by Jin Yong
Immediately, he raised his head high. “Master Huang, my six kind teachers, Brother Tuolei, and masters Zhebie and Bo’erhu,” he announced, “Guo Jing really isn’t the type who has no honour, no virtue. I have to marry Sister Huazheng.”
He made this announcement in Chinese, and separately, in Mongolian. For everyone, it was far off what they’d expected. Tuolei, Huazheng, Zhebie and Bo’erhu were surprised but delighted; the Jiangnan Freaks privately praised their disciple for being a true man of hard backbone; and Huang Yaoshi, casting him a sideways glance, gave a cold sneer.
Huang Rong was deeply heartbroken. After a moment’s pause, she took a few steps towards Huazheng, and assessed her carefully. She noticed Huazheng’s athletic figure, her large eyes and dashing eyebrows, her features everywhere noble; and she couldn’t help giving a long sigh.
“Jing gege,” she said, “I understand. You and her are the same. The two of you are a pair of white eagles rising over the great desert. But I’m just a little swallow, sitting under a willow branch in Jiangnan.”
Guo Jing stepped over to her. “Rong’er,” he said, grasping her hands, “I don’t know if what you said is right or wrong. In my heart, there’s only you - and you know it! Who cares what others say we should or shouldn’t do? They can burn my body ‘til the ashes blow away, but I’ll only be thinking of you!”
“Then why did you say that you’ll marry her?” said Huang Rong, tears welling in her eyes.
“I am a fool,” said Guo Jing. “I don’t know about any reasoning. I only know this: the promises that you make, you just can’t take back. But I’m not lying when I say that, no matter what, you’re the only one in my heart. There’s no way I can be apart from you. I would rather die!”
Huang Rong felt confusion inside - feelings of love and of pain. After a moment, she gave a faint smile. “Jing gege,” she said, “if I’d known things would be this way, we’d never have returned from the ‘Island of Rubicund Clouds’. Wouldn’t that have been great?”
Huang Yaoshi, raising an eyebrow, suddenly shouted: “That’s easy!” With a flap of his robe sleeves, he swung out a hand chopping at Huazheng.
To Huang Rong, her old dad’s intentions had been plain to see. Spotting a cold glint in his eyes, and knowing an attempt to kill was imminent, she’d pre-emptively dashed to obstruct him before he’d thrown out his hand. Huang Yaoshi, afraid of harming his beloved daughter, at once stopped his hand’s momentum. Huang Rong had already grabbed Huazheng by the arm and pulled her off her horse when Huang Yaoshi’s hand struck the horse on the saddle, making a loud noise.
Initially, the horse didn’t seem unduly affected at all. But gradually, its head drooped and its legs bowed as it curled, paralysed, into a ball on the ground - where, in the end, it died. This was a sturdy horse from a renowned Mongolian breed; although it wasn’t as fabulous as the treasured blood-sweating horse, it was still a fine, muscular animal, strong-boned and with a high, bulky body. But with just one wave of Huang Yaoshi’s palm, it had died under his hand. Martial arts this extreme were a rare sight indeed. The hearts of Tuolei, Zhu Cong and all the others were pounding wildly; if, they thought, this hand had struck Huazheng, how would she have survived?
Huang Yaoshi hadn’t expected his daughter would actually take action and rescue Huazheng. He was stunned for a moment, before understanding why: if he killed the barbarian girl, Guo Jing would surely turn against his daughter, and they’d become enemies. He snorted, thinking: “To turn against is to turn against; how could I even be scared of this boy?” But with one glance at his daughter, he saw her expression was one of misery and pain, but obviously also of feeling intertwined with someone in a thousand ways - unable to part, unable to leave. Deep down, he couldn’t help trembling: this was exactly the same look that his wife, on the verge of death, had on her face. Huang Rong had always been very similar in looks to her departed mother. Back then, that emotional event had affected Huang Yaoshi like a dementia, like a madness; although it had been fifteen years, every day since it was as if it was still right before his very eyes. Now, to see it suddenly appear on his daughter’s face, made him realise that her feelings of love for Guo Jing were already rooted bone-deep. Reflecting that this was precisely the natural character of her father and mother - self-willed and disposed towards irresolvable passion - he gave a long sigh, and intoned:
“Earth and heaven Are a stove,
Nature is the worker!
Yin and Yang are As charcoal,
Thousand things are copper!”
Huang Rong stood still, teardrops falling slowly.
Han Baoju gave Zhu Cong’s lapels a tug. “What’s he singing about?” he asked, in a whisper.
“It’s from a composition written by someone called Jia, during the Han Dynasty,” answered Zhu Cong, also whispering. “It’s saying that existence on this world - for mankind and the ten thousand creatures - is an anguish just like that of suffering incineration inside a huge furnace.”
“He’s trained to such a high standard!” spluttered Han Baoju. “What anguish can he have?”
Zhu Cong, shaking his head, gave no response.
“Rong’er,” said Huang Yaoshi gently, “after we go back, you are never to see this boy again.”
“Dad, no!” said Huang Rong. “I still have to get to Yuezhou. Teacher told me to go and be the Chief of the Beggar Gang.”
Huang Yaoshi smiled faintly. “Being the head of the tramps,” he said, “is a serious hassle, and it’s not much fun.”
“I promised teacher I’d do it,” said Huang Rong.
“Well, try it out for a few days, then,” sighed Huang Yaoshi. “When you’re really sick of it, hand it over to another straight away. And afterwards.. .are you going to see this boy or not?”
Huang Rong took a glance at Guo Jing and saw him gazing back at her. The look in his eyes was one of overflowing tenderness, of a love infinite in depth. She turned her head back towards her father.
“Dad,” she said, “he’s going to marry someone else; so I’ll marry someone else, too. I’m the only one in his heart, just as he’s the only one in my heart.”
Huang Yaoshi laughed. “The daughter of Peach Blossom Island cannot lose out, so that’s not too bad. Now, suppose the man you marry doesn’t let you be friends with him.?”
Huang Rong gave a snort. “Who’d dare to stop me?” she said. “I’m your daughter!”
“Silly girl!” said Huang Yaoshi. “It won’t be a few more years before dad dies.”
“Dad!” sobbed Huang Rong. “The way you treat me, would I really be able to live on for much longer?”
“So are you still going to be with this heartless, faithless boy?” enquired Huang Yaoshi.
“Each extra day I stay with him is an extra day of happiness,” said Huang Rong. She said this
gently, but with an expression of utter misery.
While father and daughter asked and answered each other like this, the Jiangnan Freaks - despite being eccentric in character - couldn’t help but listen agape. In the Song era, the proscriptions advised by propriety were followed with the most particularity; but because Huang Yaoshi was a man who ‘opposed Tang and Wu and despised Zhou and Kong’ and who perversely went against the conventions of the age, it had led to everyone calling him by the given title of “Eastern Heretic”. As for Huang Rong, she’d been moulded by her father since youth, and regarded marriage as marriage and love as love; when had thoughts of rectitude and chastity ever passed through her little head? This kind of conversation, shocking by the standards of the time, would set tongues wagging incessantly in disapproval among anyone overhearing it. But father and daughter were even talking as if it were only natural - just like common, idle, household chat. Despite the open-mindedness of Ke Zhen’e and the others, they couldn’t help shaking their heads quietly.
Guo Jing, who was feeling very bad, wanted to say a few comforting words to Huang Rong, but
he’d always been wooden in speech. Now,
he knew even less what was the right thing to say.
Huang Yaoshi glanced at his daughter, then glanced at Guo Jing. Lifting his head towards the heavens, he suddenly roared long and loud. The sound shook the treetops and echoed from the mountain valley, startling some magpies; they rose in a flock and flew around the forest.
“Magpies, magpies!” called out Huang Rong. “The cowherd meets the weaving-girl tonight. Why no hurry to build the bridge?”
Huang Yaoshi grabbed a handful of loose stones from the ground and hurled them up into the air. One by one, a dozen magpies dropped, most dying where they fell. “What bridge is there to build?” shouted Huang Yaoshi. “Deep passion, great love: all empty fantasy in the end. More fitting that it die an early death!” He spun around and floated off. In just the space of a blink, the others saw his blue-robed figure disappear beyond the back of the woods.
Tuolei hadn’t understood what they’d been talking about; he knew only that Guo Jing was unwilling to turn his back on agreements from the past. “Brother,” he said, happily, “here’s hoping you soon succeed with your big objective. See you again when you’re back north!”
Huazheng added: “Keep this pair of white eagles by your side, and come back someday soon!”
Guo Jing nodded his head. “Tell my mum,” he said, “that I’m sure I’ll put the enemy to the blade, and get revenge for father.”
Zhebie and Bo’erhu also took their leave of Guo Jing, and the four rode out of the forest together. “What are your plans?” Han Xiaoying asked Guo Jing.
Guo Jing said: “I.. I plan firstly to go and find Teacher Hong.”
Ke Zhen’e nodded his head. “That’s right,” he remarked. “Master Huang went to our households; our families must have been very worried. We ought therefore to return. When you see Chief Hong, you must invite His Eminence to come to Jiaxing and convalesce. We’ll keep a firm guard over him, and assure you his safety.” Guo Jing promised to do so, took leave of his six teachers, and then returned to Lin’an with Huang Rong.
That evening, the two of them went back into the palace for a careful look around the imperial kitchens, but there was no sign of Hong Qigong anywhere. They found and interrogated several eunuchs, all of whom said that there hadn’t been any intruders or trespassers appearing in the palace these past few days. Guo Jing and Huang Rong felt they could put their minds at rest somewhat. Although Hong Qigong had lost his martial arts, he still had the resourcefulness and experience of a great master; they expected he’d surely had a plan of escape. And by now, it was already drawing near to the time of the Beggar Gang’s big meeting - they couldn’t delay any longer. Early next morning, they immediately rode westward together. At this time, half of China was already occupied by the Jins, the boundary a line from the River Huai in the East to Sanguan in the West. What remained for those of the Southern Song were seventeen provinces in all: Eastern and Western Liangzhe; Eastern and Western Huainan; Eastern and Western Jiangnan; Northern and Southern Jinghu; Southern Jingxi; the five regions of Bashu; Fujian; and Eastern and Western Guangnan. (*) The nation’s influence was in faltering decline, its territory shrinking by the day.
On this particular day, Guo Jing and Huang Rong were coming to the border of Western Jiangnan province. (*) While going along a mountain ridge, there was a sudden blast of cold wind across it, and a big layer of jet-black clouds came floating over fast from the east. Right now, it happened to be the height of summer, but rain falls as it pleases; even before the dark, rumbling clouds had arrived overhead, there was a thunderclap, and it was already showering down with soyabean-sized raindrops.
Guo Jing opened an umbrella and went to shelter Huang Rong with it, but a violent, unexpected gust of wind burst over, ripped off the parasol, and carried it far away, leaving only a naked umbrella-handle in Guo Jing’s hands. Huang Rong, laughing loudly, said: “How come you’ve got a Dog-Beating Stick, too?”
Guo Jing laughed with her. Looking ahead along the ridge, there was nowhere in sight where they could escape from the rain. Guo Jing took off his jacket, wanting to use it to shield Huang Rong. “We can cover up for a bit longer,” said Huang Rong, smiling, “but we’ll still get wet!”
“Then let’s walk quicker,” said Guo Jing.
Huang Rong shook her head. “Jing gege,” she said, “here’s a story from a book. One day, it was raining down hard. Everybody travelling on the road was rushing to and fro. But there was one man who just walked at an unhurried pace. The other people were surprised, and asked him why the heck he wasn’t running. The man said: ‘It’s raining down hard ahead of me, too. Won’t running over there still get me soaked just the same?’”
“True!” laughed Guo Jing.
The issue of Huazheng suddenly arose in Huang Rong’s mind. “The future ahead is already doomed with misery and heartbreak,” she thought. “No matter how we run, in the end we can’t escape, can’t hide. It’s just as if we’d encountered rain while along the ridge of a mountain.”
There amidst the downpour, the two of them walked slowly until they’d left the ridge. Seeing a peasant household, they went in to shelter from the rain. As both were totally soaked from head to toe, they changed into clothing borrowed from the peasant family. Huang Rong put on the worn garments of an old farmer’s wife, which she found amusing, when suddenly she heard a series of disappointed groans from Guo Jing in the neighbouring room. Rushing over, she asked: “What is it?”
Guo Jing, an upset look on his face, had in his hands the painting given to him by Huang Yaoshi. It had so happened that the painting had been damaged by rainwater during the downpour just now. “What a shame!” repeated Huang Rong.
Taking the canvas from him for a look, she saw that its paper was torn, its strokes of paint blurred. There was already no way it could be refitted and restored. She was just about to put it down when she suddenly noticed that a few extra lines of dim writing had appeared by the side of the poem annotated by Han Shizhong. A closer look revealed that these words had been written on paper interlying between the painting and the sheet it had been mounted on; if it hadn’t been for the painting getting soaked, they definitely wouldn’t be visible. The disintegration of the rain-soaked paper had made the writing fragmented and difficult to distinguish, but by looking at the form in which it was arranged, Huang Rong could make out there were four sentences in all.
With careful discernment, she read out slowly:
“...posthumous writings of the late..., iron palm.,
Eagle Shooting Hero 805
Middle...peak,
Second., joint.”
The remaining words were so damaged that there was absolutely no way they could be identified.
“It’s about The Posthumous Writings of the Late General!” called out Guo Jing.
“Indeed!” said Huang Rong. “There’s no doubt. That bastard Wanyan Honglie assumed the Writings were hidden by the side of the palace’s Cuihan Hall. But although he got the stone box, the Writings were nowhere to be seen. It looks like the location of the Writings hinges critically on these four lines of text.”
After murmuring “.iron palm.. .middle.. .joint...” for a while, she added: “That day at The Villa of the Gathering Clouds, at one point I heard Martial Brother Lu and your six teachers discussing that deceitful guy, Qiu Qianren. They said he was the Chief of the Iron Palm Gang or something. Daddy said that the might of the Iron Palm Gang rocked Sichuan and Hunan; its prestige and reputation really were awesome. Could it be that the Writings actually have something to do with Qiu Qianren?”
Guo Jing shook his head. “As long as it's Qiu Qianren playing up,” he said, “I’m not believing any of it!”
“I wouldn’t believe it either!” said Huang Rong, with a little laugh.
On the fourteenth day of the seventh month, they arrived within the borders of Northern Jinghu province. (*) The next day, before the stroke of noon, they’d already reached Yuezhou. Leading their horses and loosing the eagles, they asked around for directi
ons, and came by path to Yueyang Tower.
After going up into a nearby restaurant and ordering food and drink, they admired the scenery of Dongting Lake: a sweeping vastness of one blue-green hue spread across ten thousand qing. Towering mountains stood out in every direction, a ring of misty, lofty peaks arrayed in an arc of
awe-inspiring majesty. Compared to the hazy waters of Tai Lake, this spectacle was something else
entirely. While they enjoyed the view, the food arrived. The cuisine of Hunan was very heavily spiced, and Guo Jing and Huang Rong both felt that it wasn’t to their taste; but with such big dishes and such long chopsticks, it nevertheless had a rather generous spirit to it. The two of them ate some of the food and looked around at the verses inscribed on the four walls. Guo Jing perused Fan Zhongyan’s Remarks on Yueyang Tower in silence, but he couldn’t help reading out loud when he reached the sentence:
“Be first under heaven to worry,
And last under heaven to rejoice.”
“What do you think about this couplet?” asked Huang Rong.
Guo Jing re-read it silently, pondering to himself and giving no immediate response.
“The writer of this essay was Fan, ‘The Just Official’,” said Huang Rong. “At that time, he rocked the Western Xia with his might; a literary talent and an astute tactician, you could say that he had absolutely no equal on earth.”
806 Eagle Shooting Hero
Guo Jing asked her to describe some of Fan Zhongyan’s achievements, and listened as she talked about his various childhood hardships - the poverty of his family, the early death of his father, the remarriage of his mother - and, after he’d attained wealth and honour, everything he did in consideration for the commonfolk. A grave feeling of reverence rising unstoppably within him, Guo Jing solemnly poured a ricebowlful of wine. “‘Be first under heaven to worry, and last under heaven to rejoice.’” he said. “This is surely what’s in the mind of great heroes and great champions!” With that, he lifted his head and drained the wine in a single shot.