by Janie Chang
“You don’t have to believe me,” she said.
“I believe you, Lian,” he said. He did believe her. And he wanted to help. “You know, although he’s in Shanghai, perhaps my father can do something. I’ll ask him whether he knows anyone who can get Meirong released.”
“Shao, is that possible?” Her eyes brightened. “Does your family have that much influence?”
“I should’ve thought of it sooner,” he said. “I’ll write to him.”
“Write two letters,” Lian said. “Mail takes weeks. Mail gets lost. We need to be sure at least one letter gets through. I’ll take the second letter to your father in Shanghai.”
“Lian, you can’t mean you would go on your own,” he said, taken aback.
“What if your father needs convincing?” she said. “What if I need to plead Meirong’s case with him? This could be the only way to help her. Don’t you see? I have to make sure your father says yes.”
He tried again. “It’s madness for you to travel to Shanghai alone.”
“I have to go anyway,” she said, jumping up. “I need to leave before Wendian carries through with her threats. I’ve been wanting to leave, to find my mother. I’ve saved money, I’ve bought maps. Just write those letters, please, Shao.”
All this time he’d thought of her as the girl he’d guided through the streets of Nanking, silent and helpless. Now she stood, jaw clenched and narrow shoulders pushed back. Defiant and determined. Now he saw the steel in her. She would go on her own if need be to save her friend. To find her mother.
“I want my mother,” she said, and this time a note of longing crept into her voice. Her brown eyes were bleak, but her chin was still defiantly lifted.
He couldn’t let her go alone. “I want to see my mother, too,” he said, getting to his feet. “We’ll go to Shanghai together. The two of us.”
Her face grew radiant and she threw her arms around him, then shrank back quickly, as if startled by her own impulsiveness. He tilted her face to his and she looked up at him, lips parted. The softness of her mouth and the warmth of her quivering body pressed against him stirred something, a yearning that felt familiar. It was nothing like what he’d felt with Jenmei, excited yet uneasy. Jenmei, with her knowing smile as she wound herself around him.
“The two of us,” he repeated. “And Sparrow.”
“WE MUST PLAN for the worst case,” Sparrow said, coming straight to the point. “If Miss Hu is accused of being a spy, then we’ll be accused of helping her escape. We’ll be arrested if caught.”
They were having dinner in the village instead of the mess hall. The noodle shop resounded with customers’ shouts, the serving staff’s responding cries, and in the background, the constant clatter of crockery. Here, they could speak in private.
“I know. Best case, Wendian does nothing,” Shao said. “But we must leave anyway because of Meirong. That makes it a question of when. When is the earliest they would come to arrest Lian? We must get out before then.”
“The earliest they’ll come is Saturday morning,” Sparrow said, “so we must escape no later than Friday evening.”
“Why Saturday?” Shao said. She seemed so certain.
“Because the mail jeep comes on Friday,” Sparrow said. “If Wendian puts a note in this Friday’s outgoing mail, the Juntong in Changsha will get it Friday night or the next morning. Saturday morning is the earliest they would come to arrest Miss Hu.”
“Which was when they came for Mr. Lee,” Shao said, understanding.
They stepped out of the restaurant to the creaks and groans of rusty metal hinges. Street vendors were closing down stands, watched by stray dogs hoping for some final uneaten scraps. One sat down and scratched vigorously, making Shao wish he could scratch the rash on his own leg.
“The most important thing is to get as far away as possible in the first two days,” he said. “After that, it’ll be safe to travel more openly. With so many refugees on the road, the Juntong would have a hard time tracking us down.”
“We’ll need a few things,” Sparrow said, “and food for the journey. I’ll buy what we need while you’re in class.”
There had never been any question in Shao’s mind that Sparrow would come. And Sparrow hadn’t seemed surprised when he told her. But he’d experienced a moment of discomfiture when he first told Lian that Sparrow was coming. As if he and Sparrow should’ve been the ones running away together.
Briefly, the thought crossed Shao’s mind that without Sparrow, they wouldn’t get to Shanghai.
THE LAST DAY of the Lunar New Year had come and gone. The intensity of bombing raids had forced Minghua to keep their festivities subdued. But as if to compensate, Professor Kang reflected, February arrived with warm breezes and for the past several evenings there had been flocks of avian spirits crossing the sky. Like truant children, he and the Star often slipped away from Shangtan as evening fell to walk along the river. The airborne spirits flew into the west at sunset, making them difficult for his mortal eyes to see. Kang took great pleasure in watching their flight. The professor had seen poison feather birds, rainbirds, and three-legged greenbirds. Miraculous creatures he never would’ve noticed without the Star’s prompting.
They paused at the river’s edge, where the promise of spring hung from bare branches misted in pale green. Stems of new grass pushed through winter debris and the air carried a fresh, indescribable scent.
The Star gave him a nudge and he looked up. Silver-crested birds soared overhead, long scarlet legs trailing below white bodies. The professor strained his eyes to watch as they wheeled to the northwest, until the arc of white vanished against a drift of clouds.
“Cranes, or at least they look like cranes,” the Star said. “They were human once, sages who became immortal through attaining enlightenment. Now they take the form of birds for their journey.”
Unexpectedly, the Star put her arm through his as they strolled along the river, something she had never done before. Tall water reeds stirred in the evening breeze and dry grasses brushed against his ankles, leaving tiny burrs on his trousers. Beside them, waves lapped over stones polished smooth by flowing water. It was as though war had never touched his life. He savored the moment, lingered in its tranquility.
“Our paths must now diverge, my friend,” the Star said.
Somehow he had been expecting this.
“Don’t worry about the Library of Legends,” she said. “On your way to Chengtu you need to make a detour to the town of Zunyi. Once you store the Legends in the caves outside Zunyi your duty of care will be over.”
“But you’re leaving?” he said. “When?” A stab of sorrow. One that would bury itself in his heart, he knew, as deeply as the loss of his wife and child, scars now decades old.
“I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m helping Shao and Lian escape,” she said. “You don’t know anything about it. But be aware that Tan Wendian is a very angry young woman who’s been playing with lives. She’s one reason why we must leave.”
“I will pretend complete ignorance,” Professor Kang said. “Do you need a map?”
The Star laughed, as he thought she might. He knew, because she had told him that after thousands of years of looking down on China, she could picture every city, hill, and river, swaths of forest and expanses of desert. Even new highways and railway tracks were easy to navigate because they connected cities to other cities. If she ever felt lost at night, she only had to look up and her sister stars gave her guidance. It was one of the precious fragments of insight he’d managed to glean over the years.
There were so many unfinished conversations, let alone the questions he’d never asked. Now he cursed his reticence.
“Something I’d like to bring up,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, that the Prince never seems truly happy. I think it’s because he lacks purpose.”
The Star looked at him, brows furrowed.
“When a man lives a life of good deeds, he earns a better life in h
is next reincarnation,” he said, in a rush to explain. “He might be richer or happier in his family life. When he does evil, his next reincarnation punishes him with poorer circumstances. But life after life, the Prince has been reincarnated to much the same status as before. It means he’s done nothing good or bad in each life to tip the scales enough either way to merit change. He neither advances nor worsens. It means he’s lived a passive existence every single time. How is that even possible?”
“With intervention from the Queen Mother of Heaven, I suppose,” the Star said slowly. “She promised me he would enjoy a good life each time. But even the Queen Mother must abide by the Wheel of Rebirth.”
“So she can’t meddle with his reincarnation,” the professor said, pausing to face the river, “but she can meddle with his life so that he’s reincarnated to a life that’s no better or worse. She can do this by suppressing emotions and motivation. Traits that propel us to kindness or evil. Traits that fuel purpose.”
“Purpose.” The Star turned her face up to the sky. “I understand. The guardian spirits are leaving, but some do so unwillingly. With nothing to protect, no prayers to answer, they lack purpose.”
Professor Kang knew this was his last conversation with the Star. That he would now live with the absence of wonder. He reminded himself that he had seen the immortal. That before she left, a Star had taken him by the arm. It was enough. It had to be enough. As if she could hear his thoughts, she turned to him.
“You’ve been a good friend, Professor,” she said. “May favorable winds attend your journey, for all the days of your life.”
The Journey East
Map by Nick Springer / Springer Cartographics LLC
Chapter 27
On Friday, most students used their afternoon of free time to stroll around the streets of Shangtan and its market square. They browsed secondhand stores and shopped for used books and clothing to replace what had worn out. They treated themselves to meals from sidewalk kitchens. The more devout offered incense at the town’s temples.
Shao and Lian left the barracks in ordinary clothes, nothing that marked them as students of Minghua. They loitered in the market, watched a fortune-teller shake his bamboo canister, customers crowded around intently as the wooden fortune sticks spilled out onto the cloth-covered table. Stalls all around echoed with spirited haggling. Shao nudged Lian toward the stall selling baskets. The lane beside it led out of the square toward the riverfront, where they would meet Sparrow.
The rattle of fortune-telling sticks started up again and abruptly stopped. The wail of air-raid sirens churned the air. The market grew chaotic as stallkeepers gathered up their wares and stores emptied. Shoppers dashed in different directions, some going straight to the shelters, others running to collect their families. Shao pulled Lian down the lane and they began running toward the river.
“What if they bomb the riverfront like they did the other day?” Lian asked, panting.
“Let’s find a place to wait and see what happens,” Shao said. They cut through an area of bombed-out buildings, a neighborhood destroyed during the first bomb attack. They stumbled over a wrecked house, carved shutters, and chunks of roof tile. The sirens’ howling continued unabated. Shao glanced up the hill for the warning beacons and saw both lights were extinguished. The planes would be overhead any moment. He pulled Lian into the shelter of a wide brick arch at the mouth of a long, low tunnel, its roof partially collapsed.
“What sort of bomb shelter was this?” she asked.
“Not a shelter. I think it used to be a kiln,” he said, pointing at shards of pottery scattered around the yard.
The planes roared above them, polished metal bodies gleaming, their red sun insignias clear and unmistakable. Almost immediately explosions rent the air from the direction of the marketplace. Bursts of flame shot up. Shao took Lian’s hand and they ran toward the river to where Sparrow waited. The river glinted bright gold, reflecting clear skies and a setting sun. He never doubted Sparrow would be there. Even if the riverfront were being bombed, she would be there. Still, he heaved a sigh of relief when Sparrow’s figure detached from a stand of willows.
Sparrow looked deceptively boyish. She had exchanged her dark-blue servant’s garb for khaki trousers and a short, padded jacket. She’d brought supplies with her in canvas bags she’d sewn straps onto, improvised rucksacks for their journey. They’d left their Minghua rucksacks behind to give the impression they were still in Shangtan.
It was Sparrow who had suggested doubling back to Changsha. The city was teeming with new arrivals. They’d just be anonymous faces in the crowd, not worth a second glance.
“Wei Daming goes back and forth between Wuhan and Changsha,” Shao said, when Sparrow brought up the idea. “He might be able to help us with transportation. If he’s in Changsha, he’ll be at the hospital.” The thought made him feel better, to get help from someone they could trust. It would be an adventure.
The three fugitives followed the riverbank away from the town, entering the heavily forested hills as soon as they could. They went in just deep enough to keep the road in sight while remaining unseen. Twice they heard voices and the snap of twigs. They froze and the voices moved on. Bandits roamed the woods, mostly just young men trying to avoid military duty. But they were also hiding out, hungry and desperate. The three continued through the night, Sparrow leading the way.
At sunrise, they concealed themselves in a copse of red pine, under the dense cover of wide, fragrant branches. They slept until noon, when Sparrow shared food from her bag, balls of sticky rice wrapped around pickled vegetables.
Lian opened a map. “I’m afraid it doesn’t show the roads all the way up to Changsha,” she said. “I wasn’t planning to travel in that direction when I bought these maps.”
“It’s all right,” Sparrow said. “If we keep the road in sight, we’ll get there.”
“We haven’t gone as far as I’d like. It’s slow when we have to beat our way through the underbrush,” Shao said. “Should we try the road for a while?” The rash on his skin still irritated him and he hadn’t slept much.
They peered through the trees. The road below was busy with foot traffic in both directions. At the sound of a vehicle horn’s repeated honking, the stream of people parted. A jeep came around the bend, followed closely by a second one.
“Saturday morning,” Shao said, “and that second car was the military police. They’re on their way to arrest you, Lian. Wendian did turn you in.”
“We have an advantage, though,” Sparrow said. “Yesterday’s aerial attack went on for a long time, the longest so far. A lot of students were in town when the planes came. People might think we’re missing because we’re injured. Or dead.”
They walked until the sun set, then sat down to eat while there was enough light to see. They continued through the night, following Sparrow, who never hesitated. Wherever the forest canopy parted, the sky above them was awash with stars. They reached Changsha in the early morning hours.
THE HOSPITAL HAD run out of rooms and patients lined its hallways. Stretchers crowded the corridors. Some soldiers didn’t even have blankets or mats; they were just lying on the floor, crimson pooling on the tiles beneath them. The stench in the hospital was terrible, urine and putrefaction overlaid with the chemical tang of bleach. A row of patients sat slumped in chairs lined against one wall. A hospital worker was handing them mugs of hot water.
Lian apologized as she stepped over a bandaged soldier, then realized the man was unconscious. A nurse at the far end of the corridor was directing stretcher-bearers. Shao and Sparrow went over to find out if she knew Daming.
Lian wrinkled her nose and, with a sigh, decided to follow them. She stopped, feeling a tug on her trouser leg. A soldier on the ground reached out to her. His legs were bandaged stumps, his face drawn with pain. He tried to speak but could only point at his mouth and the teapot beside him. She kneeled down and held the spout to his mouth, pouring in a dribble of weak tea u
ntil he nodded and closed his eyes, exhausted.
She had to go outside, breathe in some fresh air. But as she passed the row of chairs, one of the patients clutched at the hem of her coat. She looked down at a swollen, discolored face. Both the man’s eyes were blackened and one hand was bandaged down to the fingers.
She recoiled. It was Mr. Lee.
“I must talk to you,” he said, standing up slowly. “Please, Miss Hu. Let’s talk where it’s more private.”
She jerked her coat away from him, ready to flee.
“Please. I don’t know what you’re doing in Changsha and I don’t want to know,” he said. “I just need to tell you something. About the dossier I have on you. On your family.”
She followed as he dragged his chair around the corner to another, narrower corridor. It was mercifully empty. He sat down, wincing.
“Don’t worry about the file on your father,” he said. “There’s nothing in there to incriminate him. Not anymore. Not for the past few years. I was just trying to frighten you.”
Mr. Lee kept records on as many students as he could. He always checked up on family backgrounds and when the files for Minghua’s scholarship winners arrived, Lian’s was unusually thick. Whether it was the work of an overzealous clerk or a lazy one who hadn’t bothered removing outdated documents, the file contained far more than he’d expected. He read her father’s history with interest. He’d been so intrigued he’d made inquiries of his own about the man who’d shot her father. He learned that the officer had been a lieutenant, the chief of police’s nephew. And that the young lieutenant had died three years ago.
But of more direct consequence to Lian and her mother, Tientsin’s all-powerful chief of police had been arrested for fraud. A litany of crimes and indiscretions had come out during the trial, including the cover-up over her father’s death.
“The trial was held behind closed doors,” Mr. Lee said. “It was an embarrassment to the police. They didn’t publicly confess to their wrongdoings, but they did update their records. Your father’s file is clean, his innocence documented.”