by Shan Sa
My greatest friend was called Law of Emptiness. She was a white goat who followed me everywhere in my feverish activities. When I wandered into a temple, I would tell her about the life of Prince Siddhartha and the wonders of the Pure World. Deep in the forest, I would take a twig from a tree and give her writing lessons. When I was thirsty, I would slip between her legs, and she would offer me her udder full of milk.
“Were you sent by Buddha to watch over me?” I asked her. In her golden eyes, Law of Emptiness had all the goodness that was lacking in humans. Her curly coat was a parchment scribbled with ineffable words. Her hooves, like cloven rocks, trampled over the history of the world. One day I fell asleep at the foot of a statue of Bodhisattva. She woke me by licking my face: darkness was creeping over the sky, and I was late for evening prayer. As I sat up I saw the twinkle of a smile on her muzzle.
“Law of Emptiness, are you an incarnation of Buddha?”
My family home disappeared like a dream.
The mountains seemed to breathe. The mountains were sad; the mountains were happy. The mountains flaunted their furry coats of snow, their brocade robes, their sumptuous and extravagant cloaks of mist. The sky opened up vertically when dusk fell, all ochre, yellow and black. When evening came up from the valleys, the heavenly bodies revealed themselves. I would lie down in the long grasses: red, blue, green, sparkling, evanescent. Every star was a mysterious writing on the sacred book of the sky. Seasons passed, clouds drifted away and never came back. On the other side of the valley, hanging from ropes in the void in front of a cliff face, workmen sculpted day and night. I was told that an imperial donation had been made to create the largest Buddha on Earth.
The moon waxed and waned. The days, those tiny dots and circles, changed into a flowing script whose meaning was now lost. I understood the passage of time by watching the Buddha gradually materializing under those iron picks. Gentle eyes, a mysterious smile, drooping ear lobes, the mountain revealed his face. The cliff lost its sheer exterior, and his body appeared. His draped robes started to flutter in the wind. Birds wheeled around his knees with terrified cries. His ankles came away from the rock. The curve of his toenails emerged. I was mute with awe: Divinity had risen from nothingness!
One morning, in the reception hall, I found Mother and her retinue. She had gained weight; her breasts bulged. I was dazzled by her carefully applied makeup, her hair piled high on her head, and her embroidered gown. She told me that Father had been named Governor Delegate of the distant province of Jing and asked whether I would like to go with him or stay in the monastery.
My feeling of joy shattered: She made it clear that if I left, I would never see the mountains again, and if I stayed, I would lose my family forever. That same evening the monastery shook in the grips of a violent storm; the thunder roared, and the earth trembled. A tree just outside our sleeping quarters was struck by lightning and collapsed. The girls were terrified and started to pray. Huddled in my cot, with my hands over my ears, I slipped into another world. The darkness was drawing me in; I had never felt so alone. The thought of gliding across the years without seeing Mother again frightened me. I cried all night.
Before I left, Pure Intelligence gave back the box of belongings I had entrusted to her when I arrived. I secured the necklace of pearls and jade about my neck, put earrings in my ears, and put on three gold bracelets. I was heartbroken to find that the pleated skirt, the silk shirt, and the scarlet tunic with the bird design had all shrunk. I had grown.
With one hand I held Law of Emptiness by a length of string attached round her neck, and with the other I shook hands with Pure Intelligence. My tears flowed on and on. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her tunic and stopped by the monastery gate.
“Buddha speaks through every moment of pain. Listen to his words. Your destiny lies elsewhere. Forget me.”
She turned away and started to run. Her grey dress melted into the trees.
Farewell, monastery! Time will devour you, and you will be turned to dust. Farewell, Pure Intelligence! You will soon die, and we shall see each other again in another life. Farewell, my friends the monkeys, the tigers, and the pandas. You will become carrion, and only the mountains will remain.
They will watch over the Buddha’s enigmatic smile.
HORSES WHINNYING.
Cartwheels rumbling.
Coachmen shouting.
Huddled on my cot, I drifted in and out of sleep. The endless earth unfurled as I traveled onward. In my dreams, I was straying through the belly of the mountains with a torch in my hand. A succession of frescoes: green, mauve, yellow, ochre, indigo, images of the gods, the celestial kings, and the bodhisattvas appeared and disappeared. Birds called, wild cats laughed, dancers tiptoed through the clouds scattering a shower of flowers. In the depths of the cave, I could see a statue of Buddha lying down, taking up the entire valley. He had one hand under his cheek but was not asleep. He was the only breath of life, his vast body weightless as a feather ready to fly away. Not the faintest rustle of wind, not one insect cry, not one drop of water falling. The world was silent before his state of bliss. Suddenly Buddha smiled at me. I woke with a start. I no longer knew where I was or what my name was.
I had lost Law of Emptiness. The little goat had disappeared without a trace; the mountains had reclaimed her from me. I had gone there almost naked, and now I was emerging with nothing.
“Everything is dreams and illusion,” Pure Intelligence had told me.
WE ABANDONED THE earth path. The wind filled the sails, and the huge boat was like a whole town as it traveled down the River Long.
The banks stretched out, mountains loomed up and dispersed into the mist. Fishermen surrounded by cormorants, groups of little houses on stilts, villages clinging to the side of the cliffs and fortified towns glided past. We threw anchor in ports that smelled of grilled fish. Hundreds of boats buzzed around us, offering cloths, furniture, clothes, vegetables, and young girls. At night the reflection of the moon would scatter over the water, a myriad of silver flowers flutter away. There were black boats covered in oiled cloth and red lanterns at the top of their masts; they emitted the wail of musical instruments, women’s laughter, and ugly voices of drunken men.
The river was growing wider. The torrents, no longer eager to rejoin the sea, were slowing down. There were countless vessels, still larger and more magnificent than ours, traveling in both directions.
The journey ended when the season of green plums began. The rain trickled and did not stop. Water streamed over the roofs in the town of Jing; it seeped down the walls and crawled over books, leaving its flower-shaped tracks. Servant women dried damp clothes over fires fed with sandalwood bark. I studied the Four Classics with a private tutor. The cook heaved me up onto her donkey’s back and gladly brought me along on her trips to the market.
In the narrow streets paved with black stone, the servants’ feet grew red in their wooden clogs. The whole town came together in the floating market on the river, their rain hats pulled down over coats woven from bamboo leaves. The boats bustled and nudged one another on the water. The cook bartered fiercely: She could feign anger or improvise with flattery. The fishermen, beaten back by her eloquence, would throw us fish that squirmed through the air.
To console me for the loss of Law of Emptiness, Father gave me a horse and permission to go through the gateway into the side court. I went into the exercise yard where soldiers trained for battle. The animal was as tall as a mountain, spewing hot breath through great nostrils that quivered. All of a sudden he sneezed: terrified, I backed away and fell flat on my backside. He shook his head up and down and laughed, showing off his yellow teeth.
I called him King of Tigers. Up on his back, the world was at my feet. When he went into a gallop, my body melted away, my thoughts scattered in the wind, and I became a warrior on his flying fortress, a goddess on her winged chariot. At last, days of happiness had arrived like the midday sun. Only a few sorrows flitted across the skies of a
childhood that knew no suffering.
My sisters and I had private tutors who gave us lessons in painting, calligraphy, music, and dance. When she was twelve, Eldest Sister Purity was as beautiful as the dawn breaking over the River Long. Having been forbidden any exposure to the sun by the doctors because her skin was so delicate, she preferred candlelight, and she would read and write all day long. Her poems already had the rhythm and resonance of a more mature mind. While I scratched my head trying to find obscure words, indispensable ornamentation for my prosaic compositions, sentences would flow from her swift hand in elegant pairs.
Little sister was the mirror image of me. She was seven years old, and she had the sparkling vitality of a young animal. When Father set out to inspect garrisons and other districts, Mother would shut herself away from us in prayer. We would slip away from the clouded gaze of our ancient governesses and explore the Front Quarters. The imposing pavilions seemed to reach the sky. The white walls bore calligraphy in black ink, spelling out the rules of conduct for imperial officials. The hall shimmered with gold. The pillars supported vast vaulted roofs. Father, who was responsible for the paddy-fields and trading and who meted out supreme justice, was the most powerful man in the region!
In the eighth year of Pure Contemplation, Father gave a party for my ninth birthday. The gifts accumulated into great hills of treasure in the pavilion where the reception was held. Father gave me an armor breastplate in red leather with black laces, a suede hat decorated with a goose head, and a small bow bound with rattan. A general sent me a young falcon and three pups. The dignitaries of the province paid me intoxicating compliments. Blushing and delighted, I made a pretense of shyness as I welcomed the last days of my innocence. The rustle of silk, the tumbling rhythms of music, laughter, shouts, whinnying horses…these were the crowning moments of the beautiful firework display that had been my childhood.
Our infant years are like cruising on a cloud: suspended on high, the celestial landscape seems to unfold so slowly, motionless and eternal, while we flit past a thousand plains and mountains on the ground below.
My journey was already coming to an end.
One morning a few months after this party that dazzled me still, a carriage came to collect Eldest Sister. She emerged weeping from the house, dressed like a goddess, and left forever.
The previous year she had been betrothed to a boy from the local nobility. I had admired her dowry with its crimson lacquered trunks that took up an entire pavilion. As I counted her dishes of jade, gold, and silver; her sheets of velvet and satin; her countless dresses; and her embroidered shoes, I even felt a tinge of envy. I did not understand what marriage was. Only after she left did I realize that a harmonious world in which everything had its rightful place had just collapsed. Later Purity came back to the maternal home with her husband. Just as I had feared—with her fringe lifted off her face, her eyebrows completely plucked, her cheeks powdered, and her hair in a topknot—she was no longer my sister. She had become a woman!
In that ninth year of Pure Contemplation, there were weeds growing in the garden of my heart, and I was a melting pot of scorn and insolence. I had read A History of the Han Dynasty and Poems of the Lands of Chu. I had studied The Virtue and Piety of Women. I was well versed in arithmetic, calligraphy, painting, and playing the zither and the game of go. This image of a well-brought up young lady irritated me: I wanted to be like those barefoot adolescents with their trousers rolled up who hurled their nets into the river.
On the sixth day of the fifth moon, the retired emperor died. Imperial messengers spread the grim news to the four corners of the empire. Surprised by their mournful announcement, Father collapsed. When his officers rushed to support him, his eyes rolled back in their sockets, and he struggled as if possessed by some invisible demon. As his thrashing became calmer, he was taken into the inner quarters. Father never awoke. He had left this world.
Doctors could not diagnose the mysterious illness to which he had succumbed. They concluded that the late emperor had called up his warrior: He was to escort him as he ascended to the celestial kingdom. The imperial Court soon confirmed this theory, and, touched by this proof of loyalty to his master, the reigning emperor conferred on Father the posthumous title of Minister of Rites.
I wandered from one room to another in that unreal world, understanding nothing. Father’s body lay on a bed of ice. With his smooth features and half-closed eyes, he looked deep in thought. Mother wept as she took off all her jewelry. Behind her, men and women could be heard wailing. The house was draped with linen and white hemp, transforming it into an immaculate temple.
A few days later, two officials arrived from the Capital borne by exhausted horses. The servants knelt as they passed. The officials wept as they climbed the stairs, then threw themselves before the funeral bed and howled with pain. I watched these black-bearded strangers through a window and recognized my half-brothers, the sons of Father’s late wife.
Tears, cries, and wails. We observed the ceremonial procedures: bathing him, calling upon his soul, filling his mouth,2 the smaller clothing ceremony,3 the great clothing ceremony,4 laying him in his coffin, and making daily offerings. I followed meekly, obedient, and dazed. Imperial representatives, envoys from the world of high politics, relations, and local dignitaries filed past us offering their condolences and their funeral gifts. Throughout that whirlwind of comings and goings, the summer threw a thick heat haze over the town. Beneath my mourning gown, my hips and buttocks became covered with tiny spots. At night I moaned and turned over in bed, scratching frantically.
The coffin left the house and was taken to the temple of Beloved Happiness, where it stayed for forty-nine days while the monks read sacred texts and prayed for the soul of the deceased. Unfamiliar faces and men with brutish accents invaded the house and occupied the guest rooms. Mother told me that they were my father’s nephews, and they had come to escort us to his motherland.
The thoroughbred horses disappeared—apparently sold by the young lords. Soon huge trunks were brought out of the inner quarters, and the governesses, dancing women, servants, and cooks evaporated in turn. One morning, seeing King of Tigers’ empty stall, my heart stood still. I ran over to the pavilion where Mother was praying and fell to my knees, calling on Buddha. I rubbed my eyes, which had become infected by so much lamentation and shed every last tear in my body.
Mother remained silent. Then suddenly, for the first time in my life, she held me in her arms and wept with me. The sons had taken the funds and the keys for themselves; the nephews had announced that they would take charge of our assets and be masters of our fate.
IN HIS YOUTH, Father had married a commoner who had given him sons. It was after her death that he obeyed the sovereign’s order and married my mother. Even when I was very little, I understood that Father had begat two different worlds. My sisters and I were sunlight and beauty; my brothers, dark, ill-dressed creatures, were the echo of an indelible former life. They had become officials and rarely came home. Father, who had always been so authoritarian toward his subordinates and so severe with us, had given in to his sons’ arrogance. He had tried to buy their favor by showering them with gifts. Arguments flared between my parents: Mother would complain about their harsh words and vindictive expressions; Father would defend them, claiming that they were shy and wary of us. Mother pronounced the terrible word “hate.” She said they would never forgive her for taking his first wife’s place.
At night I would paint Father’s face feature by feature: his wide forehead; his pronounced wrinkles; and his square jaw beneath his beautiful, long, white beard. Officials had greeted him with respect, and the common people had prostrated themselves at his feet. One after another they had come before him to plead their case and beg for justice. Father listened to them patiently and gave each of them a reply. He spoke slowly and firmly, intimidating them with his gaze. His physique seemed to occupy a space so fully that it could reach the vaulted ceiling of a pavilion held up by ma
ssive pillars. Then I would picture him in his bed clothes, a gray, silk tunic over a white under-robe, held by a mauve sash. He would be reading, leaning his head on one hand that bore an emerald ring carved in the shape of a tiger’s head. He would call me over: “Heavenlight, come and read with me.” For hours on end he would talk to me about mountains and rivers; he would draw the canals he was having dug to link up the rivers and irrigate the fields. Dawn would come, and Father would leave, taking Glory and Magnificence with him. The world that opened before me now was a dark, narrow, insignificant place.
A new governor had arrived, and we had to vacate the residence for him and go with my brothers to take the coffin to the motherland. We waited for winter before starting out. The caravans of carriages drawn by oxen and horses set off toward that distant land in the north. Men, women, and children dressed in linen tunics with white headbands round their foreheads followed us out of the town of Jing in tears.
I was leaving my town of stone and winged horses. The River Long and the roar of the waves disappeared. I abandoned the tame cormorants and the bobbing junks tossed into the sky. The cavernous temples, the nuns, and the little fishing girls vanished with the wafting incense. Farewell, moon, you who lit the battles of old, you who guided warriors as they rode recklessly through the night. You who know the secrets of my destiny, give me a well-honed weapon, give me your blessing!
TWO
The horizon kept receding further. The road forked and melted into the sun. The roar of the River Han and the seagulls’ cries disappeared. The greens, blues, ochres, and mirrored reflections of the paddy-fields vanished. On the far side of the River Huai, the hills smoothed out, and the trees had lost their leaves. Rivers and dry reeds sprang out of the black earth and its metallic glitter. The wind whipped up, squally gusts tormented the fields, and straggly wheat stalks moaned. The horses and oxen lowered their heads to battle against the wind. Little Sister had taken refuge in my carriage; wrapped in furs, we tried in vain to keep warm. All day long I listened to pebbles clattering against the wheels and the howling of the north wind, which deadened my thoughts. My heart was dry; I had no tears left.