by Lydia Kwa
Ling pointed the tip of the sword at his throat. “Hands behind your back,” Ling commanded. She forced him to lean back even farther until he was precariously on the verge of falling over the edge of the railing.
“You have a very nice sword. It slices so well.”
Sweat was pouring off Shan Hu. “Please … please … spare me!” His legs felt wobbly.
Ling wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her sleeve. “I bet you stole it from someone, didn’t you? Can’t fool me. You don’t do justice to this beautiful weapon.”
“Oh, how delicious!” sighed Qilan. “This moment reminds me of Zhuangzi’s famous fable about Cook Ding. You know the story?”
The musicians nodded their heads enthusiastically, but Shan Hu was too terrified to respond.
“Cook Ding knew how to cut up oxen so well that his knife was sharp for nineteen years. Nineteen! As sharp as the day he bought it. Can you imagine?”
By this time, a crowd had gathered on the floor below, intently watching the scene unfold.
“As I was saying, this Cook Ding fellow. He was a good Daoist, you know. One of us. As Zhuangzi tells it—let me recall—it goes like this: Cook Ding said, when I first began cutting up oxen, all I could see was the ox itself. After three years, I no longer saw the whole ox. And now—now, I look at it according to my spirit and don’t look with my eyes. Something like that. Then Zhuangzi goes on about the knife going through the big openings, missing the tendons. Nice and clean.”
The crowd laughed and cheered. Someone shouted from below, “Kill him! We’re tired of being bullied.”
Someone else yelled, “He’s stolen money from us and defiled our women. It’s time to get rid of him!”
“Please don’t. I beg you.” Shan Hu quaked with fright.
Ling pressed the tip of the sword ever so slightly against his neck, causing a trickle of blood to appear.
The stink of urine permeated the air. What a pathetic coward he is, thought Ling. Her heart pounded hard in her chest. It took all her restraint not to finish him off. She could make him suffer long and hard before killing him. She was heaving from the exertion, but strangely enough, a sense of peace descended upon her. She pondered the fable about Cook Ding. She surmised that many onlookers at the tavern might understand the fable literally—it was about knives, cutting up oxen. Shan Hu was the ox up for slaughter.
Ling had heard the story from Qilan in the early days at Da Fa Temple. She knew it was a story that Zhuangzi used to demonstrate the secret of caring for life. It was about how to perceive the easiest way to move, how to wield one’s weapons with ease. And then one no longer needed to be guided by the eyes, but according to one’s spirit instead.
A vision came upon Ling. Shan Hu began to shrink, his torso growing smaller and smaller while his head stayed large. She saw the terror in his eyes—an image of herself reflected in them. How pitifully weak he was.
When the vision passed, she understood. Only a coward could commit heinous acts of violence. The thought came to her, If I kill this scoundrel, I would be no better than him.
“Turn around. Face the audience below.”
With the sword aimed at the base of his neck, Ling used her free hand to press a few points on Shan Hu’s back to immobilize him. His arms and legs twitched, then his whole body went limp.
She turned around and drove the sword firmly through Shan Hu’s fur hat, impaling it on the table before she took the rope that hung on her belt and wound it around Shan Hu, trussing him up before the effects of the dian xue immobilization wore off.
She looked down the stairs to the floor below. “Hey, send up those pig trotters the man ordered, will you? Hurry up! And bring me ink and brush! Don’t dally!”
The crowd below began to murmur among themselves.
Ling returned to the table. Her fists were bruised and her knuckles red. Qilan smiled at Ling who was still breathing hard from the fight. Sweat dripped down her forehead onto the table. The nun fished out a handkerchief from inside her sleeve and wiped Ling’s face and neck. Next she poured some wine onto the cloth and wiped the blood from Ling’s lip, which was starting to swell.
Ling picked up her chopsticks and resumed eating, even though her mouth hurt.
The tavern owner appeared with the tray of food and wine, and his assistant, now swooning with admiration for the young woman warrior, brought a tray with an inkstone, a small bowl of water, and an ink stick, along with a brush. Ling proceeded to create ink by rubbing the stick up and down against the stone while adding water slowly. Before long, she was ready.
She went over to Shan Hu and ripped off the shredded tatters of his shirt, exposing a broad writing surface, albeit a bit damp with sweat. She grabbed the towel that was slung over the innkeeper’s shoulder and wiped Shan Hu’s back dry.
She wrote on Shan Hu’s back:
A scoundrel who failed to know
The value of others
His every slash and stab diminished him
Qilan watched and nodded approvingly. “Excellent.”
Ling sat back down and sampled the pickled pork trotters. Dealing with Shan Hu caused her to feel quite famished.
By the time she was done with her meal, the effects of the dian xue were wearing off. Shan Hu started to move, but struggle as he might, he couldn’t free himself from the ropes.
Qilan tilted her head in Shan Hu’s direction. “Now what?”
Ling frowned and looked at the crowd of people gawking up at them. “We’re going to parade him through Huazhou.”
They paid for their food and drink, then dragged Shan Hu downstairs and outside. A large crowd was waiting—men with lanterns and torches, women with their children, the elderly carried on the backs of donkeys or supported by younger men and women.
Ling addressed the crowd. “This man robbed my parents of their cargo of tea and precious stones. He then murdered my father and raped my mother. Overcome with shame, she killed herself. He threw their dead bodies into the canal. For almost four years, my need for revenge fuelled me. Some of you believe he deserves to die, don’t you?”
The crowd cheered. Then Ling raised her arms to call for silence.
“I thought I wanted him dead. But then, when I fought him, something changed for me. I got close to feeling … like him—murderous, treacherous, ugly. If I kill him, I will be no different. I don’t want to become like him. So I’m going to take him to a special place so that he won’t be able to harm anyone anymore.”
“Are you going to lock him up?” asked an old woman up front in a shaky voice.
“Where we are taking him, he will be imprisoned by his own fears.”
“Take him away from us!”
Ling and Qilan rode out, dragging Shan Hu behind them.
When they reached the edge of the Forest of Illusions, Ling and Qilan dismounted. Qilan addressed Shan Hu. “There are caves in the forest. You’ll find one without too much difficulty. You could forage for nuts and seeds.”
Qilan cast a spell on Shan Hu before they untied him, put his coat and hat back on him, and gave him a pack with dried pork wrapped up in leaves and water in a gourd. He stumbled into the forest, locked in a trance.
Qilan raised her right hand and pointed the tips of her fingers in Shan Hu’s direction. She mumbled some words, which Ling didn’t understand. They watched him disappear into the darkness.
As they got back on their horses, Qilan explained. “I made sure he won’t come to any harm. He’ll always have enough food and water, but won’t be able to find his way out of the forest for quite some time.”
“How long? You’re not going to prevent him from leaving?”
“No. He can leave once he’s overcome his fears and he’s no longer dangerous.”
They rode hard, through a light snow. The road was dark, but the stars and moonlight were sufficient to guide them until they reached the city just before the drums signalled the beginning of the night curfew.
At the templ
e, Qilan put extra coals into the braziers in her private room. Ling winced from the sting of the tincture as Qilan cleaned the caked blood from the top of her lip. Ling rinsed her mouth several times with warm salt water. Qilan applied ointment to Ling’s bruised hands and wrapped them with gauze.
“Did I make a mistake, Qilan?” asked Ling as the nun placed poultices on Ling’s bruises.
“What mistake?”
“Should I have killed him? All these years of waiting for that moment. And yet …”
“It takes courage and power not to kill someone, especially the very person you have reason to despise.”
Of course she didn’t regret not killing him. She just didn’t understand her own confusion, the surge of emotions and the sudden onset of tremors. She began to weep without restraint. She hadn’t wept like this since the first time she met Qilan. She lay her head against Qilan’s chest and felt the warm, comforting embrace of her beloved benefactor.
It was all she needed. No words passed between them for a long time.
Start of new reign period
Linde
Lichun Jieqi,
Start of Spring, First Lunar Month of the New Year,
New Moon
GREAT ULTIMATE HALL AT TAIJIGONG, NORTH CENTRAL CHANG’AN
The Empress was dressed in a new robe that matched that of the Emperor’s except that hers was emblazoned with phoenixes frolicking with qilin creatures and inlaid with gold threads and small precious stones. The Emperor’s robe, although grand, was quite conventional, embroidered with agile dragons moving through clouds.
At the entrance to the Great Ultimate Hall, at the top of the stairs leading down to the ceremonial courtyard, the rulers sat on their thrones, side-by-side, on a raised dais. After years of making decisions on the Emperor’s behalf during his bouts of illness, sitting behind a veil, Wu Zhao finally no longer had to defer to appearances.
In the ceremonial courtyard below were hundreds of guests—ministers, officials, and dignitaries from vassal states and far-flung kingdoms. Gloriously flowering plum blossom trees rimmed the circumference of the courtyard.
At the bellowing prompt of the Head of the Guards, the musicians raised the long trumpets made of rhinoceros horn and blew the anthem for ushering in spring. This was the cue for the ministers and officials to call out, “Wansui, wansui, wansui. Long live the Emperor! Long live the Empress!”
Since his setback almost four years before, Li Zhi had regained some function of his limbs, but he still required help to move from his throne and down the long flights of steps. He limped slowly ahead of Wu Zhao as they approached the incense urn in the immense courtyard.
Wu Zhao lit three sticks of incense then bowed to the four directions before planting them in the urn. Standing before the crowd gathered at the foot of the steps, Wu Zhao raised her arms to command silence.
When there was complete quiet, the Emperor leaned toward her and whispered into her ear. Wu Zhao nodded then spoke, as if simply relaying Li Zhi’s words. “The Emperor wishes to decree this as the start of a new reign year, Linde. Throughout history, the qilin appears to signal the presence of sages and illustriousness. Heaven continues to sanction our rule. We proclaim that our reign of wisdom and moral uprightness will herald blessings for all.”
After the Emperor and Empress ascended the steps and returned to their thrones, the guests in attendance also ascended the steps partway. The trumpets were raised and their fanfare announced the entry of the eight dancers dressed as the head, body, and tail of the chimerical qilin. The creature’s body was covered with bright gold scales and ten thousand sequins, its head large, resembling in part that of a dragon’s. The dancers whose legs represented the creatures’ many limbs wore short boots that looked like cloven hooves.
As the sheng flute players began their refrain, the qilin prowled the courtyard, sniffing at the incense urn. Its enormous eyes blinked occasionally, its long lashes quivering with the movement of the dancer moving its head. A solitary musician played his set of bells, a tinkling melody that represented the voice of the qilin.
The creature performed a fast-paced dance, its body gleaming in the midmorning sun. Toward the end of its performance, the creature reared upward, each dancer balancing himself on the thighs of the one below him, so that the qilin’s head reached up to the top of a pole. A gem that swung from a string on the pole disappeared into the animal’s mouth.
The qilin then exited the ceremonial courtyard, followed by the troupe of dancers and musicians.
Yushui Jieqi,
Rain Water,
First Lunar Month, Full Moon
WESTERN MARKET, WEST CENTRAL CHANG’AN
Ling was familiar with the Western Market, having followed either Old Chen or Qilan or one of the other nuns here once or twice a month to shop for supplies. She loved the bustle of the place, and it seemed to her that in the past four years she hadn’t completely explored all the varieties of stalls in this enormous market.
It was toward the end of the Hour of the Snake when the sun drew close to its zenith. Despite the cold weather, the sky was an intense clear blue.
Qilan and Ling stopped at the stall that sold steamed dumplings. They each gobbled down six dumplings and a long stick of deep-fried pastry dipped in soy milk, making the requisite slurps of appreciation.
After their meal, they headed over to the Persian Bazaar, the section of the market that Ling loved the most, especially the stalls that sold gemstones, some tumbled, some rough. The first time Qilan brought her here, it was soon after Ling entered Da Fa Temple. At that time, they’d chosen a lovely black leather string that the merchant fashioned into a kind of web to enclose her turquoise stone. Now, they walked down the narrow aisle, between the shops on either side.
“What are you looking for, Missies?” cooed a seller standing next to the specimens of elephant tusks. As they passed the shops, the sellers called out their offerings. The bazaar was a maze of colours and possibilities. Qilan took them through several turns in the labyrinth until they arrived at one corner of the market, where an elderly merchant sat on a stool outside his stall, smoking his water pipe.
“Do you have it?” asked Qilan who bowed, palms together, to the man.
Without answering, the man got up and went to the back of the shop. He was gone for quite a while. His son and daughter-in-law tended to customers while their infant son slept soundly, tucked into a quilted basket next to the heat of the coal brazier. When he eventually returned, he handed a tiny box to Qilan. She in turn brought out two silver ingots from her pouch and dropped them into his open palm.
On the way out of the market, they passed a large crowd watching a magician. The young man—who could not have been much older than Ling—displayed a length of rope that stood upright, stiff and firm as a pole, and rose high in the air. He shimmied up the rope. The spectators craned their necks to keep the performer in their sights. When he was about twenty-five chi from the ground, the man stretched out his body at an angle, away from the rope, his arms strong and extended. He then released his hold on the rope, launched into air, and somersaulted repeatedly until he landed on the ground, his boots making a loud, slapping sound. He stretched his arms up in victory. There was a flurry of applause, then several people dropped copper coins into his tin on the ground.
By the time Qilan and Ling returned to the temple, the drums from the towers signalled the Hour of the Horse. After joining the last half of the morning meditation, they skipped the noon-day meal, Qilan indicating to Ling to follow her to her study.
“It’s been a month since our return from Huazhou. You’ve recovered from your physical injuries. I think your invisible wounds are also mending quite well.”
Ling nodded, then sighed. She supposed so, even though she felt a slight pang of sadness whenever she recalled her parents.
“So I think …” Qilan paused, her brows drawing closer together. “this is a good time to tell you my story.”
Ling’s heart sp
ed up slightly. This was the moment she had been patiently waiting for.
Qilan squeezed Ling’s hand firmly while holding her gaze. “Promise me that you won’t disclose my secret.”
“I promise.”
Qilan took a long, deep breath. “I’m sure you know from your time with me that I am different than other humans.” She flashed a mischievous look at Ling, who returned it with a nod. “For one thing, my mother is a fox spirit. She crossed into the human realm and lived with my father on the outskirts of Chang’an. Would you say I am part human, part fox? I prefer to call myself a third kind of creature.”
“A third kind …” Ling cast her mind back to the first few days with Qilan, recalling various details she had noticed. She had never met a fox spirit before; it was unfathomable. All she knew was how she felt when she was close to Qilan—a feeling that words could never describe.
“Once my father achieved recognition as a scholar and official, he had to enter Chang’an to work in a government department. But my mother couldn’t follow him.”
“Why not?”
“Fox spirits cannot exist in the city. They are wild creatures. The political sphere of humans, even the life of the city, leads to quick death for them.”
“Them? But what about you? You’ve been here in the city all these years.”
“Since I’m the child of a human and a fox spirit, I have the capacity to exist in both realms.”
“Did your father live with you?”
“He’d enter the city to work and return a few times a month to see us. Then, one day, everything changed. We lost Father, the man we knew as Xie.”
Ling took a deep breath before she asked, “What happened to him?”
“He became possessed.”