Oracle Bone

by Lydia Kwa

  “If you would allow, Venerable One, I will do my best to reduce the pain and weakness. But I cannot cure you of this condition. Follow my advice, and we might prolong your life a bit longer.” He regarded Xuanzang with a sombre expression.

  “Not only curious, but slightly impudent too, I see.” A big smile stretched across the monk’s face, revealing his missing teeth. A whiff of something odorous escaped. Harelip blinked and held his breath.

  “All right, all right. How about I sleep a few more hours each night, meaning I won’t arise as early. How’s that?”

  “How about you go to bed a few hours earlier? Might I also suggest more deep-breathing exercises? In addition to what you already do, of course. In that time between the second and third watch?” replied Harelip, with a suggestive tilt of his head toward the palm leaves lying on the table.

  “You know my schedule, do you?”

  “I am only surmising that you don’t go to bed too early.”

  “Well, because my mind is engrossed with all the work I have to complete.”

  “Unlike our Emperor, who is kept up late for other reasons.”

  Xuanzang feigned a look of surprise, but Harelip detected a mischievous glint in his eyes.

  “Do you know this exercise?” Harelip stood up and demonstrated the movements, starting with his palms facing each other in front of his belly, then separating them, stretching the arms out until one palm faced Heaven, the other faced Earth, then bringing the hands toward the centre, close to his dan tien, reversing the position of the hands as his arms stretched out once again.

  “Is that all?”

  “This one as well.” Harelip stood in a wide stance and placed his hands on his upper thighs, twisting his torso as if to look up and back at the ceiling. “This one will help your breathing.”

  “How many times?”

  “Start with six of each. Then work up to twelve, if you can.”

  Xuanzang huffed, “Of course I can.”

  The main drum tower in the north sounded the hundred and eight beats for the dawn watch—eighteen fast beats followed by eighteen slow beats repeated another two times. This was echoed by the bells in the central, east, and west towers in the city. The bell tower in the monastery’s main courtyard soon responded with clanging. It was time for morning prayers in the Great Hall, yet Xuanzang showed no indication he wished their visit to end.

  Harelip tucked his things back into his satchel, adjusted his robes, and cleared his throat, trying to hint that he needed to leave soon.

  As if guessing Harelip’s thoughts, Xuanzang said, “Don’t worry about the morning meditation. I’ve already sent word we will be late.”

  Harelip nodded, not sure what to do next. He stood where he was, feeling awkward. What else did Xuanzang wish him to do?

  “My whole life’s work. I dragged those precious Buddhist scriptures back, with so many tribulations along the way. Now we’re rendering them into Chinese, so that many can hear and read the Dharma and have the chance to become liberated. I know there’s never any guarantee. People turn a deaf ear all the time. That’s none of my business, though. I know what I have to do. So you see, dear boy, I need to live long enough to finish the work of translation. I simply must.” His voice faltered, and he wheezed from the exertion. He took a few sips of tea. “And yet … there’s something in me that longs for a return to that sanctuary on Mount Shaoshi …” His eyes stared past Harelip.

  Harelip sensed the power of Xuanzang’s longing. It made him think of his own.

  “You know that the Sanskrit word ‘tatha’ means ‘thusness’?”

  “Yes, as in Tathagatha.”

  “One who has discerned the truth of emptiness. You see, I’m consoled whenever I meditate on emptiness. Especially in these trying times.” He raised his right index finger. “I do meditate, or else where would I be? Dead, ages ago!” His voice sank to a whisper. “So much I don’t know. Will I finish my translation work before I die? Will the Emperor continue his support of the project? I just don’t know.” A sigh shook his chest.

  Harelip felt a twinge of affection toward the monk. “Venerable Master, in your struggles, the Dharma has given you much comfort.”

  “Refusing to get swept up in fears. Aren’t I one to talk?”

  “Your candour is admirable, Venerable One.”

  Xuanzang made a flourishing gesture in the air. “Never mind the flattery. Go make up some brews for me.”

  “Most certainly. But please remember—the brews would be more effective if you reduced the amount of strain.”

  Xuanzang stared at Harelip and made some clucking noises. The young monk had a healthy backbone. Other monks would be quaking in their sandals at the slightest increase of volume in his voice. They would never dare ask him such personal questions.

  After Harelip left, Xuanzang felt morose and his mind drifted. He turned to lie on his side, trying to find a comfortable position. He was utterly drained. He didn’t want to be Abbot any longer. The city was noisy with too many people, and then there were his endless obligations. Duty, it was always about duty for him.

  THE INNER PALACE AT TAIJIGONG, NORTH CENTRAL CHANG’AN

  Cries of alarm rang through the hallways of the Inner Palace.

  “The Emperor! The Emperor!” shouted a eunuch guard. Other guards speedily echoed the first alarm.

  Wu Zhao had been sleeping in her chambers across the pond. She ordered the maidservants to dress her and prepare her quickly. The chief guard soon arrived in the outer reception hall.

  “Your Highness, the situation is dire.”

  “Have the Imperial physician summoned immediately!”

  “It has been done, Your Highness.”

  When she arrived at Li Zhi’s chambers, the first thing she noticed was that his gaze was different; his eyes were glazed over and failed to track her presence. Li Zhi’s left side was dramatically contracted, and drool issued from that side of his mouth.

  The Imperial physician’s arrival was soon announced. He rushed in and hastily bowed to the Empress before checking the Emperor’s pulses and breathing. He unfurled his pouch of needles, laying them out on the side table. One needle, two, many around his head and on his arms. When he was finally done, the Imperial physician’s face was pale from anxiety, and beads of sweat formed above his upper lip. He furrowed his brow as he wrote out a list of herbs on the prescription sheet, which he then handed over to his assistant and dispatched him with haste to the Imperial apothecary.

  Kneeling before the Empress, the Imperial physician said with a faltering voice, “Your Highness, the Emperor has suffered a serious setback. He had regained some strength after suffering the last episode, but he is now completely paralyzed on his left side. His eye on that side is unable to focus well, and he is unable to speak at this time.”

  Wu Zhao looked past the kneeling physician to the limp body on the bed. This reminds me of the time his father lay dying, she thought. She had been on her way out of Li Shimin’s bedchamber with the basin of water, and Li Zhi had brazenly blocked the corridor. She could see that he was aroused, his jade stalk pushing out against his gown. She quickly knelt before him, close to his erection, and splashed herself with some of the water from the basin. “Your Highness, your golden dew blesses my humble presence.” Hearing his moan of approval, she reached under his gown and worked him to a suitable climax.

  Wu Zhao brought herself back into the present and regarded the Imperial physician with as solemn an expression as she could muster.

  The Imperial physician threw himself on the floor and hit his head against it as a show of obeisance. He lifted his face up just enough to clasp his hands together in reverence. “Your Highness, I am indeed no longer sure I can do much more.”

  “I see.”

  She contemplated what to do next. She must appear shocked. Devastated. She went to Li Zhi’s side and sat on the kang. She wrapped her hand around his limp wrist and thought of things that saddened her—men at court who had
failed to support her, women who plotted her downfall. And the worst—having to wait for several years before the Feng and Shan rituals.

  A dull pain crept into her gut, just below her ribs. There was so much she needed to express. Yet no one could really understand her private anguish. Her lower lip trembled, and the tears began to flow.

  DA CI’EN MONASTERY, SOUTHEASTERN CHANG’AN

  Rain muffled the sounds filtering in from outside. The hard staccato of clappers drifted in, accompanied by the voices of those whose occupation was to call out the passage of time. Harelip listened to the soothing rhythm of raindrops hitting the tiles of the roof. He wished that he too could be deep in sleep, but try as he might, all that he had managed were a few twists and turns on his straw mat. He listened to the bullfrogs out in the dark marsh and wondered what they were saying.

  He got up from his mat and walked outside to stand under the eaves, shielded from the downpour. The canopy of water reminded Harelip of a small waterfall he had accidentally discovered as a boy. How he had loved stepping on the mossy stones, then climbing upward by slow increments as his fingers pressed into the rock face, searching for the slightest indentations, the reassuring textures he could cling to. This tender recollection brought a slight smile to his lips.

  That boy of nine sui had taken a break from digging for the roots his father was expecting him to find when he reached a cave behind the waterfall. He had stood inside the mouth of the cave, his clothes and sandals soaked from the spray, his mouth agape, watching that forceful rush of water, a veil that separated him from the forest. That was such a long time ago, Harelip thought, as he stretched out his left hand and closed his eyes to better enjoy the cool drip of water against his open palm. His feline friend Maya pawed at his sandals. Harelip bent down and scooped the cat up in his arms. It was past midnight. Maya’s green eyes were slits at this time of night. He studied her face, white-whiskered with a black forehead and nose. He closed his eyes for a few moments, relishing the purring of the cat’s body against his own. When he opened his eyes, he looked out again at the rain.

  His parents had taught him how to know the world of plants and minerals not only by looking at them, but also by touching them, to sense what they were like beneath their outer appearance. It was perfectly natural that he would extend his exploration to humans—the textures of skin, muscle, sinew, and bone, and what lay beneath—energy, blood, and qi.

  Harelip sighed, remembering that he first entered the monastery at fifteen sui. His parents wanted to spare him—but he wasn’t sure whether they or he had a harder time with the taunts of others. It wasn’t easy at first. He wasn’t happy at the first monastery, an offshoot of Da Ci’en, in the small town Huaxian, close to Mount Hua. Being in a religious order was no guarantee against cruelty from others. And being in a small monastery made it a lot worse; there was no anonymity, and no one took his side against the bullies.

  Despite the taunts, it was clear that he had inherited some gifts from his parents and knew a great deal about the healing power of herbs. He welcomed the invitation to travel to Chang’an and apprentice with the master herbalist at Da Ci’en. He learned so much from that monk, who had been in charge of the apothecary for thirty some years before he passed on. At least he’d had twelve years with his mentor.

  The last time he saw his parents, they’d come to the monastery to make offerings at Autumn Equinox. That was last year. He’d noticed how much they’d aged over the years and was grateful that his younger brother was taking care of them.

  Harelip scratched Maya between the eyes, which made the cat purr even more vigorously. “Are you happy, Maya?” he asked, enjoying how the rhythmic hum travelled up his arms.

  Truths are seldom simple. He supposed he had been reasonably happy. Or was it more a matter of uneventful peace? At Da Ci’en, he had gained a certain freedom. Free of bullying, he even gained respect. What he despised were the rules and edicts issuing from the Emperor that seemed to be about his whims and impulses, changing from time to time, depending on His Majesty’s moods. His thoughts turned to Xuanzang. What would the Master actually do? Would he simply accelerate his pace of work for fear of not finishing his project before dying? He didn’t quite believe that Xuanzang would work less. Harelip didn’t envy Xuanzang having to juggle Imperial requests with his commitment to the translation work.

  Forks of lightning tore through the darkness. Harelip started to count, under his breath, “one miao … two miao … three …” before the rumble sounded ever closer. The cracks of thunder reverberated through him, unsettling him. Maya wriggled out of Harelip’s embrace and wandered off to her next adventure. Harelip withdrew his hands into his sleeves and shuddered.

  Was it the city that made him lonelier? He recalled Tao Yuanming’s poem. Did he long for hills and mountains too? The answer was clearly yes. Sometimes he went to Mount Hua to gather certain roots and herbs. He had encountered spirits there and encountered the mountain’s magic. It was the mountain of his youth. The spirits recognized him and weren’t unkind to him.

  How did the poet Tao Yuanming refer to the world of men? This dusty web. Chang’an was reputed to be the largest city in the world, a place filled with many kinds of temples for as many kinds of worshippers as one could imagine. It was truly a web of tremendous complexity and colour. For the most part, he liked living in a sanctuary while being able to venture out into that swirl of activity and variety. Still, there was too much noise here. The moments of pure silence were rare. Even the announcement of time was an assault on the ears—the drums, the bell, the wooden clapper, and then the chanting out of the passing moments. So much anxiety over time passing. At least on nights like this there were pure sounds from nature that provided some soothing comfort—the rain, the chorus of bullfrogs, the occasional call of a mynah.

  Harelip pictured Xuanzang travelling for all those years across barren landscapes, through mountainous regions, perhaps fighting his own inner demons on cold winter nights while shivering next to the dying embers of a fire. Had the famous monk longed for the warmth of another’s body? He must have lusts, surely, Venerable Master or not, thought Harelip. He was a man, and hence prone to carnal stirrings. Before he could think about his own cravings, Harelip shivered and then stifled a sneeze.

  He felt a tiny jab on his right forearm. Instantly, without a second thought, he brought his left palm down on the spot and swore loudly. Too late—the mosquito was killed before Harelip remembered that he was supposed to observe the precept of not killing. That made him swear a second time.

  So who had said he had to be above reproach? He helped alleviate the sufferings of the monks, yet he killed little creatures that annoyed him. Now and then, a few unsavory words escaped from his mouth. That was just the way he was.

  He yawned. He had better get some sleep. He mustn’t worry too much about the famous monk.

  Xuanzang felt the hiss of their hot tongues at the back of his neck. He sprinted up the mountain with speed and agility, then scaled the precipitous peak while keeping a hair’s breadth ahead of the long-tailed creatures chasing him. Their mouths spewed far-reaching flames. The sulphurous odour entered his lungs. He coughed and choked as he barely kept ahead of them. His feet seemed to float on air as he ascended the cliff face. He found himself groping along the walls of a dark cave, though light beamed from the animals’ eyes and pierced the darkness, allowing him to see his way as he ran farther inside. Numerous labyrinthine twists later, he stumbled on a large mural painted on one wall, a magnificent painting of Buddha surrounded by countless arhats and disciples.

  He shivered awake. Only in his dream could he, a man of fifty-nine sui, be capable of such stupendous athleticism. He shook his head vigorously several times as if to dislodge the creatures from his mind. Those beasts were gigantic, and their vicious jaws had snapped just a few cun shy of his robes. He struggled out of bed, his knees stiff and painful.

  At the wash basin, while removing sleep from his eyes, he realized that
the monsters in his dream looked familiar to him, with their multiple eyes and long tails. Why would that be? he mused.

  The bell from the tower signalled it was time for morning meditation. He walked over to his cabinet of old books, pulled out the copy of the Shanhaijing , The Classic of Mountains and Seas, and quickly flipped to the section called Great Wilderness. There it was, a drawing of the Zhulong with an accompanying description:

  Beyond the northwest seas, north of the River Scarlet, a mountain exists shaped like the tail of the creatures that live on it. When the sun rises, the light reflects on the mountain as if it were a luminescent tail, hence its name Brilliant Tail. Creatures that live here are half god and half human with human faces and crimson serpentine bodies. They are called Zhulong, Torch Dragons. These Zhulong beings have a row of five vertical eyes that form a seam or scar on their faces. When a Zhulong deity closes its eyes, there is darkness. When it opens its eyes, there is light. Zhulong neither eat nor sleep nor breathe. They subsist on elements in the atmosphere by absorbing nutrients through their skins. The winds and rains are at their beck and call. Zhulong deities shine their torches over the ninefold darkness, bringing light to darkness.

  Xuanzang wrote the characters for the name Zhulong—Zhu, a torch that brings light, or illumination. Then the character for dragon . He stared at the second character and pursed his lips. Why would there be dragons? He sensed that the dream was important, but what was it trying to tell him? So many times in the past, dreams had guided him, granted him wisdom for making critical decisions. Some of his dreams had saved his life. He felt dizzy, as if on the edge of a cliff, about to lose ground. He swayed and grabbed onto the back of a chair and cleared his throat loudly several times. Then he burst out laughing, made nervous by his own vulnerability.

  He lit a stick of incense on the altar. Yet another morning when he lacked the energy to make his way to the large hall for the group meditation. He would stay here, in private, and rest until it was time for the translation work.