by Lydia Kwa
ORACLE BONE
Copyright © 2017 by Lydia Kwa
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any part by any means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical—without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may use brief excerpts in a review, or in the case of photocopying in Canada, a license from Access Copyright.
ARSENAL PULP PRESS
Suite 202 – 211 East Georgia St.
Vancouver, BC V6A 1Z6
Canada
arsenalpulp.com
The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council for its publishing program, and the Government of Canada (through the Canada Book Fund) and the Government of British Columbia (through the Book Publishing Tax Credit Program) for its publishing activities.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to persons either living or deceased is purely coincidental.
Cover and text design by Oliver McPartlin
Edited by Susan Safyan
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication:
Kwa, Lydia, 1959-, author
Oracle bone: a chuanqi novel / Lydia Kwa.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-55152-700-0 (ebook)
I. Title.
PS8571.W3O73 2017
C813’.54
C2017-904057-X
C2017-904058-8
For the outcast
still sustained by love
CONTENTS
Map of Chang’an
The Main Characters
Pronunciation Guide for Some Chinese Names
Prologue
Book One: Gu - Poison
Book Two: Fu - Return
Book Three: Ji Ji - Completion
Author’s Notes and Acknowledgments
MAP OF CHANG’AN
THE MAIN CHARACTERS
LING
Orphaned girl
QILAN
Daoist nun from Da Fa Temple
WU ZHAO
Empress Consort to Li Zhi
LI ZHI
Emperor
XIE
Qilan’s father; lover to Wu Zhao
GUI
Demon
XUANZANG
Abbot of Da Ci’en Monastery; translator of sutras
HARELIP
Monk, herbalist, and healer at Da Ci’en Monastery
ARDHANARI
Sculptor
PRONUNCIATION GUIDE FOR SOME CHINESE NAMES
This is meant to be a rough guide to how to pronounce these names. I’ve transliterated them according to common ways of sounding vowels and consonants in English; this is not at all related to the Pinyin system, which is the basis for how the names have been spelled in the novel. The all-important tones have not been indicated here either.
Qilan is pronounced “Chee Lan”
Wu Zhao is pronounced “Woo Chow”
Li Zhi is pronounced “Lee Tzeh”
Xie is pronounced “Si-ieh”
Gui is pronounced “Goo-we”
Xuanzang is pronounced “Sh’-yuan chang”
To live is to die, to be awake is to
sleep, to be young is to be old, for
the one flows into the other, and the
process is capable of being reversed.
—Heraclitus
PROLOGUE
This is a tale set during the rise of Wu Zhao in the court of Emperor Li Zhi, in the country known as Zhongguo, the Central Kingdom. That was during the latter half the seventh century of the Common Era, back when humans thought of time as a linear construct.
I was strolling down a narrow corridor in the ancient sector of Xi’an one insufferably humid summer evening when a woman’s hypnotic voice rose above the ordinary noises of the city, compelling me to search for her.
After turning many corners, my clothing soaked with sweat, I chanced upon the magic. The storyteller sat in a secluded corner at the end of a narrow alley lit by a single kerosene lamp, surrounded by her rapt listeners. Her mouth had only a few teeth left and she, showing no shame about it, spoke in a loud, bright tone of voice.
She seemed unperturbed by the bustle and dust of travellers. She and some older members of the audience were engaged in a kind of singing repartee. First, she would sing—as if bellowing across a mountain pass—and then a member of the audience replied to her. I took my seat on a low stool at the back of the sizeable crowd.
After many rounds of this melodic exchange, the singers and the audience grew quiet. We sat listening to this precious silence. Waiting, it seemed to me, although I wasn’t sure for what or whom.
“This is a fable,” she began, “and hence, spiced with all kinds of outrageous lies.” She cackled, and the audience applauded vigorously. “Definitely not sanctioned by officials.” More clapping.
“Of course I’m not a famous liar. And I might never achieve fame in my lifetime. I consider myself inferior to the great Masters. But I’m happy as long as I can tell stories to audiences like you. Call me the Imperfect One!”
I was pleased by such humility. Imperfections, especially in this new era of erasures, are rather quaint yet subversive.
Thus began the first of twenty-one continuous nights of storytelling.
I share these interwoven intrigues here in approximately the same sequence. Dear reader, may your persistence be rewarded. As for me, it remains true that free and easy roaming fulfills me like no other activity.
—Unknown Wayfarer
BOOK ONE
Gu - Poison
Toward the end of Xianqing reign period
Xiaoshu Jieqi, Slight Heat,
Sixth Lunar Month,
New Moon
OUTSIDE HUAZHOU TOWN, 140 LI EAST OF CHANG’AN
Ling flung herself into the murky, cold water.
The water engulfed her. She opened her mouth and forced herself to swallow, despite her instincts. This must be what dying is like, she thought, no longer aware of having a body, no longer separate from everything else.
As the torrent of water rushed into her lungs, she heard the voice admonish her, No, you mustn’t die. Her mother came to her, the blood gash across her neck a clotted scar. She wrapped her arms around Ling who welcomed the embrace and smiled. Just before she lost consciousness, she felt her body surge upwards.
When she came to, she was back on the barge, tied up. Her captor scowled, “Foolish girl, why did you do that? If I hadn’t noticed your beautiful eyes …” He grasped her chin with his grimy fingers and jerked her face up. He made her kneel on the rough and uneven boards of the barge. She looked past him and saw the other bandits huddled at the back of the barge, smoking. She counted, one, two, three, four, five.
“Eyes like that, you’re not quite normal, are you? I want to know what it’s like, to be taken by such a creature,” he mumbled as he loosened his pants and lifted his member toward her mouth. She felt his hands’ rough, greedy taking.
She choked and coughed. Nothing she could do. Kept glancing at the shadows in the back. Kept counting. One, two, three, four, five.
That admonition yet again, No, you mustn’t die.
She disagreed. Dying would have been better. She stared at the tattoo on his arm—a blue mountain with a few jagged crags, but within it the face of a tiger with jaws open, revealing teeth. Moments later, she heard the others utter his name, fear in their throats. Shan Hu. So that was what the tattoo was about, , Tiger in the Mountain.
There were two carts close to the edge of the canal. The goods from the barge were loaded into one, then the other, leaving a tiny space in the second where she was shoved, just another piece of stolen property. Ling crouched in the cart, crammed in w
ith crates of jade vessels and rattan cylinders of tea. Her body hurt from cuts and bruises, her fine clothes were soiled and torn. The only window in the cart was a hole as wide as her face. Crates sat between her and that tiny gap, but she managed to catch glimpses of the passing landscape as the team of horses galloped away from the barge toward the centre of town.
As the cart rattled over the rough road, her body tossed back and forth, Ling grew numb to the physical pain, gripped instead by memories of the raid. She and her parents had started out from their tea farm in Hubei outside of the city of Jingzhou, and after travelling by land, took the Grand Canal northward on the Yangzi River to Shaanxi province. They finally arrived a few li outside of Huazhou town just at sunset. Her father had decided they would transport their goods via the canal the next day. They were all tired, especially the horses and men. A trip along the canal would be a welcome change after weeks of travelling overland. They would rest overnight before their final journey to the Western Capital.
That night, sleeping between her parents, Ling felt excited at the prospect of visiting Chang’an for the first time. She was lulled to sleep by the soft slapping sounds of water against the sides of the barge.
A few hours before daybreak, mayhem ensued when their barge was invaded by bandits. Ling glimpsed her father’s terror-filled eyes as he was stabbed in the back. She and her mother were dragged from their sleeping cabin up to the bow of the barge. They were forced to watch all the slain men being thrown overboard. Her mother tried to shield her as they huddled on the deck, but Shan Hu dragged her mother away while one of his henchman held on to Ling.
She could never forget how her mother looked when she was brought back, her clothes torn, her hair dishevelled. Shan Hu laughed and threw her down next to Ling. Her mother, sobbing, whispered to Ling, “Forgive me.” She grabbed the knife from Shan Hu’s belt and slit her own neck.
In the cart, body racked with pain, Ling sobbed at the memory. There was no more reason to live. Where was Shan Hu taking her? What would he do with her? A life enslaved to someone so vile was not a life she wanted to live.
When they entered Huazhou, the sunlight came through the tiny window of the cart at an angle. Ling glimpsed streets with people moving about, unaware of her captivity.
Had she imagined it—her mother coming to her in the water and embracing her? Did her mother bring her to the surface, willing her to return back to the land of the living? No, you mustn’t die.
The butterfly was minuscule, its wings a creamy white. The tips of its forewings seemed razor sharp. The butterfly flitted through the dusty haze of the town’s public square. Ling imagined that the creature must have come from some other world, far purer than this tainted place she was in. It had navigated rough terrain, slipped past thorny branches in some distant forest.
The market was unbearably loud. Ling wished she could shrink down to the size of that butterfly and fly away. Her face and arms hurt from bruises and cuts. But the worst pain was inside her throat and in her chest. Even if she escaped, where could she go? She sighed heavily, noticing that her mouth was dry and tasted like metal.
It was still scorching hot, even though the sun was past its peak. She guessed, judging from the angle of the shadows, that it must be around mid-afternoon. The rays of sunlight slanted in, striking faces and bodies with merciless intent. Men’s bellowing voices competed with one another, jostling for the attention of onlookers, their shouts a constant hammering inside her skull. She’d been brought here early in the morning, when the air was still cool. It seemed interminable, being inundated with this barrage of sound, waiting for hours on end, not knowing what her fate might be.
Among the buyers and sellers at the auction, there didn’t seem to be any taking of turns or orderliness, merely the chaos that came with the momentum of greed. Men yelled out prices as the children for sale were paraded on the platform, one by one.
The smell of others’ fear engulfed her; the older boys, the women, and the rest of the children all reeked of panic. But she couldn’t smell her own fear. Although it was hot, her teeth clattered against one another. Ling curled her hands into fists, determined to show an unwavering dignity.
She looked down at her feet. There was a cut on her right big toe that stung. Her captor had poured some wine over it earlier, joking that spirits cured every ailment. She ached from hours of being forced to stand with her hands tied behind her back, her body bound by ropes. Ling hated the loose brown trousers and sleeveless top she had been made to wear. She felt dirty, inside and out.
Ling looked up to see where the butterfly was. It had disappeared. She closed her eyes, imagining how its sharp-tipped wings could cut through the ropes that bound her. When she opened her eyes again, it was as if the butterfly had heard her longing and materialized, this time flitting behind the head of the oily-skinned tavern owner. The unsavory man had taken time out from bossing his servants around and stood in front of the entrance of Prosperity Tavern, legs planted solidly on the ground, soft, doughy fingers perched on his generous hips. His eyes scanned the auction merchandise. An uneven patch of grease marred his chin. Behind him, the three-storey tavern was packed full of rowdy customers. Ling noticed a few on the upper floor leaning against the railing, wine cups in hand, surveying the action below.
The tavern owner rested his foot atop one paw of the tavern’s stone guardian, opened his mouth wide, and used a blade of straw to dislodge the detritus between his two remaining top front teeth.
“Oily Face”, mumbled Ling under her breath. Her stomach growled. Occasionally, Oily Face shouted out an amount of money that he was willing to pay. He was cheap and had yet to win a bid.
A servant cradling a clay basin was about to feed chicken bones with shreds of meat to the stray dogs, but Oily Face stretched his arm out in a gesture of warning and shouted, “Stinking wastrel, save those bones! For the soup!”
Interspersed with boys and girls and the occasional labourer being auctioned off were beautiful birds that Ling had never seen before. They had large hooked claws and brightly alluring green, red, blue, and yellow feathers. There was even a stunning-looking horse with a slate-grey coat speckled with chalk-white markings; its appearance was met with shouts of approval and head nodding. After much yelling between the auctioneer and interested buyers, it was sold for a high price.
Shan Hu soon took over the proceedings. Stacked along one side of the market were large crates of goods. Ling winced; the crates were marked “Tribute Tea” with the insignia of her father’s business. Other crates were being opened as Shan Hu called out the items to be sold. Raw turquoise, garnets, and rocks with gold veins—goods that her parents had brought with them from their county in Hubei. Ling hated that Shan Hu’s filthy hands were scooping up the precious stones to show off to the bidders. All the goods sold quickly. Then there was only Ling left.
“How much for this rare specimen?” shouted her captor, pulling her closer to the centre of the market with the rope that wound around her torso. He sniggered suggestively. “She’s not going to bite! Come on, get closer for a look-see.”
Ling bit her lower lip. Only dead things were specimens.
“When has anyone in these parts ever seen such a pair of eyes?”
Ling shuddered. What a fake, sweet tone. She gritted her teeth. Maybe it was good that she hadn’t died. If she managed to escape, she vowed that she would return someday and avenge her parents’ deaths.
Oily Face stepped toward her and unabashedly stared. Ling pulled away, mustering as much saliva as she could, aimed at Oily Face’s forehead right between his bushy, unkempt eyebrows. His face took on an even more disagreeable countenance as he grimaced and wiped off the offending gob with the back of his hand.
Ling felt the hard slap of Shan Hu’s hand against the side of her head. “Good-for-nothing turd! This what I get, keeping you alive?”
Even though her body was confined, she refused to be cowed. She spun around and clamped her teeth down hard on hi
s arm. Shan Hu let out a loud yelp of pain and, with his other arm, yanked hard at the rope.
Ling was pulled backward, and her body smashed against the opened crate of precious stones. She struggled to get up, but didn’t see the planks and tripped. She felt a sharp pain at her right ankle. Shan Hu stood over her, waving a blade close to her throat. He snarled, “Behave, or I will have to slice up that tongue of yours and make a pickled delicacy out of it.”
A few men in the public square laughed. But an elderly woman called out in a quivering voice, “Don’t hurt her! She’s a child.”
Waves of tremors overcame Ling. She choked back tears, which pooled in her eyes and blurred her vision. Her hands were tied behind her back, but they discovered the edges of a stone on the ground. She closed a fist over it.
She looked past the auctioneer and saw a strange mist appear. It shimmered a light yellowish-gold. A slight movement of air stirred across the reddish-brown earth.
“Arrgh!!” Shan Hu screamed, his eyes widening as he clutched his belly and groaned. Pushed back by some mysterious power, he flew past Ling until he hit his head against some crates. Shan Hu moaned, pressing a palm against his left ear. Blood trickled from his ear down his neck.
“Sir, how much for this creature?” The voice seemed to have come out of nowhere. It carried silence within it, shattering the rowdy atmosphere. The hairs on the back of Ling’s neck stood up. She turned her head to look in the direction of the voice.
Her serene face beamed down at Ling. The woman had a long mane of thick black hair that she wore in an unusual fashion, partly braided, partly coiled like a snake at the back of her head. She wore white robes with a thin purple border, black trousers underneath, and hemp sandals. She wasn’t tall, but her body seemed to radiate an intense strength. It was hard to guess how old she might be. Her skin was a honeyed brown—it made Ling think of certain kinds of amber, the ones that were a darker shade. The woman wore a pendant that hung in front of her heart, a yin-yang symbol.