Oracle Bone

by Lydia Kwa

  This was the only occasion when my father could not satisfy my curiosity to an adequate degree.

  I am convinced my father died of disappointment at the age of fifty-nine, perhaps heartbroken over the loss of his benefactor Gaozu and the passing of an era. Disappointed in his sons, unwilling to place too much hope in his daughters. I wished he could have accepted the veracity of Yuan’s prophecy. That might have caused him to live longer.

  How strange we are, mortal beings, full of inconsistencies and contradictions.

  “Your Highness.” Ah Pu approached the entrance of the study and curtsied low.

  Wu Zhao was annoyed at being interrupted. “What is it?”

  “His Majesty would like you to compose some poems for the Lustration party this year.”

  “That is not for another month-and-a-half. Why would he trouble me this very moment with such a burdensome request?”

  Wu Zhao sighed loudly and waved her hand at Ah Pu. “Just go away now. Don’t bother me. Send a message to His Majesty that I am busy.”

  Ah Pu exited promptly.

  Wu Zhao looked out the window and saw the white dove alight on the stone bridge. Its head was shaped slightly differently than other pigeons. It had a light sandy marking around one eye. She smiled with pleasure. She was still very much like that young girl whose mind was constantly curious, searching for answers. She picked up the brush again and continued to write.

  Three years after my father’s death, I was summoned to the Inner Palace. By this time, it was Gaozu’s son Li Shihmin who reigned on the throne. One of my cousins had become the Emperor’s favourite concubine. She was generous enough to persuade the Emperor to accept me. My heart rejoiced at such news, for I knew it marked the beginning of my rise to greatness.

  When I entered the Inner Palace, I was called Zhaoyi, a diminutive of my actual name, Wu Zhao. I joined a retinue of concubines who had to tend to the Imperial wardrobe. This entailed learning about fabrics for covering furniture and for adorning rooms on various occasions and throughout the different seasons. Such boring work. But I did not lose heart.

  I bided my time. Taizong’s Empress Wende had died three years before. I never had too much to do with the man, except for the occasional visit from him. He was appreciative of my beauty, but even more than that, he was fond of my clever comments and my bold assertions. Of course, I must not fail to mention the famous—or should I say infamous—incident which all the records have already noted as an early example of my ferocity. I was standing watching him struggle to tame a very wild horse one day. I told him how I would handle it. This is what I said: “I need only three things: an iron whip, an iron mace, and a dagger. If the whip doesn’t bring him to obedience, then I’ll use the mace to pummel his head, and if that fails, I’ll use the dagger to cut his throat.”

  Taizong understood my meaning very well. My words reminded him that I was the daughter of his father’s military strategist. Even so, he never took me seriously enough as a challenge to his dynasty, did he? If he had, he would have recognized that I was the woman his court astrologers had prophesized about. Venus was bold and visible in the daytime sky for several days in the seventh month of that year. The chief court astrologer told Taizong it signified that a female “Prince of Wu” would rule on the throne one day and that this woman was already in his palace. Taizong grew fearful and paranoid, yet his biases kept him from detecting who this future female emperor would be. The astrologer informed Taizong that there was nothing he could do to prevent this prophecy from being fulfilled. But the man acted foolishly, as if he could prevent the inevitable. At a feast, an official joked that, as a child, he had the nickname of Wuniang, Fifth Girl. He quickly became Taizong’s prime suspect. Taizong exiled him to a provincial post. Poor wronged “Wu”! What a farce. Fear rendered Taizong unable to accept the literal meaning of the prophecy.

  Why is it so hard for men to take women seriously? Does a woman have to become far better at being a man than most men to be taken seriously? In this world, relying on feminine wiles in the hopes of being rescued or protected by men is a risky and often futile strategy.

  I was sad that my father died before I entered the palace as Taizong’s concubine. He missed witnessing the beginnings of the prophecy’s manifestations. I know I still harbour some bitterness toward my father for never having taken Yuan’s prophecy seriously. What I would have given to see his reaction when I became Li Zhi’s Empress Consort. He would have realized then that his willingness to instruct me in military and political strategies played a vital role in my success. He would have been exceedingly proud of me. Then it would not have mattered that I was merely a daughter. In truth, I was the true son he had wished for.

  It would have brought me immeasurable satisfaction, to be able to say to him, “You see how you could have accepted Yuan’s prophecy.” It grieved me that I could not gain that ultimate acceptance from my father.

  What men like my father and Taizong failed to see was the truth—that prophecy never occupies the realm of the logical or convenient. Prophecy exists in its own right, withstanding even the harshest disapproval.

  Wu Zhao breathed a loud sigh and put her brush down. She looked up and saw a crow alight on the roof of the pavilion. The crow seemed to share her secret, watching her with knowing eyes. Of all the birds that flocked to the garden, it was the crow with whom she shared the most affinity. It seemed to her that crows were messengers of future events. Yes of course, the oracle bone was rightfully hers, just as the Throne was. Xie would fulfill his mission, and regain it for her. It would all come to pass. There was now no doubt in her mind.

  DA CI’EN MONASTERY, SOUTHEASTERN CHANG’AN

  Snow had fallen several times over the past few days, but last night the rains came, and almost all of the snow melted. Xuanzang looked longingly at the scene outside. He would have liked to take a little stroll, even if it were just around the courtyard.

  It was that part of the afternoon when most of the monks were doing their meditations while others cleaned and tidied the numerous rooms and halls of the large monastery. He cherished these moments of silence, but Xuanzang felt his whole body dragged down by the weariness of living.

  He turned his attention back to the letter. It didn’t sound like Li Zhi’s style, not in the least. It congratulated the monk on completing the translation of the Mahaprajnaparamita. His eyes lingered over the last lines: It is time for you to rest, Venerable Xuanzang. You have served the throne well.

  He understood the underlying meaning of the letter. There was a cruel innuendo to those lines, he was sure of it. Li Zhi would have not said such a thing. For all these years, the Emperor refused to grant Xuanzang permission to leave the city because he was intent on keeping the monk focused on his translation tasks. The Emperor never once encouraged Xuanzang to rest. These lines bore the tone of the Empress Wu Zhao who preferred to endorse Daoism, with its ornate, magical rituals that were not practiced in Buddhist monasteries.

  Control. Power. That was what an Emperor was all about, thought Xuanzang. What was he about? Sometimes he had doubts about the direction his life had taken. Had he been purely motivated by a love of adventure? It might have been so, when he was young. At the outset of his trek to India, he was headstrong and impatient to explore the unknown. As he visited the various sites where Buddha was revered, he experienced a feeling that it all had been inevitable, as if the choices he’d made in his past lives had led him to this. He’d been driven; he had been meant to dedicate his life completely to the translation of sutras. Simply this, and nothing else.

  Time passed slowly as he lay on the daybed, looking out at the scene outside his window. Now that he no longer needed to go to the Translation Hall every morning, he forced himself to rest.

  Later that night, Xuanzang breathed in the sound of rain. He couldn’t fall asleep. He thought of the damaged Buddha outside in the garden. Apparently, the sculptor had arrived earlier that day and had begun to work on the statue. It would tak
e two or three visits to repair the damage. He wished he had enough strength left to make one more trip to see the repaired Buddha. At this thought, Xuanzang laughed gently at himself. In this life, he was terribly attached to his statues.

  Peerless was moving around in the adjoining room, tidying and fussing about. That gave Xuanzang a warm feeling in his belly. Peerless was up because he was worried. With that thought, his eyes grew heavy. He descended into sleep quickly and entered the cave. There he was again, looking at the mural of Buddha surrounded by bodhisattvas. But this time Xuanzang was in the mural, standing to the left of Buddha, his hand almost touching the side of Buddha’s robe. Rays of light emanated from Buddha and the bodhisattvas. A feeling of immense ease came over him. He thought to himself, How did I become so blessed, to be here as one of his disciples?

  Xuanzang looked up at Buddha with adoration, yet it struck him how ordinary Buddha looked, like another human being. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? The more Xuanzang stared, the more Buddha’s face changed. It started to look more and more like his own. Yet there were other moments where Xuanzang once again had his own separate existence, standing next to Buddha.

  The dream seemed to go on forever like this. Back and forth between being next to the Buddha, then being fused with him. Xuanzang was groggy when he woke up. He felt a chill pass through his body. His lungs seized up and he broke out into an episode of violent coughing. Peerless came rushing in just when Xuanzang coughed up blood into the palm of his right hand.

  The young monk ran out to the main hallway and raised the alarm, shouting out, “Harelip! Call Harelip!”

  When Harelip arrived, Xuanzang was being tended to by Peerless and Huili. His head propped up, Xuanzang was half-sitting, half-reclining.

  Xuanzang turned his head to Huili. “That dream you told me you had last week?”

  Huili’s eyes reddened with tears. “Yes, Venerable Master?”

  “It was about me, not you. A beautiful pagoda crashing down.”

  Harelip applied glass suction cups to Xuanzang’s back and checked his pulses on both wrists.

  “Leave me alone here with Harelip.”

  After Peerless and Huili left, Xuanzang said, “Now, so close to death, I have no regrets. Except one, which I cannot disclose publicly.” He pulled Harelip close and whispered into his ear. Harelip nodded, eyebrows knitted together as he concentrated on listening to Xuanzang’s comments and instructions.

  Harelip proceeded to the apothecary.

  He lit a candle at the back of the room then returned the glass suction cups to their place on the shelf above his compounding table. Despite his confidence that he was utterly alone, he still looked nervously about.

  It was hard to know where to put it. Piles of herbs on the table, jars on the shelves. On the floor below his table were several baskets. He took these with him on trips out to the forests and hills. The large ones would sit on either side of the donkey. Harelip would place any roots, bark, and leaves in separate hemp sacks, tie them at the mouth, then pack them carefully into the baskets.

  He fished out two pieces of silk and laid the precious diagram that Xuanzang had entrusted to him between them and then rolled the layers up tightly. He secured the small roll with twine. Where could he hide it? He looked around.

  His gaze finally came to rest on his altar. His Buddha statue, although carved from solid wood, had a small hollow opening at its base, just the right size and height for the rolled-up drawing. He inserted the precious roll without difficulty and then fashioned a piece of cork to fit exactly at the base, closing up the opening. Next, he dripped wax from the candle over the cork to seal it.

  No one would think to look inside the Buddha, he reasoned, because this statue in particular was nothing spectacular as far as statues went. It was just ordinary, as if it had nothing to hide. He nodded, feeling reassured. Something that needs to be hidden is best displayed without being seen. Harelip rested his forehead against his hand on the table. He was so tired.

  He was roused from his nap by the sound of a man’s voice humming. He looked outside. It was already daylight. Where was the singing coming from? The tune was unfamiliar. The humming changed into singing. It didn’t sound like any language he recognized. In all his years at the monastery, he hadn’t heard any of the monks sing like this. Harelip listened to the soft, lilting voice and was charmed. He decided to go in search of the singer. He locked the door to the apothecary. Which courtyard? he wondered.

  The voice grew louder as Harelip approached the Garden of the Buddhas. He saw the man from behind, kneeling before the damaged statue on a mat on the ground, his tools scattered about him. He was hewing out a piece of wood, fashioning a shape like the thumb that was missing.

  Harelip cleared his throat, so as not to startle the man by coming upon him. The sculptor turned around. “You’re looking for me?” He spoke Chinese with an unfamiliar lilt. The sculptor stood up. He was quite a bit taller than Harelip, lean and dark-skinned, with his head wrapped in a scarf. His jacket, somewhat worn and frayed, was not tightly drawn about him and revealed the smooth, hairless chest underneath.

  “Oh, no. Well, yes—I followed the sound of your singing.” Harelip was aware of an odd buzz in his body. He felt a bit dizzy. He wavered, unsteady on his feet.

  The handsome man reached out for Harelip’s shoulder to steady him. “Are you feeling ill?”

  “Oh no, no. Just … pins and needles …” Harelip blushed. “You’re the sculptor that Huili sent for.”

  “My name is Ardhanari.”

  Harelip bowed. “How is the repair going?”

  “As you can see,” Ardhanari said, bending down to pick up a piece of wood, “I am fashioning a small piece to fit with the rest of the hand. I can refine the piece at home. Then there’s this crack to repair.” The sculptor traced his forefinger along the back of Buddha’s hand.

  Harelip nodded, aware that his mouth was dry and his body hot.

  “It won’t take long. I have to come back tomorrow since I can’t take this precious statue away. So another few hours, that’s all.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the meowing of the cat, who had arrived in time to slide her body across Ardhanari’s leg. Harelip laughed nervously. “That’s my cat, Maya. Well, she’s the monastery cat, rather.”

  Ardhanari stroked the cat’s ears, and in no time she lay on the ground and exposed her belly, which the sculptor dutifully rubbed.

  Harelip bowed again. “Thank you for your work. My Master is grateful that you are here to tend to this.”

  “Ah, sorry that I couldn’t come any sooner.”

  Harelip felt awkward. It fascinated him that a sculptor’s work was to construct figures that were inanimate yet beautiful while, in contrast, he worked on living human bodies with all their idiosyncratic and fluctuating foibles.

  “I must go.” He bowed once again and hastened away, leaving Ardhanari with the cat.

  Back in the apothecary, he tried to calm himself down. It was not the first time he had felt attraction to someone. In the past, it had either been a monk or someone he’d seen while on a visit out to the market or somewhere else in the city. It never crossed his mind that he was at risk of acting on his desires. Not until now, where his body felt strongly charged with a sudden hunger that had not existed, it seemed, until moments ago.

  He turned his thoughts away from the encounter, back to Xuanzang’s whispered request. He felt shaky. The monk he had revered all these years would soon be gone. It was a matter of days. He thought about his own devotion to the monastery.

  What had kept him here for all these years? A sense of not belonging out in the world of normal-looking people? A need to hide from the taunts of others? At least, wearing the robes of a monk, he commanded some degree of hushed respect when he walked the streets of Chang’an. It was somehow more acceptable for a monk to be strange. A deformed mouth didn’t add much more to what was already a sign of being separated from the populace.


  But he had grown weary of the city too. Much like Xuanzang had. Helping the revered monk only intensified his own longing to leave Chang’an and do what Xuanzang couldn’t. Unlike the great monk, what was he, Harelip, responsible for? Healing others. Or at least attempting to. He was not indispensable. If he left, they would find someone else to take on his duties.

  There would be nothing to keep him here, once Xuanzang was gone.

  DA FA TEMPLE, WEST CENTRAL CHANG’AN

  In a formal tone of voice, Qilan began to tell Ling the tale.

  “During the period of the Warring States, the country was in chaos. Rulers no longer cared about the welfare of the people and became dissolute—uninterested in being virtuous and no longer in harmony with nature.

  “Zou Yan was a philosopher who lived during that time. He was from the state of Qi and lived near the mouth of the Bohai Sea. He was driven by insatiable curiosity about the natural world. His senses were exceptionally attuned, and he possessed powers of great observation. Zou Yan examined everything down to the most minute of phenomena. He wrote essays on the increase and decrease of yin and yang energies, classified mountains, trees, animals, oceans—every living thing he could find—and then synthesized theories of yin and yang with the Five Elements. He called his system of thought the Yin-Yang School.

  “Zou Yan rejected the rigidity of Confucianism because that system of thought ran counter to the occurrences of the natural world. He was not entirely comfortable with the sayings of Mencius either. He saw that violence inflicted by humans against one another was a result of being caught up in rigid adherence to rules—rules that didn’t allow people to question the veracity of their ruler’s decisions. To Zou Yan, what existed in nature followed complex patterns that were in harmony with one another; he wanted to cultivate theories that would mirror reality as opposed to theories and rules that went against nature.

  “One balmy spring day, when he was not quite sixty-five sui, he sat down on a rock by the seashore and observed all that was around him, as was his habit—he loved to watch the subtle changes of colour and light in the sky and ocean and the movement of clouds. It didn’t take long before he entered a trance.