by Jin Yong
Lotus grew up on an island; the sea was her constant companion. Her father Apothecary Huang might have been one of the greatest kung fu masters of the age, but he could not rival his daughter in the water. Guided by such a master and spending at least eight hours in the stream each day, Guo Jing was swimming very well after just one week.
The young couple were swimming upstream when, after a few li, a thunderous noise greeted them. They rounded a bend in the stream where the air was filled with vapour. A spectacular sight greeted them: a vast sheet of water crashing down from the cliff edge above, more than a dozen zhang high.
“Let’s climb to the top!” Lotus was thrilled.
The water beat down hard. They were barely able to hold their ground against the force of the torrent. Whenever they lifted their feet, they were flushed downstream. They struggled for several hours, making very little headway.
“We’ll beat it tomorrow!” Guo Jing said.
“Don’t take it personally, it’s just a waterfall.” Lotus laughed.
The next morning, the young couple managed to climb a few zhang before falling into the pool below. The depth of the water and their lightness kung fu ensured they were not injured.
They returned to the waterfall every day, learning its topography and the flow of the water. On the eighth day, Guo Jing climbed to the top and pulled Lotus up. Whooping with joy, they jumped down, hand in hand.
After a fortnight of swimming and climbing the waterfall, Guo Jing was now a formidable swimmer, thanks to his considerable internal neigong. It would be a long time before he was as comfortable in the water as Lotus, but he was already better than her father. Having exhausted all the sights around the stream, they continued south.
ONE DAY, at dusk, they reached the banks of the Yangtze River. The majestic waters rushed east; white-crested waves splashed and churned. The sight imbued Guo Jing with a great sense of awe, and he felt as if his body and the river were one. The scene captured him for some time.
“Do it!” Lotus cried above the roar of the river. She could tell that he wanted to swim to the other shore. By now, they had developed such a deep connection that they had little need to give voice to their thoughts.
“Off you go,” Guo Jing said as he let the white horse go. He then tied their belongings to Ulaan’s saddle. Neighing, the Fergana horse led the way, his masters swimming, side by side, in his wake.
It was a clear night. There was no other sound but the rush of water, as if everything between the heavens and earth belonged to just the two of them.
Clouds began to gather, obscuring the stars. Lightning cracked overhead to the drumming of thunder.
“Are you scared?” Guo Jing asked.
“Not when we’re together.”
Yet summer storms die down as suddenly as they descend. A bright moon was hanging low by the time they reached the other shore. Guo Jing started a fire and Lotus hung their clothes to dry. They changed into fresh garments and took a nap to the song of the rushing river.
The sky began to glint white. A cock crowed, waking Lotus.
She yawned. “I’m starving!”
Jumping to her feet, she darted towards a nearby farmhouse and soon returned with a large cockerel under her arm.
“Let’s go. I don’t want his owner to see us,” she said.
They walked east for about a li before settling down. Lotus gutted the chicken with her Emei Needles and cleaned the cavity. Then, without plucking the feathers, she covered the whole bird with mud and put it on the fire. Soon, a sweet aroma filled the air. She continued to grill the earthen parcel until the mud casing was cracked and dry. When she broke it open, the feathers came off with the baked earth, revealing a perfectly cooked chicken.
Chapter Three
Haughty Dragon Repents
1
“TEAR IT IN THREE. GIVE ME THE RUMP.”
Guo Jing and Lotus Huang turned in surprise. How could they not have heard the footsteps approaching?
A beggar stood grinning at them, his eyes fixed greedily on the chicken.
He looked middle-aged to Lotus; his hair was flecked with grey and a thin beard framed his angular jawline. Strong arms and large feet extended from his patched, but incongruously clean, clothes. He held a bamboo cane, green and polished like jade, and, on his back, he carried a large gourd coated in red lacquer.
He sat down with the young couple without waiting for an invitation and uncorked the canteen. The sweet fragrance of wine drifted into the air. He glugged several large mouthfuls before handing it to Guo Jing. “Go on, lad.”
“I’m afraid I don’t drink, but thank you, sir.” The beggar’s behaviour was almost rude, but Guo Jing sensed that there was something exceptional about him.
“What about you, lass?”
She shook her head, and, as she did so, she noticed the stranger was missing an index finger on his right hand. Her father’s story about the Contest of Mount Hua came back to her. Could he be the Beggar of the North, the Divine Vagrant Nine Fingers? She decided to sound him out.
The beggar had scarcely taken his eyes off the chicken since he arrived. His Adam’s apple bobbed in anticipation. Lotus thought he would take it by force if he had to wait a moment longer. She tore the bird apart and gave him the bottom half.
“Exquisite! Not a single one of my beggar ancestors could conjure up such a delicious beggar’s chicken.” He wolfed it down as he spoke. With a smile, Lotus handed him the remaining half.
“But you young ’uns haven’t eaten yet!” Even as he protested, he grabbed what was left of the chicken and soon it all disappeared down his throat.
A moment later, he spat out a few pieces of chewed bone and patted his belly in contentment. “My dear tum, you haven’t tasted such delectable chicken in a long time, eh?”
“What a supreme honour to have my beggar’s chicken praised by this dish’s namesake.” Lotus smiled.
“The lass has a sweet tongue.” The beggar chuckled and pulled out a handful of gold darts from his shirt. “I saw a fight the other day. One of the men had his darts gilded with gold. This old beggar couldn’t help but filch a few. Here you go, lad. You can probably exchange them for a few maces of silver.”
Guo Jing declined. “You are our guest, sir; we can’t take your gift.” According to Mongolian custom, it was a host’s duty to feed his guests.
“Now, this is awkward. I’m a beggar and I’m used to scrounging for leftovers, but I took such a wonderful chicken from you kids before you’d even tasted it . . .”
“It’s only a chicken!” Guo Jing protested. “And we stole it.”
“We filch, you feast – it all works out well,” Lotus added.
The beggar chuckled. “I like you two. Is there anything you want? Don’t be shy.”
Guo Jing shook his head. He had been taught that hospitality should always be freely given without expectation of repayment in any form.
“I’d love to cook you my favourite dish.” Lotus, on the other hand, knew what she wanted from this new friend. “We can go to the next town together.”
The beggar agreed heartily and the three of them headed south together, to a town called Jiang Temple.
“How should we address you, sir?” Guo Jing asked.
“My last name is Hong and I’m the seventh in the family. Why don’t you call me Count Seven?”
So I was right, Lotus thought. He is the Beggar of the North! He doesn’t look more than a couple of years older than Qiu Chuji and yet he’s ranked as one of the Five Greats, alongside Qiu’s Master. Actually, Pa is around the same age, and he’s one of the Greats too. What does that say about the so-called Masters of Quanzhen? They’re so thick they haven’t got a dog’s chance of getting anywhere with their kung fu.
Lotus had not forgiven Qiu Chuji for insisting Guo Jing marry Mercy Mu, nor had she forgiven her father.
When they reached the town, they stopped at a local inn and Lotus went to the market to buy ingredients for dinner.
Guo Jing dared not confirm or deny the question, and so answered only with a blush. His awkwardness amused the old beggar no end. Eventually, he stopped laughing and immediately started snoring instead.
When Lotus returned, more than an hour later, she went straight into the kitchen. Guo Jing offered to help, but she pushed him out with a smile.
Another hour passed; the beggar yawned and sniffed noisily. “Curious! What’s she cooking? Something’s afoot!” He craned to peer into the kitchen, but he could not see much from his seat.
Guo Jing stifled a giggle as the man fidgeted, scratched his face, switched seats and paced the room, growing more and more impatient as the smell of cooking drifted in from the kitchen.
“The mere thought of food makes me lose my wits. You know the saying, ‘The index finger pulses when food’s about’? It’s certainly true for me. This finger –” he held up his right hand – “throbs when I see or smell something delicious. I once botched a very important task because I got so distracted by my aching tummy, so I chopped it off . . .”
Guo Jing gasped.
“But I’m still just as much of a glutton as before,” Count Seven said with a sigh.
Lotus finally emerged with a wooden tray: three bowls of white rice, one wine cup and two dishes piled high with her creations. She filled the cup with wine and said, “Count Seven, do let me know what you think of my cooking.”
The beggar’s chopsticks got straight to work on what Guo Jing thought looked like pan-fried beef strips. But Count Seven knew it was something much more complex than that, as new flavours and sensations unveiled themselves with every bite. One moment smooth, another moment crunchy – it was impossible to predict the next taste or texture. It was as if his tongue was sparring with a martial master. He examined the dish. Each strip was made up of five different layers!
“I can taste shank of lamb, ear of piglet, veal kidney and . . .” The beggar closed his eyes as he savoured each mouthful.
“I’ll bow to you if you can identify the others!” Lotus grinned.
“Rabbit saddle . . . and . . . thigh of water deer!”
“Amazing!” She clapped and cheered.
Guo Jing could not believe how much effort she had put into each tiny strip. He was also full of admiration for Count Seven Hong for being able to distinguish the five ingredients.
“Pork and lamb bring out one flavour, water deer and veal another,” Hong mused. “I can’t work out how many there are in this dish alone.”
“Twenty-five, if we ignore the variations you get from layering the meats in different sequences.” Lotus smiled. “This dish is called Who Hears the Plum Blossom Fall While the Flute Plays? Five kinds of meat, the same as the number of petals on a plum blossom, and the strip is shaped like the dizi flute. It is meant to be a test of your palate, and your tongue affords you the title of Top Scholar.”
Count Seven Hong moved on to the other bowl. “This broth is too precious to be devoured.” He scooped up a few cherries, tasted them and – ah! – gasped with delight.
Refreshing lotus leaf, delicate bamboo shoot, honeyed cherry – their flavours are unmistakeable, Count Seven thought, as he helped himself to a few more cherries. He chewed with his eyes closed. What is the fruit stuffed with? It tastes meaty. Fowl. It has to be . . .
“Partridge?” he said out loud. “No . . . spotted dove!”
He opened his eyes and saw that Lotus had raised her thumb in agreement.
“What outlandish name have you given this lotus leaf, bamboo shoot, cherry and spotted dove soup?” the beggar asked.
“You missed out one ingredient.”
“Oh, did I? You mean the petals?”
“Think about the five ingredients. The name is obvious.”
“This old beggar doesn’t like riddles. Just tell me, lass.”
“Well, I’ll give you a clue. Think of the Book of Songs.”
Count Seven waved frantically. “That’s no use. This old beggar doesn’t know the first thing about books.”
“Floral like a visage, cherry-red lips – that’s a pretty lady, right?”
“Oh, Beauty Broth?”
Lotus shook her head. “The bamboo is upright and resilient, and, though the lotus grows in mud, its flowers are clean and pure. These are the qualities of a gentleman.”
“Gentleman’s Soup?”
“We’re still missing the dove. Think about the first poem in the Book of Songs:
“Coo, coo, the doves sing from the river isle,
The fair maiden is perfect for the lord.
“The dish is called Made for Each Other Broth.”
Count Seven bellowed with laughter. “Your creation certainly lives up to its peculiar name. I wonder what sort of eccentric man fathered a funny lass like you. I must say, this is in every way superior to the cherry broth I tried ten years ago, made by the chefs of the imperial household.”
“Tell me about their dishes; maybe I can recreate some for you.”
Count Seven Hong first satisfied his belly before turning his thoughts to a reply. “There was plenty of wonderful cooking, but nothing as good as this. Well, actually, they did have one outstanding creation, called Contrast of the Five Treasures. I don’t know how it’s made, though.”
“You were treated to dinner by the Emperor?” Guo Jing asked.
“Yes, but he knew nothing about it. I made myself at home on the rafters of the imperial kitchens for three months. I tasted each course prepared for the Emperor. If I liked it, I kept the whole plate. I let him eat what I didn’t care for. They thought they were being haunted by the fox demon.” Count Seven Hong cackled at the memory.
Amazed by the lengths their new friend would go to for good food, Lotus picked her way through the leftovers while Guo Jing shovelled down four helpings of rice.
Count Seven turned to Guo Jing. “You lucky lad – your little wife is the best cook in the world! Why, by the mother of heavens, did I not meet a girl with her skill when I was young?” He watched as the young man ate, then shook his head. “An ox munching on peonies. What a pity!”
Lotus giggled, but Guo Jing was merely confused. He had looked after many herds, growing up in Mongolia, but he had never seen or heard of a peony. He did not realise that the beggar was lamenting his lack of appreciation for gastronomy.
“I can tell both of you know some martial arts from your physique, and that you have worked out I practise the art too. The lass is clearly trying to entice me, with her cooking, into sharing my kung fu knowledge. It’d be rude of me not to show my appreciation of her culinary kindness. Come, follow me.” He patted his tummy happily and headed outside with his gourd and the bamboo cane.
Guo Jing and Lotus followed Count Seven to a pine forest on the edge of the town.
“What do you want to learn?” the beggar asked Guo Jing.
Not the quickest thinker, Guo Jing was stuck for an answer. Besides, there were so many branches and schools of martial arts. How could this man possibly teach him anything he could name?
Lotus answered for him. “He gets annoyed because he can’t beat me.”
“I’ve never—”
Lotus cut him off with a withering look.
“How can that be? From the way he moves I can tell he has a sound foundation in internal kung fu,” Count Seven laughed. “Show me what you kids can do.”
“I’m ready!” Lotus called from several paces away. But Guo Jing was still trying to figure out what to do, so she added, “If you don’t show Uncle your skill, how is he going to teach you?”
“I hope the Master will provide guidance,” Guo Jing said referentially.
“A little, perhaps. Not much.”
“Here it comes!” Lotus cried, as she struck with her palm. He raised his hands to block, but Lotus’s move had morphed into a sweeping kick aimed at his legs.
“Good move, lass!”
“Fight properly,” Lotus w
hispered.
Guo Jing thrust and turned his palms in the Southern Mountain style his Fourth Shifu Woodcutter Nan had taught him, stirring the air noisily with each move. Lotus fought back earnestly, jinking, ducking and swerving. Her strikes grew faster. A flurry of arms and palms dazzled Guo Jing.
This was a system of attack Lotus’s father, Apothecary Huang, had dreamed up while watching peach blossoms swirl in the wind. Cascading Peach Blossom Palm mixed strikes with feints: one sharp blow lurked amid five or eight defensive flourishes. Like flowers fluttering in a breeze, each move was graceful and unforced, yet sharp and sudden at the same time, like petals whipped by a gust.
Lotus had yet to master the sword-like strength that was key to the moves, and she was also holding back for fear of hurting her beloved.
But, to Guo Jing, her fluctuating tempo was enough to confound him. As she performed the flourishes with her arms, her palms struck at him from every conceivable angle. He was dazed by the technique’s complexity and speed. He did not know how to defend himself.
Pak, pak, pak, pak! Four loud slaps fell on Guo Jing’s shoulders, chest and back. Lotus beamed and leapt away.
“You don’t need me to teach you anything, with a father like yours,” Count Seven Hong said frostily.
How did he know? Lotus wondered. Papa said he’d never used Cascading Peach Blossom Palm in combat before. “You know my father?”
“He is the Heretic of the East and I’m the Beggar of the North. We’ve exchanged a few blows in our time.”
“How do you know who I am?” Her respect for the beggar was growing. Not many people lived to tell the tale after fighting her father.
“Look in the mirror. Look at your eyes, your nose. He’s not as good-looking, or else he would have plunged the world into chaos. I thought you looked familiar, and then your kung fu revealed the rest. I’ve never seen these moves, but they smack of Peach Blossom Island. Only your father could have come up with something like that, and I bet he named the dishes too.”