The Library of Legends

by Janie Chang

  Riding up front beside the truck driver, Professor Kang decided he would not think of this as one of the saddest days of his life, the day he relinquished his last link to the celestial. Instead, he would remember this as the day he guaranteed the safety of a national treasure. He glanced behind him, where Old Fan, the laborer, and Bantien, the cook’s assistant, rode on the truck bed, steadying the stacked crates whenever the vehicle jolted out of a pothole.

  The ride from Changsha to the caves near Zunyi, with an overnight stay at an inn, felt too short a journey to the professor. The truck pulled off the main road, tires grinding as they came off hard-packed earth and began scrabbling along a stony single-track road. Through the sparse undergrowth he caught glimpses of a creek. The professor hoped the gentle stream was all that remained of any water that eroded caverns into the limestone, that the caves no longer dripped with moisture.

  “This isn’t a road,” the driver growled, shifting gears to climb uphill. “It’s barely a trail.”

  “Please bring the truck as close as possible to the caves,” Professor Kang said. “The boxes are heavy.”

  He ignored the driver’s muttered complaints as the truck lurched its way along. Another ten minutes and the driver stopped.

  “This is as close as we can get to the caves,” he announced.

  “You’ve done your best,” the professor said. “Thank you.”

  The driver got out and lit a cigarette, idly standing by while the two servants carried the crates up to the cave entrance.

  The cave entrance stood just a few feet above the track, but high enough on the hillside to be safe from floods. Professor Kang directed the two servants in stacking the crates of books against cave walls. The watertight boxes rested on wooden pallets that kept them from directly touching the cave floor. Then they threw a large tarp over the stacks.

  Old Fan and Bantien had offered to stay in the cave. They would be caretakers for the Library. They would make the cave their home until the end of the war. They had brought supplies of food, a few pieces of furniture, and kitchenware. The cook’s assistant planned on growing vegetables and there was a village halfway to Zunyi where they could buy other necessities. Zunyi itself was only four hours away.

  “Remember to check every day for rodent droppings,” the professor said. “Get a cat if you must. And be discreet. If anyone sees these books, they mustn’t know how valuable they are.”

  “Don’t worry, Professor,” Old Fan said. “We’re just one of the many who lost our homes, living in a cave until the war ends.”

  “Your wages will be sent to the bank at Zunyi,” Professor Kang said, “and I’ll do my best to come by every so often to see how you’re doing.”

  Old Fan chuckled. “Ah, we’re not fooled,” he said. “You want to see how the Library of Legends is doing, and fair enough.”

  “Next time you come, we’ll serve you a meal,” Bantien said. “There’ll be a proper latrine and a vegetable garden. Running water, even. I’ll find a way to divert that stream.”

  The two had been happy to volunteer for this role. Living in the caves, they were safer from air raids than the students or any townspeople. With no one to look after but each other, their daily lives would certainly be more leisurely. And they believed that in return for protecting the Library of Legends, the gods would protect them.

  “Mothballs,” Kang said. “You have the mothballs?”

  The servants laughed. “Professor, you sound as though you’re leaving your firstborn grandson behind,” Old Fan said. “Don’t worry.”

  Professor Kang knew he was delaying. He shook their hands, the men suddenly shy but pleased at this gesture, more accustomed to bowing than being treated as equals by an employer.

  “You’re following in the footsteps of a great philosopher of the Ming Dynasty who made his home in a cave, right here in this county,” he said, climbing back on the truck. “Also, the feng shui here is very good. Farewell.”

  “May favorable winds attend your journey,” Old Fan called out.

  The truck started up and the professor turned to look behind. The two servants stood on the road, waving until the truck dipped around the bend, out of view.

  As soon as they were off the stony track, the driver pushed down on the gas pedal, eager to get back to civilization. Minghua was setting out for Chengtu the next day. Thanks to the truck, the professor would get there ahead of the main group, but he had to. There was work to do at the new campus, making sure all the arrangements would be ready. Some of the administrative staff were there already, meeting with banks and government officials.

  Professor Kang did his best to get comfortable on the hard seat and ignored the smoke from the driver’s cigarette. From the pocket inside his tunic he pulled out a small notebook to review the notes he had been jotting down since he first met the Star. He turned to the question he had been pondering most recently.

  The exodus of immortals. “Long overdue.” Why are they leaving? When should they have gone?

  The truck bounced in and out of a pothole, making him wince. His spine might not survive the trip. It made writing difficult, but he penciled his thoughts.

  Hypothesis based on hierarchy of the universe. The gods in heaven, the emperor here on Earth. Emperors sacrifice to heaven to mediate on behalf of the common people. Fall of the Qing Dynasty 1912. No more sacrifices by an emperor. Gods were therefore freed from their obligation to hear our prayers.

  Another jolt. He sighed and waited for a clear stretch of road. The road showed no signs of getting any less bumpy. The professor gave up, put away the notebook and pencil. Closed his eyes. Closed off his sadness at parting from the Library of Legends. Stopped thinking about the Willow Star. Concentrated on his responsibilities to the students, to the university.

  IN CHENGTU, IT didn’t take long for Professor Kang to realize how much he disliked the new director of student services. Mr. Lao’s lanky frame, long face, and large teeth gave him a horsey look. He was austere in his habits and drank only hot water, as far as the professor could tell. Kang had yet to hear him laugh. He contrasted this with Mr. Lee, who had enjoyed a good joke and a mug of fine tea. Lee had been genuinely fond of the students. A director of student services appointed during a simpler political climate.

  Supposedly Mr. Lao had been working with the rest of Minghua’s administrators to get their offices organized. But mostly, he read student files and took charge of the mail. Letters were beginning to arrive in Chengtu for students and faculty.

  “There is nothing quite so good for morale as word from home,” Professor Kang said, when he poked his head into Lao’s office. “Anything for me?”

  Mr. Lao was working his way through a small pile of envelopes. Lao pointed to a stack at the corner of his desk. “I believe so. Letters for faculty.”

  Kang wondered whether Lao opened staff mail or just the ones for students. Perhaps some other unknown person was tasked with spying on the professors.

  “Hmm.” Lao frowned and slit open an envelope with a razor-sharp letter opener. “This one is for that girl who was killed. Hu Lian. From her mother. With a return address. Now I know where to send the official letter of condolence.”

  “I hope that letter takes its time arriving,” the professor said, “although mail to and from Chengtu has been relatively quick. The postal service seems nearly back to normal.”

  “It helps that our campus address is now fixed,” Lao said. “And, of course, we benefit from the fact that many high-ranking officials have moved their families here. Did you know this Hu Lian well?”

  Lao held the letter out to Kang.

  My dearest daughter, good news. I am working at the Southern Baptist Mission refugee camp in exchange for meals and a place to sleep. Perhaps even some small wages soon. Such good fortune! Send mail to this address. I want to know all about your adventures. It’s such a comfort to know that by now you must be safely in Chengtu with your university . . .

  Lao opened his desk dr
awer, took out some newly printed letterhead, and began to write. He copied the words from a draft, the same words he’d used before to the parents of other students killed in Shangtan. If nothing else, the man was conscientious when it came to duty. The professor took his small bundle of mail and hoped the letter to Lian’s mother would end up lost in a post office, abandoned at the bottom of some mailbag. At least until Lian had found her mother.

  Chapter 34

  The spring of 1938 arrived gently, mild and sunny, as if to apologize for the vicious cold that had gripped the city earlier. Green buds on sycamore trees that had resisted opening now unfurled into leaves the size of Lian’s palm. In gardens and parks, bright yellow shrubs of forsythia and the flutter of foliage gave back to Shanghai some of its charm and the illusion of peace.

  Lian had been in Shanghai just over a week now and had gone to the Xinwen Bao office once to check for news of Meirong. She trudged up the apartment staircase, which echoed with muffled sounds of conversation, shouts, and arguments that drifted up from each floor as she climbed. There was hardly a family in Shanghai without friends or relatives squeezed into their homes. In private, behind closed doors and shuttered windows, people voiced the annoyance of sharing a home for months, the embarrassment of having nowhere else to go, the despair and worry over what was yet to come.

  On her best day Lian had visited three camps and returned to the flat before sunset. Most days she only managed two. When the gaudy neon signs of Shanghai blazed on, it was time to get off the streets. She entered the apartment each evening despondent and weary. More tired than she had ever believed possible, even when she had been on the road.

  But perhaps tomorrow someone would say to her Yes, we know your mother, she’s right inside!

  But Lian knew, after her first day of searching, that the camps couldn’t even keep accurate records, it simply wasn’t possible. The only way she could be certain was to walk through each camp, between rows of straw-mat tents, looking and questioning, both hoping and dreading that she would find her mother there among the dejected homeless. There were so many orphaned children, so many women. Young teenagers. Very few elderly.

  When she reached the third floor and entered the flat, Lian found a letter that had been slipped under the door. On the envelope, Sparrow had written she would come by again later. Inside was a note from Shao.

  I’d come see you, but I want to stay close to my mother right now. Sparrow will take you out for a meal. My brother Tienming knows you’re at the apartment and says you’re welcome to stay until someone else needs it. I delivered him a letter from Mrs. Deng. She’s left him. Did you have any inkling when you were in Wen-chou?

  Minghua University’s new director of student services wrote to my father saying I was missing, presumed dead after that air raid on Shangtan. They probably think you were killed too. I had to explain to my father why we left Minghua without telling anyone. Sparrow will fill you in on what I said, but rest assured it was minimal and my father has promised not to mention your name when he writes back to Minghua. If there’s anything you need, just tell Sparrow. I’ll come see you soon.

  Lian put the note on the windowsill and sat down on an elm wood chair. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, the arms smooth and polished, a pleasure to touch. She leaned against the curved back. All she wanted was to sleep. When she shut the door to the flat, she told herself she was shutting out the world. Then she would heat up some rice and boil water for tea. She worried about her mother and cried herself to sleep over Shao. When she slept, she often dreamed about Sparrow, the Star looking at her out of eyes like pools of night, sometimes amused, sometimes contemptuous.

  Then in the morning, Lian would eat quickly after getting up and pack a steamed bun for lunch, sometimes a boiled egg, slipping it in her cloth tote with her list and the map. She made sure the apartment key was hanging securely on a cord around her neck, tucked under her clothing. Only then would she take the stairs down to the foyer, praying that this would be the day.

  She started when the doorbell rang and realized she had been dozing. She opened the door to Sparrow, in a wool coat over a high-necked qipao dress. A dress of good quality.

  “I’ve never seen you in ordinary clothes,” Lian said. “You look so . . .”

  “So ordinary?” Sparrow said. She dropped the coat on a chair. “Shao’s second aunt gave me some of her clothes.”

  Lian thought Sparrow looked tired, somehow diminished, and not for the first time she remembered that the Star had no special powers. Except for being immortal. Sparrow looked around the room, at the polished parquet floor, the tall French windows.

  “I can’t imagine my sister living here,” she said. “No courtyard, no view of the sky without leaning out that small false balcony. Let’s go for dinner.”

  After hot soup followed by a dish of freshwater crabs steamed with ginger and garlic, Lian felt less despondent.

  “But I don’t know why I get so tired, Sparrow,” she said. “After all that time on the road, all those miles of walking, stumbling around in the dark and the cold, I thought walking through Shanghai would be easy. But I just want to fall over as soon as I close the door.”

  “It’s not the walking,” Sparrow said. “It’s the sight of so much tragedy concentrated in such a small area. The Settlement is only thirteen square miles’ worth of Greater Shanghai. They say more than a million displaced now live here.”

  “And my mother’s here somewhere,” Lian said. Despair returned. “Among the million.”

  “You’ll find your mother,” Sparrow said.

  “I have a routine now,” Lian said, trying to sound cheerful. She pulled her list out of the tote bag. “Every night, I take out this list and cross off the names of the camps I’ve visited. Then I take out the map and circle two or three more locations for the next day. I began by going to the camps closest to the apartment and now I walk farther each day.”

  Sparrow looked at the list. “Let me make a copy. The External Roads district is a long walk from here, but not as far from the Liu residence. I can search the camps on the western side of the city.”

  “Oh, Sparrow, that would be such a help,” Lian said. Relief washed over her. Then hesitation. “But you must have duties that keep you busy.”

  “No one seems to care whether I work or not right now,” Sparrow said, “because I brought Shao home. They say I should rest for a while. So let me help.”

  “Shao’s letter says Mrs. Deng has left Wen-chou,” Lian said. How did one make small talk with a celestial being? Sometimes she thought she had dreamed the night with the qilin, the evening she had sat with the Star and her sister, a gleaming pair of lights.

  “Yes, as soon as Shao and I got on the freighter, my sister vanished,” Sparrow said. “Shao’s brother is taking it hard. It will pass. Men forget.”

  “What about Shao’s mother?” she asked. “He didn’t mention anything in his letter. Is she better now that he’s home?”

  “She’s not improving,” Sparrow said, “but Shao’s father has agreed to bring in Dr. Mao, the one who treated Shao.”

  IT WAS THURSDAY again. This would be Lian’s second visit to Xinwen Bao for news of Meirong. Her steps took her past an alley lined with flimsy shelters, bamboo sticks propping up roofs of cardboard. The weather was still cool but the reek of urine and rot drifted out to the sidewalks. It would be much worse once the hot weather arrived.

  The clerk at Xinwen Bao was busy on the telephone, evidently not happy with the conversation, jabbing his finger at a sheet of paper in front of him, a gesture entirely wasted on the person at the other end of the phone. He recognized Lian and gestured for her to wait. On her last visit he had just shrugged and given her a quick shake of the head to indicate there was nothing for her. Finally, he slammed down the receiver.

  “The boss has something for you today,” he said, still scowling. He swiveled his chair to the pigeonhole bookcase behind him and pulled out a folded square of paper.

&n
bsp; Miss Hu, please come up. I have news.

  The Liu family connections had done their work. Lian flew up the staircase and knocked on the door to Liu Sanmu’s office. The handle unlatched and Shao held open the door for her.

  “How wonderful to see you!” she cried, too happy to feel awkward about hugging him in front of his father. “So you know the news about Meirong!”

  He gave her a crooked smile and leaned against the wall beside his father’s desk. Liu Sanmu remained sitting and pointed at the chair facing him. Lian sat, leaning forward in anticipation. Large windows behind the desk overlooked a peaceful green square. Unlike other open spaces in Shanghai, the lawns of this park were not crammed full of tents and crude shacks.

  Liu Sanmu cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Miss Hu. My contacts managed to get release documents for Yee Meirong, but I have bad news.”

  Her exhilaration died away, replaced by anxiety. “What’s wrong? Is she ill?”

  “The authorities in Changsha sent instructions to the camp,” he said. “Instructions to free Yee Meirong. But it was too late.”

  Meirong and two others had escaped from the camp, but they were in a remote area, far away from any farms or villages. There was nowhere to hide, and few landmarks to help them find their way. The guards had caught them easily. As punishment for trying to escape, Meirong and her fellow fugitives were executed.

  Lian stood up slowly and walked to the window. She heard floorboards squeak, felt Shao’s hand on her shoulder. Her eyes focused on the park across the road. Grass, trees, and paths. Blocks of white stone and sculpture arranged in rows. It wasn’t a park, it was a cemetery for foreigners. No wonder the square of green was empty. Even the most desperate would not sleep with foreign ghosts.

  LIAN COULDN’T RECALL exactly how she got back to the apartment. It was in an automobile, Shao beside her, his voice sympathetic, his arm around her clumsy and uncomfortable as he tried to comfort her. She didn’t remember his words, had barely been aware of them as a hundred pointless scenarios flitted through her mind.