Empress of Bright Moon

by Weina Dai Randel

  And Pheasant. What was he doing? Did he think of me? Would he recognize me now, with my head shaped like a potato covered with dirt?

  Perhaps, when I awoke tomorrow, he would stand before me, his head cocked to one side and his eyes twinkling with mirth, smiling at me. Perhaps he would push open the monastery’s gate just as I stepped outside, giving me his hand, surprising me.

  Perhaps…

  I should not think of him. I should not dream something like that, for I knew what tomorrow would be like, and I knew what night after night would be like. And I told myself to sleep, and I hoped I would never wake up again.

  But that was my life now—every day, it began with the same sound of the stick beating the wooden block, the same chants, the same incense fragrance, and every night, it ended with the same silence and the same darkness. I woke and slept. I slept and woke. I walked through the monastery, plunging into the fume of incense, but I did not know where I was going. I heard the loud chanting, the alien sounds around me, but I did not know what they meant. And I passed the nuns, their gray stoles, their wrinkled faces, and I turned my face away. I knew, though, that I looked like them, I smelled like them, and I felt like them.

  The days lengthened, expanded, engulfed the void between the mountain and the sky and became void again.

  Sometimes I went to the other side of the monastery and stood on the top of the mountain. I scanned the world beneath me. The scenery was the same every time I looked. Craggy rocks. Deep valleys. Massive trees spreading far and beyond.

  The palace was out there somewhere, but it was not mine anymore—I would never be allowed to set foot in it again. My dream was there too, a cold moon, eclipsed by a cloud of treachery and death. It might shine again, gleaming with a faint light, but it would not warm me, and I would never again be part of its celestial dream again.

  Unless the Duke changed his mind. Unless Pheasant came for me.

  But months passed. He never came. And he would never come. I knew that.

  Life was a cruel trickster. It had given me to Emperor Taizong only to let me fall for Pheasant, and now Pheasant was the Emperor, and I would spend the rest of my life in loneliness.

  I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted, “Why? Why? Why?”

  Why—Why—Why—Why…

  The mountain shouted back, faithfully, like a devoted lover. Tears welled in my eyes. I would live in the monastery until the last day of my life. I would grow old there. My face would become wrinkled; my back would become stooped; my breath would fade into the wind; my tears would seep into the ground, mingling with the dead leaves and rotten roots; and yet the man I loved, the man who had promised to stand by my side, would never hold me again.

  • • •

  One day, after the midday meal, I was staring at the sunlight glittering at Buddha’s shining feet when a shriek came from the woods near the backyard.

  Daisy, my dear friend. She had hanged herself.

  The nuns scrambled to untangle the white sash around her neck and pulled her down. I bent over her, touching her cold face, feeling her stiff hands. I could not contain my tears.

  We buried her at the edge of the woods, and long after everyone else left, I sat there, my arms around my knees, keeping her company. I wished to speak to her, telling her memories of our life in the palace, comforting her spirit, but I could not find my voice. There was no point. Sooner or later, we would all end up buried in the same place.

  The sun was setting, and the wind blew at my face. In the distant sky, the moon hung, pale, weak, and lackluster, like a bowl of tears. I remained still, watching the night’s shadow emerge. Dark and feathery, it crept to the edge of the small mound, crawled to the top, slithered lower, and swallowed it all.

  I rose. Suddenly, I understood. I could hang myself like Daisy and erase the agony, or I could ignore the pain and survive.

  The next day, I hiked through the woods, striking back thick bushes with a branch. I grabbed on to a protruding rock and climbed. The rock under my feet rubbed my skin raw, but I did not slow down or look back. I had to climb; I could not stop. For when I ascended to the top of the mountain, I could breathe normally, I could see the world beneath me, and I would be happy again.

  At the monastery, I learned to keep busy. I hunted for wild mushrooms, tender bamboo shoots, and fresh ferns. I tilled the garden to loosen the soil and planted vegetable seeds. I watered them every morning before sunrise and weeded every afternoon at sundown. When the plants grew, I made wooden frames to support the green beans and eggplants. The thought of meat became unappealing to me, and when I thought of the rich food in the palace, the fatty mutton and the greasy grilled ribs, I found it hard to imagine I used to covet it.

  Sometimes birds came, and I threw leftover rice to feed them. I watched them peck at the grain and stretch their necks, their wings flapping at their sides as they swallowed. This was a small action, a basic survival instinct, but somehow it was majestic, reminding me of the joy of being alive, the joy of having a desire and fulfilling it.

  When I cleaned Buddha’s statue, I studied him. He sat there, his eyes half-open, his fingers spreading. Unlike Confucius, Lao Tzu, or Sun Tzu, he was not Chinese. The nobles did not worship him; only the weak, the lower class, and helpless women followed him. I wondered how he made people believe in him. I began to listen to the nuns’ chanting and asked the abbess its meaning. It was part of Diamond Sutra in Sanskrit, she explained to me, which was one of the scriptures brought by Tripitaka, whose very name meant Three Treasures in Sanskrit.

  I thanked her, and when the nuns meditated, I crossed my legs and closed my eyes as well. Perhaps meditating would help me find inner peace, as it did for them. But when I meditated, my thoughts wandered like wisps of smoke. It was easier to chase a rabbit on the Steppes than to find so-called peace.

  Oftentimes, I found myself thinking of Pheasant. I remembered his tearful eyes, his face contorted with grief, his arms reaching out to me. I thought of his pain.

  He had done his best to keep me; he wanted me. But he was not in control. A filial son, a newly made emperor, and a young man with the kingdom on his shoulders, Pheasant had to honor his father’s will. And then there was the Duke—no, the Regent. He had outfoxed Pheasant and seized the kingdom from his hands.

  I asked the abbess of the recent news in the palace whenever I could. She heard many messages from the incense vendors, and she also regularly went to the city to perform Buddhist rituals.

  The Regent, she said, had put many ministers who sided with Pheasant to death and exiled the ministers who had expressed criticisms about the Regent’s actions. He then appointed his two brothers-in-law, Han Yuan and Lai Ji, as Vice Chancellors and decreed his servant, Chu Suiliang, a brainless man I had met a few times while Emperor Taizong was ill, to be the new Chancellor. With his own men in top positions, the Regent then gave the Secretary’s post to Empress Wang’s uncle, Liu Shi, and a few other important positions to her family members, no doubt to placate the Empress and her family.

  I could see how alone Pheasant was, surrounded by all the men who bowed to him but had their ears turned toward the Regent.

  And indeed, Emperor Gaozong was not much of a ruler, the abbess said. He was not requested to attend to the daily audience where important events were discussed. The Regent sat in the Audience Hall instead and took care of all the petitions. Pheasant was ordered to select one hundred maidens from the kingdom so he could complete his household, and soon, the Inner Court was packed with Empress Wang, Four Ladies, and many titled women, all intended to serve Pheasant.

  But Emperor Gaozong showed no interest in them, the abbess said. He had grown depressed, and his temper flared easily. He also started to drink every day, sending the urgent horse rally to the northwest border to fetch rare grapes to make grape wine, wasting the kingdom’s resources. During the Lantern Festival, he had ridden utterly ineb
riated on a float on the Heavenly Street. He fell out and broke his arm.

  When I heard the news, my heart wrenched in pain. Poor Pheasant. First he had lost me, and now he had lost himself.

  More tales of his decline circled the city. He had built a pool filled with wine, where he indulged himself with many of his concubines, the rumor said, and he had also created something called the Firefly Game, where his concubines, all naked, danced around to catch fireflies. Whoever caught the most insects would win a night with Pheasant, who announced her to be his favorite, and then the next night, he discarded her, making another favorite and then another.

  I wept, not in sadness that Pheasant had forgotten me, but in utter commiseration for him. For I knew him well, and this pleasure-seeking man was not the Pheasant I so loved. But when your heart was broken, when all your hopes died, what else could you do to continue living, other than numbing your heart?

  • • •

  Spring arrived, the ice thawed, and the mountain was loud with trickling springwater.

  Almost three years had passed since my exile. Four Talents, who had grown sick over the years, had died in this last cold winter, and now there were only four of us from the palace remaining.

  One day, I was tilling in the garden when I heard yelping from the woods where Daisy was buried. A mastiff with lumps of red fur, matted and muddied, was whimpering there. His left front leg was broken, and he was missing two claws. With the abbess’s permission, I brought him to the kitchen and bathed him in warm water. After cleaning him, I tied a wooden spoon to his leg to help him heal. At night he slept with me on my pallet. He breathed noisily, his body warm and comforting as the wind wailed outside.

  I named him Hope.

  When he was able to walk again, Hope followed me when I hiked. I was faster, for he limped, unable to run, and I had to wait for him. When I reached the top of the mountain, I inhaled the humid air, familiar and refreshing, and told Hope of the palace and Pheasant. Hope wagged his tail, gazing at the distant land, his large eyes filled with understanding.

  Sometimes we sat and watched the clouds together—some rolled up like a scroll, some tiered like a ladder, and some flowed slowly like streams of tears. We watched the sun too, which always looked distant and weak even at its height. At sunset, though, it became wicked as it cloaked the mountain with an orange veil, and then it receded to the edge of the horizon and dimmed. I felt anxious and vulnerable at the moment like that, but I hugged Hope, feeling his warmth and soft fur, and I knew I was not alone.

  Once I caught my reflection when I crossed a creek with Hope. I saw how I had changed. My skin was tanned, my face was taut, my cheekbones were sharpened, and my eyes looked wider, clouded by a veil of thoughtfulness.

  Meditation began to calm me. Every morning at dawn, I sat against the wall, my legs crossed, my eyes closed. I wound my thoughts together, turning the wisps of smoke into a thick rope, and I grasped the rope, stepped onto the trail it led, and glided farther and farther. What lay ahead of me? I did not know, yet I felt no fear or anxiety. I only walked, farther and farther, to a chamber glowing afar, through which the sunlight, the opaque moonlight, and the warm air poured.

  But I was not free, and my thoughts burned weakly, like the tip of an incense stick, because at the end of the door, I could always see the lean, tall figure of Pheasant.

  One day, the abbess returned from the city with a message. “The Emperor will conduct the third death anniversary of his father, Emperor Taizong, at the Great Maternal Grace Pagoda on the fifth month of the year.”

  The death anniversary ritual was usually conducted at the Altar House inside the palace, attended by many imperial relatives and high-ranking ministers. But this year, she said, Emperor Gaozong had insisted on having it elsewhere, and the Regent had agreed to have the ritual there.

  “That’s Tripitaka’s pagoda, isn’t it?” I stopped wiping at the grease on the hemp-oil lamp, my nightly chore, which included cleaning the lamps, tables, and pillars that had turned black with soot and smoke. I remembered what Pheasant had told me before my exile: the pagoda was built to honor his late mother, and it was located at the edge of the city.

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  That night, I could not stop thinking about the ritual. Would it be possible to see Pheasant, since he would be out of the palace? Would it not be wonderful if I saw him again?

  But perhaps this was only another dream. I would not be able to leave the monastery. I had been banished, and I would be hanged if I were caught escaping. It was open defiance of the law.

  Besides, Pheasant had probably forgotten about me. After all, it had been three years. He must have been accustomed to seeing his fragrant concubines dancing around him, and I was twenty-six years of age, an old woman, and with my shorn head and patched stoles, I could not compete against those painted ladies in rainbow gowns. He would not even recognize me.

  But Pheasant might never hold the death ritual outside the palace again. This would be my only chance to see him, and perhaps when he saw me, he could find me a way back to the palace.

  I agonized for days. I could not meditate or tend to the vegetables, and in the end, I decided to take the risk of being caught and hanged. I had to leave. I had to see Pheasant again.

  I packed some food when no one was looking, smuggled out a bowl, and hid everything in a sack I sewed in secret. One night, when the moon was high, I slipped out of the room where I slept. I wanted to say good-bye to the abbess, to whom I had grown attached. She had grown fond of me too, and during cold nights in winter, she often called me to her pallet, sharing with me her warming stove. But I decided not to tell her. If I were caught, it would be better if she did not know anything.

  Hope stirred, scratching in his sleep. I wished I could take him with me. He was a good dog, a faithful companion. I would miss him, but it was better for him to stay there. The nuns would take care of him.

  In my nun’s stole, with wooden beads around my neck, a gray skullcap on my head, and a sack on my back, I closed the monastery’s door and went downhill.

  The mountain was silent, and the white birches shimmered like clusters of stars. The crescent moon hung above me, following me, stopping when I stopped, gliding as I sped. I traveled carefully, climbing over hills and stepping over the hard ground covered with twigs and rough rocks. The ground had hurt my feet three years ago, but now my soles had become accustomed to the roughness, and my breathing was even and unhurried. I did not know how far it was from here to Chang’an City, how many days it would take to reach there, but I did not feel discouraged. As long as I could walk, I would get there eventually.

  When I reached the foot of the hill, I saw a section of high fences before me, a shack where the guards slept, and two horses in a stable.

  The night wind swept my face. I stood still, holding my breath. Gripping the sack, I waited. Everything was silent—the shack, the horses, the moon, and the wind, like good, conspiring friends. Carefully, I went down the path, opened the latch that bolted the fence, and slipped through. Once the fence was behind me, I ran.

  AD 652

  The Third Year of Emperor Gaozong’s Reign of Eternal Glory

  SPRING

  4

  On the second day of the fifth month, I arrived at the Great Maternal Grace Pagoda, a five-story building with many banners in red and yellow fluttering near the eaves. The imperial ritual had not started, so security was not yet in place, for which I was glad. Once the day of the ritual came, it would be difficult to approach the building without being stopped and questioned.

  It took me forty-eight days to reach the pagoda, during which I walked day and night, stopping only for a few hours of rest when I needed to. The travel was less eventful than I had expected. Since I was a nun, few people harassed me, and most were willing to provide me with food and directions when I asked.

  When I knocked on
the pagoda’s door, a young monk in a patched saffron-colored robe answered. I bowed, telling him I was on my way to Luoyang and needed a place to stay. I had to lie to him, for my own protection. The monk nodded and told me to follow him. We crossed the central hall, where monks and devout laymen sat chanting in front of a giant statue of Buddha. All the monks wore tattered robes. Several had no shoes, and they looked gaunt and tired, like the nuns in my monastery. I lowered my head and passed them quietly, but I hoped Pheasant would bestow on the people some much-needed funds on his father’s special anniversary.

  The monk led me to a row of buildings behind a well, and there, I stopped. Near an ancient paulownia tree, on a porch of a low building, sat another monk. He looked serene, back erect, legs crossed, hands on kneecaps, while beacons of sunlight sifted through the blossoms of the tree and shone on his shorn head.

  Tripitaka. The monk who had risked his life to seek the true words of Buddha. The monk who had predicted my future when I was five years old. He had said I would rule the kingdom that governed many men and would mother the emperors of the land but also be emperor in my own name.

  I could not move. During my journey to the pagoda, I had heard many tales about him. Tripitaka, people said, had translated many precious scriptures from Sanskrit into Chinese, loosening the knots of the ancient wisdom and smoothing the wrinkles of misunderstandings over Buddha’s words. I had also heard that his journey had been most fascinating. Once he traveled through a kingdom where there were no men, only women, who became pregnant by drinking the water from a special river. Another time, he passed a lair full of spider spirits and nearly died. I would have liked to ask him in person more stories about the foreign lands.

  But, most of all, I wished to tell him his prediction about my destiny was wrong.

  He had a pleasant, oblong face, his forehead broad like mine, and his skin was tanned and taut. I had been only five years old when I first met him, and I did not recall any of these facial features. I remembered only his eyes, bright and fierce, like twin moons glowing in the distance, but now they were closed.