by Tong,, Su
The second way lay right in front of her. All she had to was walk up to the deepest part of the river and drown herself. That wouldn’t be difficult either. Just lie down and let the water swallow her up. But she was a gourd, not a fish. Gourds need to sprout, and if there was no earth from which the shoot could emerge, there would be no gourd and she would have no rebirth. The cold ripples of the moonlit water filled her with terror. With water there would be no rebirth, and more than twenty years of bitterness would have been endured in vain, all those tears shed for nothing. More than twenty years of days and nights, each passed in futility.
Binu stuck one foot into the water, while the other leg held itself back. A stalemate raged for a while, until she decisively pulled the first foot back onto dry land. Death by water was out of the question, no matter how easy it might seem. She consoled her wet foot, and herself as well, that she would die sooner or later, but it would be on solid ground.
Silence reigned on her side of the river, but from somewhere in the distance came the croak of a frog, then another. It must be my frog, she thought, somewhere in the grass over there. She searched the riverbank for a few moments, then suspected that the croaking may well have come from the roadside. ‘This is no time for hide-and-seek,’ she muttered. ‘I’m not interested in you, so go and look for your son.’ She had abandoned all thoughts of finding the frog, since they had parted company and were no longer travelling companions. If it had been a person, that would have been wonderful, for then she wouldn’t have to travel alone. But they were women existing in two different worlds and speaking of different matters. The living woman was searching for her husband, the dead woman for her son. They might travel together, but would never be together.
So Binu decided to return to her gravesite; in the moonlight it had the look of an unfinished grave, but also a crude and simple home. It was warmer inside than outside, for there was no wind down there. She was on the verge of sliding into the hole when, suddenly, she spotted the frog – it was crouching in her grave, looking up to hear what she had to say. In the days since she had last seen the frog, it had grown wizened and its blind eyes were far more sorrowful, emitting a light of hopelessness.
‘Get out! Go and search for your son,’ cried Binu as she knelt beside the hole. ‘Come out of there. My good feelings for you are gone. I prepared a bundle for Qiliang and let you hide inside. Now I’ve worked hard to dig a grave, only to have you come and take it over. A frog you may be, but you have taken advantage of me. A little thing like you has no business in a hole this big. There is mud on the riverbank, and any spot will do for you. Why have you chosen my hole?’
The frog refused to come out, apparently having decided to end its journey of misery in this hole in the ground. Binu did not know if it planned to occupy the hole alone or was prepared for them to die together. Whatever its motives, she would have none of it. She clapped her hands and stamped her feet, but the frog was unmoved. Finding it impossible to get rid of the frog, Binu grew wilful. She picked up the hoe and brandished it in front of the hole.
‘If you don’t come out of there,’ she vowed, ‘I’ll come down, and we’ll see who is left standing. Even if this was just a dry well, it would still be reserved for me alone.’
The frog stayed put, a single tear on its face bringing a white light into the darkness. Binu turned away to avoid looking at that tear. Sorrow had lost its power on this night; a woman who did not cry had already shed all the tears she had, and the tears of the frog were now someone else’s burden. Neither could get a reaction from the other. So a long confrontation between a pair of one-time travelling companions developed at the river bend, and an air of antagonism turned the atmosphere icy. Even the water flowing in the moonlight gasped tensely.
Back at Hundred Springs Terrace, Lord Hengming had chosen to ride each of his precious Snow Mountain horses instead of a horse-man.
Tens of thousands of thoroughbred Blue Cloud white horses had galloped off with generals and their troops to battlefields during three years of war, and even before the winds of war in the southwestern border region had abated, all the remaining horses – fine steeds, sick ponies and old nags – had followed the wall builders north. All three hundred of Lord Hengming’s retainers knew how passionate their master was about his hunting outings, that he would rather die than give them up; when he saw how his stable was being depleted of horses, he grew sallow, and the sharp eyes of his retainers spotted that his idle buttocks had grown even more sallow than his face. He had received a special dispensation, given only to nobility, to keep three of his favourite horses, but the retainers, who were accustomed to doing everything necessary to lessen their master’s worries and ease his hardships, sought replacements for the missing horses. By pooling their wisdom and efforts, a fervent tide of creativity and thinking swept through Hundred Springs Terrace, leading eventually to the invention of horsemen.
This invention created a glorious new page in the Old Chronicle of Archery. Hundred Springs Terrace’s horsemen opened up a new world, and not just in Blue Cloud Prefecture; the rulers and aristocrats of seven prefectures and eight counties followed its example, and this enterprising practice for the greater good of the Kingdom was praised by the Court, with the King announcing considerately that the horsemen were to be exempt from military conscription. As the news spread, young men in cities and rural areas everywhere began to vie for this new occupation, producing a craze for running with heavy loads. They ran up mountains with boulders on their backs; they ran through forests with logs on their backs; they ran at home carrying their aged and unproductive grandparents on their backs. They practised equine gaits, breathing and snorting characteristics, even whinnying, as they ran like horses, only faster.
Riding humans for the hunts became fashionable in aristocratic circles, gaining steadily in popularity. But, as with the development of anything new, problems soon arose. Arrows flew in the forests and on mountain slopes, driving great quantities of wild deer, muntjacs, rabbits and mountain gazelles out of the hills and up to the mountaintops, while birds flew off to unknown places; soon the joys of hunting were under serious threat. Horsemen had bows but no targets, they had speed but nothing to chase. With the disappearance of quarry, they could only return empty-handed.
Seeing a permanent scowl on the face of Lord Hengming, the Hundred Springs Terrace retainers embarked upon a new and vigorous campaign of exploration and invention. One of them discovered in the Bluegrass Ravine People Market a skinny, undernourished boy who ran around while other boys up in trees threw woven darts at him. The darts had the boy running and skipping, just like a deer. The retainer’s eyes flashed at first sight, and he bought the boy on the spot. On the way back to Hundred Springs Terrace, the boy followed along behind, timidly asking what lay ahead for him. ‘Your Lordship, have you bought me to make me a horse-man? Would you like to climb up on my back and try me out?’
The retainer replied frankly, ‘You, a horse-man? Why, you haven’t even grown hair down between your legs. You will not be a horse-man, you’ll be a deer-boy.’
Down came the drawbridge, and there sat Lord Hengming, perched on top of his favourite Snow Mountain horse, River-and-Mountains. The horse raised its massive head and sent an intimidating whinny in the direction of the horsemen. Treasure and Beauty, the other two horses saved by the dispensation, were being led by grooms, their manes waving proudly in the wind, their shoes glistening; their big, beautiful eyes, fixed on the horsemen, were filled with the contemptuous look of the genuine article eyeing up an imposter.
The horsemen were immediately made aware of their debased status. They had been looking forward to running riderless like wild horses but, as soon as the drawbridge came down, they discovered that, with no riders on their backs, and no daylight to guide them, they could no longer run like regular horses, let alone wild ones. They were disconcerted by the absence of weight; and though they ran at an acceptable speed and whinnied like real horses, even the greatest among them
ran awkwardly and with no confidence.
A retainer shouted to them, ‘Wild horses, is that what you think you are? You are nothing but brainless creatures running blindly!’
Lord Hengming armed his bow, but the fake running style of the horsemen, neither like men nor like horses, stopped him from firing an arrow. He shouted angrily, ‘What contemptible creatures! They have forgotten how to run without riders on their backs. Bring on the deer-boys. Instead of horses, I’ll hunt deer!’
The deer-boys, waiting quietly in the forest, whooped with delight. For what was probably the first time, they could stand with pride in the presence of horsemen. They fixed their horns on their heads, attached their deer tails, and began leaping past the horsemen, basking in new-found glory.
Figures flashed in the torch-lit forest. The poor deer-boys, enjoying the sense of pride in having a master for once, romped happily in their forest, frolicked like creatures swept up in a life-changing euphoria, gambolled as gratitude overflowed in their hearts. Some bounded like grey deer, some like whitetails, and some like sikas. Two courageous brothers actually sprang right in front of Lord Hengming, taunting him to chase after them. This intense provocation elicited an excited cry from Lord Hengming – ‘Excellent!’ – as his cypress arrows whizzed among the trees of the forest, his quiver quickly emptied. River-and-Mountains was soon tired out from the maniacal running about, as Lord Hengming immediately realized when his hand touched the horse’s sweaty back. ‘River-and-Mountains is worn out. Change horses!’
The horsemen, who were sitting dispiritedly on the ground, jumped to their feet. One of their number, fleet-footed, kind-hearted Moon Rider, invigorated by the shout, galloped up to Lord Hengming, bent down, and said, ‘It has been many days since you last rode me, Your Lordship. Please, up onto my back.’
‘Are you a Snow Mountain thoroughbred? No, you are only a horse-man.’ Lord Hengming drove the hapless Moon Rider away with his whip. ‘Didn’t I say that I will not ride you horsemen tonight?’
A groom led Treasure up and gave Lord Hengming a hoist up. To fill time while someone went back to fetch more arrows, the retainers scoured the forest with their torches to measure how the night hunt had gone so far, taking a red seal with them. They picked up each deer-boy who had been hit by an arrow and examined him, starting from his hindquarters. They stamped a panther insignia next to each arrow that had found its mark. Most of the boys had been hit in the rump, to the boisterous delight of the retainers. Knowing the merciful nature of their master, how he hated to take the lives of his subjects, he had catered for the boys’ safety by using only cypress arrows and honing his archery skills to perfection. He considered the rump to be the only appropriate target; all others were misses. When the retainers were affixing insignias, disagreements often arose. ‘That’s not his thigh. His rump is just too small. This counts as part of his rump, so it’s a hit!’
The retainers who had run back to fetch more arrows returned with disturbing news: there were no more cypress arrows, only metal ones. They held up several quivers, which clinked as the arrows inside shifted. ‘Why are you bringing those to me?’ Lord Hengming demanded. ‘Do you expect me to shoot metal arrows at children?’
‘We thought you were enjoying yourself, Your Lordship, and did not want your pleasure to come to an end. It was just a precaution.’
‘My pleasure has not come to an end,’ Lord Hengming barked. ‘I have only ridden one of my Snow Mountain horses. How could I already be out of arrows? Who ordered the arrows for me? Why are there so few made of cypress? Stop treating me like a child.’
None of the retainers dared offer a response, provoking their master further. ‘What are you gawking at? Why are you all standing around looking stupid? Go and bring back all the arrows that were shot.’
By this time, the deer-boys were beginning to get restless, wanting to display both gratitude for Lord Hengming’s show of mercy and their willingness to do his bidding, and also to show the failed horsemen that they were the stars tonight. Without warning, they begged Lord Hengming in disorderly but moving voices, ‘Use real arrows, we’re not afraid. Only cowards are afraid of real arrows. Good Master, we deer-boys are here to serve you!’
Lord Hengming, deeply touched by the deer-boys’ expression of loyalty, reached out for the new quiver and raised it as an expression of kindness. Struggling to control his emotions, he said, ‘Good! Wonderful! Marvellous! Inscribe these children’s brave words on your bamboo tallies.’
Quickly ordering someone to open a bamboo tablet, the retainer replied, ‘Yes, Your Lordship. I will put it all down: Your Lordship’s loving kindness towards the people, and their gratitude and loyalty towards Your Lordship. I will record it all in a volume and place it in a chest in the Eastern Pavilion, for someday it will come in handy.’
A silence fell over the forest, abruptly broken by a fearful shout from another of the retainers: ‘They’re fighting! The horsemen and deer-boys are fighting!’
Lord Hengming was shocked by the horsemen’s appalling behaviour. The tauntings of the deer-boys had led to a collective loss of control. Older and stronger, and shielded by the darkness of the night, the horsemen began by attacking the deer-boys’ leaders, though they quickly moved on to tracking down the other deer-boys, angrily beating and kicking them when they caught them. In all the years Lord Hengming had held his hunts, the horsemen and deer-boys had always been on their best behaviour, walking the paths they were given, and he was traumatized by the breakdown in discipline that he was witnessing. But rage soon replaced trauma.
‘Shoot them!’ he ordered, his face scarlet with anger. He commanded his retainers to raise their bows and shoot metal arrows. ‘If you kill them, I’ll take the blame!’
A storm of arrows flew into the forest, from which emerged terrified shrieks and the sound of panicky running. The rhythm of death played out by the rainstorm of arrows spurred the targeted creatures into a cadence of madness as they ran for their lives. In the torchlight, the herd of deer-boys looked like fleeing deer; the horsemen were transformed into galloping wild horses. One by one, the torches in the forest were extinguished, and the sound of the hunt dropped mysteriously into the river and sank to the bottom.
There was a sound of intermittent creaks of carriage wheels on the road, and a hearse pulled by a pair of oxen appeared on the road. Binu spotted someone familiar among all the moving figures: it was Wuzhang again, sitting in the driver’s seat, bent over at the waist and holding the reins with his feet; standing behind him was the boy, her gravedigger, returned from the hunt and looking triumphant. He waved to Binu, an arrow in his hand, announcing nightmarish news:
‘Don’t die now,’ he said. ‘Get up out of that hole. I sold you. You are now the widow of a thief named Qinsu!’
At first, Binu could not understand what he was saying. She approached him. ‘Who sold whom?’ But as she drew near to the oxcart and saw the black coffin, the realization hit her: no one would bring her a coffin out of the goodness of his heart. This was someone else’s coffin! She stepped back to get a good look at the boy, suddenly noticing his new attire: a white funeral robe. Before she could ask where he had got it from, several ferocious men jumped down off the cart and rushed at her like wild beasts. Now she understood: someone else had died and she had been sold. The boy had sold her to a dead man!
Like hawks swooping down on small birds, the Hundred Springs Terrace retainers easily caught Binu and carried her over to the cart, where she was tied up with ropes again. At first she struggled, but not for long, as water spilled from her body. They watched her look up into the sky, murmuring a single phrase over and over again: ‘I should have gone down, I should have gone down.’
‘What is she muttering?’ the retainers asked the boy. ‘Gone down where?’
The boy pointed to the hole by the river bend. ‘Into the ground. She regrets not going into the ground when she had the chance.’
‘If she had,’ one of the retainers said, ‘we’d jus
t have had to dig her up. Dead, she goes into a coffin. Living, she accompanies the coffin of the retainer Qinsu with her wails. She can’t get away, dead or alive.’
One of the other retainers was puzzled by all the water splashing on his robe. ‘This woman must have been in the water,’ he shouted. ‘She’s drenched.’
‘Be careful,’ the boy said, ‘that isn’t water, those are her tears. She is a weeper!’
The retainers laughed. ‘A weeper, you say? Then she is well-chosen. What could be better than a weeper wailing for a dead man?’
As they flicked the strange water from their hands, they hurriedly dressed her in a white funeral robe and placed a white three-sided cap on her unruly hair, finishing off with a white sash around her waist. Then they stood back to admire her in her fitted funeral clothes. The look of sorrow on her face was just right for a new widow. When they had finished with her, one of them nailed an iron ring into the side of the coffin, while another fastened a chain around Binu’s ankle, which was then attached to the ring. With a clang, Binu was chained to the coffin, and the oxcart set off along the road.
Fragrant Forest Station
The nearer they came to Pingyang Prefecture, the farther they were from the mountains, which rolled on into the distance like waves until they dissolved into a hazy skyline. The seemingly boundless plain was a blanket of green and yellow, the colours of abundance. After passing fields of oats, there were increasing numbers of small communities of thatched huts, with village dogs and chickens running around in the open, but few people. Clusters of purple knotweed grew at the side of ditches, looking like flower beds from a distance. The plain was flat and open, under a sky that seemed to go on forever, while the sun seemed lower, like a fireball baking the farmhouses in the middle of the golden yellow oat fields.