The Past and the Punishments

by Yu Hua

  When they were halfway across the river, White Rain greeted Ruan Haikuo:

  “Isn’t that the Plum Blossom Sword on your back?”

  Ruan Haikuo, turning to look at the old man behind

  him, replied, “Yes, it is the Plum Blossom Sword.”

  White Rain continued, “Did your father give it to you?”

  An image of his mother handing him the sword suddenly seemed to float up from amid the mist rising from the water’s surface. He nodded.

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  White Rain, gazing at the water skimming past the

  prow, continued, “And who might you be looking for?”

  Ruan Haikuo said: “I’m looking for Master Blue Cloud.”

  In thus responding, Ruan Haikuo unwittingly disobeyed his mother’s instructions. He had neglected to mention White Rain’s name. Indeed, over the six months since his encounter with the Black Needle Knight, he had nearly forgotten White Rain, simply because both the Knight and the Lady of the Rouge had asked only after Master Blue Cloud.

  White Rain, falling silent, shifted his gaze toward the approaching riverbank. The ferry landed, and White Rain and Ruan Haikuo began to walk in opposite directions along a road that ran parallel to the river.

  As any swordsman would have known, White Rain and

  Master Blue Cloud, for years the best of friends and closest of allies, had parted ways five years earlier as sworn enemies.

  5

  During the next six months of difficult and fruitless travel, Ruan Haikuo’s chance encounter with White Rain was never far from his mind. Of course, Ruan Haikuo could not have possibly known that the curious old man he had seen by the river was actually White Rain. For some reason, though, he found the nonchalance with which the old man ambled away hard to forget. As Ruan moved off in the opposite direction, he happened to look back in the old man’s direction, catching sight of the old man’s white mane dwarfed by the vastness of the dark blue sky and the green fields that surrounded him.

  Months later, weakened by the travails and constant hunger of the road, Ruan Haikuo fell ill in a small town perched in the mountains just north of the Yangzi River. He was walking along a path that meandered by the riverbank. A Blood and Plum Blossoms 193

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  few yards ahead, a wooden bridge lay suspended above the rapids. Despite his weakness, he began to cross the bridge, but just as he had reached halfway across, he collapsed. He watched the water swirl underneath the bridge as he lay crumpled on the walkway. It was hours later, as dusk began to fall, before he felt strong enough to stand and slowly make his way through the gathering darkness to a small town he had passed on his way to the bridge.

  Lying weakly on a bamboo mat at the town inn, he listened to the sound of falling rain splattering outside the room. He lay ill for three days. The rain fell for three days.

  The roar of the river grew louder and louder, and yet ever more distant to his ears, as if its constant burbling were the sound of his own restless footsteps continuing, even as he lay ill, to wander across the countryside.

  On the morning of the fourth day, the rain suddenly came to a halt. At the same time, the affliction that had racked his frame began to disperse. Ruan Haikuo stood and left the inn, only to find that the rain had swollen the river so high that the bridge had been washed downstream. He stood for a long while by the place where the bridge had been, gazing across the river at a road that ran toward a distant mountain range. Finally, he began to walk along the river’s edge in search of another bridge.

  After nearly half a day, he had come across several roads that led south across the river, but each one had stopped at the river’s edge, only to continue on the opposite side. Just as he had begun to despair of ever finding a way across the river, he caught sight of an ancient, decaying temple surrounded on all sides by lofty trees. Carefully threading through clumps of dense foliage and boulders, Ruan Haikuo made his way into what was left of the structure.

  The walls of the temple were riddled with holes, filling the dank prayer hall with innumerable columns of viscous light. Suddenly, a bell-like voice rang in his ears:

  “And who is Ruan Jinwu to you?”

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  The voice hummed through the hall. Ruan Haikuo

  searched the room for its source, but his gaze was met only by the chaotic tapestry of light and dust woven by the sunlight slanting through the walls.

  “He’s my father,” he replied.

  The voice modulated into a laugh as mellifluous as flowing river water:

  “That is the Plum Blossom Sword that you carry on your back, is it not?”

  “Yes, it’s the Plum Blossom Sword.”

  The voice continued to drone:

  “Ruan Jinwu came to the foot of Mount Hua twenty

  years ago, with his Plum Blossom Sword in hand . . .”

  The voice came to a halt and continued only after a lengthy pause:

  “Exactly how long has it been since you began your

  journey?”

  Ruan Haikuo, at a loss, did not reply.

  The voice asked:

  “Well then, why did you leave home at all?”

  Ruan Haikuo said, “I go in search of Master Blue Cloud.”

  At this, the voice erupted into a chuckle that resembled nothing so much as the wind rustling through the trees:

  “I am Master Blue Cloud.”

  The messages with which the Lady of the Rouge and the Black Needle Knight had entrusted him leaped quickly to mind. Ruan Haikuo said, “The Lady of the Rouge needs to know where she might find a man named Liu Tian.”

  Master Blue Cloud mumbled to himself for a moment.

  “Liu Tian traveled to Yunnan seven years ago. As we speak, however, he has already left Yunnan to journey to the swordsmanship tournament that is held once every ten years at Mount Hua.”

  After repeating this information to himself, Ruan Haikuo continued, “Where is Li Dong? The Black Needle

  Knight asks that you help find him.”

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  “Seven years ago, Li Dong went to Guangxi. By now, he too is on his way to Mount Hua.”

  It was only at this point that he remembered the mission with which he had been entrusted by his mother in the moments before her death. But just as he steeled himself to ask Master Blue Cloud who had killed his father, the Master intoned:

  “I answer only two questions at a time.”

  Ruan Haikuo heard a current of air whistle past him, rustle through the trees outside the temple, and disappear.

  Master Blue Cloud was gone. He stood for a long time in the dank silence of the temple before turning to leave.

  On the heels of this encounter, Ruan Haikuo continued along the river’s edge, recalling once again a name that seemed to have vanished from his memory in the months after his encounter with the Black Needle Knight. After several hours of walking, he came to a road that led away from the river. Rather than continuing to look for a bridge, he turned and walked down the road in search of White Rain.

  6

  Ruan Haikuo’s search for White Rain further pro-

  longed his aimless journey. Master Blue Cloud disappeared from his mind like a wisp of smoke into the air. He had fulfilled the tasks entrusted to him by the Black Needle Knight and the Lady of the Rouge. In the months of peregrination that followed, he was often aware of their presence, a presence as fleeting as moonlight appearing behind night clouds. Although it was true that he might accidentally encounter them at some point in the future, he had long ago forgotten where exactly they lived, and this alone made them seem as distant and illusory as White Rain himself.

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  Withou
t his knowledge, however, Ruan Haikuo’s slow

  and meandering progress across the countryside had already begun to carry him closer and closer to the Black Needle Knight. And one day, he unwittingly approached the gate of the village in which the Black Needle Knight resided.

  He arrived at dusk, but the village looked much the same as the morning of his first visit. The Black Needle Knight sat under the elm tree, framed by the red glow of the sunset at his back. And it was only when he saw the Knight under the tree that Ruan Haikuo realized exactly where he was.

  He walked once again to the well, picked up the bucket, lowered it into the well, hauled it up, and drank several mouthfuls of cold, fresh water. The water reminded him of the darkness that was falling all about him. He turned to look at the Black Needle Knight. The Black Needle Knight was looking at him. Ruan Haikuo said, “I found Master Blue Cloud.”

  He saw a look of puzzlement play across the Black

  Needle Knight’s face. It was clear that he had forgotten Ruan Haikuo just as completely as Ruan himself had forgotten where he could find the Knight. Ruan Haikuo continued, “Li Dong has already left Guangxi. He’s making his way toward Mount Hua.”

  A look of sudden realization rolled across the Black Needle Knight’s face. He lifted his eyes heavenward and erupted in a bout of raucous laughter. Elm leaves fluttered to the ground with the force of his guffaws. Before another moment could pass, the Knight stood and strode toward a nearby cottage. He emerged in a moment with a bundle of belongings slung over his back, pausing only to address Ruan Haikuo. “You can stay in my house.”

  With these words, he hurried away from the village.

  Ruan Haikuo watched as the Knight moved off into the gathering darkness. A moment later, he walked toward the Black Needle Knight’s cottage.

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  7

  Throughout the days that followed his stay at the

  Black Needle Knight’s cottage, Ruan Haikuo could not help but sense that he was gradually drawing nearer and nearer to the Lady of the Rouge. One day soon after, he found himself moving down an empty road surrounded on all sides by a wasteland of mud. The route by which he had arrived, however, had been equally as fortuitous as that which had led him to a second encounter with the Black Needle Knight.

  It was noon. The road that he had trod in the darkness of night now appeared before him bathed with brilliant light.

  Even the lovely midday sunshine, though, could not conceal the utter desolation of the land the road ribboned across. It was this desolation, finally, that brought Ruan Haikuo to a halting realization of the fact that he had unwittingly stumbled on the Lady of the Rouge.

  Moments later, he sensed innumerable tendrils of fragrance float toward him on the breeze. In the distance, he caught sight of a cottage. As he drew closer, he saw a plot of exotic blooms and strange plants shining so brilliantly in the sun that he was almost overcome by a strange, feverish sensation in his limbs.

  The Lady of the Rouge stood amid the flowers. Hemmed in by blossoms of every imaginable shape and hue, she seemed even more beautiful than she had the first time he had come. She seemed to be gazing at a river flowing toward her as she waited for Ruan Haikuo’s arrival.

  Soon, her face lit with a strange smile that brought Ruan Haikuo’s motion to an abrupt halt. He said, “Liu Tian has already left Yunnan. At this very moment, he is traveling down the road that leads to Mount Hua.”

  The Lady laughed brightly, threaded her way out of the garden, and walked into the cottage, trailing a shadow that slid across the ground like a stream of water.

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  Ruan Haikuo waited for a moment, but when the Lady

  failed to emerge from the house, he turned and left.

  8

  Ruan Haikuo’s search for White Rain continued for

  another three years. One afternoon, fatigued by his seemingly endless peregrinations, he decided to rest in a little roadside pavilion.

  While Ruan Haikuo slept, a bearded man clad in flowing white robes drifted past the pavilion, stopping when he caught sight of the Plum Blossom Sword at Ruan Haikuo’s side. This, he determined after gazing at Ruan Haikuo’s unassuming form, was the son of Ruan Jinwu whom he had encountered several years before. He knelt down at Ruan Haikuo’s side to pick up the Plum Blossom Sword.

  With this movement, Ruan Haikuo woke with a start.

  This was how his second meeting with White Rain

  occurred.

  White Rain, sword in hand, smiled.

  “Did you ever manage to find Master Blue Cloud?”

  This question sparked memories of a man that had lain dormant for the duration of the three years that he had spent looking for White Rain.

  Ruan Haikuo said, “I’m looking for White Rain.”

  “And you’ve found him. I am White Rain.”

  Ruan Haikuo hesitated, mumbling softly to himself as he averted his eyes from the man who stood before him, haunted by the growing certainty that these marvelous years of peregrination were about to come to an end. He would be forced to find and take his vengeance on the man who had killed his father fifteen years before. And that, of course, was tantamount to going in search of his own funeral.

  After a moment, he asked, “I want to know who killed my father.”

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  White Rain listened, smiled, and said:

  “Your father was murdered by two men. One of them was named Liu Tian. The other was called Li Dong. Three years ago they both met their end on the road to Mount Hua at the hands of the Lady of the Rouge and the Black Needle Knight.”

  Ruan Haikuo’s heart was thrown into turmoil. He watched as White Rain held the Plum Blossom Sword to eye level and slowly extracted it from its sheath. Illuminated by the brilliant sun outside the pavilion, he saw ninety-nine spots of rust dappling the blade.

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  The Death of a Landlord

  1

  Many years ago, a landlord clad in a black silk robe, with white hair and silvered whiskers, emerged from the courtyard of his brick house, palms clasped together behind his back, and began to stroll slowly through the fields of his own estate. When the peasants working in the fields saw him approach, they all respectfully set down their hoes and called out their greetings:

  “Old Master.”

  When he went into town, the townspeople called him

  “sir.” This distinguished gentleman would always walk earnestly out from his walled home as the sun set in the west-ern sky, his long, white beard fluttering in the breeze. An almost ritualized solemnity was dimly apparent in his bearing as he walked toward the night soil vat by the village gate. This self-satisfied old member of the landed gentry moved stiffly to the edge of the vat, lifted up a corner of his robe with his right hand, turned calmly around, and squatted over the vat. Finally, he undid the stays of his trousers, revealing a pair of wrinkled buttocks and thighs criss-crossed by prominent bluish veins, and began to shit.

  There was, of course, a chamber pot by his bed, but he preferred to relieve himself outdoors in this animal manner.

  Perhaps he found the view of the sun setting behind the mountains or the gentle caress of the early evening breeze amenable or even uplifting. The landlord, well past his prime, still maintained the habits of his youth. Unlike many of the peasants who simply sat on the edge of the vat, he squatted above it. But as he had grown older, his bowel movements had become more difficult as well. Every day as 201

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  dusk approached, the villagers would hear the sound of the landlord’s moans, for when all was said and done, things just didn’t come out as easily now as they had when he was young. What
was more, his legs, perched on the edges of the vat, would tremble uncontrollably.

  The landlord’s three-year-old granddaughter, wearing a black jacket embroidered with red flowers, her hair pulled up into two sheep’s-horn braids, made an angry face. She hopped over to the vat, curiously inspecting the trembling of her grandfather’s legs, and asked:

  “Granddad, why are you moving?”

  The landlord smiled and said: “It’s the wind.”

  At that moment, the landlord’s squinted eyes caught sight of a white shadow moving along the little cart track in the distance. The last rays of the sun shone toward him in gleaming swaths, and his eyes filled with dancing speckles of color. The landlord blinked, asking his granddaughter:

  “Is that your dad over there?”

  The granddaughter carefully examined the horizon, but her gaze was also obstructed by innumerable spots of light, and all she could detect was a tiny shadow, now appearing, now disappearing, glittering in the sun’s rays like flying spittle.

  The granddaughter burst into giggles, saying:

  “He’s dancing back and forth.”

  The man walking toward them was the landlord’s son.

  This young gentleman, clad in white silk, had been away from home for quite a few days. By now, the landlord was able to distinguish exactly who he was, and he thought to himself: “Little bastard’s coming home for more money.”

  The landlord’s daughter-in-law emerged from the house in the distance carrying a chamber pot by her waist, swaying as she approached. Although she was weighted down by her burden, her unhurried swaying motion made the landlord smile with delight. His granddaughter had already left his side and was now standing indecisively among the paddies as she wavered between deciding to run toward her father or her mother.

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  A great roar came down from the sky. The landlord raised his eyes to look and saw an airplane flying just under the cloud cover to the north. The landlord squinted as it flew closer and closer, but he was still unable to find what he was looking for. He turned to a peasant woman standing nearby, who was also gazing skyward, scythe in hand. “Is it a white sun against the blue sky?”