I wrote this book a few years ago. I suppose you could call it a Buddhist fantasy. It deals with the first Emperor of China, who kills himself trying to become immortal and Li Ssu who changed the world. The story is historical fantasy and tongue in cheek fun, concerning war, humor, love, and the problem with immortality written from the point of view of the disappearingself, a Buddhest sect of one. Ed Parker
Prolog
We are from an earlier way of being, the wife and I, when reality was softer, more pliable, more, ah, impressionable. Urti has withdrawn a bit, though she won’t admit it. People see her as a tree, or a stick, sometimes alive, sometimes dead; sometimes she is hardly there at all. She can be quite moody. She is the Walking Tree and I am her companion. She can be difficult, I suspect people say much the same of me. There were more choices then, of substance and form, when our story began, she is still quite a woman. It was, in short, a long time ago to those who measure such things.
You would think time comes all in a line like beads on a string, but we have not found it so. Indeed, time merely prevents everything from happening at once. It is an illusion, born of confronting all that is possible with finite means. We are what you would call immortal, time being an illusion, and so forth. It is always now, isn’t it? A little joke we share. And we dance, Urti and I, dancing makes all things possible, something many fail to understand given that so few dance anymore.
This is the story of our search for Lady Wa, our difficult female seedling, and how she learns of her true nature. It is a story that begins in our time, the soft core of all time. It is a story difficult to understand, one I am not yet willing to tell and therefore won’t. I shall therefore, begin in another, in China during the reign of the First Emperor. It was an interesting time, a time of great ideas and madness, of passion, brutality war, love and innocence. It was a time of change, though sadly little enough has changed.
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Chapter 1-– The Woodcarver
A gust of wind swirls the gray brown smoke above the pit obscuring for a moment the perfect blue of the sky. Smoke from the burning books. Lissu has started burning the books. It was enough to take his mind off of his two broken legs. Burn the books, you cold little snake and their ashes will defeat you. It was true, just not now, or particularly immanent, which was unfortunate. It almost made him smile, almost, but then life has a way of intruding. Around him, writhing bodies push and claw at each other, too broken to do more. Beneath the pushing and clawing, beneath the choking screams, beneath the living, the dead lie silent, scholars, teachers, the intellectuals of Qualin——old friends for the most part. Hours ago they were dissidents and critics of the Emperor, now they scream, their screams becoming stifled moans as the falling dirt fills the voids where they breathe. He was the honored last, the last to be thrown down, to watch the dirt fall from the clear blue sky. He lets his thoughts drift unwilling to waste his final moments with hatred, he had long ago lost all fear of dying. Fear is a creature of uncertainty, and with death certain, what is there to fear? He wills himself to remain still. He will not give Lissu the satisfaction of watching him struggle. Still, it is difficult to contain the rising sense of horror, feeling the moist earth pressing down, smothering——feeling his lungs burning. How curious, the moments seem to grow longer. Is this eternity?
Master Yeto wakes gasping. He shudders as the cool air eases the burning in his lungs. Slowly the terror subsides. A dream, a true dream, this horror is a piece of the future. There is no mistaking it. Buried alive, disappointment washes over him, catching him unaware. He’d hoped for something better: a warrior’s death, something a bit quicker. Actually he’d always wanted a hero’s death, a glorious death, something to be sung about in the wine shops and beer halls. A beautiful girl singing of his deeds, tears running down her face. A childhood dream, perhaps, but one that had never gone away, truthfully, he was fond of it. He had come close a number of times; he had to give himself that. Not a poem, not a story, much less a song. There’s never a story teller around when the really exciting stuff is happening; wouldn’t do to talk about yourself, wouldn’t be proper. As his heart grows quiet, he finds himself dwelling on death, finding that he doesn’t know that much about it. It wasn’t a new discovery, he been down this road before and it hadn’t changed. He’d brought death to many, frankly never gave it much thought, not until later. A woman giving birth is intimately involved in the process, her attention focused on the life leaving her body, going out into the world. There are few acts more personal. A warrior kills and moves on, it is not personal. He can not let it become personal, the thought is too distracting. And yet what is more personal than birth and death? The mother knows, the warrior denies, no one listens to mothers. They say we know birth and death many times. A matter of speculation as far as he knows, having no memory of either birth or some previous death. Still, it is wise to keep an open mind. Did he wait and worry to be born? Did he know that it was coming? Did he wonder? The thought makes him laugh. Probably, change is always troubling. He smiles in the dark. His birth resolved itself, doubtless his death will too.
He should get up, but his old bones demand another moment. He lets his thoughts settle, hoping that there will be something at the bottom worth keeping, smiling at his optimism. This life has passed so quickly, so quickly. They say, we weave our way through the spokes in the wheel of life, learning a little of our true natures with each passing. That the coming and going polishes away our illusions until the self disappears, some nonsense like that. The Wandering Master never wrote of what comes next, said it would take care of itself, said we had enough to concern us now, though it would bear re-reading.
The books? They’ll burn my books, miserable little bastard. That too, is the future Lissu brings, that and the army waiting inside the Lower Pass——that too was part of the dream. Burning the books, burying the scholars alive, Lissu wants the city to riot, to rebel. He intends to destroy the city, has all along, he just needs an excuse. Lissu, you hateful, loathsome creature, I should have cut your throat when your father didn’t. It would have been an act of kindness, like culling a two headed goat. Some minds are too warped and grotesque for this life.
He rolls stiffly to his hands and knees on his sleeping mat, finding the blazer in front of his nose, its ashes gray and cold as the morning light. There’s only the ashes of the prayer sticks he burned last night. His joints ache as he stands up, the pain oddly reassuring. Death being the absence of pain, something his mother once told him. One of the few beliefs he felt might be true.
Lissu is as evil as a cold draft: No good, that boy, no good at all, never was. An image of the skinny boy he sent home for lying so many years ago flashes and is gone: little ears, no lips to speak of, hateful as a shedding snake. Lissu must be over forty now. All things change, yet Lissu continues in his ways, in his awesome certainty. The memory of Lissu is like the moldering smell of something long dead, tainting all it surrounds. Lying was the least of it. Lissu is Lord Sunza’s first born; a sin of another life, that boy. It’s been twenty-five years since Lord Sunza sent Lissu away? It would have been better if he had cut his throat, better if I had cut his throat. Now, Lissu is Grand Counselor to the Emperor of the world. Some say he’s more powerful than the Emperor, though it’s said quietly. The Emperor must have a great deal on his mind to leave the running of the world to Lissu. Oddly, Lissu’s mother came from a good family, then, so did his father. You can never tell. Then he thinks of the boys.
Pa Kua and Baso must be gone before Lissu comes, and Joshu, especially Joshu. Lissu would take great enjoyment in Joshu’s death. How much more so, if he could be blamed for the rebellion? Ah, my young heroes, my best students, my fine young men, you would fight though bound with chains, never counting the cost——and lose everything. That too. Arrogant young fools. It would be just the excuse Lissu needs to turn the army loose on Qualin. There must be no fighting, not now.
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Three horsemen rein in their horses on a rise overlooking a sparse sea of yellowing grass and blowing dust. A fourth horse, saddled, but rider less, follows on a lead rope. The horses are small evil looking creatures with short legs, long matted hair, and great ugly heads they carry low, snorting at the dust. They have a way about them that says they belong there, something their riders’ lack. The riders look out of place, uncomfortable in the blazing heat, and ill at ease with the shaggy, half-broke little beasts beneath them. The ponies know this. It’s in the tentative way the riders’ sit their saddles, their clumsiness with the reins, the half-hearted way they kick their ribs. The horses wait for a moment’s inattention to be free again, knowing it will come.
From the hill, a dark figure can be seen in the distance. Heat and distance make the air shimmer and the dark figure is at once indistinct and distinctly unlikely. It’s too hot to be sitting out in the open like that.
Pa Kua nods toward the distant figure. “Our woodcarver?”
“Which one, Pa Kua? Is that the Wall of Bones there in the distance, Baso? I can’t tell.” Joshu unties the red cloth that keeps the sweat out his eyes and wrings it out into the dust.
“Concentrate Joshu, I know it’s difficult, but try. There is only one living thing in sight.” Pa Kua’s voice trails off in frustration. “Unless this heat has me seeing things.”
“It could be, Pa Kua, indeed, it could be. The heat is terrible. Have you thought of getting a hat, one of those basket things the farmers wear?”
“A hat?” The idea catches him off guard. Warriors don’t wear hats, not civilized warriors. Joshu’s being a turd. He stares at the dark figure in the distance, ignoring Joshu, the turd.
“Joshu, how can you think of hiding Pa Kua’s sweet face under a hat?” Baso’s voice is chidingly sympathetic. “Think of his horse, how proud he must feel carrying around such an ass.” His huge chest heaves, his chuckles barely audible. Pa Kua is more than a little vain, and touchy about it. Baso enjoys touching it and would have continued had it been cooler.
“Baso, if you had any regard for horses you would get off that poor beast and carry it.” Pa Kua returns to Joshu. “Let me help you with this, Joshu. Try to follow my thoughts here. Think it through carefully.”
Joshu opens his mouth to interrupt. Pa Kua counters with a raised finger, long and bony. Joshu looks away and sighs, knowing it’s hopeless.
“Take your time, Joshu. Stop me now, if you fall behind. This is the road to Po.”
“Road, Pa Kua? There is no road. Do you see a road, Baso? I see cart tracks weaving about like snail shit across a flat rock in the cool of the morning——we’re still inside the empire, aren’t we? Yes, of course, I would have noticed the wall. There. That’s it, isn’t it, that dark smudgy line . . . ? Ah, it seems to have vanished.”
Pa Kua grimaces and looks disdainfully away. “There is no one else in sight. Indeed, we’ve seen no one all morning, just dust, grass, and sky. That narrows it down, doesn’t it? That has to be our woodcarver.”
“Perhaps, unless, as you say, it’s the heat. Forgive me Pa Kua, there was no cool of the morning this morning, or last morning or any morning this side of the mountains. I forget myself.” Joshu isn’t trying to be difficult, not in the sense of exerting himself. It comes easy enough. Besides, the heat makes it difficult to think. It’s hot, being mid day in high summer, the hottest time of the year.
Joshu feels the weight of the heat on his head and thinks about something to block the sun. The problem’s his hair. Like his companions, his hair is long. And like them, it’s tightly braided, the braids folded into a distinctive looking blue-black bun that sits on the crown of his head, the folds neatly tied with a bright red silken cord. The bun is a courtesy, offering a convenient means of carrying the head, should an enemy manage to take it. The red cord is a tradition of the martial arts school where they trained since they were small children, awarded to those who demonstrate satisfactory proficiency in the fighting arts, proficiency satisfactory to Master Yeto. The red cord is an honor few attain. The fact that each of the three had one was, well it had never happened before.
The problem is quite simple. The sun is a killer, their heads should be covered, but a hat would hide the red cord. It’s a fascinating problem as problems go. One to which Joshu has been giving considerable thought, with some progress. A cloth arrangement possibly, oiled paper, something carried on a stick to block the sun, manly, yet fashionably elegant. Something that will also keep the sun off the forbidden long sword he wears across his back. He enjoys wearing it and does so at every opportunity, slipping it inside his rolled up straw mat when soldiers come by. His companions appear to be more law-abiding, more respectful of the Emperor’s laws than he, but then appearances are deceiving. There’s two large cleavers strapped inside Pa Kua’s robe, common kitchen cleavers he has stubbornly carried since he was a boy and have nothing to do with the Emperor’s laws. Baso is huge, very strong, very fast, and feels little need of a weapon. In his youthful arrogance he considers himself a weapon. It’s an attitude common to all three and why they are there.
Joshu’s sword is old, worn, its polished wood scabbard scratched and nicked, the hilt, simple brass and wood. It glows from years of wear, and the sun. It’ll blister his hand to draw it, should he need to——which isn’t likely.
That dark lump out there has to be a rock; the only movement has been its shadow. He decides to give it a few minutes more, it wouldn’t do to rush down there and find it was only a rock. Joshu lets his thoughts drift on. Some kind of cover from the sun, a pouch would do. He could slip a pouch over the hilt, if he had a pouch. He has socks, but they look like socks with that big toe. It would look odd. No, it has to be a pouch. Perhaps he’ll find one in Po, if they must go that far, but he hopes not, Po is a border city, and like all border cities, has soldiers. Soldiers are a problem. The sword was a gift; Master Yeto gave it to him when they left Qualin, said he wouldn’t need it anymore. The old man laughed as he said it, though his eyes looked sad, almost wistful. He hadn’t heard everything the old man said, not as well as he should have. The gift of the sword took his breath. It’s still hard to believe Master Yeto gave it to him. Master Yeto never talked about his years in the army, but it was whispered he was one of the heroes of the Battle of the Lower Pass. They say that’s where he got the scar that covers the side of his head. No one could have survived such a wound. It made a face tingle to see the way the skin was cut away like that. And yet, he did, and he killed the man who cut him.
Master Yeto would say, “A moment’s mistake and a life time of perfection, lost.” He said it when someone was acting cocky, or stupid, or both.
The sword’s an honor. Master Yeto only had the one. Master Yeto must have given it to him in recognition of his skills, although in all fairness Pa Kua was almost as good, as was Baso, not that either of them wanted it, Pa Kua preferred his cleavers and Baso the staff. The important point being that Master Yeto gave the sword to him. The belt’s a little large, but cutting it doesn’t seem right so he wears it over his shoulder. It is a gesture of respect that has its drawbacks, the heat being one, the sword being against the law for another. This latter point is especially irksome to Joshu who would like people to see it and appreciate the honor of having such a sword.
Just after the Emperor conquered the world, he banned all swords except those of his soldiers, saying they were no longer needed. Bandits were banned, pirates too. Wars were banned as well, there being no one to fight except him, which of course, was against the law. The Middle World was at peace for the first time in memory, everyone being happy and safe, snuggled inside the walls of the Middle World. The Emperor said so, and his will is the will of heaven. Still, discreet travelers carry short swords inside their robes because bandits and thieves were slow to get the news. Even the Emperor’s soldiers understood and looked the other way, if you’re discreet. A concept Joshu struggles with, a problem common to all three young men, which is another reason why they’re there: far from Qualin, far from Lissu.
“Baso, have you noticed any peculiar changes in our friend, here. Has he always been such a turd?” It’s a casual question.
“Ah, yes, indeed so, Pa Kua. Joshu is certainly a turd. A prize turd, as turds go, assuming turds are given prizes. Honestly, I can not say one way or the other. And yet I can imagine farmers dreaming of Joshu, the great turd, snuggled down among their squash and beans. Odd, that you’ve just noticed.”
It’s a game of sorts, something to fill the time.
“Ah, the burden of leadership,” Joshu sighs. “My friends, my dear, dear friends, ungrateful as you are, I forgive you. The two of you could not understand such a burden, for you’re ignorant as cow flop. What can you know of my ceaseless toil on your behalf? The hours of planning. The weight of these coins. Do you think of these things? No, not a hint of it crosses your minds, not a glimmer. Some day you will think back on this day and know bitter, bitter shame.”
“The only responsibility you have is for the size of that girl’s stomach and the anger in her father’s eye,” Pa Kua answers in a bored voice.
The subject is something of a sore point with Joshu and tightens the skin around his eyes whenever it’s raised. He’s a pleasant looking young man with some hope of being handsome when his mustache thickens. For the past few years he has been much appreciated by the young women of Qualin, certainly by the young woman to whom Pa Kua refers.
Joshu sighs and looks away. He had spoken to the unfortunate girl’s father, dutifully offering himself in marriage. A commendable gesture, he thought at the time, a handsome husband and respectable son-in-law——ample compensation. Her father set the dogs on him, and not all of him made it through the gate unscathed. An embarrassing and painful incident made worse when Pa Kua discovered the tender details. Joshu shades his eyes with his palm. The figure in the grass is motionless as a stone. Perhaps it’s a stone. A tree stump would be unlikely out here, being so far from a forest. Perhaps a moment more, a leader must be sure of such things or at least appear to be.
They were told they would find a woodcarver by the road to Po, but there’s no road, nothing you can point to. The road began to meander miles back, breaking down into patterns of parallel scars cut deep into the sparse yellow grass by the high wheeled ox carts. Several sets of tracks wove around, crossing each other in a haphazard braided path across the emptiness. The road to Po is miles wide, if such can be called a road. And it’s hot. No woodcarver, no sane person, would be sitting out here in this heat waiting to be found. Still, it is getting awkward listening to Pa Kua cough and Baso’s more pointed yawns. Joshu sighs, knowing he is committed, kicking his pony into a slow shuffling trot, Pa Kua at his heels, Baso leading the spare pony.
The dark figure gathers detail as they draw nearer, looking more and more like a man. He sits with his head down, seemingly intent on something, indifferent to the approaching riders. Closer, they see the twinkle of sharpened steel in his hand as he scrapes at a small piece of wood. The young men sit a little straighter as the ponies slow.
Joshu stops a respectful distance in front of the woodcarver. His horse snorts, tongues its froth covered bit then shakes like a wet dog. Joshu tries to look nonchalant as the saddle slips from side to side beneath him, hoping he’ll still be on top when the beast settles down. He slowly shifts his weight, straightening his saddle, idly watching a bird circle high in the milky-blue sky. They’re in no hurry, or so he wants to appear. This is the man, no doubt of that. Lord Sunza described him well enough. Old, must be in his forties, black hair and robe. Some mention of teeth. . . . And yes, there was that look in Lord Sunza’s eyes as he talked of this woodcarver, a look of warning, of caution. There was that same intensity in Lord Sunza’s voice when he spoke of this woodcarver. He thought it curious at the time, more so now.
“Treat this woodcarver with respect. Obey him as you would me.” Lord Sunza wasn’t given to making idle remarks.
Obey him? Obey a woodcarver? Who is this woodcarver? The question crossed his mind, but it wasn’t something he would ask. No, he would wait, just as he would wait for this woodcarver to look up. But the woodcarver continues to carve, indifferent, seemingly oblivious to the heat. His broad shoulders and large head still, the hand holding the knife moves slowly, with great deliberation. Joshu notices the robe is old, dusty and black, and too short, given his hairy legs. He wears it open, revealing the top of a round hard belly shiny with sweat. His sleeves are pushed up over forearms that cord and bunch as he works. A piece of cloth gathers his long tangled black hair carelessly behind his bowed head, away from his eyes. It is hard to guess his age, but old, certainly forty, every bit of forty. The knife continues scraping, the blade smoothing the grain, sounding louder than it should. Slowly the woodcarver raises his eyes to the mounted men and smiles. His smile leaps up at them, great white slabs of teeth, startlingly white in a face darkened by the sun and patchy with hair.
Joshu feels the hair stiffen on the back of his neck as those black eyes find him. There’s power there, vaguely unsettling, worrisome. Then it’s gone, but the impression lingers. Wood chips fall from the woodcarver’s robe as he stands; a large twisted club in one hand, knife and wood in the other. He bows silently, politely without taking his eyes from the young man on the horse.
Joshu stares at him feeling suddenly flustered his voice unfamiliar, hesitant. “Ah, for-forgive this, ah, intrusion. I don-don’t mean to disturb your work. My name is Joshu, a humble and unworthy servant of Lord Sunza . . . of Qualin . . . My father. I’m seeking a woodcarver named Wabi. Master Wabi,” he adds for no apparent reason. “I was told I would find him here.”
Behind him, some distance away, his companions are quietly squabbling, their whispers rising and falling like gusts of wind blown rain.
“Forgive my friends. they’re, ah, always like that.” Turning to his friends, Joshu calls out in a voice strained and pompous, “Pa Kua, Baso, a moment of peace, if you will?” He pauses to collect himself before turning back to the woodcarver, his smile stiff.
The woodcarver bows again, slowly. “Some have called me Wabi, for lack of a better. And I am carver of sorts, I seek the grain and form within.” He smiles and absently wipes a few remaining curls of wood shavings from his robe. “How may I serve Lord Sunza?”
Joshu smiles, then leaps to the ground, bowing deeply. “Lord Sunza charged me with searching the empire for you, I mean if you were not, ah, here, on this road, the one to Po.” He seems to lose himself for a moment, before the silence forces him on. “Ah, and entreat you to return with me to Qualin. I would be most, Lord Sunza would be most grateful if you will accept his invitation.”
Master Wabi’s forehead furrows, his eyebrows butting heads. “What use has the great Lord Sunza of me?” He asks, trying not to smile, failing, a hint that goes unnoticed.
“I have no——” Joshu corrects himself quickly. “Lord Sunza holds you in great esteem. He will be pleased, ah, should you, ah, agree to return with me. He will, I trust, explain his, ah, purpose to your satisfaction there.” Joshu tries to smile reassuringly. He had wondered what he was going to say to this old man when he found him. Now that it’s over, he’s surprised at how well it went. Surprised and impressed by his own wit and eloquence, how the words just rolled off his tongue. What do you say to a woodcarver anyway? The old man has to be more than he appears, he reminds himself, he certainly couldn’t be less.
Master Wabi shrugs, speaking in a strange distracted manner. “So, the great Lord Sunza, summons? Should I agree? How singular? How strange to be the answer to a great man’s dreams? How unlikely? Ah, to be useful. The scent of it fills my nostrils. Who can deny the utility of being? Should I agree?” He says it aloud, though there’s some question he intended to. He doesn’t wait for a reply, quickly packing his knife and the piece of wood into a small box by his feet. The hinged door to the small box lies open, revealing several bowls nesting inside one another, a little pot, some rice, this and that. Rolling up his straw mat, he loops the cord over his shoulder and slips the sash that holds the box around his neck. Bowing quickly, he tucks his stick under his arm and sets off.
“I guess he is ready to go,” Pa Kua says quietly, sounding dazed.
Joshu watches him go, thinking, a woodcarver that speaks like a madman and carries a little wooden box like a beggar monk. He closes his eyes and sighs, “What have I done?” An answer comes to mind, but he shuts it away, turning his horse past his amused and faintly astonished friends.
“A moment please, Master Wabi,” he calls out. “We’ve brought you a horse.” Master Wabi stops, Joshu reins in next to him.
“A horse? You brought me a horse?” He seems transformed, his face glows like a small boy given a new puppy. His white teeth flash as he smiles, waiting, hand out stretched.
Joshu feels a welcome sense of normalcy return to his chaotic world. He turns in his saddle, calling out cheerfully “Bring the horse for Master Wabi, Baso.”
“Coming, your eminence. Coming,” Baso shouts giving the lead rope a tug. The pony looks at him somewhat casually, but steps forward, its bridle tied to the saddle. Baso urges his horse over with a few ineffectual kicks and hands the lead rope to Master Wabi. His task over, he saws at the reins hammering the ponies ribs to give Master Wabi room to mount.
“Such a fine looking beast,” Master Wabi says, as eyes and teeth flashing, he unfastens the halter, tossing it in the grass, followed quickly by the saddle and blanket. “Now, isn’t that more comfortable?” The pony shakes with surprise, uncertain, then he’s gone.
Joshu tries to say something. His jaw moves, his mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. As the horse bolts away, he finally blurts out, “What ever……? Why did you do that?”
“Why? Why what?” Master Wabi is puzzled, his smile fading.
“You’re supposed to ride it.” Joshu’s voice is tight with anger and the strain of trying to keep it to himself.
“Ride it?” Master Wabi sounds incredulous, bemused.
“Yes, ride it. I brought you the horse to ride.” Joshu struggles with trying to be polite and having something to say, and finding the two incompatible.
“No, thank you,” Master Wabi replies crisply.
“No, thank you.” Joshu repeats dumbly. It sounds stupid, but he can’t think of anything more meaningful. Nothing he can say to a guest.
“Shall we go?” Master Wabi nods in the direction the young men just come from.
Joshu glances at his two companions and shrugs. The horse is rapidly disappearing across the valley; nothing short of a bolt of lighting will catch it.
Master Wabi lifts one foot lightly above the ground and kicks off across the sparse grass with the other. His back straight, he moves with a long, bounding stride that leaves the riders staring after him in silence. The distance widens rapidly.
It’s not natural. No one says it, but it’s clearly on their minds. It’s too hot to be afoot. As for bounding about like…..like what? No one’s sure. It’s very odd. They wait for him to stop, to fall to his knees and die. It’s a reasonable expectation, it just doesn’t happen. They watch him receding into the distance, growing small, then tiny.
“Odd.” grunts Baso as the old man draws away. It’s not entirely what he’s thinking. He doesn’t want to say what he’s thinking. An old man goes bounding off faster than a running horse, and in this heat. No one wants to talk about that. No one seems to be able to ……. what is there to say?
Joshu turns to him, “Did you see that? He let the horse go. Just……..let it go. Why did he do that?” The horse is only a speck now, heading across the valley for the far hills beyond. “He could’ve said no.”
“You’ve done something to anger your father, haven’t you, Joshu,” Pa Kua chides. “You could have told your friends. We too, have transgressed the patience of our honored fathers, once or twice, though, certainly never so badly as to deserve this. Still, we would have understood.” His eyes are fixed on the rapidly disappearing form of the woodcarver. “He runs like a chicken? How can he do that?”
“Up yours, Pa Kua,” Joshu responds flatly.
Pa Kua watches Master Wabi disappear in the distance. “Look at him. He runs like a chicken. How does he do that?”
Joshu rolls his eyes, muttering. “I must have been evil in another life.” No one seems to hear or care if they did. They have all said it before. The inference being that one couldn’t have done anything bad enough in this life to deserve this. It’s not true. It just comes to him. He hadn’t thought of it as wrong. He meant no harm. Harm being the last thing he intended, if passion intends anything beyond the need to consummate itself, which is unlikely. There had been one, ah, several young and beautiful flowers, so very sweet. Suddenly he knows himself to be a liar, a rogue. The list grows, whipping him with remorse. Did their fathers’ go to Lord Sunza? The question leaps at him. That would explain the look of caution Lord Sunza gave him, but not this, this mad old man, or would it? Many hours had been wasted in speculation about Lord Sunza’s need for a woodcarver in Qualin, a city bursting with woodcarvers. Perfectly good woodcarvers, some might justifiably be called, great woodcarvers. Rational explanations were quickly exhausted, then the ludicrous. The results didn’t get any better. There’s just no rational reason to bring a woodcarver to Qualin, unless he wasn’t really a woodcarver. If he’s not a woodcarver, why say he is? And if he’s not, then, what is he? And there you are, around and back again and none the wiser. Not that that was important now. What was important now is, how can an old man move so quickly, or a young one, and in this heat? The thought hovers just over his head, casting his mood in dark shadows. There’s no avoiding it, he must be a good mile ahead of them now. An old man——forty or more——how can he do that?
“That’s one strange woodcarver,” Baso says quietly. “Look, he covers ten feet with every stride. He bounces?”
“Who,” Pa Kua snaps?
“Who? Who do you think…. Master Wabi.” Baso’s brow clouds in anger then clears. “Have you been drinking enough water, Pa Kua?” The question is not well intended and goes unanswered. “Who, do you think? Have you thought of getting a hat?”
“Bounces? And there’s no need to whisper. I can barely see him.” Pa Kua shades his eyes with his palm, squinting in the glare, adding, “He is very quick, isn’t he?”
Ignoring Pa Kua, Baso whispers, “How does he do that?”
“Ask him,” Joshu replies in the same voice.
“I don’t want to ask him,” Baso snaps. “He’s strange.” He knows Joshu is making fun of him. The old man’s crazy, or worse. There had been rumors….he doesn’t want to say it, not out loud. Still, it might have helped the conversation.
“Of course he’s strange, Baso. He just turned a perfectly good horse loose out here in the middle of……wherever.” Then another thought, a frightening thought. How well does his father know this man?
“You are afraid of what he might tell you. Hey, Baso? Afraid of a little bad luck?” Pa Kua enjoys drubbing the obvious and if it draws blood; whack it again. He’s heard stories of people who walk like chickens. Not that he believed them, but he heard them. So has Baso.
“He is a very strange man,” Baso says quietly.
“Strange, but quick, and in this heat too. The man’s unwell. We’d better catch him before he dies. How could we explain that to Lord Sunza?” Joshu digs in his heels. The pony snorts, grumbling as it breaks into a lope.
“We?” Baso and Pa Kua exchange glances and whip their horses after him.
The little steppe horses lengthen their stride to a gallop, their bellies low to the ground. They’re tough, wiry, animals capable of carrying even the massive Baso all day long, although not as quickly. Baso’s horse slowly falls behind.
Joshu’s suffering from doubt and the intensity of all this self-conscious scrutiny. It makes his head hurt. Nothing about it makes any sense. His mission’s a fool’s errand, he knows that now. Not that it matters. If Lord Sunza wanted him to go to Po for a woodcarver or to the southern jungles for a red ass ape, he would go. Truthfully, he had been happy to go. Somehow that makes it worse. His thoughts linger for a moment on the bright eyes and soft smiles that beckoned from the windows the day they left and smiles despite the guilt that nips at him. Yes, he’d been happy to go. The sameness of everything had been closing in on him more and more each day. The evenings in Qualin had turned warm with the coming of spring. A dangerous time of year when you are young and closely watched by a few angry fathers. It was all a misunderstanding, but none of them would listen. They didn’t understand the purity of his love for their daughters and thought the worse. One turned dogs loose in the courtyard at night. Another hired sharp-eyed guards with crossbows. He was elated when Lord Sunza gave him this mission. Mission sounds better than errand, more important. It had been all he could do to contain himself as he bowed his way out of Lord Sunza’s audience chamber. How circumspect he’d been. He hadn’t actually shouted with glee, that was gratifying. It would be undignified for a son of Lord Sunza to be seen leaping about, acting a fool. Still, he had been an idiot. Mission? All he could think of was how impressed Pa Kua and Baso will be. Not that they would admit it, still he knew they would be eating their livers with envy. What an idiot? As for all that running, dodging between the tables, carts and stalls, how many people did he knock down? There must have been thousands there, fingering rolls of cloths, squeezing cabbages, smelling the onions, laughing at the idiot shouting about his mission. Mission. He feels despair welling up from some cold place, deep inside his belly. Baso had been eating a steamed bun, buying a second from a vendor, pretending to ignore him. Pa Kua had glanced away from a cook cutting up chickens, frowned and said. “A what?”
“We’re going on a mission, a mission.” Everyone in Qualin heard him. Oh, now they’ll remember. They will remember and I’ll never live it down. Humiliation mingles with the despair, sapping his strength, leaving him limp, barely able to stay in the saddle. He wants to choke himself, to pull his hair, but he needs both hands to control his horse.
It doesn’t come to him quickly. In his suffering he doesn’t notice his little pony slowing, losing interest. It’s hot, too hot to be chasing about like this. The pony is lathered with sweat and glares up at him with one eye, its ears flattened to its skull. It drops into a slow shuffling trot, ignoring his heels in its sides. That’s when he notices Master Wabi is no closer. He’s still bounding along in the heat and dust, farther away if anything, about to disappear. He watches him for a few moments, his fantasy of suicide fading. Master Wabi just outran a horse, well a pony, but a steppe pony, and in this heat. It’s a sobering thought. This Master Wabi is not your normal madman. No, he couldn’t be, but the thought persists. What if he is? Even might be, changes everything. Yes. Now it’s simply a matter of bluffing it out and carrying on. It’s a mission. He is on a mission. He smiles and laughs to himself, then frowns. This is going to be difficult, very difficult.
