by Julie Lawson
To protect this Celestial Kingdom, the Emperor had created an army of life-size terra-cotta warriors. Thousands of archers, charioteers, infantry, generals, all clothed in armour, all heavily armed, keeping watch in the huge underground vaults that surrounded the Emperor’s tomb.
Bright Jade knew that traps had been placed inside the tomb, intricately set and cunningly concealed. Crossbows were set to shoot anyone who entered. And once the tomb was closed, all the artisans who knew its secrets would be walled up inside, their lips sealed forever. She knew the time was coming.
The moon floated on the black water of the pool, undis turbed by ripples. Bright Jade leaned over. But no sooner had she touched the surface of the water than the moon dissolved into fractures of silvery light, scattering over the pool like broken dreams.
It was then she felt the eyes watching her. Turning slowly, she saw the figure framed by the moon gate. The Old One.
Jasmine woke with a start. Who was this person in her dream? She knew her—her thoughts and feelings and memories. But how? And where had this dream come from? The Great Wall was in China, but what connection did she have with China, apart from tai chi?
Suddenly she saw her mother, waving good-bye. “Be careful, it’s slippery....”
Struggling to shut out the pain, she willed herself back to the dream. It was the only way of forgetting. The only sanctuary, in spite of the shadowy figure who lurked there.
Startled, Bright Jade began to rise.
“Do not be frightened,” the Old One whispered as he glided towards her. His long frayed robe hung loosely from his shoulders, and the amulets swinging from his neck and waist clattered and tinkled. Skulls of small animals, stones and bones; pieces of jade and tiny bronze bells; the shell of a tortoise, the claws of a tiger. “You know me as the gardener,” he said. “And I know you, Bright Jade.”
She nodded. She had seen him feeding the carp, tending the peach trees. In all weathers he had drifted in and out of the garden, his amulets clattering softly. A mysterious man, the Old One. Some feared him as a sorcerer. Others sought him as a gifted fortune-teller. Some had heard him weaving magic spells and chanting incantations. It was said the Emperor himself had consulted him on the question of immortality. But Bright Jade knew him simply as the gardener, an old man with a warm smile and penetrating eyes.
She searched those eyes now, wondering what had brought him out so late at night. And how long had he been watching her?
“Long enough to know you seek the elixir of life,” he said, answering her unspoken question.
Bright Jade blushed. “I am foolish to think such thoughts.”
“But you think them all the same.” The Old One smiled. “And why not? Everyone desires eternal life. You shall have it—though not in the way you imagine. And not in this time or place.”
He handed her a small bag. “The time is coming. Inside you will find a jade amulet, hanging on a leather thong. Its magic will protect you in this life and the next. Wear it close to your heart and do not let it leave your possession. For in the hands of another it will bring a curse—to him and to his children and to his children’s children. And it will not end until the white jade tiger sleeps again.”
Bright Jade took the amulet from the bag. It was carved in the shape of a tiger: watchful, ready to spring. The jade was white, almost translucent. In her hands it shimmered like moonlight.
“Why are you giving it to me?” she asked, placing it round her neck.
“There is a light in you,” he said. “A light that will shine far.”
She frowned, not understanding. “And the tiger, how will it protect me?”
“You will know when the time comes.” Without another word, he slipped away.
And now the time had come. Bright Jade and the others were ordered to accompany the dead Emperor into the tomb. One by one they stepped down the ramp beneath the earth, through the vault of warriors.
Bright Jade passed between the long lines of archers and infantry, feeling their eyes upon her, eyes so life-like she could almost read their secrets. She trembled at the force carved within them, feeling at any moment they might spring into action—like the tiger she wore, next to her heart.
They reached the end of the vault and began to enter the Celestial Kingdom where the Emperor would reign forever. Bright Jade paused to adjust a hairpin, while the others slipped by in a kaleidoscope of brilliant silks and brocades. As the last one passed, Bright Jade reached inside her gown and clasped the amulet.
A mist swirled up from the depths of the earth, shrouding her in a pale purple haze. Dream-like, she felt herself rising, rising...until she could feel no more.
Somehow, time passed. It wilted through the summer, rustled through autumn and stormed into January, bringing snow for Jasmine’s thirteenth birthday.
“You’ve been looking forward to this for ages,” her father said. “You’re sure you don’t want a party?”
“Positive. All I want is—” She paused. “There’s nothing I really want.” Except to feel whole again.
The dreams helped, even when they came in puzzling bits and pieces mixed with fragments of the nightmare. For the most part, they unfolded as they had in the beginning, clear and luminous. She felt strangely drawn to Bright Jade, and when the dreams came, she welcomed them as a refuge.
Chapter 3
“Lasagne!” Jasmine smelled it the moment she opened the door. She raced into the kitchen and took a deep breath. The delicious aromas of meat, garlic, tomato sauce and mozza-rella melted through her whole being. “Just the way I like it, with a dash of cinnamon, right?”
Her father grinned. “Right you are. I certainly have you well-trained.”
Jasmine bit into a slice of French bread, still warm from the oven. “Crusty on the outside—a perfect ten for that, Dad.” She popped the rest into her mouth, closing her eyes to savour the taste. “Mmm! That tastes like more.”
“Not till you’ve set the table. I remember training you for that, too.”
“OK, OK. I think this calls for candles. Can I get them?”
“Sure. Get the red ones—they’re in the dining room, top drawer of the hutch.”
Jasmine hummed as she opened the drawer and took out the candles. As she was reaching for the candlesticks she noticed a shiny folder with the words Pacific Travel. She raised the flap and peered inside. Plane tickets! And a sheet of white paper with Itinerary printed across the top. Dates, times—Vancouver—Shanghai, Beijing—weren’t those places in China? —airlines, luggage information—
“Dinner’s served. Have you got the candles?”
“Coming.” Quickly she closed the drawer, her mind spinning. We’re going on a trip. That’s why we’re having such a great dinner. He’s going to make a big announcement about our summer holidays—wait a minute. She stopped abruptly, holding the burning match in her hand. The dates she had seen were in February. “Ow!”
“Need a hand?” Her father struck a new match and lit the candles. “Please be seated, my dear,” he said formally.
“Thank you, kind sir,” she replied automatically. French bread, her father’s specialty. Lasagne with spinach noodles, her favourite. Tossed green salad with homemade dressing. And for dessert—
“Dad, did you by any chance make raspberry mousse for dessert?” Raspberry mousse was her all-time favourite, served only on special occasions.
“Jasmine,” he said, smiling, “you know me too well.”
“Just a lucky guess.” She did know him welL Well enough to know he had something up his sleeve. Raspberry mousse and lasagne on a weekday in February? The last time they’d had such a feast was one month ago, on her birthday. There was a reason for all this, and seeing that travel folder clinched it. Still, she’d play along for awhile and let him tell her in his own way, in his own time.
“How was school today?”
Jasmine swallowed another mouthful of lasagne. “Best ever,” she said. “The lasagne, I mean. But school was OK t
oo. We’re learning about China. Did you know that nearly one out of every four people in the world lives in China? And we’re doing shadow puppet plays about Chinese folktales. My group is doing a story about a dragon and I’m making all the scenery—the river and a pagoda and rain-clouds, and we just cut the stuff out of paper and for colour we put in cellophane so the light shines through and—”
“Hold it!” Her father laughed. “Once you get going, there’s no stopping you. Don’t let your dinner get cold. Here, have some more bread.”
“Thanks,” she said, taking her fourth piece. “But you were the one who asked.”
“Fair enough,” he said.
They ate in silence for awhile, enjoying the meal. Now and then Jasmine looked up and caught his eye. He winked and smiled.
“You’re like Mrs. Butler,” she said.
“How’s that? Does she have a moustache like mine?”
“No, silly. She always winks.”
“Oh, I see.”
“I like it when she winks. But you’re much better at it. And you’ve been doing it more often lately.”
“Why’s that, I wonder.”
Jasmine gave him a knowing look, but he took another helping of lasagne and kept on eating. She tried another approach. “My class is going to Victoria on Friday, to Chinatown. And we’re having lunch in a Chinese restaurant.”
“What a great idea! To celebrate Chinese New Year?”
Jasmine nodded. “1989 is the Year of the Snake. And after lunch we can look around the shops and buy souvenirs. So can I have some money, please?”
“I knew it. How much?”
“Four dollars for lunch.”
“A bargain.”
“Mrs. Butler got a special deal.”
“And you want some souvenir money?”
“No, it’s OK. I’ve got lots in my piggy bank.”
“Maybe I’ll borrow some from you.”
“For your trip, you mean?” There. It was out.
His mouth fell open with surprise. “How did you know about that? I was going to tell you tonight.”
“I just happened to see the travel folder in the drawer. You’re not very good at hiding things, Dad. Anyway, I was wondering why we’re having such a special dinner. I mean, it’s a rainy Wednesday in February and it’s nobody’s birthday. So why the celebration?”
“How about some dessert?” he asked, removing the plates.
“Don’t change the subject! Where are we going? And when?” She carried the bowls of pink mousse to the table. “I saw the word February on your itin— whatever—but there must be some mistake because we can’t go anywhere in February.” She took a heaping spoonful of the mousse and let it sit on her tongue before swallowing. “Mmm,” she sighed. “Best ever, Dad. But what were those places again? I thought the ticket said Shanghai and Beijing—that’s the capital, isn’t it? But come on Dad, we’re not seriously going to China! And why, Dad? Why China?”
“Whew!” Her father wiped his brow. “She’s finally stopped talking.” He put down his spoon and looked at her with an unusually serious expression. “Jasmine.”
An uneasy feeling crept into her.
“The thing is...I’m going to China alone. I’ve accepted a job at a college in Beijing. The professor who was there got sick and had to come home. So I’m going to take her place. I’ll be leaving on Friday.”
“This Friday?” Jasmine exploded. “That’s—that’s only two days away! That’s impossible! You can’t! You never asked, you never told me—and where am I going to go? Why didn’t you tell me?”
She pushed the bowl of unfinished mousse across the table, hoping it would fall in his lap or crash in a mess on the floor. But he reached out his hand and stopped it. “I understand you’re upset and hurt and angry. But I’d like you to listen while I explain. Can you do that?”
She turned away. Nothing seemed real. Dishes piled on the counter, pictures on the wall, magnets on the fridge— everything was a piece of some other life, totally unconnected to her own. Even her father’s voice sounded distant, as if he had already gone away.
“This has been a difficult time for both of us, since your mother’s death. At first I thought I’d made the right decision, taking a year off. And for awhile, it was the right decision. I’ve enjoyed being home, being here for you, writing my book, cooking up a storm now and then.” He winked, but she didn’t respond. “It’s not enough, though. Jasmine, you can’t begin to imagine how much I miss your mother.”
What about me? The feeling of helplessness raged inside. She felt it would eat her away, one little piece at a time, until there was nothing left.
“So after Chrismas I went to the university and said I’d take any opening that came along. Naturally I thought I’d get something in Victoria. But when this Beijing position turned up, I couldn’t say no. Besides, I’ve always wanted to go to China.”
Jasmine glared. China? He’d never told her that. They were so close, she thought she knew everything about him.
“They’re expecting me by the middle of February. So I’m leaving tomorrow night for Vancouver and flying to China early Friday morning. I’ll get settled and send for you as soon as I can. Meanwhile, you’ll be staying with Val in Victoria. She said she’d drive you out to Sooke, even though it’s such a long way, so you won’t have to change schools.”
Jasmine was too stunned to speak.
“If you don’t want to come to China, you can stay with her until I get back. My contract goes till the end of June, so I’ll be home sometime after—”
“Auntie Val?” She spat out the words. “You seriously expect me to stay with her? How could you? I hardly even know her! And I suppose it’s already arranged. You did all this behind my back!” She leaped from her chair, wanting to hit him.
“Wait a minute! You’re always wanting to go to Victoria, and you like Val—why this sudden change? She lives in a fantastic apartment overlooking the harbour, two steps from Chinatown. You’ll love it.”
“No, I won’t love it! Don’t you dare take off to the other side of the world and tell me I’ll love it! I’ll hate it! And I hate you!”
Choking back the tears, she kicked over the chair and fled to her room, slamming the door behind her.
Chapter 4
The storyteller shuffled from village to village, shoulders hunched under the weight of the baskets slung on his bamboo pole. With any luck he wouldn’t have to dip into his meagre rations, for the villagers were usually willing to share their rice in return for a story or two. Although in this Year of the Snake times were hard, and people barely had enough food for themselves let alone wandering storytellers.
The old man sighed. For many years now, times had been hard in the farming districts of southern China. Too many people, too little food. And the gods had not been kind. If it wasn’t a flood, it was a drought. If not a plague, then a famine. If that weren’t enough, local wars between clans erupted and set bandits loose upon the countryside.
He remembered the day his village had been over-run by bandits. He had returned from the hills to find the whole village in ashes and the starving peasants killed, including his own family.
Now he trudged throughout the countryside, seeking refuge in his stories. What else was there? Farming was impossible; he had no money to rent a field and no hope of ever paying back a loan. Become a pirate? A soldier? No, he was too old. And far too old to move to the land across the sea as so many others were doing. He shuddered at the thought. He might starve or meet a violent death, but at least his bones would be buried in his homeland. What more could a man hope for?
Some kindness from the gods, he thought, answering his own question. Too long, the gods have been angry. Perhaps if the right offering were made, or if the curse were broken....
His senses quivered suddenly, as a willow wand dips when it discovers water. Could this be the place? It wasn’t often that he thought of the curse but when he did, he invariably felt a pull, sometimes weak, so
metimes strong, but never as strong as this. Every nerve tingled. This was the place.
A bright chattering interrupted his thoughts. Young voices cascaded through the village and rice paddies, announcing his arrival. “The storyteller is coming!” Before he knew it, he was surrounded by villagers of all ages.
Chan Tai Keung rushed along with the others, glad of the distraction. Perhaps this would set his uneasy mind at rest. Besides, who knew when the opportunity would come again?
“Tell us, Elder Uncle,” the children clamoured. “Tell us a story.”
The storyteller settled himself beneath a shady tree. “First I need my story bag,” he said. From one of his baskets he took a tattered pouch. He reached in, gathered a handful of yellow sand and flung it high into the air. The grains fell like a sprinkling of gold dust. He caught one grain on the tip of his finger and looked at it for a moment, lost in thought. Then he said,” This is the story that wants to be told.
“2000 years ago, there lived a Mighty Emperor who built the Great Wall of China...”
Keung tried to concentrate on the words but could not. Besides, he knew the story of the Emperor and the Wall. And he knew about the great tomb and the army of warriors built to protect the Emperor after his death.
His mind drifted away from the wrinkled face of the storyteller, far away to Gim Shan, the Land of Gold Mountain across the sea. There he would make his fortune. He would buy enough food for everyone. Never again would the villagers be forced to eat boiled grass or suck on stones to still the pangs of hunger.
The streets of Gold Mountain would be paved with gold. His pockets would be lined with gold dust, bright as the yellow sand scattered at his feet. And he would not return alone, but with his father.