The Nine Cloud Dream

by Kim Man-jung

  Ch’an-yüeh and the others all laughed out loud.

  “Ching-hung, you are so delicate and beautiful, how could he ever take you for a boy?” said Ying-yang. “There must be something wrong with his eyes. It is no shame to you that he mistook you for a boy. But Ch’an-yüeh is also right. It isn’t ladylike to disguise yourself as a boy to fool someone, just as it would be unmanly for a man to disguise himself as a girl. Those who disguise themselves like that are usually trying to cover something up.”

  Now it was Shao-yu’s turn to laugh. “You are quite right, Princess. My eyes must be dim. But you yourself could discern the tunes played on the ch’in, and yet you couldn’t tell a man from a woman, so you have excellent ears but terrible eyes. All one needs is one working hole to be a human being. The princess may belittle me, but all who see my portrait in the Ch’ilin Pavilion praise me for my imposing stature and my serious dignity.” And now everyone joined in the laughter.

  “Now that we are facing our archenemy, it is no time to be joking with each other,” said Ch’an-yüeh. “We cannot rely on just the two of us. We would like Ch’un-yün to help. And since Prince Yüeh is not an outsider, I hope Ts’ai-feng will also join us.”

  “If the two of you were going to sit for the national civil exam, I would surely go with you to offer my support,” said Ts’ai-feng. “But how can I be of any help when this is all about singing and dancing? It would be like asking me to help in a boxing match. I would be no use at all.”

  Ch’un-yün also declined. “People will make fun of me because I cannot sing and dance. People will point their fingers at me and say, ‘That’s the prime minister’s concubine.’ They will laugh and bring shame on my lord and the two princesses. There is no way I can participate.”

  But Princess Ying-yang reassured her. “There won’t be any ridiculing of the prime minister if you participate, Ch’un-yün. And we would not be upset at all.”

  Ch’un-yün answered, “If we spread out the silk cushions and pitch a tent as high as the clouds, people will come and say, ‘Here comes the prime minister’s concubine!’ They’ll shove at each other and stand on tiptoes to gawk at me. And once I sit down with my shaggy hair and ghostly pale face, they’ll be shocked and they’ll say, ‘The prime minister must be a letch like Teng Tu-tzu.’ And that will bring disgrace upon him. As for Prince Yüeh, he’s never seen anything so ugly as me, and if he does, it would make him sick. Doesn’t that concern you?”

  “That is too much,” said Princess Lan-yang. “Now you are going overboard with your modesty. Once you transformed yourself into a ghost, but now a beauty like you is trying to change from the irresistible Hsi into the homely Wu-yen—I can’t believe it!” Then she asked Shao-yu, “What date have you picked?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Shao-yu.

  Ching-hung and Ch’an-yüeh were stunned to hear this. “We haven’t even begun training the two groups yet,” they said. “It is not enough time!” They called the lead dancers and told them, “The prime minister and Prince Yüeh have arranged to meet tomorrow at Lo-yu-yüan. All of you must be ready at dawn with your instruments tuned and wearing your best dresses to accompany the prime minister.”

  The eighty girls, receiving these orders, put on their makeup, redrew their eyebrows, and practiced on their instruments to get ready for the next day’s contest.

  * * *

  Shao-yu rose early the next morning, put on his armor, slung his quiver on his back, and with his bow in hand he mounted his white battle horse. With three hundred huntsmen, he left his walled compound and rode to the south of the capital.

  Ching-hung and Ch’an-yüeh, in their embroidered dresses decorated with golden ornaments, jade, and flowers, led their dancers, and rode right behind Shao-yu on horses bedecked with flowers, with gilded saddles and reins threaded with jade and pearls. The eighty dancers, on smaller horses, rode in two lines on either side.

  On their way, they met Prince Yüeh, whose huntsmen, dancers, and musicians were a match for Shao-yu’s. The prince and Shao-yu met up and rode side by side.

  “What breed of horse is that?” Prince Yüeh asked.

  “He comes from Afghanistan. Yours must also be from there,” said Shao-yu.

  “Yes,” said the prince. “Its name is Thousand Li Floating Cloud. Last fall when I took the Emperor hunting up in Shang-lin, a thousand horses from the imperial stable were there, all of them with legs as swift as the wind, but none of them were as swift as this one, not even my nephew Chang’s Peach Blossom or General Li’s Black Brocade. People say those horses are like dragons, but compared to mine they are just sacks of bones.”

  Shao-yu replied, “Last year when I fought the Tibetans, this horse crossed rough waters and scaled steep cliffs that even my brave men dared not try, taking them like level ground and never once losing his footing. My victories were thanks to this horse. Tu Fu3 wrote: ‘Of one mind with man, he achieves great things.’

  “Since I left my troops and was promoted in rank, I now lounge around in a palanquin and walk on level roads. The horse and I have both become lazy and our health has suffered, so let us snap our whips and test our skill in a race that goes to the swiftest.”

  Prince Yüeh was delighted. “That is just what I was thinking myself,” he said. He told his servants to have the guests, the dancers, and the musicians from both sides wait in the tents.

  Just as Prince Yüeh was about to whip his horse, a stag leaped out in front of him, chased by his huntsmen. He ordered one of his best hunters to shoot it, but then, even with all of his best men shooting at the same time, they missed. Prince Yüeh was furious. He galloped forward and killed the stag himself, shooting it in the flank.

  All of the soldiers cheered and Shao-yu praised him. “You are a better archer than Prince Ju-yang,” he said.

  Prince Yüeh replied, “Why bother complimenting such modest skill? I am looking forward to watching you shoot.”

  As he was still speaking, a pair of swans flew between the clouds, and the soldiers exclaimed, “Those are the hardest birds to hit. We will need to use the Hai-tung falcons to catch those.”

  “Hold off,” said Shao-yu. He nocked an arrow and shot it straight up, hitting one of the swans, the shaft piercing its eye, and it fell out of the sky, hitting the ground before their horses.

  Prince Yüeh was duly impressed. “Your shooting is as skillful as Yang Yu-chi’s,”4 he said.

  Now they flicked their whips and their horses leaped forward like shooting stars, flashing like lightning, flying like pale ghosts. Within minutes they had traversed a wide plain and climbed the high slope of a hill. They pulled their reins and stood side by side.

  For a while they looked out across the landscape and spoke of archery and swordsmanship. And then the grooms caught up to them with the meat of the stag and the swan prepared on standing silver trays. The prince and Shao-yu dismounted and sat in the grass. Drawing their swords from their belts, they cut some of the meat and roasted and ate it, offering each other wine to drink.

  In the distance they saw two red-robed officials hurrying toward them, a host of people following behind. They appeared to be coming from the palace, and in a little while, one of them came running up, breathless, and said, “The Emperor and Empress Dowager have sent wine for you.”

  Prince Yüeh went back to the tent, where two eunuchs poured the wine and laid out ruled writing paper. The prince and Shao-yu washed their hands before kneeling and unrolling the paper, on which they found the order: “Compose a poem using this theme: The Great Hunt in the Hills.”

  Shao-yu and the prince both bowed their heads four times in salute. Then they each separately composed a poem and gave it to the eunuchs.

  Shao-yu wrote:

  Warriors set out to the field at the break of dawn

  Swords glistening like the autumn lotus; arrows fly like falling stars.

  The bea
utiful ladies flock in the tents,

  And before the horses, two mighty-winged falcons.

  We share cups of the Emperor’s wine,

  Our reflections bowing our gratitude,

  And drunk, we draw our golden blades to cut the blood-fresh meat.

  I remember last year, beyond the west frontier

  When we hunted in bleak snow at Ta-huang Preserve.5

  And Prince Yüeh wrote:

  Lightning flashes—horses flying like dragons,

  With high saddles, to the thundering drums on the hilltop.

  The leaping stag cut down by a shooting star,

  The white swan felled from Heaven like the bright moon—

  A wild blood thirst spurs the hunting spirit.

  With royal wine, our visages red with joy,

  No need to speak of Ju-yang’s fabled bow.

  The eunuchs took the poems back to the capital with them.

  * * *

  One after the other, each of the guests from the two sides was seated, and tables laden with food and wine were brought in. Grilled camel and delicate orangutan lips were served on silver trays and green jade platters were piled with lychees from Tongking and tangerines from Ying-chia. The feast was like one thrown by the Queen Mother of the West in Jewel Lake or the lavish parties of Emperor Han Wu-ti at the Cypress Beam Terrace.

  Hundreds of musicians sat in circles, row upon row, under silken awnings. The sound of jade ornaments jangling was like thunder and their beautiful faces were as lovely as flowers. The sound of their music made ripples in the waters of the Ch’ü River and the sound of their singing shook Chung-nan Mountain.

  Prince Yüeh was already half-drunk. “In appreciation of your great friendship, I would like you to have some of the dancing girls I brought today,” he said. “Pick some of them and enjoy yourself with singing and dancing.”

  “How could I dare to take your beauties?” asked Shao-yu. “But since we are brothers-in-law, I will indulge myself. Some of my women are here to enjoy the forest. Let me call them and have them join with yours to entertain us with their skills.”

  “Agreed,” said the prince.

  Then Ch’an-yüeh and Ching-hung and four of Prince Yüeh’s beauties stood up one by one and came to bow in front of the tent.

  Shao-yu said, “In ancient times, the Prince of Ning had a beautiful dancing girl named Fu-yung, the Lotus Flower, and Li Po, the great poet, begged him to be allowed to hear her sing, but he was never permitted to see her face. But I can see your faces now, so I have been far more favored than Li Po. What are your names?”

  The four girls rose and gave their names: Tu Yün-hsien, Cloud Fairy of Chin-ling; Su Ts’ai-o, Painted Moth of Chen-liu; Wan Yü-yen, Jade Swallow of Wu-ch’ang; and Hu Ying-ying, Lovely Flower of Ch’ang-an.

  To the prince, Shao-yu said, “I had heard of Yü-yen when I traveled as a young scholar, but now that I see her, she is far more lovely than her reputation.”

  The prince already knew the names of Ch’an-yüeh and Ching-hung. “The whole empire sings your praises,” he said to Shao-yu. “They are fortunate to serve a master like you. How did you meet them?”

  “I met Ch’an-yüeh when I stayed in Lo-yang on my way to take the civil exams and she followed me on her own. Ching-hung used to be in the palace of the Prince of Yen. When I was sent there as an envoy, she ran away to follow me.”

  The prince had a hearty laugh. “She is like the famous Girl in Purple who sneaked out of the house of Yan,” he said. “But when she followed you, you were already famous. On the other hand, when Ch’an-yüeh followed you, you were only a common scholar with no inkling of your future fame and fortune. She is truly special. How did you happen to meet her?”

  Shao-yu told him the whole story of their first meeting at the poetry contest on T’ien-chin Bridge and how Ch’an-yüeh had picked his poem and sung it. “They had agreed that she would spend the night with the one whose poem she sang, so there was no argument about it,” he said. “It was karma.”

  “Well, that is a happier outcome than placing first in the exam,” the prince said, laughing. “It must have been a wonderful composition you wrote in Lo-yang. Could I hear it, perhaps?”

  “Oh, I cannot recall it now,” said Shao-yu. “I was drunk when I wrote it.”

  So the prince said to Ch’an-yüeh, “He may have forgotten it, but surely, you must remember.”

  “Of course I remember,” she replied. “Shall I write it out for you later, or shall I sing it now?”

  “I would prefer to hear you sing it first,” the prince said.

  When she came forward and sang, everyone was filled with wonderment and the prince praised her extravagantly. “Your poem and her singing are beyond compare,” he said. “The lines—

  The flowers droop in shame before her beauty,

  her lips perfumed, though she has yet to sing

  “—well describe her talent and her beauty. Even Li Po himself could not have done better.”

  Showering her with more praise, the prince poured wine for her and Ching-hung in cups of gold. Then he ordered his four women to sing and dance in honor of the two. Host and guest were in harmony.

  The prince was very pleased, and now he went out of the tent with all the guests to watch a demonstration of the martial arts by his soldiers. “It is also worth seeing archery and horsemanship by beautiful girls,” he said. “I have several girls who are good at it, and I hear some of yours are from the north. Why don’t we have them shoot some rabbits and pheasants to amuse us?”

  When Shao-yu agreed and picked a dozen of his beautiful girls to join the palace girls for a competition, Ching-hung stood up and said, “I am not very good with a bow or a sword, but I want to compete today.”

  Shao-yu gave her his own bow with a smile. Ching-hung held it up and said to the other girls, “Don’t laugh at me if I miss!”

  She leaped into the saddle of one of the best horses and galloped from the tents just as a pheasant flew up out of the tall grass.

  Ching-hung arched her body backward, drew back the bow, and let loose an arrow that dropped the many-hued bird right in front of the horse where everyone could see.

  The prince and Shao-yu guffawed in delight.

  Ching-hung nimbly dismounted in front of the tent and slowly made her way back to her seat, where all the other girls showered her with praise. “We have trained for many years in vain!” they said to her.6

  “We did not lose the contest to the prince’s women,” said Ch’an-yüeh. “But still, they are too much for us because there are four of them and only two of us. I’m sorry that we didn’t bring Ch’un-yün with us. Singing and dancing are not her strengths, but her beauty and her repartee would easily surpass Tu Yün-hsien’s.” Even as she sighed, she saw a carriage approaching in the distance, and in it, two beautiful girls.

  * * *

  When they arrived at the tent in their lacquered carriage, the guard asked, “Do you come from Prince Yüeh’s palace?”

  “These two ladies are concubines of the Duke of Wei,” the driver answered. “They were delayed and unable to come here with him.”

  When the guard reported this to Shao-yu, he thought it must be Ch’un-yün coming to watch. He thought it rather impulsive of her, but he told the guard to bring them in.

  But to his surprise, two girls got out of the carriage. The first was Shen Niao-yen and then, behind her, Po Ling-po, whom he had met in his dream at camp—the daughter of the Dragon King of Tung-t’ing Lake.

  They bowed to Shao-yu and, gesturing to the prince, he said to them, “This is His Highness Prince Yüeh. Pay your respects to him as well.”

  After they bowed to the prince, Shao-yu had them sit beside Ching-hung and Ch’an-yüeh. He said to the prince, “I met these two girls during my campaign against the Tibetans. I have
been so busy I was not able to bring them with me, but they have come to the capital on their own. They must have come here after hearing about our contest.”

  The prince looked at them again and saw that they were as beautiful as Ching-hung and Ch’an-yüeh, perhaps even more so, and they looked as if they might be sisters. And all the girls of his palace now seemed bland by comparison.

  “What are your names?” he asked them. “Where did you come from?”

  “I am Shen Niao-yen from Hsi-liang,” said one.

  “I am Po Ling-po,” said the other. “I lived in the Hsiao-hsiang River but fled to the west because of the war, and then I followed Yang Shao-yu.”

  “You are not of this Earth,” the prince said to them. “Could you play some of your music for us?”

  “I come from the borderlands, and I do not know the kind of thing that might entertain you,” said Niao-yen. “I did learn the sword dance when I was a child. But that is to perform for soldiers and not worthy of showing to men of your stature.”

  But the prince was enthused, and he said to Shao-yu, “During Hsüan Tsung’s reign the sword dance of Kung-sun Ta-hiang was famous throughout the empire, but no one carried on the art after her and it has been lost. Ever since I read Tu Fu’s7 description of her dance, I was sorry I could not see it. So I am glad to learn that she knows it.”

  The prince and Shao-yu drew their swords and gave them to Niao-yen. She folded up her sleeves, took off her sash, and began her dance, moving so lightly it seemed as if she were flying. The swirling of her bright dress and the flashing steel of the swords blurred together like spring snow falling on peach blossoms. Soon the tent was filled with a frosty light so dazzling she could no longer be seen, and then, suddenly, a blue rainbow arched across the sky and an icy wind blew between the tables. The spectators froze in fear.

  Niao-yen had wanted to show off the full extent of her skill, but she stopped because she did not want to frighten the prince. She threw down the swords, bowed twice, and returned to her seat.