Of Blood and Stone

by Howard Upton

  As he sat at his gate, the smell of restaurant food and coffee cascaded through the terminal. Dugan reflected on the past two years, and how he had come to learn about the cartouche. While in China on an assignment, he had happened across a tour of Xi’an and had seen, at the base of Qin Mountain, a lone statue of a warrior sitting atop a massive horse. The warrior’s face was contorted, the emotions raw and telling. It wasn’t the face one would think of when one thought about an artist’s rendition of a revered and fierce soldier.

  Dugan stared at the magnificent statue, the rider’s arm raised with sword in hand. His uniform was impeccably detailed. So amazingly detailed was the statue that Dugan’s mind wondered how the sculptor could have managed something so marvelous with only crude hand tools.

  He walked around the monument, never one to really admire great works of art, but perplexed by this particular one, gazing at its every feature. The back of the warrior was as immaculately chiseled as the front. The muscular definition of its arms was amazing as were the veins, so realistic, protruding from his neck and forehead. A bead of sweat was emblazoned upon one side of his face.

  The horse was equally as impressive as its rider. Its mouth, too, was drawn, revealing large teeth. Sweat had formed under his saddle and moisture had been forever sculpted on its sides and neck. Its mane was so meticulously chiseled that Dugan could see every hair. The sculptor made it appear that a mild breeze was blowing through its mane, so exact was his ability and skill. A string of snot ran from the horse’s snout and its head was pulled to the right, the reigns tout and the bit notched firmly in its mouth.

  One hoof was raised as though the horse was ready to dash into a gallop. The rider’s weathered boots rested firmly in their stirrups, poised to spur the horse to run faster should the need arise.

  “This has to be the most amazing statue I’ve ever seen. Almost human,” Dugan said aloud.

  Next to him stood a local Chinese man. As with many Asians, age could be very deceiving to the untrained eye. At first glance one might think he was in his forties, and in another his sixties. His complexion was clear with few lines appearing around his eyes or mouth. His light yellow skin sat tightly on his face, but his hair had a heavy gray influence and his hands the leathery look of a man that had seen many harsh winters in the mountainous regions of northern China.

  “Excuse me sir, I couldn’t help but overhear your comment about our statue,” the Chinaman said to Dugan in near perfect English.

  Dugan eyed the man warily, but soon realized he was no threat and just making casual conversation. Even though he didn’t enjoy idle chit-chat, he was so fascinated with the statue, and anxious to learn more about it, that he turned to face the man who spoke to him. He could see in the man’s eyes a certain wisdom that comes with age.

  The Chinese gentleman continued, “We are very proud of our statue warriors here, sir. Their history is significant and means much to our people. They were discovered by villagers drilling for water a few decades ago. Our Terracotta Army has brought much prosperity to Xi’an.”

  Dugan’s eyes narrowed and a confused look crossed his face. He listened intently to what the man had told him, but something struck him as strange. His green eyes shifted from the man to the statue, then back to the elder again.

  “You said ‘warriors,’ as in more than one, yet I only see one here. Are there others?” Dugan asked.

  The man snorted before replying, “You’ve never heard of the Terracotta Warriors, sir?”

  “The what kind of warriors?” Dugan asked, his interest growing.

  “Terracotta, sir. It is a form of earthenware. It is said the warriors were crafted by skilled sculptors in honor of our first Chinese emperor, Qin Shi Huangdi. The warriors were made to be placed with Emperor Qin to protect him in the afterlife. They were buried with the Emperor and later discovered by farmers attempting to dig a well. That is what the scientists and archeologists tell us,” the man responded.

  “Earthenware, huh? Like clay and stuff?” he asked.

  “Yes, they have been hardened through a heat treatment process it would seem, not so different than modern artists who place clay pots in firing kilns to harden them and assure the glaze properly adhered to them,” responded the stranger.

  The American’s interest was piqued. “You certainly speak English well and know a lot about these Terracotta Warriors. How do you know so much?”

  “Ah, sir, I teach Chinese culture at the Xi’an Jiatong University and studied English while attending University at Boston College. I have been very interested in the Warriors since their discovery in 1974. Strange that over eight thousand warriors are in the pyramid crypt of Emperor Qin, yet this one has remained here all this time isn’t it? For over two thousand years the Terracotta Army has gone undiscovered, while this one lone warrior and his horse have stood here in all their agony and pain.”

  “Yes,” Dugan mused, “this one warrior remaining here is very strange. I wonder why he was left here and not taken to the same area as the others? Tell me, have you seen the other Terracotta Warriors?”

  The Chinaman smiled as he replied, “Of course, sir. They are maintained by the Chinese government in one of the pyramids of Xi’an, which is not far from where we are now. It is there they stand guard and are protected from the harsh elements, quite unlike their counterpart here. They are truly a remarkable sight to behold. I highly recommend a tour of the uncovered warriors. The soldiers stand or kneel at the ready, and their horses and carriages are works of artistic grandeur. No one knows how the sculptors accomplished such amazing works.

  “But to answer your first question, Mr...,” he trailed off, his question lingering until Dugan answered.

  “Smith,” Dugan lied. “My name is Mr. Smith.”

  “Of course, Mr. Smith. My name is Mr. Wu, and I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I am also happy to be able to practice my English. It isn’t often I get this chance, so thank you very much for the opportunity.”

  Dugan nodded his head wishing to dispense with the pleasantries and carry on learning about the Terracotta Warriors. There was something about them that fascinated him. Perhaps it was his time spent in the military or participating in shadow warfare, or maybe it was the fact that he operated outside the laws of most countries. No matter the reason, he found himself enthralled and enamored with the statue.

  “Anyway, Mr. Smith, our archeologists have not been able to figure out why this particular statue was left here. Oddly enough, this statue’s general appearance is significantly different from those inside the pyramid,” Mr. Wu said.

  “How so, Mr. Wu? Since I haven’t seen the other statues, can you explain what the differences are between this statue and the others?”

  “Yes, of course,” responded Mr. Wu. “The statues housed inside the pyramid do not have the same expressions of pain and surprise as this one. Similarly, the mounts standing with their riders do not look as pained either. The warriors stored inside appear to have been marching or practicing for some military assault. At least that is the look the sculptor, or sculptors, were attempting to depict.

  But this statue, as you can see, is considerably different. His face is in agony, and the look of terror is mystifying. Also, the horse is in a peculiar position as compared to the other horses portrayed inside. This one looks as though it was about to begin a mission, while the others were sculpted to look stately and proper. The statue we see here appears...emotional. Should you choose to see the sculpted gallery in the three pits where the statues stand, you will understand what I am trying to say,” Wu concluded.

  “Hhhmmmm. Has there been any speculation about this particular statue and its pose?” asked Dugan. “Certainly, there has been some study and a scientific reason for it to be here and not with the others.”

  “Mr...Smith,” began Wu again, a hint of cynicism in his voice (it was unclear to Dugan if Wu’s tone was because he didn’t believe his made up generic last name, or if it was directed more toward th
e elementary question he asked regarding the study of the statue), “of course there has been much study, but science has been able to prove the similar composition of the statues only. Scientists struggle to explain why a human would leave one statue outside while all the rest were moved indoors and buried. Human nature, Mr. Smith, cannot always be explained rationally. If that were the case, I doubt our countries would be enemies.

  “So, with that, Mr. Smith, we must speculate and listen to the stories handed to us from our elders, generation after generation, as to why this warrior stands here, obviously frightened and in tremendous pain. Like every other area of the world, we have our myths and stories about things we have otherwise been unable to explain scientifically. And that is part of why this statue draws so many visitors each year.”

  Dugan looked at the man with more interest than he intended, but he was truly absorbed in the man’s lecture. He let his eyes blanket the statue again. It was almost like it drew him in and talked to him on some unexpected spiritual plane. A mystical, far away voice seemed to tell him to “find the way, find the answer.” He had no idea what that meant, but the allure of Wu’s story was both mysterious and intense, a mirror of the way he had lived his life.

  Dugan pushed for more information from the Chinese man. “What stories does this area tell about this statue and the Terracotta Warriors still standing in the pyramid, Mr. Wu?”

  A smile crept across Wu’s face as he responded, “I’m happy you’ve taken this interest in the Emperor’s army, Mr. Smith. I am very pleased to tell you our local legend about this statue. It is also directly related to the vast Terracotta Army.

  “Local legend maintains that this statue was once a ‘real’ man. He was a fierce soldier in Emperor Qin’s army. When Qin did not have his army sent off to war against the aggressors who would bring harm to our beautiful country, he would insist that this man serve as his personal envoy to collect village taxes in the north. According to records, this warrior’s name was Li Wan Zhang.

  “Li was a captain, again, according to records, in the Emperor’s military. Captain Li was ruthless in collecting taxes, which usually consisted of fifty percent of a village’s production in whatever industry its people worked. In most cases, food was collected, in some cases clothing, and in others, animals, furniture and so on.”

  Dugan, his brows almost touching interrupted, “Fifty percent? You’re kidding, right? How the hell could a village survive on only fifty percent of what it grew or created, especially if the harvest wasn’t a good one in a particular year? This seems far-fetched to me, Mr. Wu.”

  “I understand your hesitation in believing our story, Mr. Smith, but please realize that the Emperor ruled with an iron fist, not like our current government that takes care of its people.” Wu’s eyes shifted around quickly to see if anyone was within ear shot of him as he told his story. Dugan noticed Wu’s glance and understood he feared pissing off the wrong people in communist controlled China. He knew all too well that Big Brother maintained an eye in the sky and kept an ear to the ground. Anyone they regarded as a threat, or anyone who spoke out against them could possibly never be seen again.

  Dugan nodded his head affirmatively to signal both his understanding of Wu’s explanation and to offer the man an acknowledgement that he wouldn’t press him any further about the Chinese government. He focused on Wu and the story, deciding to hold his questions until the end.

  The Chinaman continued his tale, “One day this man came to collect the village’s taxes, as he did each year. As you pointed out a moment ago, the year’s rice harvest was not a good one. Water was scarce, and rain did not fall for days or weeks at a time. Fifty percent of the harvest would not be nearly enough for the village’s people to survive the harsh winter. Everyone knew this to be true, including the Emperor and his envoy. Still, there was no negotiating the taxes and what was owed to Xi’an, which was the site of China’s capitol in that era. The Emperor was known to slaughter entire villages or take the people and force them into labor camps, separating families forever. Either way, lives were destroyed, Mr. Smith.

  “On the day Captain Li arrived to collect taxes, a man in his twenties or thirties met him in the road to beg forgiveness. This man’s father was the village leader and doctor, the son also a village leader. Both were known for their compassion and love for their kinsman and were looked up to by all the villagers.

  “As I was saying, the young man met Li in the road to beg forgiveness. It’s said the road was right here where we now stand, Mr. Smith. With no pity, Captain Li struck the man down, beheading him while several villagers looked on. Also watching the slaying transpire was the man’s father, Liu Xiu Chan, or Chan as he was known to everyone. Our legend states that Chan did not flinch when his son was murdered, and he openly defied Captain Li. Li told Chan that he would return the next day to collect the taxes, which, as we have already discussed, was fifty percent of the rice produced that year. As you now know that amount of lost rice would be a death sentence for the village.

  “Apparently, Chan told Li if he returned the next day he would never leave again. Naturally, Li returned to collect what was owed his master. And, as you probably guessed, Chan refused to pay. It is said that Li was reaching for his sword to reunite Chan with his son, but Chan cast a spell upon the warrior. That warrior is what you see today, Mr. Smith.”

  Wu’s last words hung in the air as Dugan tried to digest the tale. He held his questions for a moment longer while Wu’s eyes darted around again still searching for eavesdroppers and those who might not want China’s non-state supported stories leaving its borders. The Chinaman took a seat on a bench just behind the statue and waited for his one man audience to ask any question he might have.

  Dugan listened patiently as Wu told him of the statue’s history. He asked, “You said this statue was Captain Li? I don’t understand. You mean this statue is an artist’s rendition of Li, correct?”

  Wu chuckled nervously then responded, “No, Mr. Smith. Local legend says this statue id literally Captain Li. It would seem that the spell cast on him by Chan turned him to hardened clay. He looks to be stone, but samples of the statue confirm that he is hardened clay.”

  “But you said Chan was a doctor and village leader, Mr. Wu. How would he know about stuff like witchcraft and spells?” Dugan asked.

  This question made Wu laugh a little louder than he would have liked, and he was forced to look around again. He breathed a sigh of relief when he, once again, didn’t detect any unwanted ears in their general vicinity. Wu’s hands made an uncomfortable wringing motion before he answered Dugan’s question.

  “Mr. Smith, your American is showing. Your history is only a couple of hundred years old. Our history is thousands of years old. We believe man’s origins are here in China despite what many believe about Africa being the birthplace of mankind. Doctors have, throughout history, engaged in herbal and ritual medicine, not just the modern version of invading the human body. Mr. Chan would have been no different and surely studied those spiritual and herbal arts that would help his kinsmen heal from whatever physical or mental ailments they may have had. It would be safe to presume he was proficient in his medicinal practices or the villagers would not have continued to go to him when they were ill. Records indicate that he was the village doctor for several decades.”

  “I guess,” Dugan asked, “I’ve missed the most obvious question then, Mr. Wu. How old is this statue?”

  “Yes, that is a question many will ask first, Mr. Smith, but you have asked some very good questions before this one, so your oversight is understandable. Archeologists approximate the age of the statue to be twenty-three hundred years old. It is very ancient, but not as ancient as many things are in China, sir.”

  “Twenty-three hundred years old!” exclaimed Dugan. “How can this be, Mr. Wu? Look at this statue. It doesn’t even look remotely that old. Surely, after twenty-three hundred years of standing in the sun, rain, snow and wind, pieces would have eroded an
d decayed or even fallen off. You can’t possibly believe this local legend can you?”

  “Of course these tales are nothing more than legend, Mr. Smith. None of them are to be believed. I am an academic and do not believe in folklore and, how do Americans say, old wives tales.” As he finished replying, Dugan saw Wu wringing his hands again, his agitation and discomfort more apparent. Something in his response and tone told him that the man wasn’t telling the truth about his belief in the supernatural.

  “Mr. Wu, it’s apparent that you have a very analytical mind, so why are you uncomfortable when telling me about the magic involved in this fantasy tale?” asked Dugan.

  Wu allowed his voice to drop considerably, “Mr. Smith, what you call magic, we call reality. Magic is a word applied to those things humans can’t explain. It’s an easy way out of doing research or attempting to get to the bottom of things. In this case, Chan’s medicine was strong and was anchored in a spirit that was as fierce as any warrior. You see, in the days of ancient medicine, one had to demonstrate a very strong resolve as an apprentice before learning the medicinal ways in China. It is said that Chan was a man slight of stature but powerful of spirit. It is also said he was kind and gentle but stood strong in his determination to help his fellow villagers. He was allowed to learn the art of being a doctor. I think it is unfortunate that these ways are only now being rediscovered in my own country, sir.”

  “How, then, did he use his medicine to turn a man to stone, Mr. Wu?” Dugan continued.

  “Not a man, Mr. Smith...‘men.’ He turned an entire army to clay after Li murdered his son in cold blood. Our lore tells us he held a small piece of jewelry that he had worked his spiritual magic into before casting it upon Li and the army of Xi’an. It has been told that Emperor Qin was devastated for a considerable time after the loss of the majority of his army who were in the area when the spell was cast. Legend tells us that Chan wished for the entire army in the area to be turned to clay. It would seem he managed to pull this off, Mr. Smith. But, like I said, this is all legend,” Wu replied.