The Gaze of Caprice (The Caprice Trilogy Book 1)

by Cole Reid

  “You’ve been chosen,” said Mr. Cheung. Xiaoyu’s brow narrowed with confusion.

  “For what?” asked Xiaoyu. Mr. Cheung walked out of eyeshot. Xiaoyu heard the front door open but not close.

  “A great honor.”

  Chapter Eight A Great Honor

  Xiaoyu didn’t know whether it was early or late. He woke up feeling like he had blinked, unlike he had slept. Being alone in the dark made it difficult to gauge any passage of time. Despite the rough blankets, the ground stayed cold. He had locked himself in Red Unit No. 17 to prevent any surprise attack. He didn’t know the other boys but he knew other boys. The boys in Kuandian held grudges; they would attack him awake or asleep. In Kuandian, his differences made him an easy target but it was difficult to tell if it was the same in Hong Kong. The others had to have noticed his skin and he was a newcomer. Everywhere had to have a program for newcomers. He didn’t know if he had been through it, if he was in the middle of it or if he had waived it. Kuandian got colder than Hong Kong. The cold floor didn’t bother him, the darkness did. The darkness was all encompassing with mindless motion like smoke. It permeated everywhere inside the cheap motel that was the storage space. He could feel the darkness in his lungs and in his nostrils. It began to core into his chest and hollow him out. Xiaoyu thought about opening the door to let bits of light in, but an image of a dozen boys wading in the shallow light on the other side stopped him. The image in his head was a dozen shadow warriors, not boys—the boys were a dozen minus one. The hollow feeling in his chest bored into his stomach and started to make him sick. The darkness expanded in his esophagus snaking down into his intestines and hardened. It dried up his gut. As it hardened, it made his inner linings expand and twist to make more space. Xiaoyu began to breathe heavily. The weight of his breath tugged on his memory and reminded him of the piece of paper buried in his pocket. He dropped to his knees and felt around on the utility blankets that had been his bed. He felt in multiple directions to find the key. In the darkness he couldn’t tell which key he grabbed, brass or silver. He felt for both. He found one somewhere and felt for the other. He felt but the darkness made time collapse. After what seemed like an hour, Xiaoyu had the idea to lift up the utility blankets. He lifted them high and heard a clang—metal against cement. The sound was strong in his left ear forcing him to lean to the left. He felt and found the second key.

  He took careful steps in the direction that had to be the door and felt for the knob. Hands shaking, he tried to work the key into its hole. After too many unsuccessful tries it dawned on him—must be the brass key. He slowed down, closed his eyes and switched keys. With his eyes closed the darkness began to shake; his heart rate slowed. The darkness hissed with frustration at the boy’s lack of interest. The feeling in his chest and gut dissolved. Xiaoyu rotated keys slowly in his hand and melted the second key into the keyhole, eyes closed. One obvious twist and the door opened, letting bits of light sneak in and gather in the corner. Xiaoyu opened his eyes and stared out into the hallway—his hallway—the red one. The light was strained stretching through the glass door entrance, from a hidden lamppost. He was seventeen units back from the front of the facility. The light was so weak the color of the hallway didn’t matter, even to itself. Xiaoyu pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket. He tried to read in the light but couldn’t. He walked slowly toward the front of the facility. His heart rate steadily climbed. As he approached the fourth unit in the hallway, he told himself he couldn’t go further. He convinced himself of the high probability of an ambush by a few of the boys waiting around the corner. He told himself it was probably more than a few. He stopped at the door in front of Red Unit No. 4 and looked at the paper. The light was better but not substantially, still he could read what was written. His eyes treaded slowly over his sister’s words. He had read them before but they did more duty this time. They reminded him there was clemency; he hadn’t had to fight everyone. And they filled the empty hollowed spaces within him, the ones left by the dark.

  Xiaoyu didn’t know whether it was the next day or the same night, but he didn’t trust the time. Not knowing what would happen gave him nothing to prepare for. He did the only thing he could; he took the address given by his sister and memorized it. He had lost all his possessions but the letter. He told himself he would only lose Xiaofeng if he lost his life. After reading the letter twice, he went back to his storage unit, where he fell asleep without intending to. Even in daytime light didn’t penetrate the storage unit, leaving no light to wake him up. It wasn’t light that woke him up, it was sound. There were footsteps and voices. The facility had come alive. The voices floated for sometime in the distance before Xiaoyu heard footsteps without voices. The footsteps got louder and louder until they no longer sounded like footsteps. The footsteps were followed by a loud banging on the door. Xiaoyu left the keys in his jeans pocket, which made it uncomfortable to sleep but let him escape the darkness quickly, if he needed. The first banging froze him; he didn’t know what would happen if he ignored it—so he did. A second banging on the door came with Mr. Cheung’s voice. Mr. Cheung’s presence reassured Xiaoyu that there was no ambush. In reality, it was an ambush of a different kind. When Xiaoyu opened the door, he was spared no pleasantry. It was no different than if Baba had been banging on the door.

  “Fold the blankets just like I gave them to you,” said Mr. Cheung. Xiaoyu went to work. He had slept in his clothes, saving himself time. The blankets were heavy and took time for Xiaoyu to handle. Eventually, Xiaoyu was able to stack one blanket on top of the other and hand them to Mr. Cheung.

  “No, you carry them,” said Mr. Cheung, “Do you have my keys?”

  “Yes,” said Xiaoyu.

  “When we get to the office, I’ll get them back,” said Mr. Cheung.

  In the office, Mr. Cheung took back all he had given Xiaoyu, all but the gin which remained in Red Unit No.17. Xiaoyu stood in the office almost at attention, waiting for instructions. Mr. Cheung returned everything to its original place.

  “Let’s go,” said Mr. Cheung, “They’re waiting.” Xiaoyu followed Mr. Cheung outside where two black Mercedes were waiting, engines on. Mr. Cheung moved in the direction of the near car and opened the front and back passenger doors.

  “Get in,” said Mr. Cheung, nodding to the back seat. Mr. Cheung sat in front. Xiaoyu wasn’t sure if the car was the same as the one before. It smelled the same and looked the same, but it was identical to the second car behind them. There was one other difference, Mr. Cheung wasn’t driving. A slightly overweight man had two hands on the steering wheel, one holding a cigarette. He had his window a quarter of the way down to relieve the cigarette smoke. His driving was a bit faster than Mr. Cheung’s but he obeyed all requirements, as if they were employed by Mr. Cheung not by the street signs. The two cars crossed Queen’s Road onto Connaught then headed east toward Central District. The two cars paused at the Central Piers and two men emptied out of the second car. Mr. Cheung told Xiaoyu to get out of the car. The drivers of the two Mercedes did not hover, after their passengers they left as well. The two men from the other car were easy to recognize, the same two from the day before—that watched Xiaoyu. The two men and Mr. Cheung walked silently to Pier 6. Xiaoyu walked closely after Mr. Cheung like a hatchling. At Pier 6, Mr. Cheung reached in his coat pocket and pulled out four leaf tickets. Xiaoyu fixated on the white ferry standing in the water like storage units that could float. Mr. Cheung showed the tickets to the porter who let the pack of four on board. The ferry ride was under half-an-hour so none of the three men bothered scouting seats. They headed upstairs to the top deck and found wide space against the railing. The owner of the best blend shared cigarettes with the others—the stocky man. The three men didn’t speak, but wandered their collective eye over Central Hong Kong Island, where they made most of their living. Men used to worrying if time would catch up with them enjoyed the slower moments. The ferry pulled away from the pier, slowly.

  The ride was too short for th
e three men and too long for Xiaoyu. The ferry nudged large chunks of water into the pier at Mui Wo. The side of the ferry bumped against the tire-cushioned pier. Passengers had already crowded around the exit. When the ferry docked, the porter opened the bay door and waved the passengers out onto the pier. On the top deck, Xiaoyu wondered why Mr. Cheung and the other two men were so slow to move. Half the passengers were off the boat as they stayed to finish one last cigarette. Xiaoyu noticed the disposition of the three men changed. Hong Kong Island was busy and always reaching. Cars went back and forth while buildings went up. But the ferry was docked on Lantau Island. Lantau resembled planet earth more than Hong Kong. Gone were the high-rise buildings and busy avenues. Lantau had more stone than steel and greenery than glass. In a 27-minute boat ride, they were transported to a place that was the opposite of Hong Kong—ancient not modern. The three men strolled out onto the pier where all nostalgia dissolved. They returned to business as usual and focused on why they had come, but the irony of how quickly their environment had changed was not lost on them. Neither was it lost on Xiaoyu, but he couldn’t pay close attention to anything other than his feelings. He was dominated by thoughts of what was going on.

  The trio made their way across the pier’s parking lot while the other passengers evaluated maps and climbed on coach buses. At the edge of the parking lot, was a black Mercedes. The Mercedes was an older model than the ones used on Hong Kong Island, older by at least seven years. The third man, tall and somewhat slim, had the key. He came around to the driver’s side door and let himself in. Once in, he unlocked all doors and the stocky man climbed in next to him. Mr. Cheung looked back to find Xiaoyu a good ten meters behind him.

  “Quickly,” said Mr. Cheung. As Xiaoyu caught up to Mr. Cheung, he placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “One thing you should never forget, the Moons are known for their mindfulness, especially in matters of tradition. We don’t always evoke the traditions but when we do, we try not to belay them. We’re supposed to start at 9:00am so we must hurry,” said Mr. Cheung.

  Xiaoyu received an education not an order. Mr. Cheung’s change of tone had a profound effect. It made Xiaoyu feel like he was a part of something and that something was large. Even Mr. Cheung seemed bound by it. Mr. Cheung opened his passenger door and signaled Xiaoyu to enter on his side. Xiaoyu wondered if opening the door for him was part of the tradition. The drive was at a measured pace along South Lantau Road. The car turned at Cheung Sha onto Tung Chung road. The car followed the road until it came to an old stonewall city, where it stopped. The city paid homage to the stonemasons; it was old but intact. The driver of the Mercedes cut the engine and got out of the car, followed by the stocky man. Mr. Cheung took a look at Xiaoyu.

  “This place is called Tung Chung Fort,” said Mr. Cheung, “It’s a Hong Kong Monument. They actually redid it last year. It’s important to us as a symbol. Its purpose has shifted with the fate of the area, much like the Triads themselves. Our predecessors smuggled high-valued goods through here—pirates and such. That was a long, long time ago.”

  Mr. Cheung opened the door and climbed out of the car. Xiaoyu understood he was to do the same. The driver and the stocky man took the liberty of lighting cigarettes as they made their way toward the entrance of the fort. The entrance was a stone-lined archway, as thick as the wall it obstructed. The beige cut-stone brick looked more disturbed by man than time. Through the entrance was the exhibition hall. Heeled shoes made plain statements, as the four crossed the open-air hall. The hall had accessed rooms blocked by red wooden doors—old sleeping quarters. The three men gathered in the middle of the hall and stared at the red door to the left. Mr. Cheung looked back at Xiaoyu.

  “It’s 8:43. Go ahead and go in. Don’t keep him waiting, he’s expecting you,” said Mr. Cheung. Xiaoyu didn’t know whether he could ask who was behind the door. If he asked, he didn’t know if he could expect an answer. But he was interested in the mystique of a little red door at an old stone fort and intrigued that only he was allowed to pass through it. Mr. Cheung and the other two men started on lit cigarettes and looked at Xiaoyu. Unsettled by the attention, Xiaoyu was ready to meet the man behind the door. The door handle turned only down and the door cracked. Xiaoyu pushed the door open and saw fire.

  “Close the door,” said a motherly voice. Xiaoyu looked back at the three men, who were conversing and had stopped paying attention to him. Mr. Cheung gave him a head glance and a look that said you’re good enough but we’ll see. Xiaoyu closed the door, putting himself on the other side. The room was noticeably warmer than outside. There were candles that numbered in the dozens—all lit. A long thin table in the middle of the room left only wiggle room near the walls. In the corner was a thin man with long white hair down to his shoulders. His face was either clean-shaven or poisoned against whiskers. His chin was pointed, forming a perfect triangle with his high cheek bones. He wore a dark brown linen shirt and blue jeans. Xiaoyu was unsure if the figure was a man or a woman, but assumed a man because all he met since arriving in Hong Kong were men.

  “So you’re the candidate,” said the figure in a voice soften by age or not hardened by puberty.

  “I am the Artist, at least, the current one,” said the figure, “What is your name?”

  “Li Xiaoyu,” said Xiaoyu.

  “Don’t worry, I know they didn’t tell you why you’re here. That’s my responsibility,” said the Artist, “If you’re wondering how I got here early enough to set this up, it’s because I live on the island. Would you like to know why they brought you here?”

  Xiaoyu nodded.

  “Basically for this,” said the Artist, holding up a long piece of paper that was resting on his lap. The Artist used pieces of tape to attach the piece of paper to the far wall opposite the door. High in the candlelight, Xiaoyu could get a good look at the paper. It was a picture, a sophisticated one. In the center was a fireball. Around the fire ball were eight dragons. The two dragons on the top crossed each other, while the four on the sides did their best to avoid each other. The two on the bottom seemed to race each other. All had talons extended, reaching for the ball in the middle.

  “Do you know what this is? What it represents?” asked the Artist. Xiaoyu shook his head.

  “It’s called the Reverse Mark or just the Mark,” said the Artist, “You might also hear some say the Backward Scar. They call it that way because a scar is a mark that you earn before you get it. You feel the pain before you get the scar. This mark you’re selected for but you’ll earn it later. Today you get the Mark but the painful part is longer and later.”

  “How do I get the Mark?” asked Xiaoyu.

  “With a tattoo,” said the Artist, “We’re going to tattoo this on you. The ball in the middle, that’s on fire, is an egg—a dragon egg. It represents Hong Kong.”

  “Why is it an egg?” asked Xiaoyu.

  “Good question,” said the Artist, “The egg is potential. It has yet to hatch. If you see all the dragons are moving toward the egg because they want the power that is the egg, the potential. What is, is not as powerful as what can be. What is, is definite. What can be is infinite. Hong Kong can be whatever anyone wants it to be, but you have to control it first. Each dragon wants control of the egg. Now, why do you think there are eight dragons?” Xiaoyu shook his head in genuine ignorance.

  “The eight dragons represent the eight branches of the Triad family: the Fire Dragons; the Earth Dragons; the Blue Dragons; the Moon Dragons; the Flying Dragons; the Thorns; the Golden Masters and the Sons of the Sun. You are here at request of the Moon Dragons. Only one person can have the tattoo for one branch, so at most there can be eight men alive with this tattoo—one for each branch. This is why it is considered such an honor. For you it is a special honor because it has been years since I have done a tattoo for the Moons,” said the Artist.

  “Why?” asked Xiaoyu.

  “The Moons are prudent,” said the Artist, “They are unwilling to send some young k
id in here if he’s not going to work out. The Moons are not so cruel.”

  “What do you mean, not cruel?” asked Xiaoyu.

  “Like I said, today you get the Mark, but you still have to earn it,” said the Artist, “You earn it by fighting, by becoming a Jade Soldier. Each branch has a leader called a Dragon Head. A Jade Soldier is the personal bodyguard of the Dragon Head and leader of his arsenal. The Jade Soldiers guard the Dragon Heads and command each army. That is the way it has been since ancient times. But you have to prove yourself worthy of the honor. The Moons think you have the potential to become a Jade Soldier, that’s why they’ve selected you to receive the Mark.”

  “Who do I have to fight?” asked Xiaoyu.

  “Anyone. Everyone,” said the Artist, “The Triads have a business more underground than any other, a kind of gambling ring. People from all over the world come to bet on blood. Two men are put in a cage but only one comes out. This is how they train the Jade Soldiers. You will either survive as one or die along the way.”

  “Why did they choose me?” asked Xiaoyu.

  “I don’t know that,” said the Artist, “It’s not always a matter of strength or speed or fighting experience. Knowing the Moons, they might have picked you based on wit.”

  “Why?” asked Xiaoyu.

  “The Moons value judgment more than anything else—more than the other branches. They understand matters of judgment,” said the Artist, “You have to understand that to receive the Mark means you’ll have to face fighters from all over the world. They’ll be from Vietnam, Cambodia, South America, Africa, everywhere. Some will be faster than you and some will be stronger. You’ll have to find a weakness and make a judgment call. I’m also responsible for telling you the rules about the Jade Soldiers. As a matter of respect, one Jade Soldier cannot kill another by any device other than his hands. If you ever find cause to kill another Jade Soldier you have to fight him. You cannot shoot him, stab him or blow him to hell. And no sneak attacks. If you do become a Jade Soldier, you have to identify yourself before attacking another Jade Soldier.”