by Janie Chang
“Why did Mr. Shen have to stop there?” she said. Her beautiful eyes were haunted and miserable. “If only he’d kept up with our group, he would’ve been safe. Even just another twenty feet closer and he would’ve been safe.”
“You can’t blame yourself,” the professor said. “Heaven charged you with protecting the Library of Legends. We merely follow in the shelter of its slipstream. Shen’s bad luck is not your fault.”
“Tell the students to stay close to the carts,” she said. “Tell them again and again. They must not fall behind.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” he repeated. He wanted to hold her hand, give her a pat on the back, some reassuring gesture. But she was immortal, she was a Star. It would be presumptuous to touch her. It was enough for him, it had always been enough for him, that she was in this world. Sitting beside him on the same bench.
THE FIRST TIME the professor had seen Sparrow, she had been on her hands and knees polishing the floor just outside his office. He had opened his door to see a young woman bent over, rubbing the wooden planks with half a coconut husk. It was still daytime, but inside the long hallway with its narrow windows and dark paneling, it was dim enough for him to see her glow.
Professor Kang blinked. He saw Sparrow Chen, the servant girl. He also saw a shining form that conjured memories of perfect, long-forgotten days. His senses swam with visions of trees reflected in clear lakes, the fragrance of magnolia, the quick soft beat of golden feathers flashing between green banana palms. Then she had looked up, her features exquisitely and impossibly beautiful. Unquestionably not of this world.
How does one start a conversation with the supernatural?
“A Star,” she said, in response to his questioning gaze. “From the constellation of the Purple Forbidden Enclosure.”
Professor Kang’s words came out in an awkward rush. When he was a boy in Soochow, he told her, his family had lived next door to a Fox spirit. He had been friends with the Fox until he left for university in Nanking. On another occasion in Soochow, he had been strolling beside a canal early one morning and glanced up to see the figure of the Goddess of Mercy painted on a cloud. As the cloud moved across the sky, she turned her head slowly from side to side, looking down on the city as though she was inspecting it. He had watched until high winds scattered the cloud and the Goddess of Mercy dissolved into the sky.
“Fewer and fewer mortals can see us now,” the Star had said, her smile wistful. “Whether it’s to do with an open heart or random chance, who can say. But then, who’s to know why heaven allows any mortals to see us at all. I’m glad you’re one of them, Professor.”
Kang never pressed her for explanations, never asked what she was doing in the form of a young woman. Nor did he ask her what it was like, her home in the heavens. He didn’t feel entitled to know. Just thinking of the Star, the fact of her presence, filled him with a quiet, incandescent joy. He was a small boy again, in the presence of wonder. He was grateful for whatever the Star chose to reveal but he never presumed to ask.
Over time she shared tidbits of her story. After a while, he patched together the fragments. He consulted the Library of Legends. When he could contain his curiosity no longer, he had to ask.
“Your story,” he said, “it very much resembles the love story of the Willow Star and the Prince.”
The Star seemed relieved. Glad, even. She said she didn’t mind having someone in this life who knew her true identity. Especially since Shao wasn’t allowed to know.
“It’s one of the conditions set by the Queen Mother of Heaven,” she said. “It’s all a game to the gods. Someday Shao may remember who I am, what we meant to each other. Then I’ll be allowed to take him home with me, back to the heavens.”
Professor Kang shook his head. “But to do this through eternity, waiting through so many reincarnations, not knowing if you’ll ever manage to make him remember.”
“It’s been interesting,” she said. “I’ve lived among mortals for hundreds of years but still find your obstinacy hard to fathom. I used to think you were stubborn because of your tendency to hope.”
At first, she had found humans’ hopefulness endearing. Valiant even. Now she couldn’t begin to count all the ways they managed to delude themselves.
“When the dragon winds of disaster rush at you,” she said, “you always believe yours will be the one house left untouched by the storm. You invest in one dubious scheme after another, never learning from past mistakes. You trust that a husband might stop drinking or a lazy son finally discover ambition.”
“So have you given up on us,” he’d said, “we mortals and our many failures?”
“Worse than that, Professor.” A wry smile. “I’ve learned to hope.”
THE MONKS FILED out of the room, leaving the shrouded body on the table. They bowed to the professor as they passed.
The Star stood up. “Come with me,” she said. “I have another duty. There’s someone I must find.”
The professor followed her through the monastery’s many courtyards. Plaintive voices and sounds of muffled weeping seeped out from doorways and windows. In addition to the students, Chuanjiao Monastery sheltered other refugees, a constant stream over the past few months, the abbot had told him. The Star continued to the far end of the monastery and entered a small courtyard squeezed between two empty, dilapidated halls. The professor paused beside the first hall and peered inside the door. Stacks of broken furniture and empty crates lined the walls. A family lay fast asleep huddled in one corner, arms and legs thrown possessively over their belongings.
The door to the second hall was wide open. A man wandered in and out, muttering as he walked. His tunic of dove-gray cotton was streaked with ash, his trousers dirty at the knees. Despite his obvious confusion, there was dignity in his bearing. It was hard to tell his age; his face could’ve belonged to an exhausted thirty-year-old or a man of fifty.
“I’m sorry, so sorry,” he murmured over and over to no one in particular. “I could do nothing. So sorry.” The man made a circuit of the courtyard, then went inside the hall and came out to begin all over again.
The Star gestured Professor Kang to stay back.
She stepped in front of the man. He stared back at her with dull, unfocused eyes. The Star put her hands on his shoulders and slowly, his eyes cleared. He stood taller and his plain tunic shed its dirt and took on the unmistakable sheen of heavy silk, lengthened to a long robe with wide sleeves, elaborate bands of embroidery at the hems. Robes of state from another century. He was larger than any normal man, his bearing regal, features transformed by a long, magnificent beard.
“You’re a Star,” the deity said. “Which one?”
“The Willow Star,” she replied. “And you’re the Nanking City God.”
“I couldn’t do anything,” the City God said, his handsome face miserable. “How can I protect the boundaries against machines that fly over walls? I had to leave, I couldn’t bear watching the destruction anymore.”
“You’re not to blame,” the Star said. “Airplanes didn’t exist when the gods made you guardian of Nanking. Where are you going now?”
“I don’t know.” His voice faltered. “I’ve just been following some families from Nanking. Looking after them. They’re going west. That’s all they know. West.”
“West is good,” the Star said gently. “Northwest, actually. The Kunlun Mountains. The Queen Mother of Heaven has opened the Palace gates.”
The City God’s eyes widened.
“It’s time for you to leave,” the Star said. “The Palace gates won’t stay open forever. Can you find your way there?”
The Nanking City God nodded. Then he bowed to the Star, one celestial being to another. As he straightened up, his silk gown shimmered into transparency. He made his way out of the courtyard, the tall figure growing mistier until it vanished altogether.
“There will be other departures,” the Star said, still looking at the spot where the Nanking City God had been. “A
nimal and guardian spirits. Minor deities. Creatures of protection. It’s long overdue.”
“If so many are coming out into the open I wonder that more people aren’t seeing them,” the professor said. “Well, even if others can see spirits, how would I know anyway?”
“There is one other person at Minghua who can see spirits,” the Star said. “Hu Lian. But she’s not quite ready.”
“Ah,” the professor said. “I did wonder.”
“She loves reading the Legends but to her they’re just part of China’s mythology,” the Star said. “Her mind finds ways to deny what her heart perceives. But perhaps, one day.” She shrugged, a graceful lift of the shoulders.
Professor Kang nodded. One had to be open to gifts from the gods, otherwise a Fox spirit was just an animal, the Goddess of Mercy only a cloud. And a Star merely a servant girl. Beyond plain dumb luck, the professor couldn’t say why he’d been given the gift to see supernatural beings. Yet he sagged under the recognition of what he’d just seen and heard.
China and Japan had been fighting for decades, battles both nations politely described as “incidents.” Now they were openly at war. Professor Kang realized he’d been hoping the gods might intervene. Perhaps not to end the war, but a small miracle of some sort to reduce the suffering.
But now he knew that prayer and pleas would not move the gods. Now he knew there was another evacuation underway.
Chapter 8
Minghua 123 left the monastery an hour after dark. Shao looked up at the night sky, grateful that only a tiny sliver of crescent moon added its light to that of the stars. The students wore white handkerchiefs knotted around their arms, the only tokens of mourning they could muster for Mr. Shen.
In retrospect, it was a miracle that Mr. Shen had been the only victim. There had been a short debate about changing the name Minghua 123 since they were no longer 123 people.
“If we change to ‘Minghua 122,’ then we exclude Mr. Shen,” Shao argued. “Keeping our name the same pays tribute to his memory, that he is still part of our group.”
“And do we want to change our group name every time someone dies?” Shorty said. “It would be so demoralizing.”
His words were shouted down and Ying-Ying slapped his shoulder. “How can you even talk about such things?” she said indignantly. “Implying that others in our group might die?”
“Don’t yell at me,” Shorty said. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.” He rubbed his shoulder.
During their time at Chuanjiao Monastery, Mr. Lee had asked for volunteers. He appointed a dozen of the seniors, including Shao, as scouts. The scouts drilled Minghua 123 on the actions they would follow when under aerial attack. The feeling was unanimous that they should light as few lanterns as possible. They had to learn how to walk safely in the dark. They coordinated getting carts and barrows off the road, donkeys and all, giving priority to the precious library carts. They practiced throwing tarps over the wagons to camouflage them. They knew to run for cover, scattering as widely as possible, heading for trees and ditches, outcroppings of rock, whatever might offer protection.
Whether this was of real use or not, Shao couldn’t tell. Was there really anything they could do to be safe? But it was all they could do. It was all they had.
The property where they would stay was only a few hours’ walk from the monastery. When they reached it, the walls of the vacant estate were surrounded by stands of bamboo, barely visible from the road. Minghua 123 would’ve missed it completely if not for their guide, a young monk who had accompanied them from Chuanjiao Monastery.
The students settled in quickly, the routine now familiar. There was a head count upon arrival. Then the search for sleeping quarters, the female students given first pick of rooms. Each group of roommates carried out another head count of the students in their room. Afterward, they ate. The cook, his assistant, and the kitchen cart had left a few hours in advance so that meals would be underway by the time the rest of Minghua 123 arrived.
Then at last, they slept.
MORNINGS WERE COLDER now and, like everyone else, Shao had slept in his clothes and spread his coat on top of the blanket. His eyes opened to coffered wooden ceilings painted in green and gold with figures of lucky animals. He counted off each one. Bats for good luck. Cranes for long life. Phoenixes for success. Horses for swift advancement. Bears for courage. And qilin unicorns for the birth of talented sons. He smiled, remembering his nanny, Amah Fu, and her stories. How she believed absolutely in the existence of supernatural creatures.
It will be an easy walk this evening, he thought. Their next destination was only a short distance away. Mr. Lee had told them Minghua 123 would rest at Shangma Temple for ten days, giving the professors time to teach a few classes before getting back on the road. Shao suspected the lessons were to keep their minds off Mr. Shen’s death as much as anything else.
The fragrance of steamed rice drifted into the room, the kitchen staff already busy with breakfast. Most of his classmates were still sleeping but a few had tied up their bedrolls and were gone. Shao decided to take a walk around the property. He pulled his coat on and noticed a button had come loose. He pulled the button off and put it in his pocket. He’d have Sparrow sew it back on for him.
The estate felt curiously and pleasantly familiar. His father had taken him once to the outskirts of Shanghai where the Liu family’s real estate firm owned an entire street lined with old-fashioned courtyard homes much like this one. The courtyard homes were soon to be demolished, making way for more fashionable foreign-style villas. Shao had tagged along behind his father and the architect as they inspected each of the properties. It was one of the few times he’d had his father to himself. Wandering around this old house brought back pleasant memories.
A bamboo garden flourished in one of the courtyards. Some grew thick canes striped in green and yellow, others stood only knee-high, their leaves as dainty as ferns. Weeds pushed up between paving stones. Another year of neglect and the courtyard would look like a wilderness.
A movement between the trees and he realized someone else was in the courtyard. Wang Jenmei, her voluptuous figure a contrast to the austere elegance of bamboo. If he’d known, Shao would’ve avoided this courtyard, but now it was too late. She had seen him and flashed a smile, one that invited him to join her. A smile that seemed to imply he was entering her domain.
“The floor too uncomfortable for sleeping?” she said. She lifted one shapely eyebrow, giving her words a slightly mocking intent.
“Not at all,” Shao said, “there’s just no point in oversleeping. I wanted to take a look around this old place.”
“There’s estates like this all over China, Shao,” Jenmei said, waving her hand at the surrounding houses. “High walls protecting fine homes meant to house generations of a single family. Rather like yours, I’d guess.”
“My great-grandfather built eight houses side by side on the same street,” Shao said, “for his sons and grandsons and their families. I suppose that counts as one estate for one family.”
“My family’s home is three hundred years old,” she said. “Three hundred years of ancestors under the same roof, same town, same street. Unlike your family, however, my grandfather and his sons lack ambition. Our wealth flows out the door, never in.”
“But obviously they believed in giving you an education,” Shao said, hoping to end the conversation. He’d made enough small talk to be polite. But she put a hand on his arm, stopping him from leaving.
“After this war, China will be different,” Jenmei said. “Farmland and homes like this will belong to all the people. The Chinese Communist Party will make sure no one lives in luxury while others starve. Come to a Communist Students Club meeting, Liu Shaoming. Just one.”
Shao shook his head. “You know my family. I could never join any Communist group.” He smiled pleasantly as he said this. Minghua 123 was a small community and they had months on the road ahead of them. There was no need to creat
e an uncomfortable situation. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”
He left the bamboo garden to look for Sparrow. He needed that button sewn back on.
SHAO’S MEMORIES OF his early childhood were vague, his days an interchangeable series of games and meals, of being put to bed by Amah Fu. Until the day Sparrow walked into his room. What Shao could recall was that he had been crying, throwing a tantrum over some now-forgotten indignity, when a small girl appeared at the nursery door. She walked straight to Shao, which startled him so much he stopped crying. He rubbed the tears from his eyes to take a better look, at her pale skin and wide-set eyes, her birdlike frame. Shao had been too young to explain to himself, let alone to an adult, how the sight of Sparrow affected him. It was as though his real life had begun and that Sparrow was part of the journey.
The Liu household’s younger children mixed freely, masters and servants. All of them ran back and forth between the houses, all part of a single huge estate. They played together, seemingly heedless of the difference in their parents’ positions until they were old enough for school. The Liu children attended private school. The servants’ children did not.
Shao learned before then, however, that Sparrow was not his equal. His parents had been hosting relatives from Changchow and he had refused to play with his cousins, preferring Sparrow’s company. For this, he’d been scolded by his mother. It was the first time his mother had ever raised her voice to him.
“You shouldn’t spend so much time with the lower classes,” she said, an angry frown marring her perfect features. “She’s just a servant. Play with your cousins. You are their host.”
As a child, Shao always assumed Sparrow’s parents were family retainers, servants whose own ancestors had served the Liu clan for generations, their lives and well-being tied to their masters’ prosperity. They counted on the Lius to arrange their marriages and funerals, to provide jobs in Liu family businesses. But Sparrow, he learned, was an orphan.