Empress of Bright Moon

by Weina Dai Randel

  I pondered the situation. I had not given any serious thoughts to religious beliefs before, even as I was incarcerated in the monastery, where I struggled to survive. To me, religion was like a flower in the fog. It was often vague, blurry, and I could not see a clear picture of it. But now I wondered if I should take part in the Buddhist belief, for if I spread my name among the believers, making an impact on their lives by caring for them, they would remember me, and they would think of me as a woman whom they could trust.

  Did not the master Sun Tzu mention that the commander of an army must insert moral influence that could determine the outcome of a war?

  I thought of my years in the monastery and the emaciated monks in Tripitaka’s pagoda. I decided to provide donations to all the Buddhist temples and monasteries in the city.

  I gathered my allowances, the gifts I received from Pheasant, and some extravagant gowns and jewelry I did not use, and declared them as alms to be allocated to the temples and monasteries.

  I also gave each temple a water-powered mill that farmers used to hull and grist grains, for I remembered when I was home in Wenshui, many people had come to rent the five mills Father owned. The mills belonged to the temples, I told them, and they were free to lease them to millers and keep the income.

  I did not stop there. I asked for help from Pheasant, who supported me with gold from the imperial treasure, which I used to improve roads around the monasteries and temples.

  Gaoyang’s husband, Fang Yi’ai, who served in the Ministry of Works, helped me with the construction of the roads. He was a serious young man with a tanned face, a loud voice, and an anxious expression. He hired artisans and laborers, purchased tools and material, arranged transportation, and personally inspected the progress of the projects. Soon, many muddy roads to the temples were replaced with new, solid earth paths covered with planks that would withstand the ravages of flood and mudslides.

  I received grateful letters from the heads of the monasteries and temples. The living conditions of the monks and nuns were greatly improved, they said, and the monks had clean water, rice, and warm stoles. Also, the income from mills had ensured stability for the monks, and they were able to devote their time to deciphering sutras written in Sanskrit. The improvement of the roads had also brought more travelers, who, unable to afford the hostels and inns, used the temples as lodgings.

  I also received a message from Tripitaka. He told me he had written parts of his journey, temporarily titled The Great Journey to the West, at his leisure, and he also thanked me for my help and donations. He said, “Even a great thinker like Buddha, who believes virtue fills the hall like incense’s fragrance, needs the great wind to help spread it.”

  I smiled. I would be the wind. I would send the scent of benevolence and compassion to the people close and afar, and help fill their hearts with the divine fragrance of incense, and one day, perhaps, just perhaps, they would come to listen to me.

  13

  Apricot, her cheeks pink with excitement, brought me surprising news.

  Two of the Empress’s cousins who served in the Ministry of Rites were found guilty of bribery and relieved of their duties. And the Chancellor, the very man who had joined the Empress’s petitions to attack me, had complained to the Regent that the Secretary, the Empress’s uncle, was negligent in reporting to the court the counterfeited coppers that appeared on the market, and he had petitioned to investigate the matter. Consequently, the Secretary’s duty in the court was suspended until further notice.

  I was surprised. Bribery could hardly be defined as a crime, because it was a common practice in the court, and if one was determined to get to the bottom of it, then none of the ministers in the court were innocent. And the decision to suspend the Secretary’s duty, merely because of negligence, was rather harsh.

  It was a sign, I sensed acutely, that the Empress and her family were losing the power in the palace.

  I wondered who wished to kick aside the Empress’s men. It was difficult to tell. It could be some ministers who were displeased with the Empress and her family’s influence in the court. It could even be the Pure Lady’s family members—three of them held middle ranks in the court, I knew. But then it could also be the Regent’s men, who coveted the important positions the Empress’s family occupied.

  The Empress was called home at once by her mother and her uncle, rumors said, and they chastised her for failing to protect her family. They warned her that all her connections, all her power, would be stripped away, and she would soon be alone in the palace. When the Empress returned to the palace, she was trembling, her eyes swollen from crying.

  I began to hear some curious stories about her. She had grown rather pathetic, people said. Often, she stayed inside her bedchamber, biting her nails and murmuring to herself, looking anxious. She rarely ate her meals, and she suffered intense stomach pain. At night, she had nightmares and woke up in a cold sweat, and then she paced in her chamber, weeping and pounding her chest. When she was meeting her uncle in a building near the Chengxiang Hall, she broke down in tears and nearly choked herself. She lost her voice for days and was afraid of seeing anyone, even her maids. And she had lost more weight.

  • • •

  I invited the Four Ladies to my newly renovated garden for some sweet chestnuts and dried, sugarcoated persimmons. It was, of course, the time to make allies—while the Empress was weak.

  The Pure Lady sent her regards. She was ill and could not come. I was sorry to hear that. I was not certain if she was really ill or just trying to avoid me. With the Empress falling, people would certainly pay more attention to her and me, and I would have liked us to be on good terms. I sent the Pure Lady baskets of fruit and gifts and wished her to get well soon so she could continue her duty in the Imperial Silkworm Workshops.

  The three Ladies came, looking splendid in their matching orange gowns adorned with kingfisher feathers. I complimented them, showering them with affection.

  “I am delighted Luminous Lady likes our dresses,” the Noble Lady said. As usual, they walked with their arms linked together, like inseparable triplets. From the way they smiled and whispered, I could tell they were close friends.

  I walked down the winding bridge over the pond while Princess Gaoyang, the three ladies, their maids, and Apricot, who was holding Lion, trailed behind me.

  “I wish to let you know, ladies”—I nodded at each of them—“that I have talked to our Emperor about his decision to live here.” I had been happy when Pheasant announced he was disregarding the bedding protocol, but I also understood the ladies would not have a chance to conceive if he refused to see them again. I felt sorry for them.

  The Noble Lady glanced at me, her pretty eyes looking excited. “What did the Emperor say? Will he summon us?”

  I continued to walk. “He said he would summon you very soon.”

  I did not have the heart to tell them the truth. When I had told Pheasant to summon the ladies, reminding him that the bedding protocol was a tradition in the palace, he had shrugged and said, “I didn’t know you cared about traditions.”

  The Ladies smiled at one another, looking relieved. I decided to work harder on Pheasant so he would take them to bed. I was not jealous of them, for I knew Pheasant loved only me.

  “Come, I will show you the water lilies.” I waved at them. “Most water lilies are blue, but that one with a white flower”—I pointed at the plant floating in the center of the pond as I walked down the zigzagging bridge—“is the most precious.”

  They did not seem to be interested in the plants or the newly refurbished buildings, but they nodded politely.

  “Have you heard that in the south”—I paused at the corner of the bridge, breathing in the scent of the blossoms—“there is a special water lily that droops its head under the water at night and stands up again in the morning? It has large, snowy petals and a strong, pleasant fragrance tha
t none of the other types of lotus can compete with. The locals call it ‘sleeping lotus.’” I wanted to have it in my garden someday.

  The three Ladies nodded again, but soon they lost interest in the plants and turned to play with my son, who was in Apricot’s arms.

  “How do you like the new garden, Gaoyang?” I asked, looking around me. The bridge’s red lacquer shone brightly in the sun, the tip of the new house’s eaves curved elegantly like a soaring phoenix’s tail, and the freshly painted mural looked beautiful on the pavilion’s wall. I was happy. This was my home and my garden, where I could plant the trees of any fruit that I chose.

  “The new garden is splendid,” Princess Gaoyang said beside me. “And I also like the water lilies and the new pond.”

  “But?” I turned to her, studying her.

  “I think you need to change one thing.” Princess Gaoyang flicked a pebble to the pond, which bounced on the surface of the water.

  “What, Gaoyang?” I patted my wig to assure it was centered, although I was not worried about the ladies mocking my hair. It was just my habit now, for being Luminous Lady, I needed to make certain my appearance was always appropriate.

  “Your title. It doesn’t fit you.”

  I was surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “You deserve better than being a Lady, Mei. You should be the Empress.”

  My heart jumped. I was alarmed. Glancing around to make sure no one was listening to us, I said, “You shouldn’t say that, Gaoyang.”

  “I say whatever I wish. You’re almost her equal now. Maybe even more. She is barren, and you have a son. Don’t you want to be an empress?”

  Of course I did. I had not forgotten my father’s dream. If I became the Empress, I would make his spirit proud, and I would honor my family greatly. But it was dangerous to think of this dream, and I would not do anything to challenge Empress Wang. Her power was weakening in the palace, but she was still the Empress.

  “She curses me and my son.” I gazed at the white lotus. “Have you heard that?”

  Princess Gaoyang shrugged and tossed another pebble into the pond. “They’re only curses. You have nothing to fear.”

  Only Princess Gaoyang would say something like that. “I don’t know.”

  I had not forgotten how cruelly Empress Wang had beaten me and how she had slaughtered my Hope and cooked him. As long as I lived in the palace, I would need to watch out for her, and I needed to do anything I could to shield my son from her wrath.

  Princess Gaoyang would not understand that, but she did remind me how precarious my position—and indeed, Pheasant’s position—truly was. The support from the General was not enough. If Pheasant wished to become a true emperor, he needed more supporters, and I needed more supporters too, those who would surround my son and me like a protective net. But it was dangerous to ask for allies in the court. I was relatively new there. Few people knew me. If I did not prepare properly, I would only put my son in danger, and Pheasant would lose his newly won position.

  “Do you miss Prince Ke?” I asked Gaoyang. When she looked at me in surprise, I said, “I remember you mentioned him to me. Pheasant misses him.”

  Pheasant missed all his brothers, I knew, even though he did not talk about them often. He especially missed Taizi and his brother Prince Wei, who had died years ago.

  Princess Gaoyang smiled, two dimples deepening on her cheeks. “I do. We were very close when we grew up. We played many games together. He was kind to me. He is a good man and a good brother. Loyal and kind.”

  I nodded. Perhaps Pheasant could recall him from exile. The prince was the former Noble Lady’s son, and I had liked him. He would also be a steadfast supporter if he returned to the palace, and being the son of the late Emperor, he could be a powerful ally.

  That night, I talked to Pheasant about the idea of recalling Prince Ke.

  “My uncle won’t agree to that.” He hesitated, even as delight flitted across his eyes. “But how splendid it would be if he could return. I would enjoy his company in the court. I haven’t seen him for four years.”

  “So will you do your best to recall him?” I asked.

  He put his hands together, intertwining his fingers. He had that calm look I often saw these days. There was firmness and determination in his eyes that I found intoxicating. Pheasant was looking more and more like a powerful ruler every day.

  “I will do my best, and I will not give up until I succeed,” he said. “And with the General by my side, I believe we might have our wish.”

  There was an uproar when Pheasant broached the subject of Prince Ke’s return, I heard, the idiotic Chancellor being most outspoken. But Pheasant insisted. He wished only to spend more time with his brother, whom he had missed gravely all these years, he said.

  In the end, Pheasant succeeded, and that autumn, when the maple leaves turned golden yellow in the palace, Prince Ke returned from exile with his two sons. Pheasant restored the land and houses that had belonged to the prince and reinstated his allowance.

  The Regent was not pleased at the prince’s return. He forbade his ministers to speak to the prince and his two sons. And when Pheasant held a private meeting, asking the Regent if the prince could be Pheasant’s counselor—Pheasant was always courteous and respectful to the old man, even though he took the power from him—the Regent looked pensive. Pheasant pressed on, reminiscing about the years when he used to hunt and play polo with his father, Prince Ke, and his other brothers, and eventually the Regent sighed. “Certainly, brotherhood matters greatly in a man’s life,” he said, “and if you do not mind me saying this, I shall not forget how much your father’s love meant to me. He indeed was like a brother to me.” And then he nodded reluctantly to give his consent.

  Pheasant was elated. He promoted Prince Ke to high-ranking counselor, giving him the right to accompany him at all times and to provide Pheasant with advice, and later, inspired by his success, Pheasant also recalled a number of people who had served him, among them his previous tutor, Minister Xu Jingzong.

  I was so glad. Now with the General, Prince Ke, and Princess Gaoyang’s husband, Fang Yi’ai, Pheasant had formed his own support group. Suddenly, his words rang loud in the Audience Hall, drowning the voices of the idiot Chancellor and the others.

  I proposed a feast, using the approaching Mid-Autumn Festival as an excuse. It was time to celebrate their return and the wall of support Pheasant had built, but of course, it was also time to gather them around me.

  14

  On the night of the festival, the garden near the imperial library, where the celebration was to be held, was transformed into a grand feasting place. Red lanterns, strung in fives, hung from the eaves of the pavilions. Lacquered tables, holding jugs of fragrant wine and trays of peaches and grapes, were set neatly on top. And there, in the smoke-hued sky, a round, silver moon peered at me.

  Many ministers came to the feast. Most of them were middle-ranking ministers dressed in green or red. One by one, I greeted them, my head dipping low. They bowed back, and to my surprise, some mentioned that they were grateful for the improved roads near the temples. I was pleased they had heard of my donations.

  Prince Ke greeted me. He had settled in his home outside the palace and helped review some petitions presented to Pheasant. But the prince did not look like he had recovered from exile. His waist was thinner than a dancer’s, his skin looked pale, and his lips cracked. Smiling mildly, he still had kind eyes that reminded me of his mother. He remembered me, to my delight, and thanked me for receiving him.

  “Luminous Lady,” Pheasant said, his arm hooked around the prince’s shoulders. He was truly happy tonight, laughing loudly, and he had drunk too much. “Perhaps you may honor us by composing a poem later.”

  I liked to see him in good spirits. With his recent victory of recalling the prince and the ministers, Pheasant was beginning to look like a rea
l ruler. He was also gaining more confidence, since the Regent had become surprisingly agreeable over the past few weeks. When Pheasant had reinstated the positions of his previous tutor and several other ministers he had recalled, the Regent had made no objections.

  Then to our great surprise, the Regent confessed that his health had been declining lately, his eyesight was failing him, and he dreaded he would soon lose the energy that was needed to attend to state affairs. He said it was time for him to step aside and asked to be free of daily duties in the court. He would come to the Audience Hall only for important matters if Pheasant summoned him.

  Pheasant, of course, immediately agreed.

  I took a goblet from the table and raised it to Pheasant. “It would be my greatest pleasure to amuse you, Your Majesty.”

  Pheasant’s previous tutor, Minister Xu Jingzong, came and introduced himself to me. We had met before, he said. He was the old minister who had asked me about the answer to the riddle I had composed as a gift for Emperor Taizong nearly fifteen years before. I was surprised he still remembered.

  He carried a confident and bold demeanor that intrigued me. Many who had returned from exile looked jaded and subdued, but he was not one of them. I found him worth noting. Only a man of extraordinary strength and insight would survive and rise above the adversity of banishment.

  The Pure Lady, wearing her usual white gown, appeared near the entrance to the garden. Holding a little boy’s hand, she stopped at a cinnamon tree, hesitant. I was delighted. At least she had come.

  I went to greet her. “I am so pleased to see you’re feeling better, Pure Lady.”