The Book of Crows

by Sam Meekings

  He sees nothing of the palace though they pass the gate.

  The lotus flowers stirring the lake

  are not lotus flowers – they are her half-smiling face;

  the curve of the fallen willow leaves

  are the curve of her eyes as they close. He sees

  through tears: the buds begin to bloom,

  the autumn rain, her shadow in their room.

  Even now that she is dead he cannot move without seeing her. What kind of a spell is this? I would expect him to be bitter, to swear and curse and plot – after all, because of this woman he has been forced to abdicate in favour of his son! What further indignity could befall him? I want to ask your opinion, poet – is there no cure for this, no palliative? A soldier might wear a suit of armour to protect from his foe, yet how might he shield himself from this?’

  I must admit, dear friend, that I was at a loss for words. I cleared my throat, and looked around at the impassive faces of the guards. They were not going to be of any help. Whatever the prince was trying to steel himself towards, I was not sure I could help. Though he was himself married (despite his young age – such is the prerogative of the imperial family) and, it was rumoured, had a fair number of concubines, he clearly knew little of the emotion of which I had written. I cleared my throat again.

  ‘As you said, majesty, your noble ancestor could not move without seeing his dead love. That is the truth of it: that love exists deep in the stomach, in the heart, in the senses. Some are immune, some are struck again and again, and some can never shake themselves free.’

  I could tell that the prince was not satisfied with this answer from the way in which his eyebrows twitched, yet he was evidently well practised – unlike many of the people I have met – in keeping his feelings carefully hidden.

  ‘Emperor Xuanzong died only a few years after the rebellion. And yet you would have us believe that even his death is not the end of their story! You close your poem by writing “Though even heaven and earth will one day be extinguished / this sorrow has no end.” I am familiar with the concept of unending sorrow. The Buddhists tell us that suffering is the one constant in life, while the Taoists assert that it is fruitless trying to stop the natural way of all things. Yet I must admit that I have not come across the idea that heaven and earth shall end. Surely they are immutable, endless – otherwise the emperor’s Mandate of Heaven would be fallible.’

  ‘Of course, and yet nothing is ever certain except for sorrow. Houses collapse, cities are razed and even dynasties change. The astronomers tell us that sometimes stars are born and die in the same night. Suffering is the only constant.’

  ‘Then it is another metaphor?’

  I nodded, though it should have been clear that it was not. Nothing is infinite, save nothingness itself. Heaven shall perish, as shall earth. All that will remain will be the ghosts of our anguish. Yet I had more sense than to risk angering the prince.

  ‘Good. I was worried you might try to espouse some dangerous philosophy, like those heretics who deny the existence of time. We had one hauled to the palace last week – the fool told us that time did not exist, that progress was an illusion. He said that we die each day, that we live forever in each minute. Heretical rubbish – everyone knows that the emperor stands at the centre of time, directing its unfolding. Yet there are many who would have us question the whole universe. There are even some who would question the emperor’s claim to understand its most complex workings. But you and I know that some truths are beyond the common man, and must be left for those who have the knowledge of heaven, do we not?’

  There was something fierce in his eyes, as if he was challenging me. I hoped to see it turn into a smile. It did not.

  ‘Of course, majesty.’

  Why had I said that? It was a sentiment with which I did not agree – the common man should have as much right to examine and question the world around him as the royal family. I felt as if I had betrayed myself and my ideals, friend, simply to keep out of trouble. I understand, now, how easy it is to make a sycophant of a humble man, how easy it is to be coerced by the weakness of one’s heart. It was then that the young man – who it is said has already decided that he will take the name of Emperor Muzong when his reign begins – leaned closer and whispered something that profoundly shocked me.

  ‘You are a man who puts much stock in words, poet, to show us the truth about ourselves. Tell me, what do you know about the sacred book of my ancestors, the one which records the history of all future dynasties?’

  I gulped. ‘Majesty, I have heard such myths, but there is an old saying that the man who thinks only of the past and the man who thinks only of the future both lose sight of today.’

  He did not appear much interested in my reply. ‘Who is to say what is myth and what is fact? As we have agreed, some truths are beyond the understanding of the common man.’ He continued to whisper, and I realised that perhaps he was making sure the eunuchs listening in did not catch this part of his speech. ‘I would give anything to find this sacred history, and with it restore this kingdom to its former glories, for it shall tell of the outcome of every war, the state of each harvest, the plots of each would-be usurper and rebel. I have started a search across the very length and breadth of our nation. But listen, poet, your verse marks you out as an expert in the history of this great nation. So please give me an honest answer – where should I look for this book? Is there hope? How might we find it and unpick its secrets?’

  The crown prince rose to his feet before I could reply. ‘You need not answer now. Think it over and marshal your learning, for much depends upon it. We shall speak again. I have been satisfied with our meeting. Your work intrigues me, however much I may disagree with some of its assertions about my noble ancestor. Love, history, suffering … there are many further questions I would put to you. Thus you will return at the beginning of the next lunar cycle, and we will discuss “Rain at Night”.’

  I got up to kowtow, but before my palms had a chance to slap the cold stone floor the prince was gone from the room, accompanied by all but one of the guards. I was escorted from the inner chambers hurriedly, making it clear that my presence was no longer required. For a while I stood in the garden of the Eastern Palace, watching the bustle of eunuchs and guards as they marched past the gingkoes, preoccupied with the papers in their hands and the plans in their heads.

  My friend, I hope you will not be too ashamed of me. I should have argued my beliefs instead of holding my tongue – I should have made it clear that love is a blessing, not a curse; that history is always unkind to those rulers who forget about the common people; that even heaven must admit its fallibility for us to learn from our mistakes. I should have argued for the common man, instead of acquiescing to keep myself in good favour. I have tried to convince myself that I spoke as I did so as to gain the confidence of the young man – his paranoia must surely have something to do with the influence of the eunuchs – and therefore put myself in a better position to influence him at a later date (when I will raise the idea of the well-needed reforms of which you and I often speak). Yet I fear that there is some deeper instinct guiding my cowardly actions, some part of me – however much I desire change and an end to corruption in the government – that craves only peace and quiet, that no longer has the heart for struggle. You must think me a fool.

  How I found my way home is a mystery to me, for I do not remember taking a single step, my head was swirling so with thoughts. I was pondering how it is that people can bend the words of any poem to find the meaning they wish to see, regardless of what is written. I was thinking too that a man’s words might easily be taken and twisted and used against him. The prince seemed to see nothing but dangers – were these the natural fears of a young man trying to deal with the immense responsibilities that faced him, or the beginnings of something more dangerous? When I arrived home, I collapsed into my bed and closed my eyes, trying to drown out the shrill cries of the goatherds driving their wares to the m
arket, and slowly let sleep creep up on me.

  As you can see, things are not as easy for me as they once were. Even the slightest worry is enough to threaten to break the dams and bring my illness rushing back. I slept the rest of the afternoon and, after supping with my wife, retired once again and was abed the entire next day. Do not worry – that was days ago now, and I have quite recovered. I am presently steeling myself for my second meeting with the prince, which will take place after the new temple has been dedicated – though I hear the roof has not yet been finished, even at this late date! I intend to let my convictions guide me this time, though I have not yet decided what to say about this mythical book of his ancestors he has asked me about. I shall dedicate myself to finding out more, and then I will answer from my heart. I will not give you reason to doubt my determination again.

  There, the ink stick is almost rubbed down to dust, so I must finish. To answer your question: no, although the trees are now in blossom, I have not lingered in the orchard since the incident I wrote of in the previous letter, and to tell you the truth, I think it does me good to avoid revisiting too many memories. I may yet regain something of my former life. My nights are often restless, yet I console myself with the sounds of the city, the knowledge that hope lives apart from us, and may be found in even the strangest of places.

  Please tell me more of your adventures – I have no doubt that your plans will soon result in further success. Send my best wishes to your children, and remember not to bind them with too many strict rules, for nothing is as important as the testing of one’s own limitations. If you can bear my brief and clumsy criticism, please send more of your verse. I say a sutra that your shoes stay strong, that your palms stay open.

  Bai Juyi

  On the Principles of Nature

  PART 2 · SUMMER 1288 CE

  Most of the men in our company have chosen to eat alone in their quarters – with three deaths from the desert sickness in as many days, and now with Brother Lovari struck down by the same symptoms, all are fearful of falling prey to this foul plague, and no one is sure who might be afflicted next. Therefore I too retire to my tent to take my midday meal. After eating I rest for an hour untroubled by dreams – unlike Brother Lovari, who I am sure is suffering not only the spasms and pains of his wasting sickness, but also the torments that must surely afflict a conscience as guilty as his. I wake to the familiar sound of our heathen guides shouting indecipherable orders between themselves in the midday heat. I worry that this journey is softening me. Back in the monastery, I would have retired to bed after an early supper, to be up again after dark for the Nocturns that make up Matins. Then another rest and up for Lauds, welcoming the dawn light as it is drawn in red swirls across the sky. Every day spent standing or kneeling for no less than sixteen hours. Here all I seem to do is rest and wait.

  The interminable heat, rising off the scalding stretches of white sand, hits me once again with a sudden ferocity as I venture from my tent, and I soon see Paul hurrying towards me.

  ‘Good afternoon, Paul. May the Lord’s blessings be upon you. I trust that —’

  ‘Must go.’

  I try not to let my polite smile slip, knowing full well that these heathens know nothing of etiquette or civility.

  ‘Surely you are not thinking of leaving us? You know I value your stewardship, and I do believe you and your men have been well compensated for taking on this assignment.’

  ‘No. Not I. All. All must go. Now.’

  His leathery face scrunches into a frown, his eyes disappearing beneath the dark slips of sun-wizened skin. Is he frightened? I silently admonish myself for devoting too much time to Lovari. I should have led everyone in prayer this morning and reminded them that the Lord is always among us. I fear that while I attend my sickly brother the men may let themselves be overcome by fear and superstition. I must lead by example, that they might see how their betters act and so be shamed into mending such foolish ways.

  ‘Come, there is no need to hurry. The men are anxious enough as it is. Besides, we have enough supplies, do we not? And the camels and donkeys will be glad of another day’s rest. Until we have shaken this cursed sickness or else committed the last sufferer to the earth, we must stay where we are, for you know as well as I that it is impossible to administer adequate care and provide spiritual succour while we are travelling.’

  Paul’s lips twitch open, and his brown teeth push through.

  ‘No. Must go. Now. The winds will steal our skin.’

  ‘Paul, you are trying my patience. Only this morning you told me you were certain that we would not be troubled by storms. Now you tell me that we must leave before the desert winds besiege us. What will you say tomorrow? No, we are all getting used to the night winds, as bothersome as they may be. Besides, we cannot move Brother Lovari at the present moment. Any sudden exertion – even his litter being moved – might kill him. I cannot risk that. We must wait.’

  ‘We ride two days to Thousand Buddhas. There are many wise men there. Many herbs. They can make him strong again. But we cannot stay. Please, the winds —’

  I placed my hand up in front of me.

  ‘Paul, that is enough. I am in charge here, and I know what is best for all of us. You would do well to remember your place. Let me tell you again, we will not be going to Mogao. Now, I have other duties to attend to. Get one of your charges to bring some more water to my tent. And do not go spreading these foolish ideas about wind storms among the men, understand?’

  Paul gives a curt bow before hurrying off towards where the tethered donkeys are nosing indolently in the sand. I shake my head and decide to make a tour of the camp to raise the men’s morale.

  I do not much care for this idea of leaving Lovari at the mercy of strange apothecaries. In my days as a novice at the monastery, I did not shirk from my weekly duties helping the infirmarian care for my burnt friend – that most learned elderly monk I used to spend hours conversing with, and whom I must admit I often find myself missing terribly – as well as the other sick and elderly among our brethren, and I believe I picked up much knowledge of the workings and balance of the sanguine, the choleric, the phlegmatic and the melancholic humours, as well as learning how to perform a simple bloodletting. Furthermore, I stayed close by D’Antonio, Salvitici and Nazario when they were afflicted by this same sickness, so I know well the stages in which it lays waste to the body. These foreigners, however, seem to have no understanding of such things. I worry they might start some unholy witchcraft – I have noticed that some of my own countrymen in our party have, in imitation of the natives, started to boil their drinking water with strange, dark leaves which emit the most beguiling of smells. They even deign to drink this peculiar concoction, no doubt believing in the magic these potions contain. I make a vow to put an end to such dangerous and vile practices.

  The men seem most pleased that I have come to supervise their work. I soon strike up conversation with two of the stable-hands who have been attending to our beasts. They seem disheartened to have been taken so far from their families only to spend each day with flea-flecked donkeys, so I recount the story of Our Lord’s triumphant ride into Jerusalem upon the back of a noble ass for their education, and am just about to follow this with a brief discussion of the most Holy life of Saint Francis when they remember an urgent piece of work the steward had set them earlier. I then speak with the men manning the fires, attempting to calm their worries about the recent outbreaks of the desert sickness, before correcting some of the hasty assumptions of the cartographers sketching in their tents; I have a short debate with the pittancer about our finances, and check for myself that the tallies made by the clerk in the supplies tent correspond with our provisions.

  The heat rises from the blinding sand and settles stickily in the folds of my habit. I scratch my blisters and bites, unable to concentrate while my brother’s story remains unfinished. The box in which my strange creatures dwell is left unopened, for they are no doubt drained by the morning�
�s experiments and thus deserving of rest. Soon one of Lovari’s servants comes to summon me and I make my way across to where his stricken body lies.

  ‘I hope you have passed a better few hours than I, brother.’ Thus does Lovari greet me as I sit down beside him. His eyes are scrunched shut. He is swaddled inside his many blankets, which emit a most unholy stench. His face is swollen, and he continues to shiver, while every few moments the pile of dank furs at his feet stirs and twists as his legs twitch. ‘I dreamed that I was alone upon a mountaintop, with only crows to keep me company. Furthermore, when I awoke from my nap I found the pains in my side grown even worse.’

  ‘Consider the crows, Jesus said to his disciples, for they neither plant nor harvest. The Lord alone feeds them.’ I quote Scripture to try to reassure him, though in truth his dream has made me think of something quite different – namely the darkness the crows must surely represent, the same darkness that may soon welcome Lovari into its depths.

  I lift his sweaty head in my hands and rearrange the cushions so that he might settle back in comfort.

  ‘I am glad you have returned. I was worried that this morning’s revelations might have scared you off.’

  ‘I shall not abandon anyone under my care, no matter how odious I may find their actions. I have come to urge you once again to recant.’

  Though I speak with all seriousness, Lovari smiles at my words.

  ‘I think you fear we are running out of time. I still have the strength to finish my story. Yes, Sebastiano’s death was odious. I would not have killed him had there been another option. Yet we are men who have devoted much of our lives to the contemplation of the nature of sacrifice. The one for the many. That is how I saw it then, and it is how I continue to see it now. The sacrifice is a lesson we must not forget.