldom. Mei Feng was the only grandchild he had contrived to keep, and now she too had been taken from him.

  At this age, Mei Feng came to sea and hauled ropes with a will if not much science, and wanted to work the steering oar with her arms at full stretch above her head and her grandfather’s hands around hers. This child—Old Yen still struggled to call him a boy—lay still and watched the world with vast black eyes like pits in his hollow face, and must be carried because he would not walk.

  Or could not. Who could tell?

  Old Yen carried him, and tried to be glad that he was all bone and skin, no meat, no grease. At least he was no burden …

  No. At most he was no burden. That was all there was to say of him except the one thing, the appalling thing, what his mother had done to him in her extremity; and perhaps the other thing, extraordinary thing, if it were true.

  This child was—

  No. Nothing was that dependable, in a world so broken; but this child might be the key to his survival. His only hope.

  And the survival, the hope of every man, woman and child who went to sea in these waters, that too; but start with him.

  Start with this one journey, and see what happened.

  The goddess had given Old Yen a message and charged him to deliver it. She would not, surely, send him to his death. He must have some protection from the dragon; this child, perhaps.

  It was the nun’s idea, but the nun was priestess to the Li-goddess, and so perhaps a tool, as the child was.

  As the child had been, and might be again.

  He hoped.

  Did he hope? Was that a thing to be hoped for, that the child’s mouth would open and that voice come again?

  Well. He could survive it. He could not survive the dragon without help.

  It did occur to him that protection was a passing thing. He had had the nuns’ protection, for a while. He might have the protection of the goddess, but only for a while: for as long as it took to deliver her message to the dragon. That task complete, perhaps she would go away and leave him.

  Him and the child both, duty done.

  Dragon fodder.

  Perhaps. He could believe it, of the owner of that voice.

  Did he walk under her protection already? Perhaps. He didn’t know what influence she had on land, but he met no trouble on the road. People hurried by, watched him as warily as he did them. No one spoke to him at all.

  When it came time to leave the road, he might have gone first to the temple on the height; he did not much want to go down to the boat. He had never been so reluctant to set sail.

  However strong the reluctance, though, he was more reluctant yet to enter that little temple. To see that other child who had spoken in her voice. The two together, who knew, who could imagine what they might not say?

  He went straight down, then, to the little beach; and on the way saw his boat still at anchor, just where he had left her in the creek. And felt relief stained with that traitor reluctance that would almost rather have seen her gone and him helpless, stranded.

  The boy Pao was on deck and watching for him, so he didn’t even need to hail. The boy would punt over in the sampan, and they could raise anchor and be on their way immediately …

  EXCEPT THAT there was someone else on the beach.

  Pao was waving and pointing, conspicuously not hurrying ashore. There was a message in that: the boy did not trust the stranger, and wanted to stay safe—or keep the boat safe, or both—until Old Yen was satisfied.

  Old Yen did not want to deal with a stranger. It would not quite be true to say that he would rather deal with the dragon—or the goddess!—but at least he was ready for those, as ready as a man could be. Here he was utterly unprepared.

  The stranger was gettin
g to his feet. He dusted dirt from his robe, though that was torn and shabby; he bowed low to Old Yen, who was not accustomed to such manners and besides had a lanky awkward child in his arms, and made a poor mess of bowing in return.

  He was a young man, this stranger, and his head had been shaved, though not recently: a priest, perhaps? His robe was dark and simply cut, but the silk had been heavy—which meant expensive—before it was mistreated. Not a priest, Old Yen thought, after a day’s close acquaintance with the nuns at the temple. Their dress was cut from coarse stuff, cheap. And ill sewn, self-sewn. This was …

  Oh. A shaved head, dress costly but discreet …

  Old Yen knew, before the man spoke.

  “My name is Jung. Please, can you take me to the emperor?”

  Old Yen had refused so many, surely it should be easier by now. He said, “I cannot, it is forbidden. We cannot feed the men we have. I am sorry.”

  “I am from the Hidden City,” Jung said, “from the emperor’s own palace. I was left behind …”

  He and countless hundreds of his brethren. Not many had made it this far in pursuit. Old Yen was impressed, and touched with pity, and still shook his head. “There is no Hidden City on Taishu. You must find some other way to live.”

  “I am a eunuch,” Jung said simply, which Old Yen had already understood. “I have no other way to live.”

  He was a young man, thin and pretty. Old Yen wanted to say go to the city, find a soldier who will offer you protection; he will teach you how to live another way. But he wouldn’t willingly send anyone into Santung at such a time, with tempers stretched paper-taut and everyone watching the sky, waiting for the shadow of a dragon.

  He only shook his head again, said nothing.

  Jung waited, as though simple time would erode a refusal; Old Yen waited for him to accept that same refusal, and go his way. He wouldn’t beckon Pao until the man was gone. Squabbling over the sampan would be ludicrous. And awkward, with the child in his arms.

  “Is the boy sick?” Jung asked, as if he had been following Old Yen’s thoughts. Perhaps he had followed his eyes; a palace servant would be swift to pick up on subtleties of desire.

  “Yes—or no, perhaps. I am not sure. He is … of your kind, but it was crudely done in a hurry, and he has not spoken since. Nor walked.”

  “Oh, he is too young! That should not have been done … Let me see.”

  Jung took the child, before Old Yen could think of refusing him.

  They stared at each other, those two, unlike in everything but loss: the one lost in body, the other lost in soul. Then Jung lifted his head again and looked to Old Yen and said, “We belong together. Eunuchs belong to the emperor: you know this, it is the law. You must take us to him.”

  IT WAS THE LAW. Also, it was the excuse that Old Yen needed. Eunuchs did belong to the emperor, unequivocally. Some said they were a gift of the gods to the Jade Throne, to the god-on-earth, a mortal equivalent to those ghosts and spirits who served the gods in heaven. Some said it was politics, an earthly device to keep ambitious lords and generals in their place. If eunuchs were a sign of ascendency and godhood, then it followed that only the emperor might possess them. Therefore, if a man started to cut his servants or buy castrated boys into his household, it was a sure sign of usurpation, conspiracy against the throne. Of course the law must stand against that.

  Old Yen wondered what had happened to the vast numbers of Jung’s brethren: how many had been kept in the Hidden City under guard, how many were perhaps being herded along in Tunghai Wang’s wake, in his wagon-train. Perhaps some were already installed in Santung, to serve the emperor-in-waiting. That man led a revolt against the throne, and meant to seize it; he would have no hesitation in seizing the emperor’s discarded eunuchs. Possession of them would reinforce his claim, when he dared to make it …

  The young man knew what was right, though. Old Yen couldn’t send him to the usurper, after that cry of law. There was sweet relief in bowing his acquiescence, in waving and calling to Pao.

  If he were honest, there was sweet relief too in handing over the child. Jung could watch him on the boat, all the way across the strait; Jung could take him to the palace and give himself and the child over into the emperor’s service. No one could turn them away, and Old Yen would have no more responsibility for either.

  If they made it that far, under the goddess’s protection. Under the dragon’s eye.

  Old Yen’s plan was to sail to the Forge and speak to the boy there, Han, if the dragon hadn’t eaten him. Yes. Han could pass on what the goddess said. How could a fisherman speak to a dragon, anyway? Either from inside or outside her gut? That must be it, that the boy should be his intermediary as Old Yen was hers, the goddess’s. Yes. Man spoke to man at the last. Let the immortals speak to each other through their servants …

  PAO COLLECTED them all from shore, wide-eyed and wary, as a boy learns to be in time of war. Wary was good; Old Yen shared no secrets, and no plans. He told Jung to keep the child out of their way, either in the cabin or in the bows. There was warm sun on easy water, a pleasant breeze; the eunuch opted to sit high in the boat’s beak, holding the child upright in his lap to show how the water sparkled, how gulls gathered and dived above a school of fish.

  The boat behaved as sweetly as the weather, cutting through the low swell with a steady hiss, catching the wind just off the quarter and barely rolling, barely pitching as she scudded south. It was as though his goddess rode beside him—as she used to, as he used to believe she did—with one hand on the steering oar and one to lay a road by wind and water.

  Had he ceased to believe in her companionship, her kindness? He wasn’t sure, but he was deeply shaken. That voice, that terrible voice could never come from the image that he’d held so long, the tender generous soul he’d thought to be watching over him. No one could deny that she was watching, but nothing else was certain now.

  At least she wasn’t talking anymore. The child sat in the bows and stared forward and said nothing, although these were her waters. Old Yen blessed her silence, blessed this speed—although the wind more properly lay within the gift of the dragon, from whom he would never dare ask it—even while in all honesty he would sooner not be taking gifts from her, not now.

  Even while he scanned the sky again and again for any sign, any hint of dragon.

  THERE WAS NONE, and none, and none.

  There was the Forge now, a tooth on the horizon. He worked the oar to bring the boat’s prow a little closer to the line—not too much, because she made a leeway in any wind and there was current here too that he could feel through his hands, the tug of it that he needed to steer against, a long-familiar calculation so deeply worked into his life, a pattern so closely woven that he didn’t think about it at all, it was all in his skin, in his muscles, in his bones—and called to Pao to ease the mainsail a touch.

  Just then, the dragon rose.

  He had been watching and watching for her, in the sky or else on the island. It was how he saw her last, aloft; of course he looked to find her where he left her. What fool would not?

  He was most certainly a fool. All his life she had lain beneath his keel; had he forgotten so quickly that she was a creature of the sea?

  He saw a strange swirl in the water that seemed at first to shoulder the swell aside, and then swelled like a wen beneath the surface, and then broke: broke around a rising rock that was no rock at all but her head looming high and high, mast-high above them, higher. Her great body must somehow have stalled tide and current both at once just as her will—perhaps—stilled the wind, because his boat lost all way at once, wallowing slack-sailed in the wash that ran off her.

  It might only have been a moment that they stared at each other, boat and dragon. It seemed much longer. For himself, Old Yen closed his eyes. He saw no need to watch it as the wide gape opened, teeth and tongue reached down to swallow them.

  He stood in the private dread of his darkness, and nothing seemed to happen. The drag
on and the goddess both were silent, Pao and the eunuch too; even the boat was quieter than usual with no strain on ropes or timbers.

  He decided to open his eyes again.

  It seemed to take a while.

  There hung the dragon, head in the sky, just as she had been, with her mouth agape; and whether she had stopped herself or whether the goddess had stopped her, he couldn’t tell, but she seemed not to be swallowing them after all.

  He thought perhaps she was going to seize the boat instead, and shake them out of it.

  But still she waited, open-mouthed, and the boat seemed to be waiting too, and everyone aboard it; and at last, Old Yen did what the goddess and then Li Ton had sent him out to do.

  He drew a breath and yelled up at the dragon.

  three

  They did, of course, have to come back.

  Mei Feng had always known that, in her heart. It was the emperor who had resisted the idea, with the stubbornness of absolute rank, not seeing why he should ever do what he did not want to do; and she had clung with joy to that intransigence, for as long as ever it could last.

  Then General Ping Wen had come, with his plans for war; and her boy-emperor fell in with him almost gleefully, which was so strange and—to be honest—such a disappointment, after so long living free of the court, living almost wild in the forest. So now they were back, too abruptly, too soon: back in what used to be the jademaster’s palace and was the emperor’s now until his new Hidden City had been built, which would take longer if he sent all the soldiers off to war.

  She wasn’t the only reluctant one. In the valley they had lived like a clan, all together, and most of them had learned to love it. She thought he had loved it too. But, We can’t plan a war from the jungle, he had said—in Ping Wen’s voice, frighteningly—and of course that was true, which was another reason why she thought they should have stayed.