The Mandate of Heaven

by Murgatroyd, Tim

  When he turned, Hsiung found the hillside covered with silent, kneeling people, peering up at his silhouette and golden, silken robes, his immense many-brimmed hat. As Liu Shui had instructed, he prostrated himself one more time towards the west and retraced his steps. Cheering began. Hsiung suspected Liu Shui’s influence, for the first to cheer were the officials in their uniforms, but soon hundreds of others joined in.

  His heart and head grew dizzy at their enthusiasm. Hsiung floated down the hillside to the final part of the rite. He must now enter a series of caverns carved into a cliff by a Buddhist Immortal’s prayers, long ago in the Han Dynasty. Only when Hsiung had prayed there by himself for an hour could he proceed to breakfast.

  Hsiung climbed the cliff and entered the low doorway of the shrine. The crowd milled expectantly on the slopes below. A door closed behind him, shutting out the dawn’s feeble light. Yet the cavern was bright, illuminated by dozens of candles and lamps smoking faintly.

  As Hsiung stepped deeper into the sacred network of caverns he felt an odd unease and glanced round. Liu Shui’s intention had been for the people to see he prayed alone, thus convincing them of his sincerity and influence with Heaven. Hsiung sniffed the air suspiciously. Was that the echo of a footfall? Perhaps Liu Shui had instructed a priest to be at hand.

  So Hsiung advanced deeper into the maze of caves, seeking the gigantic statue of the Buddha where he must pray. Candles became less frequent, shadows wider and deeper. Carved stone friezes depicted figures enduring the torments of hell, their mouths an eternal scream, the very sinews of their faces knotted in agony. Again Hsiung paused. A shuffle behind him? Or did it come from the cavern ahead? Everything was different here. Perhaps it had been his own footstep echoing. Hsiung examined the carved sinner in hell, wishing he had brought a sword, even a knife – though using edged weapons was a sin in itself. It was said killing a single fly cost a day of torment in hell.

  Cautiously now, Hsiung advanced down a narrow corridor until he came to a large chamber hollowed from the rock. Here, too, were many candles clustered round a huge statue of the cross-legged Buddha, his smile beatific and hands raised palm upwards. The rest of the room was obscured by deep shadows. Hsiung felt his back prickle but did not look round. He was sure now. Someone far less sublime than the Buddha was in the caves. Maybe more than one.

  He bowed deeply to the statue, as though gripped by piety, in the process removing the heavy Hat Of Communication With Heaven. His hands closed over two of the large, solid carved jade charms dangling from strings. He coughed loudly to mask the tearing sound as they came free. Now he held the hat in one hand and jade weights in the other.

  Rising, Hsiung glanced round for other useful objects. There was a solid wooden reading stand near the Buddha’s statue. Abandoning all pretence, he dashed over to this flimsy shield and stood behind it, looking around. If no one else was there, no one would witness his fear. For a long moment it seemed he had made a fool of himself before the Buddha’s smiling face. Then a figure dressed in black stepped silently from the shadows, a long sword in his hand. On the other side of the cavern another appeared with a thick bamboo stabbing spear and an axe in his belt.

  Hsiung turned to make a dash for the entrance but a third man blocked his way, a curved short sword in each hand. Their faces were covered by scarves to reveal only eyes and tousled hair. Hsiung licked his lips.

  ‘If you tell me who hired you I shall spare you,’ he said.

  His voice rolled and echoed round the stone walls. The three men examined him. Hsiung noted that the spear was poised, balanced in the second assassin’s hand as though ready to throw. He leaned closer to the reading stand so it covered his chest.

  ‘If you attack me before the Buddha’s statue you will suffer torments in hell,’ he said. ‘Tell me who hired you and I will permit you to leave unharmed.’

  He hoped for signs of uncertainty, weakness; two of the men remained utterly impassive but the spearman crouched nervously – he must be the first target. The middle assassin waved a forefinger at his companions and they advanced, step by step, over the sand-covered floor of the cavern. Hsiung gripped the hat and, with a maniacal bellow, hurled one of the jade weights at the spearman’s exposed face. So unexpected was his attack the assassins halted, instinctively raising their weapons to parry. The jade charm hit the spearman’s face below the eye, instantly drawing blood. As Hsiung had hoped, the man reacted by reflex, throwing the spear. It struck the reading stand with an echoing thud and hung there quivering. Hsiung took possession of it.

  The four men in the cave went still, assessing each other. Hsiung kept hold of the hat in one hand and gripped the short bamboo spear in the other, ready for thrusting. Its former owner produced a large, curved axe from his belt.

  Hsiung’s glance flickered casually over the swordsman. That was the weapon he wanted, the weapon he loved best. He had never liked spears. Hsiung felt the first dance of dark lights and laughed oddly. The noise echoed round the wide cavern. Of course, the chickens and cocks on the altar had not been enough to satisfy the thirsty earth! Always there must be sacrifices. He thought of Teng, screaming in agony, trapped in the burning buildings of Deng Mansions, the innocent world of boyhood melting like human flesh and fat in the flames … Oh, there must be a sacrifice to renew the seeds.

  So strange was his laughter the assassins paused to glance round. A costly temerity. In that moment Hsiung leaped forward and thrust the spear into the swordsman’s stomach, twisting it furiously as he raised the hat to fend off an impulsive blow from a short sword. Then he ducked round the toppling swordsman and seized his weapon, shoving the skewered man so he received an axe blow intended for Hsiung’s head. It struck dead flesh, splitting open the skull. A useless blow, and one never repeated, for Hsiung felt a black joy grip his soul as the dark lights danced and skipped …

  When he became aware of himself the axe man lay face down, his head attached to its neck by a fold of skin, a dark pool spreading over the sand-strewn floor. Hsiung’s arm bore a gash that was dripping red.

  Panting, he located his third opponent. The assassin was backing away, clutching a wound on his chest, appalled by the sudden calamity that had befallen his comrades. Hsiung followed, frowning to himself. He knew it was vital to keep this one alive. How else would he find out who had sent them to kill him? But he could feel his breath quicken, his frown becoming an angry glare. How confident they had been! How contemptuous! Three armed men against one with just bare hands for a weapon!

  The assassin’s nerve failed and he fled down the passage. Hsiung leaped after him with a bellow of triumph. His long sword slashed repeatedly at the man’s legs so that he tumbled head over heels onto the carved stone frieze of Hell, tendons torn open. In the semi-darkness Hsiung kicked away the short swords. The assassin was cowering, shielding his head with an arm. Was he saying something? Hsiung could not tell, did not hear. As the dark lights directed, he hauled up the fallen man by his hair and began to rub his face against the rough surface of the frieze. ‘Who sent you? How did you know I would be here? Who betrayed me? Who? Who?’ His shouts echoed down the corridor and through caverns lit by countless candles. Hsiung ground the face back and forth, back and forth, grating it against the nose and brow of a stone sinner in Hell until his hands grew wet and slippery and snapping noises woke him from his black dream.

  Hsiung shrank back in horror. A faint gleam from the cavern revealed the assassin’s maimed, desecrated face, the holy frieze shiny with his blood. What had he done? And in the Buddha’s shrine! What karma must fall upon him for such gross profanity? For a long while Hsiung stared at the carved sinner’s tormented expression. Images of men he had killed on Hornets’ Nest’s behalf – women and children, too – assumed the carved sinner’s features, before vanishing, only to be replaced by another. And another. Finally by a vision of his own screaming, contorted face.

  * * *

  When Liu Shui found him kneeling before the statue of the Buddha
, Hsiung turned to his chancellor with a feverish expression.

  ‘They have damned my soul! They attacked me here! I have nothing left to lose. Yet I had to defend myself, Liu Shui! I had no choice. I tell you, we shall seize the Salt Pans and make them suffer, too!’

  Liu Shui bowed fearfully, afraid to look at the maimed corpses of the assassins, lest the taint infect his own rebirth.

  Part Four

  Salt Pans and Inner Cauldrons

  Hou-ming City, Central China.

  Spring, 1322

  Twenty-seven

  ‘Abbess Yun Shu! If there is no danger to Cloud Abode Monastery, why is the Worthy Master asking this of us?’

  Lady Lu Si’s question was far from serene. The other senior nuns murmured excitedly – all except for Earth Peace, who had nodded off in her special chair.

  The rest knelt on the flagstones of a large, octagonal star observatory where generations of sanren had gathered each year to discuss the monastery’s preparations for the qingming spring festival. From this high platform beside the cliffs of Monkey Hat Hill one could see far across the lake, as well as benefit from favourable breezes.

  Yun Shu certainly needed a strong wind to guide her reply to Lady Lu Si’s question. Worthy Master Jian had instructed her what to say if challenged by the other nuns. Those arguments, persuasive when uttered in his deep, confident voice, jumbled in Yun Shu’s mind. Teng had warned her that the Worthy Master was not to be trusted. Right now, neither were thoughts of Teng. They almost always provoked tears.

  ‘I can only repeat his assurances,’ she mumbled, thinking of Teng despite her intention to concentrate on the matter at hand.

  Jade Perfected frowned. ‘This makes no sense, Abbess! Master Jian says we need fear nothing. Very well, I am reassured. Then he requires us to pack up everything of value in our dear, blessed monastery. Pack it up and have it carried to Golden Bright Temple so he can protect it.’

  ‘Furthermore,’ broke in Lady Lu Si, ‘removing our valuables creates an impression the Daoist Council is preparing to surrender Cloud Abode Monastery to the Buddhists.’

  ‘A most unfortunate impression!’ echoed Gold Immortal in her high, fluty voice.

  ‘An impression that we are weak,’ added Lady Lu Si, ‘that our resolve lacks a centre.’

  ‘Yet is not weakness the ultimate strength?’ ventured Jade Perfected.

  Yun Shu recollected the final argument Worthy Master Jian had instructed her to use: ‘That is why the Daoist Council is asking this of us,’ she replied.

  ‘How so?’ asked Jade Perfected.

  ‘Because,’ said Yun Shu, ‘removing our valuables shows Prince Arslan we will obey whatever he decrees.’

  A lengthy silence followed. Yun Shu looked round the sanren. All were considering her words. She doubted any were satisfied, least of all herself. Doddery old Earth Peace began to snore.

  ‘Will it not indicate to Prince Arslan that we anticipate he will transfer our beloved monastery to the foreign Buddhists?’ asked Jade Perfected. ‘That we are amenable to such a thing?’

  ‘Worthy Master Jian believes it demonstrates our loyalty,’ said Yun Shu. ‘There is much I do not understand about his reasoning. But I am certain of one thing: he will never allow Cloud Abode Monastery to pass from the Nuns of Serene Perfection. It would be unthinkable.’

  Faith must be their final assurance. Even to her it sounded feeble. The other nuns exchanged dubious glances. Three Simplicities cleared her throat.

  ‘Abbess Yun Shu,’ she said, ‘no wonder you have such confidence in the Worthy Master. You participate so intimately in his rites. Only you know how deep he goes when conducting his ceremonies with you. I imagine it is all very satisfying. If only one could watch!’

  Yun Shu’s blush deepened. She rose angrily. ‘This decision was not made by me but the entire Provincial Council!’ She could not imagine an alternative to obedience. Since Teng’s hideous death in the inferno of Deng Mansions she lacked the will to fight. At the thought of him her anger subsided. ‘I have no choice,’ she muttered. ‘I must instruct Bo-Bai and the other servants to co-operate in this matter.’

  The other sanren remained kneeling. But Lady Lu Si’s expression was hard. ‘Let us hope the Worthy Master uses our valuables worthily. The Nuns of Serene Perfection have dwelt in this holy place for over four hundred years. It is not for him to end that sacred bond.’

  Earth Peace’s snore developed into a whinny. All rose and bowed to the Abbess as she left the octagonal star observatory. Yun Shu was glad they had the decency to wait for her to leave before beginning their denunciations.

  Over the next week, porters led by a nameless priest known only as ‘Void’ came and went between Monkey Hat Hill and the Worthy Master’s treasury in Golden Bright Temple. Ancient bronzes, robes, gongs, statues, illuminated volumes of Daoist and Buddhist holy texts, all were gathered. Centuries of gifts to the Nuns of Serene Perfection were carried away. Yun Shu insisted a strict inventory must be taken by Lady Lu Si and Jade Perfected – to Void’s evident displeasure – but it was impossible to keep track.

  Her thoughts were haunted by other lost treasures. Alone at night or when she visited the ruined watchtower for a little solitude, Teng crept back to her, a ghost of many ages. Sometimes a pedantic boy, her earnest xia. Then a young man, still half boy, teasing her as they stumbled through the limestone hills near Lingling. Or a handsome rake, his profligacy driven by disappointment and sorrow, risking everything to protect his father. Dear Teng, she thought, how would you advise me to save Cloud Abode Monastery?

  Yun Shu watched the last line of porters descend the Hundred Stairs with a terrible sense of desolation. It seemed to her they were stealing her memories of Teng, one by one.

  Yun Shu’s duties as Abbess of Cloud Abode Monastery left little time for her own affairs, particularly during the qingming spring festival. Then the image of the City God, Chenghuang, was paraded through important avenues and streets in Hou-ming, the God grinning this way and that. Thousands followed, beating drums and lighting firecrackers, at times linking arms, petitioning Chenghuang to shower prosperity upon a people who had suffered so grievously through war and famine.

  Yun Shu walked beside the statue, chanting favourable sutras, her splendid robes a hundred years old, glittering with semi-precious stones and embroidered magical symbols. Many admired the young Abbess who had defeated a wicked dragon on Holy Mount Chang. Just as many wondered if the Buddhists from Tibet would carry Chenghuang’s image during the parade next year. For Prince Arslan’s decision on the Nuns’ future loomed.

  At midnight Yun Shu was granted a respite from ritual. Lady Lu Si led the chanting in the shrine room to honour Chenghuang, so the God would feel welcome after His journey through the city.

  Yun Shu returned to her sparsely furnished chamber. The night was warm and she removed all her heavy silk clothes, stretching this way and that, naked apart from a thin cotton shift.

  She fanned herself with a blank sheet of paper. It was the day when letters must be sent to relatives alive and dead. First to her mother’s shen, her spirit, and to Teng’s. Then to one still living yet dead to her in every meaningful way.

  The letter to Mother was soon composed. Yun Shu reported that her service to the Dao since last spring had brought honour to the Yuns. She concluded by hoping Honoured Mother’s Ghost suffered no inconvenience and her daughter’s monthly offerings were received favourably.

  Yun Shu chanted her mother’s name a hundred times to summon her ghost, then burned the letter so it would journey straight to the spirit world.

  For a long while Yun Shu tried to picture Mother’s face. Teng had once said that he, too, sometimes attempted the same voyage of recollection, always unsatisfactorily. And now Teng’s own face could only be reclaimed through memory.

  She repeated the ritual, except for a different ghost: Teng, Teng, she whispered a hundred times. The letter that she burned to ash, tears stinging her cheeks, consisted of noth
ing more than a poem. She knew Teng would comprehend all her heart through its words:

  Autumn wind rises,

  Plump clouds burn,

  Pine, bamboo, plum tree wither,

  Geese fly south and north.

  Inspired by duty rather than affection, Yun Shu turned to her last letter. She wrote hurriedly without any expectation of a reply:

  Honoured Father, I write as your dutiful daughter, mindful of your lingering displeasure. First, I pray that you and my honoured brothers prosper for a thousand autumns. Likewise, your chosen companion, Golden Lotus.

  Next, I pray the rumours concerning the destruction of Deng Mansions are unfounded. People claim Deng Teng perished in a fire started by your men, at your command. Father, only you know the full cause of that tragedy.

  Honoured Parent, it cannot be that you do not know how high I have risen through the Dao’s favour. I cherish the hope you feel a little pride in your daughter. In obedience, Yun Shu.

  This letter was not consigned to the flames but sent – as was a version of it every year – to Salt Minister Gui’s residence in Prince Arslan’s palace compound. Eunuch Bo-Bai carried the message, delivering it personally to Gui’s secretary.

  A week later, a messenger arrived at Cloud Abode Monastery, asking for Abbess Yun Shu. He bowed deeply and presented a letter smelling faintly of sandalwood. Her nose twitched. With a suspicious glance at the messenger she opened it:

  Yun Shu (sometimes called Abbess Yun Shu), you are summoned to Salt Minister Gui’s residence in five days at the noon bell. Not presenting will be disobedient badness.

  The letter was not signed. Yun Shu’s emotions leapt between surprise, excitement, thankfulness and fear. Father had showed signs of forgiveness! Yet re-reading the letter stirred doubts. Not only was its style odd – indeed, vulgar – the characters were ill formed, suggesting a cheap, hired scribe. Then there was the scent of sandalwood.