Next, I inspected the area where his head should have rested. The neck had been cut cleanly through, slightly above the folds of his robe. The stump of the neck had sealed over so neatly that had my caller not already inquired after his head, I might have hazarded that this was his natural condition.
Based on his attire, my caller appeared to be a street beggar of very eccentric habits. Although the temperature was midsummer warm, his robes were bulked out as if he was wearing heavy winter undergarments. His outer garments mingled those of a man and a woman, so, by the end of my inspection, my confusion as to his gender was increased, rather than otherwise. He also looked as if he had recently been for a swim with all his clothing on, although, when I had grasped his shoulder, the fabric had been completely dry. However, this immersion probably explained the lack of bloodstains on his clothing.
My caller carried very little in the way of possessions, although his bulky robes might conceal just about anything. A flute was thrust through the sash at his waist. This was a lovely instrument, glossed with the patina of frequent use. On the other side of the belt hung a pair of finger cymbals. From these, I conjectured that my caller might make his living as a street performer. At that thought, a memory quivered for attention but, before I could quest after it, my caller finished writing and thrust the tablet across to me.
“You may call me ‘Lan,’” the text began. “I am a wandering musician, earning enough to keep body and soul together, with a bit left over to share with those less fortunate. Yesterday, I was approached by a man who asked if I was interested in earning shelter, hot meals, and some coin. When I learned that all I would need to do was entertain some unexpected guests at his home, I was very willing.
“I followed my patron in the direction of a pleasant district where the richer sort lived. We were passing down a deserted side street when, without warning, a large, heavily-muscled warrior with a great, bristling beard stepped out of an alley. He held a sword in one hand and an enormous sack in the other.
“My patron cried out in shock and alarm, at the same time pushing me away. I took the hint and started running
“For all his size, the bearded warrior moved with a tiger’s swift grace. He leapt after me, catching up before I had gone ten paces and dropped the sack over my head. I kicked him in the knee. He knocked me to the ground. I heard my patron shouting.
“Then. . . My head was in one place, my body in another. Without any conscious prompting, my body resumed running. My head tried screaming, but my mouth got full of bag. I got dust in one eye and couldn’t rub it out. I—by this, now, I mean my torso—ran blindly. Literally. I couldn’t see nor hear nor smell, but I could definitely run.
“I’m a bit uncertain as to how far I ran since, between one step and the next, my footing vanished. Suddenly, I was over my neck in cold, racing water. The current grabbed me. My sodden clothing dragged me under. Breathing didn’t seem to be an issue one way or another. Since underwater I could better escape capture, I let myself drop. I swam until I touched bottom, then grasped about until I found a heavy stone. I picked this up in case my soaked robes weren’t enough to keep me under. Then I started walking.
“I felt much safer. I remembered in which direction the river flowed. This gave me some small orientation. I recalled that when my patron had approached me, the day had been well past noon, getting on for the Hour of the Ram. I resolved not to emerge from the river until after dark, so found myself a quiet pool outside of the main rush of the current and settled to sit on the bottom. Other than the occasional small fish who came to nibble upon me and decide I wasn’t edible, I was left alone.
“I won’t pretend this wasn’t a peculiar situation. If I tried, I could more or less sense my head. I no longer shared its sensations, but I knew where it was. Enwrapped in darkness, I became nothing but thought and touch. I wished desperately for help. As I did so, I felt my string of coins tug from where I had tied them inside my garments. I inspected more closely, discovering that one coin in particular was the source of the disturbance.
“I recognized it as part of my haul from the day before. Since it had appeared to be solid gold, I had given it a closer inspection, noticing that although superficially it was a normal coin—round, with a square hole in the middle—it bore strange markings. I had resolved to keep this coin until I could dispose of it safely, for I dreaded either being suspected of counterfeiting or of having knowledge of some ancient hoard.
“In my earlier inspection, I had not detected anything else unusual about the gold coin but now, perhaps because my sense of touch was intensified by the lack of the other four senses, or perhaps because of my peculiar isolation underwater, I realized that the coin emanated a peculiar energy. Moreover, just as I could sense my detached head, so I could sense that this coin seemed to be guiding me somewhere. Directionless as I was, it seemed wise to follow this prompt.
“After nightfall, I emerged from underwater. I had no idea if anyone could see me or if the appearance of a headless torso was causing alarm. My lack of awareness was both frightening and strangely restful. After I wrung out my garments, I tore a scrap from my underclothing and, using my blood for ink, wrote this message.”
Memory stirred. I felt I couldn’t be blamed for not recognizing my caller—one did tend to focus on the absence of the head to the exclusion of all other details. Now I realized that I had indeed seen this man before. I had crossed to the human world to purchase supplies, including the tea I was currently drinking. Passing along one of the busy streets, I had been attracted by a lovely tenor voice. I had diverted from my course and found Lan—for now I realized who it had been—singing a playful song, the lyrics of which concealed—if one had any knowledge of current scandals—a scathing indictment of a local official. Lan had accompanied himself on the very flute that now rested in his belt.
As I passed by, I had tossed a coin into the cap that rested on the pavement. Only after I had returned to my own plane had I realized that I had thrown a gold shen coin rather than the copper I had intended. I had shrugged. The gold in the coin was good and, if the street musician held onto the coin, the chi stored within it might benefit him.
For a fleeting moment, I wondered if the shen coin explained the torso’s remarkable post-decapitation mobility, but I dismissed this as unlikely. There simply wasn’t enough chi stored in that single coin. What Lan’s possession of the coin did explain was how his torso had made this unlikely journey, safe and apparently unremarked upon. He had wished for aid. To one who might grant that aid, the coin had brought him.
Now that Lan was here, what was I to do? That it never occurred to me to reject his request for aid should not be taken for any indication of great nobility in my character. At this point in my life, I was but a brash young demon, possessed of a good deal of raw power, eager to prove myself. Therefore, it would be by my deeds that I would make my reputation. Here was a quest of great promise.
First, I must find a way around Lan’s current physical impediment. His note said he could sense the location of his head, so he could be my guide. However, a guide I must lead by the hand and protect against every small misstep of the way held little appeal. I sought out a string of gourds I had hung to dry in one corner of the room. Gourds are inherently suited for storing magical energy. I had grown these in soil imbued with powdered ginger, ginseng, and cinnabar. There was in me the desire to be more than a warrior, to be a creator. As of yet, I had found neither art nor craft to suit me.
Inspecting the gourds with senses other than those five I shared with humanity, I selected the one that would best serve my purposes. In shape it was rounded, with a fat neck that I carefully sawed through until it was a match for Lan’s own. Leaving the dry seeds inside, where they would provide a reservoir of chi that my workings could draw upon, I poured into the open neck of the gourd any number of powders and liquids, shaking until the interior was well-coated. When I could feel the powerful hum of dormant magics awaiting activation, I crossed
to my guest.
Lan had remained seated, the embodiment of patience. He flinched slightly when I pressed the gourd over the severed stump of his neck. Laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder, I bound the gourd into place, adapting for the purpose a routine mending spell. Then I stepped back, confident in my casting.
I had expected Lan to gasp, which he did, to raise his hand to feel this ersatz head, which he also did. What I had not expected was for him to turn his smooth gourd face to “look” at me, then scream in terror.
“Who. . .? What are you?” he asked, his voice sounding precisely as did his natural one, for I had willed it so when designing the spells.
I was a little hurt. Hadn’t I been his benefactor? Then I recalled that Lan had never seen me in my natural form. If he remembered the person who had tossed him the gold coin, he remembered a young human male of his own race—which meant straight black hair, dark brown eyes, and skin the golden brown of ripening wheat.
What he saw standing before him was humanlike, but not in the least human, not unless humans had rich blue skin (shading slightly into purple), purplish-black hair, and eyes of such a dark black that no pupil was visible. The skin surrounding those eyes was ornamented with angular patches of ebon-black that made my eyes seem to glow. My hands were human-like in that they possessed five digits, but not at all human in that my fingers—and my toes as well—ended in very sharp talons.
When I considered this, I could understand why Lan had screamed. Briefly, I considered shifting to my human guise, then decided that the transformation would be at least as upsetting. Besides, Lan deserved to know what sort of being he had associated himself with.
I reached for the teapot and filled my cup, hoping that such a domestic act would calm my guest. As I did so, I said, “The enchantment I have worked upon you creates the guise of normal sensing, as well as granting the ability to speak. You still retain the advantages you mentioned in your note. You do not need to breathe. Nor do you appear to need any sustenance.”
“I don’t, do I?” Lan said. Only hearing as excellent as my own would have heard the small quaver of fear. “How very odd. Then again, I am accustomed to going without meals. The life of a street performer does not provide such on a regular schedule. May I know what to call you?”
“Kai Wren,” I replied, offering a courtly inclination of my head.
“Kai Wren,” Lan repeated. “Are you a hsien?”
The word he used pertains to many sorts of spirit beings. I shrugged. “So we have been called. We have also been called demons, because our aspect is terrifying and, as such, assumed to be inimical. However, there is a greater difference between my people and the hsien. Hsien are denizens of your world, belonging to it as do humans or dogs or trees. My people dwell in a plane that touches upon your own, but is not of it. Long ago, we learned to travel between planes, and frequently visit yours.”
“Ah.” Long pause then, “Which plane am I on now?”
“My own. I would hazard that when you followed the tug of the shen coin, it drew you here.”
That Lan accepted what I told him without protest did not surprise me, for the tales of his people are full of remarkable supernatural events. He next said, “Will you help me find my head? Nice as this facsimile is, I do miss my own head. For one, without breath I cannot play my flute.”
“I understand. Yes. I will aid you. To be honest, I’m interested in the puzzle. Perhaps if we find your head, we will also learn how you manage to survive without it. It’s a neat trick, one I wouldn’t mind adding to my own repertoire.”
“If we find out,” Lan said generously, “you’re welcome to borrow it, as long as the borrowing doesn’t hazard my own continuing existence. It would do me little good to regain my head if in doing so I bartered away my life.”
“Well spoken,” I agreed. “We have a deal. In your note you said that you could sense your head. Is that still true?”
Lan did not shut his eyes in concentration, for he did not have eyes to shut. Nonetheless, I had the impression that he was doing something along those lines.
“Yes, I can. It feels a long way away, though.”
I smiled, remembered what a fearsome sight that could be, and tamped down on the broadness of my grin. “No matter. I can provide transportation. Can you ride a horse?”
“Not really,” Lan said. “Horses are for the fine folks. I’m just a wandering musician.”
I had my doubts about that last, but this wasn’t the time to argue the point. Nor was it the time to teach him how to ride. I considered my options. Since I didn’t know whether Lan’s head was in the demon realm or the human realm, summoning a dragon—I had a few bound to me—wasn’t a good idea. The lesser dragons, such as I commanded, were elemental spirits. I couldn’t risk taking them out of their element, not to mention that I didn’t want to invest the chinecessary to keep such a showy mount unnoticed.
“Got it!” I said. Moving to the shelves on one side of the room, I removed wooden figure of an ox pulling a cart. A few years back, I had studied wood carving. This figure had been the best of my efforts. The ox was typical of those used by peasants, with a broad brow and spreading horns, its solid strength and stolid temperament visible in every line. The cart was simple and practical, of the sort used for hauling.
My lessons had not merely been in carving. I had also learned how one worked with the grain of the wood so that the latent chi was intensified, somewhat after the manner of feng shui, by the lines and curves of the carver’s knife. Although my teacher had said I had talent, I had let my lessons lapse, feeling this wasn’t the art I could feel calling to me.
Head bent, I cradled my head above the carving, allowing my chi to mingle with that inherent in the piece. A breath, two, three. A surge of power and it was done.
When I set the figure down in the road outside my front door, it grew to a life-sized replica. “It will carry us both easily,” I explained to Lan, who, despite having a head conjured from a gourd, was still capable of marveling at miracles, “through this plane, your own, or the sideways spaces. The cart may look slow, but that’s deceptive. Both ox and cart travel slightly above the ground. Unhampered by friction, they are capable of moving as swiftly as the fastest running horse. Spells of misdirection cause it to be overlooked. Any who notice it will simply think that this cart can’t possibly be the same as the one they passed earlier, for everyone knows that ox carts are slow and plodding. Now, up on the seat. In what direction do you sense your head?”
After taking his place, Lan bent his head and concentrated. “There, in the direction of the ox-tiger. The signal is faint but true.”
“Northeast,” I said, giving the ox his head, and thus we set off in search of Lan’s.
Initially, our journey took us through the demon realms, where neither our conveyance nor my companion as much as raised an eyebrow. Eventually, though, Lan’s directions sent us through the sideways spaces, to emerge in the human realm a great distance from the town in which Lan had suffered his loss. There I changed my shape to that of a farm lad, strongly-built and handsome in a rough way. We concealed Lan’s gourd with a hooded cloak that also served to cover his motley attire.
“My head feels closer,” Lan said in response to my query, “but not close. Drive toward those mountains.”
We did, continuing after dark, for neither of us needed rest as humans did. I naturally saw in the dark, and I’d made certain that Lan’s gourd head could unnaturally do so. Night travel also meant that our ox cart could trundle over fields and rivers—rather than going around them—without raising comment. Or, if we did raise comment, it was to add to the ample fund of Chinese ghost stories.
Other than orientation, Lan wasn’t getting much from his head. It had been transferred from the sack to a box and was suffering all the discomfort Lan was missing, having a dry mouth, sore eyes, and too much to think about. Lan admitted that if he had to be imprisoned, he was rather glad that he was cut off from his head.
> I’m not sure what I expected to find at the end of our journey. Lan’s description of his assailant made him sound like a classic bandit. I was completely surprised when Lan’s “turn right,” “go straight,” “take us up that hill” led us to where we could overlook a minimally fortified, multi-building complex.
“That’s it!” Lan said. “My head is somewhere down there.”
“I believe,” I said, after studying the compound, “it’s a potter’s establishment. “There’s a clay pit, ample water, and, see that glow to the back? I think that’s a kiln. I’m guessing those longer buildings are workshops. They probably double as dormitories. The master and his family probably live in the other wing.”
“It’s awfully quiet,” Lan commented. “I know it’s the middle of the night but, given the number of people who are living there—see how large the gardens are?—there should be someone awake and about.”
A flare of reddish-orange light caught my attention. “Someone’s up tending the kiln’s fire, at least.”
“It’s still too quiet,” Lan persisted.
I didn’t argue. Lan was human, after all. Although I went into the human world to shop, I certainly wasn’t an expert on human habits.
“Do we go in now or would you prefer to wait until morning? It’s your head on the line.”
Lan considered. “Now. We might as well take advantage of the darkness. Maybe we’ll be able to grab the box with my head in it and get out before we’re noticed.”
“Fine. We’ll leave the wagon here and I’ll glide us in.” I checked to make sure I could get to my sword, which I carried concealed in a bit of portable sideways space. I had a few other tricks tucked up my sleeves, which were much roomier than they looked.
Grasping Lan under my left arm, so as to be able to reach my sword with my right, I caused my chi to spread forth, catching the night air beneath invisible wings. When we landed lightly inside the compound’s central courtyard, Lan pointed directly toward the kiln. Drawing my sword, I spread shadows and silence about us, and we gusted forward. Even as I took these precautions, I wondered if they were necessary. Lan was right. This place was virtually deserted. I sensed only three or four life forces. All were gathered near the kiln.
Shadows & Reflections: A Roger Zelazny Tribute Anthology Page 9