by Dan Millman
He smiled and waved away my concern. “Nothing like that, Dan. I’ve known Ama for years. She doesn’t know I was the gardener’s son. To her, I’m just a friend and confidant.”
My eyes widened. “Oh my God—you’re Joe Stalking Wolf?” I sat there in shock. Why hadn’t I realized it! Ama wouldn’t have guessed because she hadn’t even recalled the story about the gardener’s son until she told me.
Joe Stalking Wolf, aka Pájaro, continued: “Fifteen years after my father’s death, I joined the local police. I used a legal excuse to access the infirmary records and found the name of the doctor who’d treated the mysterious stranger years before. Ama’s father. He had died, but I found his daughter. . . .
“It took me a year to gain her confidence,” he said. “She had no idea I was seeking the journal. To her I was just a good listener. After you visited the school, she called me. It was just a news item, the kind of thing we shared with each other.”
I thought back to something I’d heard, that there are only two kinds of stories: Either a stranger comes to town or someone goes on a quest. My story qualifies on both counts, I realized. Ama had told her friend about me, the stranger. And this story was getting stranger all the time. . . .
Still trying to take this in, I couldn’t stop myself from asking: “Your relationship with Ama—was it only about the journal?”
“At first. But over time—” The next moment, when he grasped my reason for asking, his face broke into a smile. “Ama and I are good friends, Dan, but not in the way you might think. As it happens, Ama prefers the intimate company of other women.”
I felt like slapping my forehead. So much for my powers of observation.
Joe Stalking Wolf went on to explain how, using high-power binoculars, he’d observed me at the service station. What is it with me and service stations? I thought. He drove ahead of me, left his vehicle, and waited by the road as the hitchhiker, businessman, and travel guide Pájaro. He’d intended to stick with me until I found the journal, but when he saw Papa Joe inside the café, he knew it was too risky. “He’s Ama’s oldest friend, and he’d met me before. He could have recognized my voice—or my scent.”
“Blind as a bat, smart as a fox,” I said, mostly to myself.
Joe Stalking Wolf smiled again. “You got that right.”
Then, more serious, he slumped over like a lost boy. “I’m not a bad person, Dan. Taking that journal was an act of desperation, a life’s ambition. I’ve lived my father’s dream for so long that I have none of my own. I have no idea what to do now.”
Feeling like a washrag that had been wrung out to dry, I wondered what I could say to help this man. “Well,” I managed, presuming that we’d both be heading back to Hong Kong with Hua Chi, “you could stay here for a few days. Maybe help in the fields.”
Shaking his head, he said, “No, I can’t accept their hospitality. Not yet. I haven’t earned it. I’ll stay in the forest for a few days. I have some thinking to do—about what you wrote. And about my life, eternal or not. Your words opened my eyes and mind wider with each reading. I wish my father could have seen it.”
He would have died just the same, I thought, as we all do, no matter what our beliefs or philosophies. All of us, heading for Samarra. . . .
Before I could say anything else to Joe Stalking Wolf, he rose and excused himself. I suddenly noticed that, despite what must have been profound hunger, he hadn’t touched his food.
TWENTY-SIX
* * *
With the journals back in my loft, I continued pondering the turn of events until Hua Chi joined me as I headed to the pavilion to teach one of my last acrobatics sessions. “You’ve received high praise from my brother,” she said, “not only for your diligent practice, but for instructing and inspiring your students.”
Glad to hear this, since Master Ch’an had given no outward sign of approval, I said, “It’s been a great opportunity. I just wish . . .”
“What?”
“I had hoped to work with him more directly, but I understand how the language barrier made that difficult—”
“Without Mei Bao,” she added.
“Of course. What would your brother do without her support?”
Hua Chi chuckled. “True enough, but not in the way you may think.”
“What?”
“My brother is indeed a master—a master gardener and farmer. He studied martial arts in his twenties but realized that it wasn’t his true calling. The bones of this place, and the blood, are his. But the spirit, well—has Mei Bao told you the story of how we met?”
“Yes.”
“But she’s too modest. Did she tell you how quickly she mastered the t’ai chi forms, or how greatly she surpassed my modest skills before she’d even reached her eighteenth year?”
“Really? I had no idea.”
“My brother and I conceived the idea of inviting worthy orphans to help develop a self-sufficient farm. Only after Mei Bao’s arrival here did she discover in herself a desire to share her gifts with others. To teach. Out of her desire, the school began. After her arrival, even the forest changed.”
At the entrance to the pavilion, Hua Chi said, “My brother is as devoted to Mei Bao as she is to him. I’m not surprised that she acknowledged him as the source of her wisdom. But make no mistake about it, Mei Bao is the Master of Taishan Forest.”
It had been a day of revelations, from which I was still reeling.
As we entered the pavilion, Hua Chi added, “Your teacher, Socrates, he told you to find a hidden school.”
“Yes, but he didn’t say where. So I was headed to Japan. . . .”
“I was wondering: Did he tell you to study at a hidden school?”
“What else could he have meant?”
Hua Chi only smiled, letting my question float away as she joined Mei Bao and Master Ch’an, both of whom had appeared to observe what would be my last acrobatics class in the Taishan Forest.
During our session, I caught a glimpse of Joe Stalking Wolf watching from the forest cover. I expected that Hua Chi noticed as well. That evening I found myself thinking again about him. My first reader. Before I showed the journal to anyone else, I decided to read it one more time.
Late that night, as I read the final sentences by lamplight, a weight lifted from my shoulders. I sensed that Socrates would approve. I hoped to tell him about it someday soon, and show him what I’d written. He couldn’t know it then, nor did I, but this collaboration between us marked the beginning of my writing life.
In the process, I’d learned that reading was one way to absorb ideas, writing quite another. My creative struggle to clarify Soc’s journal notes called forth a deeper understanding. But I had merely understood. As Soc once told me, “Realization comes only from direct experience.” I had to face the reality that the insights I’d expressed had not yet penetrated me. They were still slogans, words on a page, thoughts in my head, notions and ideas. But they were also seeds that would blossom in their own time. For now, I could only accept my current reality and wait for a ripening.
With that acceptance, I finally settled down to sleep in the early-morning hours. As I lay there, I thought about how sometimes life more closely resembled improvisational comedy than strategic planning. I had no idea what the future might hold. Like Papa Joe, and that line in Corinthians, I’d lived “by faith, not by sight.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
* * *
While working the field the next morning, I saw two strangers emerge from the forest—older men, dressed in gray high-collar tunics, soiled and frayed. With serious faces, they scanned the fields and buildings. Two other men joined them, wearing military garb and carrying Kalashnikov carbines. The bell that usually signaled the midday meal sounded behind me, again and again.
I turned to see Mei Bao approaching with Master Ch’an, followed by Chun Han and the remaining students. I’d been digging a trench and was still holding the shovel.
The two soldiers held their rif
les at the ready. One of the two older men spoke loudly—as if he had authority over all of us. Mei Bao, who now stood just behind me, whispered a translation in my ear: “The People’s Proletariat Central Committee of Heilongjiang has learned of this unauthorized farm and school for . . .”—Mei Bao paused in her translation—“for spies.” It was the first time I’d ever seen her lose her composure.
The older man scanned our small group until his eyes fixed on me. He spoke again, with Mei Bao translating in my ear. “I see proof,” he said, pointing to me. “An imperialist running dog”—there it was!—“here to train you as agents of a foreign government. I require his entry papers, but I don’t expect to find them.”
That’s when Hua Chi stepped forward to speak, and Mei Bao continued to translate: “This visitor is a teacher of acrobatics, nothing more,” she said. “If you’ll just let me get them, I have his papers, authorizing a temporary visit to help these orphaned children learn a skill so they may contribute to the people’s culture. Whoever told you there are any agents here is misinformed or deceiving the people’s government.”
“That’s a serious accusation,” said the man, speaking more quietly now, as Hua Chi neared him. “Nonetheless,” he went on, “rather than seeking the right attitude and contributing to the common good, all persons here have separated themselves from their countrymen, selfishly hoarding goods, making no contribution of crops to the larger community. Where are your permits to farm or to teach?” he shouted. “You might have been able to secretly continue this degraded life if you hadn’t been so foolish as to bring a foreign intruder here.”
Mei Bao sounded reluctant to translate this last part. It’s my fault, I thought, horrified. Someone must have seen me when I went with Mei Bao to the village.
At that point a fifth stranger stepped out of the forest, younger than the rest. He wore similar Mao-inspired garb. He looked angry, but I sensed something else: Fear? Shame?
“Chang Li,” whispered Mei Bao. The student who ran away, I recalled. She shook her head sadly. “He must have led them here.”
The older spokesman gestured to Chang Li, then placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “So you see, through the heroism and patriotism of this young proletariat leader, we know what you’re up to. You can’t hide any longer!” He gestured to the two armed military men, who stepped forward. “I’m here to take over temporary leadership of this communal farm, which will now become a reeducation camp. More laborers will soon arrive. The young workers will stay on. The farmwork will continue as before, but this ‘school,’ as you call it, has no place in the People’s Republic.”
I sensed that Mei Bao was finding it difficult to repeat his words, but she continued until the spokesman pointed to Master Ch’an, Hua Chi, Mei Bao, and me.
“The four of you,” he said, “will come with us back to Taishan Village and then to Beijing, where you will be interrogated and judged. If found guilty, you’ll be taken to a detention house. If your error is deemed a political misjudgment, once you’re reeducated you’ll be allowed to rejoin society. But the foreigner, papers or not, he will be—”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Master Ch’an fall to his knees. I stared, unbelieving, as he crawled forward. Mei Bao rushed forward to help the defeated old man stand slowly before the leader. Hua Chi, looking suddenly old herself, leaned on Chun Han, and limped forward toward the men. The armed soldiers looked confused; they half-raised their rifles—
Too late. Mei Bao moved with lightning speed. She must have pushed the chest of one soldier; I saw him go flying backward. He slammed into a nearby tree trunk and fell to the ground. Chun Han ran toward the fallen man. At nearly the same instant, Master Ch’an and Hua Chi had somehow disabled the other soldier, knocking him out as well.
A third soldier stepped out of the forest, raised his Kalashnikov and took aim at Hua Chi and her brother. Then two things happened at once: Chun Han leapt forward to shield Ch’an and Hua Chi. And Joe Stalking Wolf appeared out of nowhere, slamming one foot into the soldier’s spine and sending him sprawling as the shot went awry. Joe pinned the soldier to the ground with one knee and slammed a handheld stone into the back of his head, knocking him unconscious. For a moment it looked like he was going to hit the man again, then he glanced over. Our eyes met. He dropped the stone.
TWENTY-EIGHT
* * *
The authorities, the soldiers, and Chang Li, who had betrayed us all, now looked out on drastically different circumstances. The two older men both began to talk at once, sputtering. As the students’ attention shifted toward them, my eyes moved across the farm. I recognized the moment for what it was: the beginning of the end.
I saw Chun Han on his knees with both hands pressed against his ribs. As I approached, he pulled his hands away from his body as if to greet me. They were covered in blood. The wild shot had penetrated his upper abdomen just below the heart. He quickly slipped into unconsciousness and was still.
Mei Bao reached him the same time I did. Her face twisted with grief as she cradled his body.
“Chun Han!” we called. But he couldn’t respond. Not ever.
One by one, the students became aware of what had happened. One after another, they began to weep, as a collective sorrow took hold. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Joe Stalking Wolf hand a rifle to Hua Chi, and together they moved toward the authorities.
I knew I should do something, but I couldn’t move. Only a few minutes before, working peacefully in the field, I’d waved to Chun Han as he passed. Gentle Chun Han, my friend from the beginning.
I became vaguely aware, lost as I was in reminiscences and regrets, that Master Ch’an was moving among the students, squeezing shoulders, speaking quiet words. Following Master Ch’an’s lead, the students surrounded the authorities and a miserable Chang Li, and dragged the unconscious soldiers into the circle. The representatives of the People’s Republic of China were now surrounded by the students.
Mei Bao directed a few other students as they lifted Chun Han’s large body and carried it back toward the main house, with everyone else following behind. I glanced toward Joe Stalking Wolf, his eyes still on the forest, a gun in his hand, following our small group and the larger cadre of students prodding the authorities toward the pavilion.
I learned later that the intruders were locked in a storage shed. Hua Chi told me that the spokesman had promised “serious consequences” if they were not allowed to return and report to their committee. Joe now insisted on sitting vigil outside until Master Ch’an and the others decided what to do.
I sat down next to him. He’d found a purpose suited to his experience. I suddenly felt like the outsider. Somehow I knew that before I left the school, the school would leave me.
TWENTY-NINE
* * *
That evening, Mei Bao and Hua Chi washed and wrapped Chun Han’s body. The advanced students came together as pallbearers and bore the remains to a site on the far side of the crystal pond, under an emerald canopy of leaves. After a short ceremony, we buried our friend. His resting place was unmarked, hidden as the school had been, to remain undisturbed.
Much later, after the students had retired, Hua Chi invited me to join Master Ch’an and Mei Bao in the main house. As they shared stories of Chun Han, I half-expected to turn and see him by my side.
I heard someone call my name. Mei Bao was speaking to me, though she seemed far away: “. . . with or without your presence here, these men would have come.”
Hua Chi added, “Mei Bao and my brother have planned for such a possibility. Even the timing wasn’t entirely unexpected, since Mei Bao had noticed someone watching her last time she went to Taishan Village.”
“They must have seen me,” I said dully.
Hua Chi put her hand on my shoulder. “This isn’t about you, Dan! A few months before your arrival, Chang Li became romantically obsessed with Mei Bao. She rebuffed him. He ran away soon after. The rest you know.”
Thinking about Chun Han, and
about what this might mean for all of them, I felt tears stinging my eyes. “What will happen?” I asked.
Hua Chi offered one view. “It seems to me that our lives unfold in a mysterious way. Since meaning is a human invention, let’s make a positive meaning of this experience!”
The following day, she opened the shed and released the captives. She even gave them a little dried fruit, some small cakes, and enough water for their journey. Master Ch’an and Mei Bao chose to remain in seclusion until the intruders departed.
Just before they disappeared into the forest, I heard the spokesman shout something at Hua Chi. I didn’t need her to translate. Since they had found their way here with Chang Li’s help, it was likely they would find their way back and make good on whatever threat he’d shouted.
“You and I will be gone long before then,” Hua Chi said.
“But what about everyone else?” I asked. “What about the school?” My arm swept toward the dormitory, the fields, the pavilion.
“They’ll rebuild the school in another remote location,” she said. “Even in a populous country like China, there are places of sanctuary, if you know how to find them. Joe Stalking Wolf just told me that he’ll go with them.”
As we walked back toward the main house, Hua Chi stopped, turned to me, and said emphatically, as a form of tough love, I suppose: “You have been a welcome guest, Dan—a visitor, a fellow worker, and a teacher. I know you made friends and won’t forget your students. But this wasn’t your home. They don’t need your help or service any longer.”
Time sped up after that. It wasn’t easy to say good-bye to Mei Bao or to Master Ch’an—and all the more difficult to say good-bye to my students. But our farewells were brief since they were all fully occupied with arrangements to which I was not privy. I also said good-bye to Joe Stalking Wolf, and promised him I’d tell Ama the whole story, as best I could, and convey his fond regards.