Jeff Stone_Five Ancestors 02

by Monkey

  “Yes,” the group replied.

  “Great,” Malao said. “Did Fu teach you the Horse Stance? You know, the basic beginning position where you sort of squat down with your legs about shoulder-width apart?”

  “Yes.”

  Malao grinned. “That's good. Keep practicing it because it's an important exercise. However, we won't be using it today.”

  “So you're not going to teach us how to fight?” the small boy asked.

  “Not exactly,” Malao replied. “I said I was going to teach you some monkey-style kung fu. Kung fu isn't always about fighting. In fact, most monkey-style followers don't even like to fight. They usually prefer to run away. Many times the winner of a fight still gets hurt, and I know I'd rather run away healthy than win a fight and end up with a broken arm or leg. The number one rule is to walk away from a fight, or run away if you have to. Understand?”

  “I guess so,” the small boy said. “But what are you supposed to do if you can't run away? What if you have no choice?”

  “If you're small like me, you have to be prepared to play dirty,” Malao said with a devilish grin. “If you ever find yourself in a corner and you're feeling afraid, show it. It will help make your opponent feel overconfident. And if you have no choice but to fight back, you should strike and retreat. No one can hurt you if you're not there. After a swift kick-and-punch combination, run away and don't look back. It is said that monkeys fight with four hands. That means use your feet and your fists simultaneously. Does that make sense?”

  The small boy scratched his head. “Yes, but what kind of punch should we use? And what kind of kick?”

  “You could use whatever Fu showed you, or you could make up your own. A lot of monkey-style moves are made up as you go along, especially if you're attacking the eyes or throat. Just do whatever comes to mind first, then get out of there as fast as you can.”

  “Could you show us some moves?” the small boy asked. “Please?”

  Malao smiled and looked at Fu. Fu was still talking to Ma.

  “Hey, Fu,” Malao interrupted. “How long do you think we'll be here?”

  “I don't know,” Fu replied. “I don't want to stay too long. It's only a matter of time before Ying—”

  Fu suddenly stopped talking. He was staring at the bun vendor's shop across the square. In front of the shop was a large man with long, tangled hair and a scraggly beard. One of his lower legs was bandaged, and he leaned on a crutch.

  “I'll be right back,” Fu said hurriedly. “You stay here and conduct some more monkey business, Malao.” Fu nodded to Ma and raced off toward the man.

  Malao shrugged and looked at the group. “Anybody want to learn how to make a Hammer Fist?”

  Malao was having a hard time concentrating. Though his students were eager to learn and he was excited to be sharing his knowledge with them, he just couldn't seem to keep his eyes off Fu and the large, scraggly man in front of the bun vendor's shop. It was uncanny how Fu's body style mirrored the big man's, and how often Fu and the man used the same gestures as they spoke. Curiosity soon got the best of Malao.

  “Everybody keep practicing your Hammer Fists,” Malao said to the village children. “I'll be right back.” He scurried over to join Fu.

  The large man stopped talking in mid-sentence as Malao approached. He grinned and said, “Hello, little one. You must be Malao.”

  “Aahhh, yeah,” Malao said. “And you are—”

  “A friend,” Fu answered. “He's just a friend.”

  The big man smiled and put his hand on Fu's shoulder. “I have been called many things in my time,” the man said to Malao. “But most recently people have been calling me the Drunkard.”

  “Oh,” Malao said. “I'm sorry.”

  The Drunkard laughed. “That's okay. I don't mind.” He looked at Fu. “I'm not really a drunkard, you know. I've been passing myself off as one the past several years because I've found that people tend to leave me alone this way. Since that's what I want, I keep the act going.”

  “But why would you want to be left alone?” Malao asked.

  “That, my little friend, is a very long story,” the Drunkard said. He looked at Fu again. “I have so many stories to share.”

  Fu's eyebrows raised. “Do any of them have anything to do with being a warrior monk?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” the Drunkard replied.

  “I knew it!” Fu said. “I knew you were a warrior monk when I saw you fight. How come you aren't living in a temple?”

  “I left.”

  “Why?” Malao asked.

  “That is a very, very long story,” the Drunkard replied.

  “That's okay,” Malao said. “I love stories! Especially stories about warrior monks.”

  “All right,” the Drunkard said. “I left the temple because I fell in love with a woman. As you probably know, that's not allowed. We wanted to marry and start a family, so I had to leave.”

  “Really?” Malao asked. “Are you still married?”

  The Drunkard lowered his head. “No. She died giving birth to our first child. It's been quite … difficult for me.”

  “Is that why you want to be alone?” Malao asked.

  “Yes,” the Drunkard said. “Partially.”

  “That's really sad,” Malao said. “How long ago was that?”

  The Drunkard looked at Fu. “Twelve years.”

  Malao's eyes widened. Fu was twelve years old! He glanced at Fu.

  Fu looked down.

  “Why don't I get right to the point,” the Drunkard said. “I've been thinking a lot about you, Fu. You remind me so much of myself. Over the years, I've come to the conclusion that I am the way I am partly because I grew up in a temple without ever knowing my parents—just like you. It had an impact on me. It still does, I suppose. If you don't mind my asking, do you ever think about your parents?”

  Fu shrugged. “Not really. I always assumed they were dead.”

  The Drunkard's eyebrows raised. “Why did you assume that?”

  “Because I was taken to Cangzhen as a baby,” Fu said. “If my parents weren't dead, it would mean that I had been abandoned. What kind of parent would—”

  Fu stopped suddenly and looked up. He blushed. The Drunkard blushed, too.

  “I'm sorry—” Fu began to say.

  The Drunkard cleared his throat. “No, I'm the one who's sorry, Fu.” He began to limp away.

  Malao punched Fu in the arm. “Say something!”

  Fu shrugged.

  “Argh!” Malao said. “Stubborn Pussycat!”

  The Drunkard hobbled around the corner of the bun vendor's shop without looking back.

  “Why didn't you say something?” Malao asked Fu.

  “I don't know,” Fu replied.

  “What do you mean you don't know?”

  “I just don't know,” Fu said. He kicked the ground.

  “Are you all right?” Malao asked.

  “Yeah,” Fu said. “I'm fine.”

  “How come you never told me about the Drunkard?”

  Fu's voice lowered. “I don't want to talk about it, Malao.”

  “Sorry,” Malao said. He patted Fu on the shoulder. “Do you want to get going?”

  “Soon,” Fu said.

  “Okay,” Malao said. “I'll be right back.” He walked over to the group of children in the center of the sunny village square. “All right, everyone, class is over,” Malao announced. “Get yourselves some water, and don't forget what I taught you!”

  The village children began talking excitedly among themselves and filed out of the square.

  “Fu!” someone called out.

  A skinny boy was walking into the square. He wore an elegant silk robe and looked very fragile, like a piece of fine porcelain. In his hand was a small silk pouch. Ma was at his side.

  Fu seemed to come out of his trance. “Hello, Ho!” he said, and walked over to Malao.

  Malao did a double take. He leaned toward Fu and whispered,“ That
's the kid you whacked with the spear?”

  Fu swatted at Malao's head. Malao ducked.

  “Hey, what was that for?” Malao asked.

  Ma stepped up to Malao. “Did you just say something about my friend Ho?”

  “Aahhh …”

  Ma bent down toward Malao as though he was about to say more, but then he took a quick step back. His eyes narrowed. “Where did you get that stick?”

  Malao glanced down and saw part of his decorated stick poking out of his robe. “This?” he replied. “It comes from Cangzhen.”

  Ma took another step back. “No, it doesn't.”

  “Sure it does,” Malao said, pulling the stick out of his robe. “I've been practicing with it for years. You can hold it if you want.”

  “I don't want anything to do with that stick,” Ma said. “Or you.” He turned to Ho. “Come on, let's go.”

  Ho shook his head. “I want to talk to Fu. I'll come find you later. Okay?”

  Ma snorted. He nodded to Ho and then Fu, then walked away.

  Malao slipped his stick back in his robe and looked at Ho. “What's wrong with him?”

  “He doesn't like monkeys,” Ho replied. “And I think you … remind him of someone.”

  “Who's that?” Fu asked.

  “The Monkey King,” Ho said.

  Malao twitched. “What? Why?”

  “People say the Monkey King carries a stick like that,” Ho said.

  “You mean the monkey king of legend?” Fu asked. “He carried an iron staff that could magically change size, not a wooden stick.”

  “No,” Ho said. “Not that monkey king. There is a famous thief in these parts whose nickname is the Monkey King because he's a monkey-style kung fu master. Also, he supposedly lives with a troop of monkeys.”

  Malao's heart began to race. “He's a thief? What does he steal?”

  “Gold,” Ho replied.

  Malao twitched again.

  “People say he's obsessed with it,” Ho continued. “They say he'll stop at nothing to steal any shipment he comes across.”

  “Who ships gold around here?” Fu asked.

  “Tax collectors,” Ho said.

  “But tax collectors take money from poor people, right?” Malao said. “Why is stealing from a tax collector a bad thing?”

  Ho lowered his head. “Ma's father was a tax collector. He was killed delivering a shipment of gold.”

  Malao swallowed hard. An uncomfortable silence filled the square. He looked at Ho and noticed the silk pouch Ho carried. Desperate to change the subject, Malao said, “Excuse me, Ho? Do you mind if I ask what's in the bag?”

  Ho looked up. “Oh, I almost forgot. It's blood-moss. When I heard you two had arrived, I ran to get some in case you needed it. I remembered Fu had some poking out of his cheek the last time he was here.”

  Ho held the pouch out to Malao.

  “No thanks,” Malao said. “I'm not injured. Besides, that stuff doesn't work for me or anyone I know except Fu. They say it's some kind of rare family trait.”

  “So I've heard,” Ho replied. “It doesn't work for me, either. Here.” Ho tossed the pouch to Fu. “I hope you never need it, but take it just in case.”

  “Thank you,” Fu said as he tied the pouch to his sash. Fu looked over at Malao, who was fiddling with a small pouch on his own sash. “What's that?” Fu asked. “I didn't notice it before.”

  Malao looked down and smirked. “Oh, just a little something I borrowed from a bandit named Bear—”

  “What's this about a bandit named Bear?” A man wearing an elegant robe just like Ho's walked around the wall of bushes. He had a strong chin and a kind face.

  Fu smiled. “Hello, Governor.”

  Malao's eyes widened.

  “Hello, Fu,” the Governor said. “And hello to you, too, Malao.”

  Malao scratched his head. “Hello, sir.”

  “I just saw Ma,” the Governor said. “He seems pretty upset.”

  Malao lowered his head. “I know. I'm really sorry to hear about his father.”

  “His father was a good man,” the Governor said. “It's terrible that his life was taken by bandits.”

  Malao looked up. “Bandits? I thought the Monkey King killed him.”

  The Governor shook his head. “Nobody has ever proved that. No one I know has even seen the Monkey King. But it's a proven fact that bandits make a habit of intercepting gold shipments. Some bandits even go so far as to steal gold trinkets from people's homes as they sleep. The Monkey King is rumored to live in this region, but I've always dismissed him as a wives’ tale people use to explain unexplainable thefts. That is, until today.”

  “W-why do you say that?” Malao asked, suddenly nervous.

  “Well, because of you, quite frankly. You don't happen to know him, do you?”

  “No!” Malao said. “W-what's going on?”

  The Governor raised his hands. “There is no reason to get excited, little one. You are obviously too young to be him. I only ask because I thought he might be a relative of yours. You are a small, dark-skinned jokester—just like he supposedly is. Also, there is the stick Ma said you carry.”

  Fu looked at the Governor. “My brother is an orphan, just like me. He's no thief, and he has no relatives.”

  “I believe he may never have met any of his relatives,” the Governor said. “But that does not mean he does not have any. I have one more piece of information to share. They say the Monkey King has trained a troop of monkeys to do his work since he's gotten older. The troop is rumored to be led by a large albino with a single eye.” The Governor pointed to a tall tree just beyond the hedge around the square. “Look.”

  Malao gasped. In the tree was his friend the white monkey, staring straight at him. It shifted nervously from foot to foot and pointed down the trail he and Fu had followed to the village.

  A voice called out in the distance, “Where is the Governor?”

  Malao recognized that voice. It belonged to Ying!

  “That's Major Ying, isn't it?” the Governor asked.

  Malao nodded. Fu growled.

  “Ho, go warn the villagers that soldiers are returning,” the Governor whispered. He looked at Malao and Fu. “You two, follow me.”

  They ran around to the back of the bun vendor's shop and ducked behind several large barrels. The Governor spoke in a low voice. “You will have to leave as soon as possible. I will do my best to stall Major Ying while you make your escape.”

  “Thank you, Governor,” Malao said. Fu nodded.

  “You are most welcome. Do you know where you will go?”

  “We were going to ask if someone from your village could show us the way to Shaolin Temple,” Malao said.

  “Shaolin?” the Governor replied. “That is a fine idea. The monks there can protect you.”

  “Yes,” Fu said. “Plus we can give them the scrolls. Or most of the scrolls, anyway. We managed to steal three back from Ying.”

  “Good for you!” the Governor said. “I wish I could take you there myself, but I must remain here for now. Perhaps we can come up with a quick plan to have one of the villagers take you.”

  “How far is Shaolin from here?” Malao asked.

  “It's only about ten days’ travel by foot—”

  “Ten days!” Malao said. “By the time we find it, Ying will catch up to us and—”

  The barrel next to Malao shifted sideways. Malao looked up and found himself staring at Ying's carved face.

  “When are you going to learn to keep your big mouth shut, Malao?” Ying said. “Get up!”

  As Malao began to stand, he saw a large shadow pass over Ying from behind. Two beefy arms dropped over Ying's chest, pinning his arms to his sides. Malao heard the air slowly being squeezed out of Ying's lungs.

  “RUN!” shouted a deep, gravelly voice from behind Ying's head. It was the Drunkard.

  Malao turned to run, but Fu didn't budge.

  The Drunkard's voice boomed again. “I said run, F
u!”

  Fu stood frozen, his eyes locked on the Drunkard's.

  Ying smirked. Hushed words drifted on the current of air pouring out of his mouth.

  “Say goodbye to your new friend, Pussycat.”

  Ying lifted one bare foot and raked his long, curved toenails across the bandage covering the Drunkard's calf. The Drunkard faltered as the bandage tore away and the wound opened wide. Malao stared openmouthed at a large plug of bloodmoss that popped out of the hole in the Drunkard's leg.

  Fu took a step forward.

  “I'll handle this!” the Drunkard grunted. “Now— ARRRGH!”

  Ying dug a long-nailed eagle-claw fist into each of the Drunkard's thighs. At the same time he opened his mouth wide and clamped his sharp teeth down on one of the Drunkard's forearms.

  The Drunkard roared and released Ying, swinging one arm mightily across his body. A huge tiger-claw fist met the side of Ying's head. Ying dropped to his knees.

  “I'll be fine,” the Drunkard growled. “Now run, Fu! And don't look back!”

  “But—”

  “GO!”

  Malao grabbed Fu's arm and pulled as hard as he could. To his surprise, Fu gave in. Together they raced around to the front of the bun vendor's shop. A line of soldiers stood between them and the trees.

  “Angry Tiger Tosses Monkey!” Malao shouted.

  Fu grunted and put his hands on his hips as he ran full force toward the soldiers. Malao leaped onto Fu's back and used Fu's hands as footholds. He took a step up and placed one foot on each of Fu's shoulders. Fu grabbed one of Malao's ankles with each hand. When they were three paces from the line of soldiers, Fu shouted, “Now!”

  Malao bent his knees and pushed off with all his might as Fu thrust his arms up and released Malao's ankles. Malao soared high over one of the soldiers and the careless man looked up. Fu slammed into the man, knocking him flat on his back. Fu stomped hard on the man's groin and barreled into the underbrush. Malao caught a tree limb with one hand and swung himself up into the treetops. Both boys instantly disappeared. The white monkey raced into the forest after them.

  “Fu, slow down,” Malao said several hours later. “I think we're safe now.”