by Lydia Kwa
Shan Hu dusted himself off and turned to face the woman. “Where did you come from?” he asked. “What in Heaven’s name are you talking about?”
The woman raised her tone, her eyes suddenly wide and fierce. “I said, how much for this creature?” Ling shivered when the woman’s lips flared back to bare her teeth.
“I’ll give her to you for a thousand strings of cash,” he replied, eyeing the woman suspiciously. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the blood away from his face and neck.
“Aren’t you conducting an illegal sale? She looks like a Chinese to me, not a foreigner or an aboriginal from the South. You know very well that’s a capital offence.”
Oily Face was grinning and nodding his head. “That’s right. Execution by strangulation.”
“How dare you!” Shan Hu snarled.
“How about we settle the sale with this? I promise I won’t report you to my friends in the Tang court.” She pulled out a silver ingot from within her left sleeve without hesitation.
Shan Hu’s eyes widened in surprise. He stared at the yin-yang pendant on the woman’s chest. “Aren’t you clergy? Some kind of nun? Must be, dressed like that. You religious folk have peculiar habits. None of my business how you spend your money.”
The woman said nothing but looked firmly at him.
“A holy person like you comes to a dirty, polluted market offering so much money for a young girl?” Shan Hu leered at the nun with a sly, suggestive look. He lost no time in reaching out for the ingot in the woman’s open palm, but she pulled her hand away too quickly.
“Is that meant to be a yes?” The nun’s eyes flashed brightly at him.
He grunted.
She opened her palm again, the sliver ingot catching a gleam of sunlight. “Either you take this, or we’ll be standing here all day playing stupid games, Insult-the-Nun or Snatch-the-Emptiness.”
“Good one, good one!” came a voice from the crowd. A few onlookers laughed loudly.
Shan Hu snorted, his face puffy and red. Oily Face, watching from a safe distance, yelled out, “She’s right. Those eyes are too weird. Maybe she’s possessed. Do you want to risk getting caught for banditry? You know the punishment. Strangulation, huh?” He scurried back into the inn as soon as he shouted this out.
Shan Hu pursed his lips together tightly. He should take the silver. He was no fool, but he didn’t like being insulted. And who in this town would dare report him anyway? But this dark-skinned woman was an outsider. Was she lying when she said she would report him?
The square became hushed as people waited to see what Shan Hu would do. He scowled and fumed in silence. Oily Face had a point. The girl had been nothing but trouble from the moment she was captured. He wasn’t going to risk dragging her around to the next town.
He stretched out his hand and nodded. “All right, uh … your … Your Reverence.”
The nun threw the silver up into the air, and Shan Hu caught it in his mud-caked hand, then bit into it, just to make sure. He sliced the ropes off Ling’s hands and feet with his knife. The woman didn’t lose a moment and grasped Ling’s arm firmly to guide her away as Shan Hu tucked the ingot into the purse on his belt.
“Oww, oww!” Ling cringed. A sharp pain travelled up her right heel, along the outside of her calf. She lifted her foot off the ground. It hung down at an awkward angle, as if unhinged.
The nun squatted down, and gestured to Ling to climb atop her back. Ling hobbled forward. Still clutching the small stone in one hand, she wrapped her arms around the nun’s neck. She was hoisted up, her legs firmly held against the nun’s hips, and swiftly taken away from the auction. Ling looked back, wondering what had happened to that Heavensent butterfly. It had vanished, almost as suddenly as it had appeared.
When they reached a quiet alley, the nun paused at a water pump. She bent low so that Ling could climb off. Ling did not put much weight on her injured foot and limped toward the water pump. Her mysterious rescuer cupped some water in her hands and offered it to Ling who took a tentative sip then quickly drained all of it. She hadn’t realized until then how thirsty she was. She drank two more offerings of water in the same manner.
The nun sat on a rock and wiped her forehead with a handkerchief. She picked up a stick and with it wrote two characters in the reddish-brown earth, , saying as she did, “My name is Qilan, Rare Orchid. You may call me by this name only when we’re alone. But in front of others, please call me Sister Orchid.”
Ling simply nodded, aware of an inexplicable feeling welling up in her chest. What was it? It was soft and tender, that sensation. She looked at the characters written on the ground. Without a doubt, there was only one meaning for Lan, which was Orchid. But the first character was an entirely different thing altogether; it could mean either rare or strange. Wasn’t it sometimes the case that a strange thing was also rare, rising above the ordinary, making it much more noticeable? But not all strange things were rare, surely.
Qilan passed the stick to Ling. “Now, show me your name.”
“Ling,” the girl replied in a brisk tone and shook her head in refusal. She withdrew her hand and clasped the small stone more tightly in her fist behind her back.
“Yes … but which one?” Qilan politely insisted.
More head shaking. Ling gingerly passed the stone to her other hand but was still unsure. She cast her gaze toward the ground and thought of her mother admonishing her never to reveal the actual word behind the sound of her name. Her mother had told her to let others assume which character it was. To let others know your true name is to let them have power over you.
She looked at Qilan’s face, which seemed to radiate irresistible warmth. It was hard to say no to that.
“I … I …” Ling blushed, feeling awkward. Her hand reached out and took the stick. She finally wrote her name next to Qilan’s, .
“Ah … Spirit or Soul.”
Head still lowered, Ling felt a slight smile come to her face, despite her nervousness. She would leave it at that. Let the nun think whichever one was right.
“Come on, hop back on. I’m going to take you to a quiet inn where I will tend to your injury. Then we must eat.” Qilan bent down so that Ling could climb up.
As Qilan walked, Ling closed her eyes and leaned into Qilan’s back. She was dizzy with hunger and pain.
Behind them, a light movement of air passed over the ground and erased their names, lifting the hem of the nun’s robes ever so imperceptibly.
They wound their way through what felt like a dizzying maze of alleys. Only an occasional breeze provided relief from the heat. Ling felt buoyed along, as if the nun was not so much walking as floating. A light, sweet scent wafted from Qilan’s hair. It made Ling think of apricots.
Ling looked at the long shadows cast against the wall by the last rays of the sun. She and Qilan formed a silhouette of a beast with two heads and a large curved hump on its back.
By the time they reached a teahouse off the main path, Ling’s face felt hot, and she wheezed a bit from the heat and dust. Unlike Prosperity Tavern, the teahouse was a modest affair, its thatched roof in disrepair. A rough piece of wood for a sign above the entrance read Idle Tea .
The innkeeper rushed out from behind his counter and greeted Qilan with several bows in quick succession, his hands clasped together in deference in front of his heart. The man looked pronouncedly desiccated and reed-like, and his bows were so vigorous that Ling thought he just might break into two at any moment.
“Sister Orchid, it’s been a while since you passed through! So honoured. How auspicious. Please give my greetings to Abbess Si.”
This zealous deference intrigued Ling. You’d think she was some kind of royalty, she mused, the way the old fellow was bowing.
The teahouse had five tables, but only one was taken up by a couple of elderly men. Dried Reed seated Qilan and Ling at the back near the windows that looked onto an inner courtyard. Ling gazed out at a young boy who was picking at his nose with relish, wh
ile half-heartedly minding his charge of two chickens and a pig. Behind him was a stable. Through its open doors, Ling spied a donkey and two horses—one chestnut-coloured, the other a soft grey—and an old man with a sparse goatee tending to the horses. He caught Qilan’s gaze and nodded at her.
Qilan addressed Dried Reed in a firm tone. “We will leave immediately after our meal.” She licked her lips and furrowed her brow. “Let me think … bring chicken fried with leeks, steamed salted fish with egg, green beans with fermented soybeans, three bowls of millet. Any summer garlic? Add a dish of your house pickles.” The innkeeper nodded then scurried off to the kitchen.
Ling placed the unpolished turquoise on the table.
“Your pet?”
Ling didn’t answer. The intimate tone made her uneasy.
“Place your foot here,” gestured Qilan, patting her lap. “I warn you, this will hurt, but I must fix your ankle.”
Ling cautiously lifted her right foot onto Qilan’s lap. She gripped the sides of the stool in preparation. Qilan cradled the heel with one hand then rotated the foot with the other, at first gently, then swiftly, resulting in a sharp clunking sound. Ling gasped loudly. The room began to spin. She steadied her hand against the table, sat up straight, and took a deep breath. She felt her heart speed up. She looked away from Qilan, trying to distract herself with the antics of the boy in the dusty courtyard. He was scattering millet husks and clucking, as if he too were a chicken.
Dried Reed approached their table with a tray holding a large clay teapot and two cups. Ling’s nose picked up the strong smell of the tea as it was poured. It was not the same tea as the one she’d lived with all her life, but it was close enough. It had hints of pine, slightly smoky. It reminded her of home.
Ling shook her head vigorously. “I can’t … the smell …” She threw up a watery mess into the spittoon beneath the table.
Dried Reed snarled disapprovingly. “Your friend has no tongue to wag, but look how well she retches.” He bent down cautiously and extricated the filled spittoon.
“Quite the aim.”
Ling wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She lowered her forehead onto her hands on the table.
The innkeeper returned with a large tray filled with dishes of food along with three bowls of steaming millet.
She raised her head off the table and stared at the food. Her stomach rumbled loudly. “Nuns eat meat?”
“Why, that’s the most you’ve spoken so far!”
Ling’s lips quivered. She tried to stop herself, but the sorrow rose up to her throat, and she began to heave in long, loud gasps. She bent forward and covered her face with her hands, then gave herself up to unrestrained sobbing.
“Merciful Heaven.” Qilan pulled out a mala from inside one of her sleeves and began to chant. Satisfied after doing a round of repetitions, she smiled and stood up and sniffed the array of food loudly.
Next, she scooped portions of food and millet into a bowl and beckoned to Dried Reed. “Give this to my trusty assistant.” Then she turned back to address Ling. “About the meat—let’s just say that I’m not the usual kind of nun. I do indulge occasionally. Especially when I’m away from the temple on some errands.” Qilan’s eyes gleamed as she dipped a finger into the sauce and licked it clean.
Ling wiped off her tears and stared intently at the speed at which Qilan picked up pieces of chicken dripping with sauce and stuffed them into her mouth, grunting as she chomped.
The tiniest soft crease formed on Ling’s forehead, just between her eyes. She stammered, “Wh-where are you from?”
Qilan, mouth full, replied, “Da Fa Temple in Chang’an. And you?”
Ling turned her head away to look out at the courtyard. “Far from here.” She shuddered as the flood of memories welled up.
“Come, drink this cup of hot water before you feel the urge to throw up again.”
Ling took a sip of the hot water. A tremor passed through her.
Qilan put her bowl and chopsticks down and sipped some tea. “Ah, I feel better now.” She burped twice. Loudly. “What happened to you? Where is your family?”
“Gone.” Ling stared into the cup of water.
Qilan waited. The silence stretched on.
“Attacked. Father … murdered. My, my m–m-mother, she … the bandit, he … and then … she slashed …” Ling brought her hand up to her throat and gestured to Qilan what had happened. She felt an ache press against her chest. For an instant, she was her mother, and the pain of dying overtook her.
She coughed uneasily and stared at the darkening sky outside the inn. The centre of her being felt hollowed out, as if she was no longer there physically, no more than an unfettered spirit. Ling reached for the piece of turquoise on the table and clutched it in her right palm. It was the only thing she had that reminded her of life with her parents.
“No other family?”
Ling shook her head. “What’s next? Where …” Words had deserted her.
“Give me your hand.” Qilan pointed to Ling’s left hand.
Qilan lightly pressed the fingers of her own hand at Ling’s wrist. Then she released and waited while Ling transferred her pet turquoise to the left hand. Qilan took Ling’s pulses on the right wrist.
Qilan gently gathered both of Ling’s hands, cupping them between her own, so that their hands closed in together, the turquoise securely in the centre of Ling’s palms. Ling felt a vibrating pulse travel up both arms.
“Now, keep your hands closed.” Qilan used her thumb to press a spot halfway up between the wrist and elbow on the inside of both of Ling’s arms. Qilan burped three times in succession, then stood up, went behind Ling, and placed her thumbs on either side of her neck at the base of her skull.
Ling closed her eyes and felt her breath grow deeper. The nausea slowly subsided. “More water. More. Thirsty,” she mumbled.
The donkey in the courtyard brayed. The boy nattered on to his chickens. Up and down in pitch went his voice, the boy imparting the most important details in soft, round sounds. Ling drank all the water. She looked out to the courtyard and saw that the old man was now sitting on a wood stump and eating.
“Feel better?”
She did feel better, but she didn’t want to look at Qilan or answer her. She looked down at the cup nestled between her palms. She was nervous, all kinds of thoughts racing through her mind. “Why did you save me?”
Qilan smiled. “If someone needs help and I can assist, I don’t hesitate to act.”
Ling’s voice wavered with emotion. “I … don’t know … how I could repay you.”
“No need to repay.”
“Where will I go?”
“I’ll take care of you. I didn’t rescue you from the auction to then abandon you,” Qilan assured her. “Eat up now. Before the food gets cold. Then we’ll start our journey toward Chang’an.”
Ling blurted out, “I must return here some day. To kill …”
“Kill?”
“The murderer.”
“Was it that foul man I took you away from?”
Ling nodded.
“Your thirst for revenge might not remain this compelling as time passes.” Qilan took a slow, loud sip of tea.
“I must.”
“If you still feel so insistent in a few years’ time, I promise you, I’ll bring you back to Huazhou.”
“Help me kill him?”
“Didn’t say that. I’ll bring you back to ferret out that despicable lout. Then you’ll have a chance to decide what you want to do.”
Ling was dumbfounded. The only reason she would seek him out would be to kill him. Or at least die an honourable death while trying to do so.
“Your parents would want you to be happy, rather than be poisoned by your sorrow and anger.”
Her body quaked. How would you know what my parents want?
“Your task now is to get strong.”
“Will you help me become strong?”
“Yes.”
Ling put
the cup of water down on the table because her hands were shaking too much. All that she had known was now lost to her. She resolved that, with Qilan’s help, she would get strong, so strong she would be able to slay Shan Hu one day.
THE INNER PALACE AT TAIJIGONG, NORTH CENTRAL CHANG’AN
Your Majesty,” the Empress coyly whispered as she sidled up to Li Zhi on the couch, “you know how hard it’s been, since those awful women …” She took a quick breath in and held it for a few moments.
The Emperor grimaced. He did not like to see Wu Zhao unhappy. She could be so lovely when she was in a good mood, but when she was displeased she was capable of the worst rages. He shuddered at the memory of her last episode.
He dismissed the maids-in-waiting and turned his attention to placating her. He carefully repositioned a sable cushion behind Wu Zhao’s head and stroked her left hand. “My dear, what else do you wish me to do? After all, I let you have your way with them.”
The sides of Wu Zhao’s rouged mouth turned downward in a dramatic show of displeasure. “There’s something else you haven’t done! You know what it is, surely?”
This made him nervous. He leaned back against the couch, a cleverly constructed frame of tree limbs in the shape of a dragon. “Tell me, my precious plum.” He raised her hand up to his lips and kissed each finger tenderly. “Anything. Anything for you.”
“We need to assign Luoyang as the permanent Eastern Capital. You know that, and still you delay! We must formally recognize it as on par with Chang’an. Then we could move everyone there—the court, the palace—and rule from there.”
“But why would that be necessary? Such a costly move! I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you see how being here is taking a toll on me? The lack of sleep, the nightmares, those ghosts.”
“I have only your word that the ghosts even exist. Are you suggesting we uproot the whole court and palace just because of your nightmares?”