DisappeARINGSELF

Chapter Three, Chicken Walking by Ed Parker

Chapter 3–-The Bamboo Flute

In the soft rose of dawn, Master Wabi leads his sullen little group out through the village gate for distant Qualin. Cheerfully ignoring the growing heat, Master Wabi walks effortlessly with a rapid pushing stride, a curious motion, something of a long, low leap with a bit of a float toward the end. He comments on clouds, trees, the effect of the wind upon the grass, his words seemingly going unnoticed where they are not ignored. Deprived of their horses, the young men find their mission has grown burdensome and have little to say. They carry their possessions in a large basket slung from a bamboo pole, taking turns carrying it, often having to trot, breaking into a run when they fall behind. Soon they are tired and irritable. Their irritation grows each time Master Wabi lopes off down the road, each time they find him waiting, scraping at his small bits of wood, or napping. Each time their resentment grows.

The sun becomes steadily hotter, sweat snaping from every pore, the young men shed their clothes, piece by piece, by mid morning they are down to their loin cloths. Still, it grows hotter. The air swells and grows thick. Conversation has long ceased, the heat dominates their thoughts, shutting down their brains leaving only discomfort and pain in the void. The morning wears on and the sweat streams down their dusty bodies making their loin cloths chafe.

The road follows the edge of a low ridge of hills. Across a broad empty valley, mountains appear hazy blue in the distance, seeming to smolder there. There are a few signs of improvement, trees have became more frequent, their shade offering a tempting respite from the sun’s glare. In the trees’ cool shade a small stream appears as the sun works it way through the leaves and branches to sparkle off the tumbling water. There is coolness in the lush green grass that borders the stream and in the sound of the water sliding gently over the flat boulders. The sound of it lingers in the air, beckoning to them, softly calling out their names. The stream slips seductively through shady shadows, disappearing, reappearing, drawing closer and closer, its gentle wash filling their minds. By mid afternoon, their eye’s are glazed, their minds captivated by the sparkling cool water.

Jogging along beside Master Wabi, Joshu croaks, “Master Wabi…. you seem tired. Perhaps, perhaps,…. you might, …..might care to rest . . . In the shade . . . under those trees?” He wipes his brow and with sweat stinging his eyes, points weakly toward some willows growing by the stream.

“Ah yes.” Master Wabi’s grin stretches his face wide. “We can lay in the shade, bath in the stream, let our loin cloths dry. Besides there are people coming, we should let them pass by, don’t you think?. It would be a good time to eat those rice balls.”

“What people?” Joshu’s voice sounding distantly interested, vaguely concerned. Adding belatedly, “How can you think of rice balls in this heat?”

“The people coming down the road,” replies Master Wabi. “And I’m hungry and partial to rice balls”

Joshu, looks down the empty road, “What people?”

“If you wish, we can watch them from the shade of those trees, while we eat.” Master Wabi’s face betrays no hint of the smile in his voice. It is a well trained face, he has spent years working with it, training it. It’s his hobby. His voice has not progressed as well.

“As you wish. It is not important. Perhaps some water? Yes, that would be good. Cool drink of water,” mumbles Joshu. He turns abruptly, staggers across the grass and sprawls face down in the stream.

“Inconsiderate lout. Look, he’s muddied the water.”

“Ah Baso, you judge him harshly. He’s quite dead.”

“Dead you say? How vile? Vile and inconsiderate. People have to drink that water. Will he stink much, you think?”

Pushing himself out of the water with his arms, Joshu looks up at Baso and Pa Kua. They are sitting naked on a couple of rocks in the shade, wringing out their loin cloths into the stream above him.

“It rises from the dead. It’s a miracle. Have we found the Elixir of Immortality in the sweat of our loins, Baso?”

“It appears so, my friend, indeed it does. However, I am afraid it’s far too soon to excite the Emperor with the news. Much too soon. The effect may only be temporary. Observe him carefully.” Baso pauses and looks at the sky. “I must…. nap. Yes, a nap to restore my cognitive juices. Wake me if he dies, or does something peculiar.” He flings his wet loin cloth over a bush to dry and lays down on a rock.

Joshu, begins unwinding his loincloth, too tired to respond.

“How does he do that,” Baso grumbles?

“It just wraps around and tucks,” Pa Kua answers absently.

“You know what I mean, shit head,” Baso whispers?

“Not at all,” Pa Kua whispers back.

“Master Wabi?” Irritation edges Baso’s voice

“He is over there, I think. Shall I fetch him?”

“How does he do that?”

Does what?”

“What? You know, walk like that.”

“At all, or all day?”

“All day, but I would be satisfied with, at all.”

“Why don’t you ask him,” replies a drifting Pa Kua?

“Do I look like a fool?” Baso snaps.

“Yes.”

Baso sniffs disdainfully and looks away.

After a bath and short nap, Joshu feels somewhat recovered, the pain in his legs and feet having largely faded. As he lays in the shade, the tickle of sweat rolling down his ribs, he lets his thoughts drift..
Such a strange man. What can Lord Sunza want with him? It must have nothing to do with woodcarving, he’s made little enough progress with those little bits of wood. Should I ask him? How would I word it? Straight out? What does my father want with you? Sounds rude. Or, I could start by asking him about the way he walks. There’s a whole conversation right there. Ah, excuse me Master Wabi, why do you walk like a chicken? Too, to the point. He might find that offensive. Silly looking——scooting along like a startled chicken. Indecent. He doesn’t fly, does he? An uncomfortable thought, troubling. I’ll ask about the stick, that should be safe enough. A little flattery, an attentive smile, soon he will be going on about his grandchildren. He finds his feet slowly, wishing that his sense of duty was less pronounced, or more discreet, and limps over to where Master Wabi sits carving in the shade.

“Master Wabi, sir. Forgive my intrusion, Master Wabi. I could not help but notice your staff, it’s ah, most unusual.” The stick is as thick as his arm, gnarled, deeply polished, where it isn’t rough, and short. It beggars “most unusual.” Unique, scarcely does it justice.

“Staff? Ah yes, Urti. I found her long ago in the mountains,” responds Master Wabi pleasantly. “Or perhaps she found me, it’s difficult to say. We’ve been together a long time.”

“Her….? Ah yes. It seems a little crooked.”

“Does it? I never noticed. She has her own mind. You know women. Does as she pleases. I have no expectations of her and she’s never let me down. Something of an adventure living with Urti. A novel idea, don’t you think?” He smiles warmly, then grows serious. “Perhaps not. Anyway She was a tree before becoming the stick you take her for. A little tree. Still is, you know. Well no, you wouldn’t, would you, living in the double world and all? No matter. Tell me have you always been so easily influenced by appearances? Apparently. Well then, she grew slowly for a long time, with great difficulty. The soil poor, the weather harsh and unpredictable, so on and so on. One day she became this stick you see here and a real beauty, if you don’t mind my saying so. Makes you think.” He looks quickly away, his shoulders silently heaving. He follows the corner of his eyes back to Joshu, coughs quietly, becoming serious. “Still, I’m surprised she grew as straight as she did, all things considered.” He forces another cough. “Life being what it is.” Pursing his lips, he glances down at his feet. “Few things being as straight as we would have them.” Master Wabi’s laugh fades slowly as he sees Joshu’s expression, and sighs. Young people——no one has a sense of humor anymore. “I’m pleased you find her so remarkable. She certainly is, you know?”

“Life is, ah, hard in the mountains?” Joshu ignores the rest. It’s a stick, a badly twisted, clumsy looking stick. As for the rest of it——calling it Urti, talking about it as if it were a girl. Well, he is just not going there. Living in the double world? Whatever that is?

Neither of them went anywhere for some time. As the silence turns painful, Master Wabi decides to help him. “Mountains are mountains and everywhere life is hard. It was good living in the mountains.”

“What did you do in the mountains?” Joshu sounds relieved, delighted to be talking of mountains. He knows a little about mountains.

“I grew.” Master Wabi stares off at the blue sky mingling through the light-green leaves. If there was more, it went unsaid.

“You where raised in the mountains,” Joshu prods? Wanting to keep this mountain thing going.

“Yes, from a state of considerable ignorance, much like your own, to the very peaks of indifference. Ah, but I’m not a mountain and it was cold there, so we left, Urti and I.” His smile is warm, benign, forgiving.

Joshu coughs. He doesn’t want to go there either. Not that he’s ignorant. He knows a great deal about what he knows, though the subjects are limited and there is so much that isn’t worth knowing. It’s touchy, talking with a crazy. He forces himself to stick to the stick. “This a stick, a staff should be straight, don’t you think? And a little thick, not to mention crooked, have you thought of whittling it back, slimming it down?” He smiles agreeably. He knows all about staffs.

“Whittle her back, slim her down?" He looks down at his stick. "Now Urti, he didn’t mean it,” he whispers, his face ashen and worried edgeing her behind him. Suddenly he narrows his eyes, his eyebrows jutting out like horns. “She’s straight,” he says, his voice unequivocal, challenging. Drawing the stick from behind his back, the stick is straight.

Joshu leaps to his feet staring at the staff. It’s straight. It's as straight as any staff he’s ever seen, straighter, if such is possible. “How . . . ? What’s . . . ? This isn’t . . . ? How did you do that?”

“Do what?” Master Wabi’s eyebrows quiver once or twice, raising, lowering, challenging.

Joshu pauses, catching the challenge, but missing its ramifications as he plunges ahead. “You know, make it straight like that.” It’s the best he can do.

“It’s hot. You’re tired, your eyes deceive you. Why don’t you lie down? Take a nap, you’ll feel better.” Master Wabi’s voice is gentle, consoling, soothing.

Joshu looks at the staff, at Master Wabi’s faint condescending smile, back to the staff. It’s clearly slim, straight, long enough, most staff like. He must have switched them. Slight of hand. There’s no other reasonable explanation. He pushes an unreasonable one to the back of his mind, ignoring it.
Master Wabi holds out his staff. “Here, help an old man up.”

Joshu is a respectful young man, obedient to his elder, and grasps the end of the staff without thinking. Suddenly the staff contracts to its previous length, pulling Master Wabi lightly to his feet before Joshu can let go of it.

“Whaaaa! Sons of old Chin whores.” Joshu leaps back, his fingers spring wide as though burned. “I, ah——.” His mind whirls in denial and chaos, reaching out, searching for something, unhappy with what he's finding. There was no mistaking it. No mistake to it. That wasn’t the problem at all. It was all about context, for what he had touched was warm and entirely feminine. Feminine? And hadn't heard a giggle? A giggle? Many of the details were missing, the few he could find were confused. it could well have been a lack of context, lack of something. A poor reason for just letting it all go, and in truth, there had been no decision made to do so. It left of its own accord, no intent to it, which left, well, nothing. Having nothing to say and a great need to say something, he croaks out, “My back.” Tucking his hand behind him as he backs away. “I’ll ah, just lie down, yes, lie down. It’s very warm. The sun.” His voice fading to ashes.

Master Wabi watches Joshu stagger off. “The world is full of illusions, And yes, Urti, he should be more aware, but he is not. Enjoyed that, did you?” he says quietly, chuckling. He puts down the block of wood he had been scraping and takes the fourth block of wood from his box. “Yes, I know she is here, Urti. Now, this should be interesting.”

Joshu hears them before they are in sight, horse hooves, the jingle of equipment and armor. People, the thought startles him. Master Wabi’s right, but not just people——soldiers. The Emperor’s soldiers. They will ask questions, difficult questions about travel passes, an unauthorized sword. No one’s taking his sword. Nudging his sleeping companions, pressing his fingers to his lips, he points to where the road emerges from behind the brush-covered hill and stealthily slips behind a bush. Baso looks disdainfully toward the sound coming from up the road and reluctantly follows his example. Pa Kua peers from behind a nearby tree. All three are concentrating on the approaching sounds. Another sound, a sound like the death rattle of an ox breaks out behind them. It rises to a snorting crescendo, dying to a gargling wheeze then to worrisome silence before beginning anew. Joshu’s head jerks around, his eyes wide. There in a patch of sun lies Master Wabi, asleep, a bubble of spittle on his loose lips. A desire to kill twists Joshu’s face, it trembles and tugs, then reluctantly passes. He sighs as martyrs sigh and biting his lip carefully tosses a small pebble near Master Wabi’s head to wake him, to get his attention. Nothing. A second pebble follows the first, then a third. Desperate, he casts a fist sized rock gently toward Master Wabi’s high domed belly. Master Wabi turns over with a snort, his staff strikes the rock with a loud whack. A disbelieving Joshu watches the rock slowly wing its tumbling way toward him, coming closer, closer, then nothing.

Later, minutes, hours, not hours, he thinks, but he’s not sure, as he wipes the blood from the mushiness around his eye and sees little green pennons fluttering above the brush near the bend in the road. A twinge of urgency begins to jiggle and heave inside him as the little flags draw nearer and nearer. We’re doomed. The thought takes hold of his mind and nudges him into action. With sweat stinging his eyes, spitting blood and mud, he pulls himself toward Master Wabi on his elbows. Could he have done that on purpose? No way. It's just the luck of the crazies. He almost smiles, but there’s no time. He has to get this mad man out of sight. Lunging the last few feet, he scrapes the bottom of Master Wabi’s sandal with his fingernails.

“Thieves, robbers, bandits,” roars Master Wabi. He leaps to his feet, and sets to beating Joshu with his club. Baso steps in front of him, his massive form protecting the prostrate and perplexed Joshu from this terrible drubbing. Pa Kua circles in from the side. Smiling, Master Wabi dances forward and back, bouncing from foot to foot, fists milling. He flicks his nose with his thumb, a chip of wood sits on his shoulder.

Joshu pushes himself up with his arms and realizes he’s unhurt. Unhurt? The thought mesmerizes him, his mind drifts, bemused, unattended.

Baso and Pa Kua keep their focus on Master Wabi. Clearly, a madman, attacking Joshu for no reason. Madman or no, enough is ah bloody enough. Not that they mean to hurt him, not badly. He’s an old man and crazy. They’ll simply render him tractable in polite company——as a public service. Nothing is said, nothing has to be said, they’ve known each other a long time, each knows how the other fights. Baso rolls his massive shoulders and begins stalking, his stance upright, shoulders down, knees slightly flexed, one hand opens, the other closes into a fist. His sandals barely graze the ground as he slips forward. His eyes are on the old villain, bloody mayhem surging from his testicles to finger tips. He’ll just break the old man’s collar bones. Pa Kua crouches low, slipping relentlessly to the side, he circles Master Wabi like a wolf working its prey. Patiently waiting, ready to slash in, perhaps break a rib or take out a knee. He’s in no hurry, the old man is tricky and quick, for an old man. Still, he wants to take him off guard, less fuss that way. Baso springs. One hand reaching to grab the old weasel, a fist coiled tight to his chest, his muscles bunched, quivering. He moves like a falling boulder. Pa Kua twists, changing directions like a snake, striking low and from the side. He’s a boxer, his fists and feet a blur. Master Wabi slips between them like a puff of smoke, pinching Pa Kua’s ear with one hand, pushing Baso to the ground with the other.

Suddenly everything is still. Baso’s flat on his back, his eyes wide with astonishment. Pa Kua stands a few feet away, pulling stupidly at his ear. They stare at Master Wabi for a moment in disbelief, then look away. For an instant, their egos, their pride, continue to swirl high like dry leaves in an autumn wind, then pause in realization, to fall in tatters. They look at each other trying to find an answer, some confirmation in the known, and fail. This is just wrong. It couldn’t, didn’t happen. An old man, quicker, stronger——? Not in this life. Baso lurches to his feet. He may have tripped. Yes, he’s sure of it, willing to swear to it. He must have, there’s no other explanation. Pa Kua steps back, into the shade, feeling his face and searching his memory for gaps or signs of sun damage. He’s heard of such things. Too long in the sun. Yes, of course. How simple?

Joshu is on his feet, disheveled, dusty, his mind on the approaching danger. He raises his arms and steps between Master Wabi and his slowly recovering friends. “Stop it,” he hisses. “They’ll see us.”

“Who’ll see us,” joins Baso and Pa Kua, delighted by this unexpected intervention? Change the subject. Oh, yes. Oh my yes. This to shall pass and so forth. Merely a dream and no more to flee the needs of everyday.

“The soldiers,” Joshu pauses, collecting himself. “Coming,” he stops to swallow. “Quickly, we have to hide. Get out of sight and be quiet.”

Down the road, from behind the brush and trees, axle squeaking, timbers groaning, rolls an old ox cart. No one notices the ox, still less, the cart. All eyes are on the young woman. She is tall and walks with long powerful strides that endow her faded blue robe with form and vigor. Her face is turned away as she peers over her shoulder. All that can be seen is the sway of her long blue-black hair, glistening as she tosses her head. She urges the ox to greater speed with little pokes of a long bamboo flute and impatient sounding words, too low to be heard. Suddenly she glances around and seess them. Startled, she flinches, her eyes wide, just for a moment, only for a moment. Then she dismisses them, her attention on something unseen behind her.

They see the scorn in her eyes. Scorn? They look at each other and see themselves as they have always seen each other——dashing, a little dusty, but strong and manly. Perhaps she’s frightened? Coy? She must be shy? The loin cloths? Must be.

Joshu stares open-mouthed. Where is the army? The marching soldiers. Searching for some reasonable explanation other than——what? He’s losing his mind? Perhaps so, anyway it worries him, worries him a lot. He shakes it off. She is really quite beautiful.

“Ah, fierce be the bloodthirsty hordes from the east,” Pa Kua cracks, and laughs. The silence quickly stifles him. Joshu looks irritated. Baso rolls his eyes, embarrassed. They don’t get it. He considers explaining it to them, but no.

Baso absently scratches between his shoulders. A girl. How embarrassing? Where are the soldiers? He’s sure he heard soldiers. Could they be chasing her? He dismisses that thought out of hand, even soldiers could catch an ox cart. It must be the heat. Then, it could be the loin cloths.

Joshu steps into the road, stopping well in front of her. Smiling. Careful not to appear intimidating. It wouldn’t do to frighten her. “Please stop. Just for a moment. I mean you no harm,” his voice sounding louder than he intended.

“That’s nice. But no. Now, if you will get out of my way?” She barely glances at him.

“Wait. Wait just a moment, please. Did you pass some soldiers just now, on the road?”

“No one, I passed no one. No soldiers. Nothing, no one.” She sighs, pointedly. A sigh of despair, of long suffering. “If I say please, will you move? I’m in a hurry.” Glancing behind her again, she lightly taps the back of the ox with her bamboo flute.

“What is chasing you then?” He persists, desperate to start a conversation. Confident she will see his good intentions.

“What is chasing you? Did I pass some soldiers? How did I get to be any of your concern? You want my advice?” Offered rhetorically, apparently. “Well, I’m going to give it to you. You seem over heated, touched by the sun. You following me here, addled boy? Do us both a favor. See that stream, go stick your head in it. A cold bath will do you good.” Her nose wrinkles with distaste as she looks him over, adding, “And put on some clothes. You look as dark as a piece of bad meat”

Delighted to have her attention, ignoring the coolness of it, he skips along beside her, unable to take his eyes from her. “Why do you keep looking over your shoulder? Someone chasing you?” His mouth’s working on its own, his mind’s on the sweep of her lips, the curve of her cheeks, her eyes.

The ox slows, tossing its head with a bellowing groan as if the cart has suddenly grown heavier. Startled, she looks at the laboring ox to see if it’s unwell. Eyes narrowing dubiously, she gives the ox a tentative poke with her flute. She looks back at him, “Will it make you happy . . . ?” Her voice is sharp with annoyance. Suddenly she appears disoriented, confused. Her voice tightens as she struggles to speak, sounding as if she’s about to cry. “It, it was all so terrible. My home burned, my mother dead. I’m taking her to the temple. I don’t know what to do.” Then she’s herself again, seemingly oblivious to the change. “And you, naked boy,” her voice low and ominous, “you, are in my way. Now, move your butt.” The struggling ox gets another jab in the ribs from her flute.

Confused Joshu steps to the side of the road and watches her pass. Wanting to reason with her, but unable to find a reason. What did he say? Then something catches his eye. Lying in the back of the cart is a long bundle, a body wrapped in cloth, beside it is a large wooden box with iron bands. The realization of what it was, what it means, hit him like a club. He's an idiot, a complete idiot. “Forgive me,” he calls out in a voice dry and cracking with sincerity. “I ah, have been rude, inconsiderate. I must apologize. I don’t know what to say. I didn’t know.” He runs up beside her. “Allow me to start over. My name is Joshu, son of Lord Sunza, a respected family in Qualin. My companions and I will accompany you to the temple. You must not be afraid. No one will harm you.” It wasn’t the right thing to say. He can see it in her eye.

“Listen to me, bucko. I fear nothing and no one. No one. You understand me? No man, living or dead, not up the road, not here, not chasing along behind me with his thing in his hand. No one. Now, go away before you find out why. Harm me”, she snorts? “No one will harm you, little missy. You got that right, Erecto. Men are such idiots” By then she’s speaking over her shoulder.

He feels his skin burn, the anger and embarrassment merging, reinforcing each other, making it hard to see. He isn’t used to rejection, not so sudden anyway. She’s so beautiful, and he did so want to——all he wanted was to help her. Now she can rot. Bitch. What did he do? Nothing. Why is she so angry? He only tried to help. Is that wrong? Had she turned, she would have seen him sarcastically bowing and waving her on. Had she bothered to look.

Her abrupt dismissal of Joshu is joyfully received by Pa Kua. “Ah yes. A very discerning, intelligent young woman. A superior woman, not Joshu’s type at all. ” This unexpected opportunity to upstage Joshu makes him forget himself, at least his appearance. Tall and thin, his usual elegance is lost in a bagging loincloth. It’s the first of his errors. Trying to dodge around Baso to speak with her, is his second.

It was a reflex really, he wasn’t half trying, fully expecting Pa Kua to duck. Still, it was a meaty thump that sent the skinny runt sprawling, making Baso smile with satisfaction. Pa Kua’s hard to hit. Unfortunately, now he has to say something to the girl. He wishes he had his robe. He’s uncomfortable talking to girls in his loin cloth, uncomfortable talking to girls, but there’s no help for it. So far he’s well ahead and the game hardly started, which makes him pause. Too bad she wasn’t a barrel of beer.

Pa Kua shoots to his feet then catches himself. Baso has no charm, no sophistication, let him make a fool of himself. A poem. Yes, a poem will do nicely. He sets to work on the words.

The girl sees Baso approach out of the corner of her eye and sighs. "Why won’t they leave me alone? Is that too much to ask?"

“Ah, excuse me, miss. My name is Baso——from a respectable and noble family. You must forgive my friend. Touched by the sun, but harmless. None of us would do a thing to harm you. We only want to help. Please stop. Talk with us.” He hasn’t thought this through, but means well and trusts in his sincerity. Like most young men, he has difficulty seeing things from a young woman’s point of view, doesn’t think of how all this must appear to a young woman, by herself on a lonely country road. Still, it does cross his mind and he wishes he had thought of it a little sooner. Besides it’s not working. It’s in her eye, the way she grips that flute. No, this isn’t going at all well. “We ah, were bathing. We ah, didn’t expect,” he trails off and stops. Silence. She’s very pretty. But that look? He smiles and steps aside.

Pa Kua flows around the defeated Baso, trying to bow as he walks. Stumbling, he manages to keep his feet, but loses everything else. “And I, gentle woman, am Pa Kua, son of a great and noble family known throughout Hawn for our greatness and nobility. We’re all very noble and trustworthy, I assure you. Most upright fellows. How may I be of assistance?” It’s not what he had planned.

“And I’m the Emperor’s grandmother,” she snaps.

Pa Kua draws back. Her eyes are cold and the way she holds that bamboo flute, is, ah, disconcerting. There’s violence in those eyes. “Yes, of course,” he says, shaken, barely remembering to smile.

“The lot of you’re a great deal of trouble for men who only wish to help,” she hisses in passing. “You try my patience,” She doesn’t bother to turn her head.

“Another time then. Well Baso, she seems preoccupied with previous commitments. We must not detain her.”

“I think she means to beat you to death with that flute, Pa Kua. A most inglorious end.”

“Such a lovely girl. So very busy.”

She jabs the ambling ox in the ribs again. The ox lows in protest and turns its head to look at her reproachfully. “You want to help,” she calls over her shoulder? “Go kill a few robbers and bandits. They’re the cause of all this.” Under her breath she adds, “Join them for all I care. If you find any left alive.”

“Let her go,” Joshu shouts. We will deal with these bandits.” Then adds, “Someone will learn to treat us with a little respect.” She is lovely, he thinks wistfully.

Pa Kua sniffs and watches her disappear down the road. Baso stares at the clouds. It seems cooler now.
Master Wabi shakes his head and smiles. He might as well have been invisible. Still, it was interesting. Swinging the sash over his shoulder, wondering where Urti was off to. Such passion and drama. Romance and storms are always exciting. Then he sees Urti. a few flowers showing, lying in the cart next to the bundle, and laughs.

The girl, the ox cart and its content are soon forgotten or nearly so. They travel quickly, Master Wabi seems to fly over the road with his odd pushing gait, the three young men, fully dressed now, trot grimly on, running when they fall behind. No one has much to say as they jogs along. They’re carrying the basket between them on a pole, rotating the duty every few miles.

Joshu’s has been thinking of what he is going to say to Master Wabi when he has the chance, questions that have been bothering him. Still, it’s some time before he can bring himself to speak. “What was all that about, back there?” It isn’t what he intended, but it will have to do.

Master Wabi looks confused. “What?”

“Hitting me with your stick.”

“Oh that. You expect too much. One should not rely on expectations.”

“I expect too much?” The silence lasts for a good half mile, finally. “I don’t understand.” Master Wabi smiles and walks a little faster, forcing Joshu to run to keep up with him. “I don’t understand,” Joshu says again, looking irritated.

Master Wabi clasps his hands, resting them on his stomach legs shooting out almost absently as he chicken walks slowly down the road. Joshu, trots panting along beside him. “Of course you don’t understand, Joshu. If you did, you wouldn’t ask. The question is, can you?”

“Can I? What?” Irritation showing in his voice.

“Understand. You’re being a bit thick Joshu. You must pay attention.”

Joshu keeps glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. Curious, yet hesitant. “What’s there to understand?”

Master Wabi looks at him smugly, “You see.” Before Joshu can think of anything to say, Master Wabi walks a little faster, leaving joshu and his doubts far behind.
******

Chapter Four, Chicken Walking by Ed Parker

Chapter 4-–Chicken Walking

As evening’s dusk darkens to night, they hear shouting ahead, growling voices sounding ominous and primordial. Shortly a small mob appears crowding the narrow road, their faces lost in the dark. Closer they became farmers, twenty or more, waving torches, hoes, and pitchforks with the jerkiness of angry impatient men. Master Wabi slows his pace, allowing his companions to move ahead, curious to see what they would do.

The three young men, like the mob, are angry, out of patience. Baso moves a little to the left, planting his feet firmly in the dust of the road, his wide body rooted, immovable. Pa Kua crouches low to the right, a long wide knife in each hand, tucked back out of sight inside the sleeves of his robe. Joshu holds the center, a step in front of his friends, his long sword loose in its scabbard.

“Silence,” roars Joshu. He’s tired, tired of carrying baggage, tired of running to keep up with an old weirdo, tired of not being treated with respect. He feels the tug of his demons.

“Odd looking bunch of thieves and robbers,” Master Wabi says from the darkness.

Joshu ignores Master Wabi’s hint and grabs the hilt of his sword and leans forward, his right shoulder like a drawn bow. A roar sweeps over him as the mob surges forward.

One of the faceless men in the crowd dashes out in front, his arms raised over his head, shouting for quiet. Slowly, reluctantly, the shouting and cursing subside. “Now, let me handle this.” His voice is louder than need be, and carries to the three would be heroes. “If they’re the thieves, we’ll punish them quick enough.” Turning to Joshu, he shouts impatiently. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” His voice, if not his words, convey that he a reasonable man grown short tempered.

Taken aback by this semblance of reason, uncertainty tugs at Joshu. Why are they calling them thieves?. There is a voice in his head that wants to wade through them, cutting, slashing with his sword, limbs and blood flying in all directions. Ah, wouldn’t they be surprised? Just who do they think they’re dealing with? Thieves, my ass. Then it’s gone and he feels ashamed. These are just ignorant farmers, angry and upset about something. He’s made a fool of himself enough today.

“Travelers.” Joshu barks, having half forgotten the question. “Who are you?”

Pa Kua regains his full height and stands with his arms crossed, a disgusted look on his face. Baso moves closer to Joshu, frowning with curiosity and doubt.

“We’re looking for thieves. Our village was robbed.”

“You look for thieves with torches and hoes in your hands. What are you going to do if you find them, weed them to death?”

“We’re farmers. We do what we must with what we have.”

“Search them,” yells a voice from the crowd, quickly joined by several others.

“Do they look like they are carrying a statue,” the leader shouts? Do you want to pat their robes and look up their butts? You would enjoy that wouldn’t you, Yuan? You old pervert.” His words have a mollifying effect on the crowd, if not on Yuan, who continues to mutter.

“Someone stole a statue from your village?” Joshu offers for lack of anything better, hoping to get this exchange going again in the off chance he'll be able to make some sense of it.

“Yes,” the leader replies, “and a box of money. Have you seen anyone one the road today?”

“Only a young woman with an ox and cart this afternoon. She told us brigands burned her home and murdered her mother. We saw the body in the cart.”

A growl raises from the crowd. Their leader struggles to regain order, pushing some back and calling out to others by name. Yuan’s in particular, he being a persistent and annoying instigator.

Joshu, and Baso glance at one another in search of inspiration and find only puzzled looks and confusion. The pure water of their good intentions has grown muddy, as muddy as the Great River, tasting worse. Pa Kua frowns in disgust and absently wiggles a rock in the road with his toe.

“Tell me what you saw in the cart. Just what you saw. And why are you carrying a sword? You know that’s against the law.” The leader of the villagers sounds tired and frustrated.

Something snaps in Joshu. He turns stiffly, his eyebrows raised in righteous outrage. “Against the Emperor’s law, you say? Well, so it is. We must understand each other, you and I,” his hand involuntarily caresses his sword’s hilt. “You are tired. I am tired. Don’t make this difficult for me. Believe me, you won’t like it. Now, let’s start again. I’m Joshu, son of Lord Sunza, Duke of Qualin. These are my companions.” He leans forward, speaking quickly, emphatically, “And the sword is none of your affair.”

The vigilante leader seems startled, then contrite, he steps back, bowing half heartedly. “The sword…we, ah, thought you were robbers. But that is not important now. I am known as Pai. I have an inn in the next village, should you need a place to stay. Our rice and beans are famous through out these mountains.” He gestures vaguely behind them. “Please forgive my rudeness. I forget my manners. This is a terrible thing, this crime, my lord. It has been a terrible day.”

“I’m not a lord. I’m the son of a lord. Lord Sunza has many sons. I am the least and most unimportant of Lord Sunza’s sons.” The uselessness of the explanation stops him. “It doesn’t matter. So, someone stole your statue and a box of money?” Trying to take charge of the conversation and struggling with it, having had little practice.

“Yes, your lordship. The money for the Emperor’s taxes.”

“We saw a girl with an ox cart. There was a long bundle wrapped in cloth in the back of it.” A calmer Joshu continues. “It looked like a body wrapped in white cloth. There was a wooden box, as well.”

“With iron bands, noble sir?”

“Yes, with iron bands.” Joshu answers slowly, with a sigh of resignation.

“Merciful heavens. It must have been our statue. Just one girl with an ox, you say? We should be able to handle one girl. The box contains the money for our taxes. Please allow us to pass, young sirs, we may yet catch this thief.”

After the farmers were gone, Joshu gives a strangled cry of frustration and rage. “She made fools of us.”

“We are all fools, some are ignorant fools, some know their limitations. You three are ignorant fools. The worst kind of fools. She could only improve upon your foolishness,” says Master Wabi, unrolling his mat under the trees by the side of the road. “If you wish to chase about any more tonight, you will find me here when you return. Good night.”

The three young men protest loudly that they are not fools, but their voices gradually lose conviction as they realize Master Wabi is quite asleep.

***********************

Mists shift, rising in the light of the false dawn. Dream like, a figure moves slow as a stalking tiger, vanishing, reappearing in the slowly swirling mist. Nearby three shapeless lumps lay sprawled on the ground. Occasionally one turns, snorts and groans, asserting its place among the living.

The young men awake to find Master Wabi making tea. A kettle steams over a small fire. “If you have bowls, I have tea.” Master Wabi smiles cheerfully into the flames, listening to the groans of the three stirring forms. The aroma of the tea pulls the young men to their feet.

Joshu sits on a stone, looking forlornly into his bowl of tea. Pa Kua and Baso find fascination in clouds and the flight of distant birds. No one speaks of the girl. No one argues that they are not fools. The wounds are too raw. Someday perhaps. Indeed, someday they might laugh about it. Perhaps tell the story to their grandchildren——perhaps, but not this morning. Master Wabi sings happy little songs quietly to himself with no regard for their silent suffering. They are not used to walking long distances, their feet and bodies ache from the abuse. Still, for all the physical pain, the worst felt, the sharpest sting, is the chagrin, that death by a thousand imagined cuts.

“Their village must be nearby. Those farmers could not have walked far, burdened with so much anger. It would be interesting to learn the cause of all this excitement and mystery.” Master Wabi smiles with benign understanding as they stiffen and glare.

“Would it?” Joshu replies quietly without looking up. “I, most respectfully, think not. Should the girl, the ox cart, the statue, the money, the farmers, indeed the entire village all fall into a bottomless pit, it would be of little matter to me.” The lie in his voice makes everyone uncomfortable.

Baso speaks without thinking. “Why do you walk like you do, like a chicken? Forgive me, I mean no disrespect. Still, well, it looks silly.” He watches a small flock of birds pecking in the dust by the road. A quiver runs down his back as he listens to the sound of his words echoing in the thickening silence. Why did he say it like that? There’s no answer. It wasn’t meant to be said, not aloud. Dying inside, he affects a curious expression and forces himself to smile at Master Wabi.

“A chicken? Curious. I had thought a stork, or some such. A chicken? That’s interesting. I shall call it, Chicken Walking. Yes, when people ask. Though to be sure, they seldom do. Thank you, Baso,” Master Wabi chuckles, but not his eyes. His eyes are like two holes in the night sky, full of wandering and dying stars.

“Why do you walk like that? Doesn’t it bother you?” He’s unsure why he keeps talking about this. He has always had a fear of ridicule. Pa Kua and Joshu know this. Why aren’t they helping? The smile begins to strain his face as he flounders in the silence, waiting, his apprehension growing. The sound of Master Wabi’s voice startles him.

“It has been some time since I thought about it. I think light thoughts. I’m there. But then words are such deceitful things. They’re symbols you know, representing something that they are not. So that may not be it at all. Take a reason, the why of something. Does it ever really answer? Never entirely to the point , is it? Why do I walk like a chicken, Baso. I am left with only, because I can. Yes, something like that. Different, but yes, like that.”

Baso takes a long, slow, deep breath. Finding Master Wabi’s explanation less than useful, in truth, odd. Still, however odd, it is doubtless the truth, which leaves words out of it entirely. And he, well, he has to say it, there’s really no choice. “Ah, could, could you, ah, show me how you, ah, do it?” It sounds like he’s shouting, though he’s not, simply sensitive.
“Do what Baso? Think light thoughts? If you try to think light thoughts, well you never can. You weren’t paying attention, were you?.”

“I mean, walk like a chicken.” There, he said it. There’s no going back now.
Pa Kua and Joshu are stunned. They look at each other, each thinking the same, he said, what, and similar sentiments? The thought hangs unasked, unanswered. They try to speak. They want to, but there are no words, nothing they can do or ay, to prevent this from happening. They can feel their fate being constructed around them, brick by brick, word by word. They’re doomed, it’s inevitable.
“Why do you want to learn something you think is silly?”

Master Wabi’s question brings a look of relief to Joshu and Pa Kua, a look of hope. Maybe he will laugh, say it was a joke, or gag and die, but he won’t say it again?

Baso looks down for a moment, growing still, serious. He’s not afraid anymore. He wants to talk about it. “It looks silly, but you walk all day like that. As fast as I can run.” He struggles to find the right words, sighs and glances up at Master Wabi. His face worried, trying to smile. “You might not think so, looking at me, but I’m quicker than most people, as fast as anyone, fast as Pa Kua. People just don’t think so. They go by appearances and I look fat. People think I’m fat because I’m big, and slow because fat people are slow. When I’m quick, they get confused. It bothers them.” He pauses, then continues. “Anyway. Doesn’t it bother you? You know, what people think when you walk like that?” He had gone on longer than he had intended.

“Silly is a judgment, not a description, Baso. You worry about what people think and fill their thoughts with your fears. You don’t know what people think. People think things, do things, for reasons they don’t even understand. You expect too much. Your reality is all about your opinion. You create your reality according to how you think things will be. Have things ever turned out the way you thought they would, or did you create that outcome by expecting it? That must bother you. So tell me, why do you do it?” You don’t know, which is my point. Reasons, opinions, they’re just a game we play to make our lives more interesting. We won’t even discuss beliefs”

Joshu and Pa Kua are making strange mewing, strangling sounds that Baso and Master Wabi ignore.

“I want to learn to walk like you do. To Chicken Walk, or whatever it’s called.” There was that stubbornness in his voice the other two knew all too well. No one seems to breathe. Pa Kua’s fingers twitched wanting the comforting weight of his cleavers. His knees refuse to bend or he would have left by now. Joshu sits slumped in despair. Worried about Baso. What’s gotten into him? Walk like a chicken? Is he crazy? He’ll look like an idiot. Worse, people might think their together.

“So you won’t mind what people think as long as you can walk as fast as an old man like me? That’s encouraging,” he adds with a little smile. “One step at time. Light thoughts will come of themselves.” He pauses a moment to look through a gap in the tree leaves to a patch of blue sky, pondering Baso’s words. Joshu and Pa Kua seem to be living word to word, hoping Baso will recover from this madness. Then hoping he will swallow his tongue and die, but it just goes on and on. “You want to learn to walk like a chicken? Ah, so, I shall teach you. Stand up, Baso.”

Baso looks at him without moving.

“Up. Up with you.”

Baso stands up slowly, uncertain. Trying to give the impression that he wants to, but questions the appropriateness of the place, the timing.

“Very good Baso. Now stand like a chicken, toes out. No, no, a chicken, not a duck. Your legs are somewhat short for a chicken. Forgive me. What does it matter?. Each must do with what they have.” Master Wabi looks over at Joshu and Pa Kua. “You too, both of you.”

The tension is tangible. They look at each other, then at Baso. Their eyes drop to a small green bug work its way over and under a leaf by his foot. Perhaps he will ignore them, lose interest, become carried away by giant eagles? But no.

“Pa Kua, you are tall and skinny, you must tell people it is Stork Walking.” They wait for his chortling to die away. He forces his face into something that appears long and solemn, for their benefit. “Joshu, as their leader, you must set a good example. Ah yes, we shall be a fine flock of fleet fowl. Yes, indeed so. It will be a comfort to those poor people in the village who have no statue and no money.”

Pa Kua’s voice has developed an irritating squeak. “Thank you, Master Wabi, but ah, no, really. It’s not that I mind appearing foolish. No, not at all. It’s just that people have come to expect me to act in a certain fashion. A, ah, dignified, seemly fashion, being tall and cursed with fine bone structure, I really have no choice. Foolishness, of course, but how can I disappoint them.” There is an undertone of desperation belying the casualness of his words. He doesn’t want to appear rude. Still this seems unfair. To be doomed to act the fool by Baso’s thoughtless indiscretion, betrayed, struck down by Baso’s unthinking mouth, is there no mercy, no compassion? Apparently not. He adds this to Baso’s account as he stands, quite unable to remain seated, which is disconcerting.

Joshu glares at Baso. His voice restrained and flat. “I too, must decline, but thank you. It would not be appropriate.” He has more to say, but finds his voice can only make low inarticulate squawking sounds. He slowly closes his mouth and stands beside a scowling Pa Kua.

“You fear that you will appear silly. How sad, too bad, what can I say? What you find foolish has a purpose. A purpose of far greater benefit than the meager comfort of your present ignorance. You must give that purpose your full attention,” chides Master Wabi. “Later, you will thank me for this. On the road, my chickens. Form a line, toes out.” He smiles with satisfaction as they form a line side by side on the road. “Raise your left foot lightly above the ground. Cluck, cluck, very good. Extend that left foot forward. Now, push forward with your right foot just before your left foot touches the ground. Repeat with your right foot. Now, your left. Right, flex your knees. Left foot. Turn. Baso, help Joshu up. And Baso, next time, turn with everyone else. Right foot. Toes out. Your other right, Joshu. Extend, flex, extend, very nice. Pa Kua, stay on the road. Think light thoughts and practice, while I finish my tea.”

From time to time Master Wabi calls out encouragement as he sits carving in the shade. “Pa Kua, don’t flap. Spring, my little chickens, spring,”

It’s a fine morning, not as warm as yesterday, no wind to speak of, the ground is flat and the road empty. A squirrel sits in a nearby tree and watches the young men strain and stumble about. The squirrel seems merely curious and shows no obvious sign of amusement at the bloody spectacle below. The day passes slowly, painfully.

The sun is setting as Master Wabi brings his little flock of crippled chickens into the village. There’s no one at the village gate and the few people in sight are silent and withdrawn. Not even the sight of such a bedraggled and sweaty band limping down the street can cause a stir. A pity, for it is a remarkable parade of pain and suffering, what it lacks in numbers is more than made up for by intensity. Blood runs from their knees through the dirt and dust covering their legs. Small rocks and thorns are embedded in their palms, elbows, and knees. Their muscles ache, heretofore unknown muscles throb with pain. It’s been a long, hard day of strutting back and forth along the road, practicing this most peculiar motion, so aptly named, chicken walking, propelled by Master Wabi’s voice and a certain inability to stop. Oddly, once they started, it began to seem useful, if not exactly a good idea, an idea that slowly grew. Sometime after mid day they had begun to experience what might be called, progress, or something approaching progress. It wasn’t that they realized it immediately, they were too busy and far too numb with pain to realize anything quickly. Hour after hour it grew, slowly developing into a feeling of accomplishment by the time Master Wabi pointed them toward the village. And why they walked so defiantly down the center of the village, like great chickens.

The inn is easy to find. A woman introduces herself as the wife of the innkeeper, who is unfortunately away just now. Ushering them into the great room, she offers them tea. It’s larger, if no different from the last inn they stayed at, a part time affair, one room and a table.

“We should ask who died,” Joshu whispers to his friends, “not even the sight of us can make them smile.”
“I must apologize. You gentlemen must need a hot bath after your long journey and many hardships. I expect my husband to return soon. He will chop wood to heat your bath.” She seems uneasy at the sight of such suffering, yet quite unable to grasp the full extent and magnitude of their distress.

“Would that be Innkeeper Pai?”

“Yes, that is my husband’s name. May I ask how do you know his name?”

“We met briefly on the road last night,” Master Wabi replied. “There was a number of men from the village with him. Something about chasing thieves. I fear they may be awhile. If you will show me an ax, wood, water, and the bathhouse, I will get right to it. The boys are in no condition, as you can see.”

The innkeeper’s wife is reluctant to allow a guest to perform such menial tasks and tries to ignore their pleading eyes. It’s not done, not at all proper, but Master Wabi’s insistence finally overpowers her objections. Soon, they’re stewing up to their necks in a great round wooden tub of hot water.

“Master Wabi,” whispers a tired Baso, “Tell me,” but his strength fades and he has to start over. “Tell me, I will get used to this. And that soon the pain will go away. It would be a great comfort.”

“Indeed so, Baso. Try to think of something else. It is important to think light thoughts. Thoughts that lift you lightly on your way. Think of what makes you happy. If your thoughts drag you down, you will never have strength for anything else and you will always struggle.”

“Forgive me Master Wabi, but I find that depressing. How can I keep a light thought in my head when there are so many terrible things happening to my body?”

“Try this Baso, it’s an old trick I learned growing in the mountains, think about what you can see, smell, hear, or taste without forming an opinion about it. We will skip, “feel” just now.”

Pa Kua drifts under the hot water as though lacking bones to prop him up, or perhaps, the will. “Joshu,” he sputters as his face breaks the surface.

“Pa Kua,” Joshu answers weakly.

“We’re carrying too much stuff.”

“Yes, Pa Kua, we are. Far too much stuff. Chuck it all. Who needs two loin cloths?”

Baso lays thinking about what Master Wabi said, about light thoughts. That’s something he knows about, the struggle part anyway. It feels lighter floating in the tub, not floating really, but lighter. He had always struggled with his body, too big, too wide, too heavy. Always too, something. Unexpectedly he wonders if it isn’t his body he struggles with, maybe it’s the heavy thought thing. Perhaps his thoughts pull him down. He chuckles to himself. If that’s it, his thoughts are the only thing he’s been unable to lift, which says a good deal, he likes to lift things. He’s always lifted things just to see if he could since he was a baby. Since he could walk nothing had been safe, so they said. Especially in the cellar, where the great clay jars were stored. He’d often heard the story about the jar of pickled beets, his aunt’s enjoyed telling it.

“There’s little Baso holding this huge jar of pickled beets. Big as he was, or bigger. You know those big clay jars we keep in the storeroom? Well, he had one of them, full of pickled beets, it was. All you could see was this big clay jar, his chubby little arms, his little fat feet, and here he comes, waddling like a duck. Then the cook sees him and begins yelling for all he’s worth. ‘My beets. My beets.’ Little Baso doesn’t like all this shouting and starts to cry; then crash, pickled beets all over the floor. What a mess. He was what, two ? Couldn’t have been any older. It was the year of the big flood.” Then they argued about whether he was two, or two and a half, or just under three. Why did they enjoy that story so much? They thought it was funny, maybe so. Father never laughs, not since mother died giving birth to me. He’s big too, big as me. When he looks at me, there is such sadness in his eyes. Her belly had been huge, they said, large enough for two. Even the midwives thought she was having twins. I was too big, much too big. Something tore inside her, something that shouldn’t have, and they couldn’t stop the bleeding. She died two days later. No one said anything. They didn’t have to. It was the way they stopped talking when I came into the room, things like that. It was better at Master Yeto’s school, big was good there. He was drifting off, slipping badly, when Joshu pushed his head under the water.

Pai, the missing innkeeper, returned late that night, surprised by the sleeping forms sprawled on the floor in the moonlight. He steps carefully around his guests, disappearing behind the hanging grass mat. It would not do to offend a paying quest. Their search for the bandits had not gone well and the village’s taxes were due in the fall.

Joshu wakes to the sounds of cooking and the smell of tea as innkeeper Pai steps from behind the hanging grass mat, smiling and bowing.

“We meet again.” Joshu smiles, rising to his knees, wishing he hadn’t as the pain brings him to his feet. He smiles again and bows, unwilling to appear weak in front of a stranger. “Did you find your thief?” He runs his hands over his braided hair, feeling to make sure it’s still in place and the cords tight, tying the belt to his robe

“Life is misery, then you die. Such was our luck,” says the innkeeper and part time vigilante leader. “We found the ox and cart, but nothing else. No girl, no statue, no money, our past and future both gone. And, if we cannot replace the taxes we will soon be dead as well. Then we shall rest in the Pureland. Forgive my rudeness, you must not allow our troubles to spoil your day.”

“If there is some way we could be of help?” Joshu’s voice trails off to silence. He shouldn’t have said anything. The Emperor is a force without reason like a cold winter wind. There’s no appealing to him. Villages that fail to pay their taxes cease to exist. The entire population is either killed or sent to work on one of the Emperor’s projects. The Wall of Bones is not far away it, consuming all who are sent there. The Emperor’s officials have quotas to meet and struggle to find replacements for the thousands who die each year on its walls.

Joshu gives the innkeeper a portion of a string of coins as the others wait in the yard. It would be rude to be more generous. Standing on the front porch of the inn, he turns to leave, hesitates, then asks, “The statue, will you describe it for me? Perhaps we will see it in our travels? It is a long way to Qualin.”

The innkeeper pauses and looks away, reluctant to speak of the statue. For hundreds of years no one spoke of her, but there’s no secret to keep now. The statue is gone forever. Still, it’s a fine clear morning filled with the smell of breakfast gruel and wood smoke, one must always appreciate what they have for it may soon be gone. He inhales deeply and smiles to cover his hesitation. “The statue is of a young woman carved from a pure white stone. Some say it’s jade.” He smiles a little shyly. “Who would know? We don’t see such things here in the mountains, not in these mountains? Still the stone’s as perfect as anything I’ve ever seen. Dressed in courtly robes covered with jewels and there’s pins and things in her hair. The carving’s so precise, so detailed, her robe not only looks like silk, it feels like silk.” His voice trails off. “She was so beautiful, so perfectly beautiful. In the glow of the moon she seemed alive.” He straightens his shoulders and collects himself. “We called her the Goddess of the Moon, like in the story. Perhaps the story’s true, maybe she once lived and was turned to stone like it says. I think so. The statue is beyond all understanding. Only the Pureland has such beauty. If you see her, you’ll know what I mean. Who could carve such a thing?” He glances at Joshu from the corner of his eye and his voice drops. “She must have come from the Pureland.” His voice strengthens as he loses himself for a time. “It stood in a little valley behind the village as long as anyone can remember. The tax collectors never saw her, no one from the outside ever saw her. The outside world would not have let us keep her,” He looked at Joshu sadly, “and it did not. We knew something like this would happen one day.” He coughs and looks up at Joshu and smiles again. “The children would take the goats there to graze. All those children, you know how children are, and the valley full of just the right stones, yet she remained perfect. Not one chip in, what? Two hundred years? A thousand? Who knows? We held wedding ceremonies there. Not many, you understand. We’re a small village. She brought luck to the marriage, to our village.” Pai pauses again to appreciate the morning. “Life is hard. A little luck is always welcome. The money we can replace, maybe, if we starve, but not her, nothing could replace her.”

“Master Wabi,” says Joshu clearing his throat. “Lord Sunza would enjoy hearing this story. He is very fond of such things. Perhaps, if we were to solve this mystery, he would not object to the time we spent in such a worthwhile endeavor.”

“Worthwhile endeavors are scarce indeed, it would be a shame to let one go,” comments Master Wabi as if to himself and laughs. “It would have nothing to do with that girl, I suppose?”

“What girl? Oh, the girl with the cart. No, not at all.”

“She’s a very lovely young woman, Joshu. I’m surprised you find her so forgettable. Perhaps you think her rude to treat you as she did. Consider, just for a moment, three dirty, nearly naked, young men accosting a young woman with offers of assistance on a lonely road. Such things are easily misunderstood?” His brows slide together briefly. His eyes are incredulous, his smile mocking. “Her distrust was entirely reasonable. Indeed, she might have killed you all and been well justified. No, all in all, her treatment of the three of you was most tolerant and forgiving. You should consider yourselves lucky to be alive.”

The silence hangs in the air like a bad smell, thick and tangible. Innkeeper Pai seems uneasy, scratching the back of one leg with the other foot, looking at imaginary things on roof tops. They’re guests and he wants to be polite, but he wishes they would go away. He has things to do.

“Master Wabi,” Joshu smiles looking away, trying to find a way to express himself politely. “I, ah, respectfully disagree. Most respectfully disagree.” The restraint makes his jaw hurt. Suddenly the words pop free, gaining momentum as they tumble out. “No girl,” he takes a deep breath, “is going to kill any of us, much less, all of us.” He wants to point out that they’ve trained in the martial arts since childhood and are well able to handle an unarmed girl, or an armed girl, or any number of girls, armed to the teeth. But to say so would sound boastful, however true it might be, and it’s certainly true, so he keeps the details of his objection to himself.

Pa Kua and Baso stare at Master Wabi reproachfully, silently, unwilling to comment, unable to trust themselves to express their feelings so politely. Still, their opinion is in their eyes, in the scornful set of their lips, an opinion that does not lend itself to polite conversation.

Master Wabi glances away, composing himself, it wouldn’t do to laugh. “Of course, you are great fighters, heroes of the martial arts, and well able to protect yourselves. Still, she was armed and there is no question that the three of you were not. Something you might consider.” His smile is mollifying or such is his intention.

Joshu narrows his eyes, wrinkling his brow. “What makes you think she was armed? I didn’t see any weapons. Pa Kua, Baso, did you see any weapons?”

“Just that scowl of disgust.” Baso sighs, remembering his embarrassment. “That had an edge to it.”

Pa Kua looks away in disgust. “Kill the three of us? I really don’t think so.” Their ever declining opinion of Master Wabi all but leaves a fiery trail behind it as it plunges into the village street.

“It is not important,” Master Wabi says patiently, condescendingly, and smiles. The smile of someone so obviously right there is no need to prove or defend their rightness. He can be very difficult to tolerate at times, this being one.

“This statue, how big is it,” asks Pa Kua, trying to change the subject?

“Oh, life sized for a small woman, very slim. It was on a rock, you had to look up to see it. Hard to say exactly,” Pai answers.

“And very heavy,” adds Baso?

“We never tried to moved it.” Pai coughs. “Ah, yes, heavy. It’s ah, made of stone.” He purses his lips and looks down, trying to keep a straight face.

“Far too heavy for a young girl to lift, however strong,” concludes Joshu. “She must have had a few strong friends, I wonder if they’re the source of her concern.

“Could you tell us where you found the ox cart” asks Pa Kua?

“Near the river, not far from the road,” answers Pai. “The ground is soft there and shows the deep ruts the cart left behind. If anyone moved the statue from the cart to the river, they would have left tracks. We drove the ox cart back up to the road. The wheels barely cut the ground and the hooves of the ox did not dig in the way they did going down. We saw no one there, so we came home. It’s all a great mystery. None of us could explain such a thing.” He says hoping these young men will go away and try.

“There must have been some tracks, it would take several men to move such a heavy statue from the cart to the river,” Joshu persists.

“Nothing like that,” the innkeeper answers wearily.

“Did you see any boats,” asks Joshu?

“Boats? There was only one little boat, but it could not have held a stone statue. It barely held the two women.” Pai replies.

“Two women? Did you see them clearly?”

“They were up the river, far from shore, one was standing up poling the boat. The smaller one was fishing. Mother and daughter, is my guess.”

“Did you notice if the boat was going up river or down?”
“Up river,” Pai says with little interest, wishing they would take the hint.

“One more question, please,” Joshu asks. “Where were the taxes kept before they were stolen?”

“In the meeting hall,” Pai’s smile vanishing. “We kept a locked box, the one with iron bands, in a small storage room in the back of the meeting hall.” He looks up at Joshu, then drops his eyes and sighs. “We kept the cash we got from selling our wool there. From our goats. It is very fine wool. The goats belong to the village, you see. We use the cash to pay our taxes.” Pai’s voice rose. “The tax collectors say, “Give us your wool.” Are we idiots? Next they would want our goats.” Pai lowers his voice with an effort. “The wool traders are thieves, but they have some sense of shame.” He glances up with a shrugging smile, as if to say he just got carried away. They are after all strangers.
“The meeting hall is here in the village?” Pa Kua spoke before thinking the question through, turning red as he realizes his mistake. Where else could it be.

Pai hunches his shoulders as if being whipped. “My inn, when we have no guests, is the meeting hall.” He struggles to take a breath before he can continue. “It seemed safe enough. Everyone knew how important the cash was. The whole village is taxed. No one ever leaves except to get married, everyone’s at least a cousin here.” He almost smiles despite the despair that sits on his chest. “We thought it would be safe enough.” He looks around quickly, as though hoping someone would agree and vouch for him, a nod would do. “It’s in the middle of the village.” Pai’s voice trails off in embarrassment. It doesn’t seem a particularly sound decision now. Looking back, there hadn’t been many that were.

It’s painful listening to him. Baso’s impatient to go and breaks into the first decent pause in the conversation. “Pa Kua, you think Joshu will shut up someday soon. Maybe we should see if there is a house for sale here.”

“If we bought a house, we could go to the village meetings. Meet some nice girls. The goats seem, ah, nice. A little hairy, but would doubtless comb out nice, perhaps we could arrange an introduction for Joshu.” Pa Kua’s eyes follow a bleating long-haired goat hotly pursued by two small children.

A shout, urgent and joyful comes from up the street. A man is running toward them with a strange limping gait. “What is that?” Pa Kua asks in amazement.

“That, is Wang, he raises cabbages,” Pai answers, pleased to find a distraction, anything to change the subject. “He seems to have lost a sandal.”

Wang whoops with joy as he runs, stopping to dancing every few steps. “Han found the money. Han found the money,” he wheezes between the whoops and outbursts of laughter.

“What? Han couldn’t find his ass if it was on fire,” Pai says scowling, there’s a menacing look in his eyes. A warning that he’s not to be trifled with

Wang sobers a little, whether from that look of Pai’s or the sight of the strangers. “Oh yes,” Wang smiles as he gasps and wheezes trying to catch his breath to speak. “This morning, on his way to work in his fields, Han steps off the road to relieve himself in some bushes. So he’s standing there, pissing, looking up at the trees, wondering if he needs firewood.” He must have seen something in Pai’s eyes. “As he himself explained it to me. If you’ll be patient. He notices the sound’s wrong, strange, like he was pissing on someone’s robe or something.” Wang begins to cough, having difficulty talking and laughing at the same time. “Well, you know Han, with that belly of his, he’s working it by feel and worried it’s pointed in the wrong direction. Anyhow, he looks down, and jumps back. It is body. Dead, right there on the ground, right by his feet.” Wang hawks and spits, and wipes a tear from his eye. “You should have heard him. ‘I, I, pissed, pissed on a dead man. he says.’ Very bad luck pissing on a dead body like that, I tells him. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘So I ran away.’ Anyway, he goes back. Knowing Han, I bet his knees were knocking.” Wang bursts out laughing.

Pai is not laughing. “Wang, you horse’s ass, get to the money.”

Wang’s bent over holding his knees laughing, and when he tries to stop, he sees Pai’s scowling face and starts in again. Finally he chokes out, “It’s a bandit. Han says, ‘I pissed on a bandit.’ Can you believe that? I tell him, if you say so Han. Anyway, he starts to look around, and there’s two more. Blood everywhere, I guess. Han says, ‘They’d been sliced like turnips.’ And there next to one of those turnips is a pile of money. Our money, Pai. Just lying there on the ground in a pile.”

Suddenly Pai has a handful of Wang’s robe and their noses are touching, “And what did he do with the money, Wang? Where’s the money? Where’s Han? Is it all there? I want to count the money. What if some of it is missing ?”

Wang grabs Pai’s robe and begins to leap about singing. “Well I did. I saw the money. I saw the money and its all there, Pai.” Master Wabi begins clapping his hands in time with Wang’s leaps, Baso and Pa Kua join in. Pai is forced to hop about in the street to keep up with Wang, but there is no joy on his face. Suddenly he grabs Wang’s neck. “Talk, or I will strangle you.”

Wang’s bouncing slows, then he knocks Pai’s hands away. “He is coming, Pai, loosen your loin cloth a bit. He had the money in his robe. So I ran ahead to tell you. And this is the thanks I get. Of course he pissed all over himself, but the money is covered in blood, but still good.” He looks down at Pai’s white knuckled fists and sobers. “Take a deep breath, Pai. We’re not going to die.”

The reason for Han’s delay is soon evident. People brush by them as they run up the street shouting, “Han found the money.” Soon a crowd of laughing, shouting villagers returns surrounding a short fat man who walks with a stiff legged gait, holding something wet and heavy in the folds of his robe. The crowd gathers in front of the inn and Han begins to repeat his story, embellished now from practice. He skips over how he found the dead bandits and no one mentions the smell. Someone begins chanting, “Show us the money. Show us the money.” The crowd takes up the chant. The innkeeper’s wife dashes inside the inn and quickly returns, spreading a cloth on the raised porch in front of the inn. With a flourish, Han bends over and spills the money from his robe onto the cloth.

The money’s discolored and sticky with blood, but nothing is said about that. It wasn’t their blood and it would have been if the money had not been found. The crowd grows quiet as the money is counted, twice, then again. It’s all there. A sigh passes through the crowd. For a moment no one speaks. Suddenly, cheering erupts and the crowd surges around Han, jubilant, thankful. They might have lifted him onto their shoulders——under other circumstances. They pat his back in gratitude. Eventually the cheering and shouting winds down and the people slowly drift away. Once again they have a future and much to do. After the last shouts of joy and praise fade, Master Wabi asks Han for directions to the dead bandits.

The bodies lay sprawled on the ground where Han said they would be, each cut down by a single sword stroke. Baso looks at the knives, spears and swords scattered around, “Han said he never saw them before. They’re clearly bandits, they have every weapon known to man here.”

“And no idea how to use any of them,” Pa Kua adds disdainfully.

“Someone sure knew how to use a sword,” Joshu says kneeling beside the bodies. “Two of these died from the same stroke. See, the cut across their throats matches.”

Baso scowls, “That’s fascinating Joshu. They didn’t suffer, I take it?”

Joshu ignores him. “This one is a little shorter than the other. Look, the cut crosses both necks. Each sprayed with the other’s blood. You don’t see that every day. This other one was just starting to turn when he was cut down.”
“They died quickly,” Master Wabi agrees. “And very surprised.”

“I don’t think they had time to be surprised?”

Master Wabi smiles at Joshu. “Oh they were surprised. They tried to waylay someone here, someone they didn’t respect. They let this person get very close, yet they were not prepared to fight. Oh yes, they were surprised.”

“There is blood everywhere. I hope this person had a change of clothes.” Pa Kua says looking around. “The innkeeper said the thieves stole a locked box that held the money. There is no box, just a sticky spot on the ground where Han picked the money out of a pool of blood.”

“Let’s take this step by step.” Joshu waits for their attention. “The money was in the box when the thieves took it. We know the money was left here and the girl has the box. Maybe she saw who killed these three. She must have seen something, unless she just found the box, which is unlikely?”

“Who would kill these bandits, open a locked box, dump the money on the ground and then just leave,” Pa Kua asks? “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Maybe the girl killed the bandits.” Baso suggests then looks down with pursed lips at the ground.

No one speaks for a moment or two. Finally Joshu looks at Baso and sighs, “With what, her flute? No one plays that badly.”

Master Wabi starts to say something, but Joshu cuts him off. “No, Master Wabi, these bandits were killed by an expert with a sword and that girl is, well, a girl. She didn’t even have a sword.”

“There is something missing here.” Pa Kua adds to make peace. It seems she was only interested in stealing the statue. The bandits must have loaded the statue into the cart. She must have seen who killed the bandits. I would really like to ask her a few questions. Find out what she knows.”

Joshu looks at Pa Kua, narrows his eyes and says, “She has some explaining to do.” Master Wabi shrugs and smiles.

Baso looks at the bodies on the ground, wrinkles his nose and frowns. “I suppose we should bury them, they’re starting to smell.”

Chapter Five, Chicken Walking by Ed Parker

Chapter 5-–The Search

There are no boats on the river, large or small, that might offer some explanation for the disappearance of the statue. The tracks from the ox cart are clearly visible in the soft ground, strangely stopping a good twenty yards short of the river. The same tracks returning to the road barely score the ground. Joshu walks back and forth along the tracks of the ox cart, from the road to where the tracks stop, to Baso and Pa Kua’s steadily decreasing amusement. Talking over his shoulder. “Why do the tracks stop here, the river is only a little further? The statue must have been in the cart down to here,” pointing to where the deep tracks stop. “Something heavy was in that cart, then suddenly its gone.. It simply vanishes. How could the statue have just disappeared? Well, does anyone have any suggestions?”

“The river is the only possibility, if we rule out flying,” Baso offers again. “And like you say, there are no boats, not big enough to hold that statue.”

“Maybe the statue came back to life and simply walked away,” Pa Kua jokes and immediately regrets it.
Joshu and Baso looks insulted, Master Wabi pulls his chin and shrugs.

The river flows West and South through a wide, sparsely populated valley. Upstream or down, the choice lies evenly split with little to recommend either one. Innkeeper Pai said he saw two women in a small boat moving upstream, which wasn’t much to go on. They finally spit on a stone and when it lands wet-side down, turn upstream.

For the first few miles it seems a good choice, then progress becomes more difficult as the shoreline vanishes into the slimy mud of a marsh, or becomes strewn with boulders. Chicken Walking is difficult enough on firm dry ground, now it’s become impossible. Yet, Master Wabi finds firm ground wherever he put his foot, which seems unnatural to those who have fallen five times in as many yards. Many explanations are offered and just as quickly refuted until the only remaining possibility is, but then they don’t believe in magic. There is no explanation. It’s a sobering thought for as long as it lasts.

“Master Wabi, esteemed Master Wabi, honorable Master Wabi. Please tell me one thing, just this one thing,” Joshu pleads, his sincerity born of despair and frustration. “Tell me why we slip and slide about in the mud, fall into holes in the river bottom and scrape our butts’ bloody climbing rocks and you . . . ?” Words fail him, his fingers flutter aimlessly in the air, mimicking the flight of a butterfly. His one desire is to see Master Wabi fall on his face, just once.

“Ah, the same reason you struggle with even a simple thing like Chicken Walking Joshu, your breathing is all wrong and your thoughts are entirely too heavy.”

“I get tired, covered in mud, and fall in holes because I’m breathing wrong?” Joshu’s eyes grow wet, his face sags in despair.

“Close enough..”

“Close enough?” Lights flash in Joshu’s brain, reason and despair howl at his better judgment. “What? What do you mean, close enough?”

Joshu’s flaring eyes and nostrils go unnoticed as Master Wabi warms to his subject. “It’s not all that you are doing wrong. No, not at all, but it will do to begin,” he offers in his cheery, condescending manner. “Of course, it would be of some assistance if you paid more attention to where you’re stepping. Give what you’re doing a little thought——if you follow me?” Pursing his lips, he looks at Joshu through the bushy tangle of his eyebrows. “Which I doubt very much.” He stands up with a snort, placing his hands behind his back, he begins to pace as he lectures. “If you cannot feel the bottom with your foot, you should not put your foot there, and so forth. Simple tricks, known to even the smallest of children that would save you considerable trauma and humiliation.” He looks at Joshu. It’s a long serious look, full of curious inquiry and doubt. “A little care. Yes, that should do for a start. A little care will allow you to concentrate on your breathing, to your considerable advantage.” He has more to say, but he’s interrupted.

“Breathe this,” Pa Kua growls, flinging the mud and slime he scraped from his face at Master Wabi. Or where Master Wabi had been. Pa Kua feels doom clutch at his heart. He wants to reach through time and take back his unconsidered act. Doomed. A curtain of dark fog crowds around him and all he can see is that slime slowly twisting in the air. It hardly seems to move at all. It’s an eternity——longer, until it finds the indifferent gray face of a chance boulder.

Master Wabi’s has moved in manner both peculiar, and entirely unreal, being in the same family as fast, fast being something of a poor and distant relative. He was standing ther, then he wasn’t. Then he is twenty feet closer than he should have been, his nose touching Pa Kua’s. Pa Kua’s small spark of hope winks out in the storm of displeasure raging in Master Wabi’s eyes. He has the impression that Master Wabi has suddenly grown very tall as he feels Master Wabi’s breath against his cheek. It’s his last rational thought for sometime. Baso looked away and missed it. Joshu saw it, but doesn’t believe it.. Pa Kua is sitting in the mud and green slime of the river’s shore, but such things do not concern him. He is trying to breathe and making odd little mewing noises. They trail after Master Wabi, a good distance behind him, and in complete silence, for the rest of the day.

There’s a growing conviction that Master Wabi is different, not simply different, but very different. Just how much more different, they don’t want to even speculate about it. Not out loud, not even when they’re alone, not anymore. The conversation just fades into an awkward silence whenever the subject comes up. It isn’t safe to ask questions, not after what they’d suffered through learning this Chicken Walking thing. Not that pain is new to them. The serious study of the martial arts is all about pain, and they’d studied it seriously since they were small children. No, it isn’t the pain. It’s not the humiliation either, that too, is part of the martial arts. True, not to the same degree as Chicken Walking, nothing is. No, Chicken Walking is different, very different. It’s, well they’re not sure what it is. And Master Wabi is not crazy. A reasonable person might think so, but no, it’s just not that easy. More like, his sanity is just not widely shared, or even recognizable at times. He lives in a slightly different world, very different world, and the differences are growing. They talk about some of these differences,, when he is not around. They talk about the stories they heard when they were children, about the old ones, and compare notes, when he’s not around. The results are grave.

The hill is too small to be called a mountain, but big enough to bend the river almost back upon itself, carving out cliffs where the river rubs past the flat unyielding stone. The hill stoically ignores the river, but the river is unconcerned. There is no shore, no neutral ground in this battle of wills. They leave the riverbank and climb the long slope of the hill. From the top, the hill seems higher, the river is visible in both directions and the view is something to be treasured. Below them, the greens of the nearer trees are intermingled with bright yellows, the hills and mountains fade to blue with distance. The splendor of the view pales as their eyes turn down. Straight down, far, far below them, on the shore of the backwater formed by the obtrusive hill, is a small boat.

“There’s a boat,” Joshu says before he realizes how obvious and stupid it sounds. “I suppose we should go see what it can tell us?”

“You mean, down there? It’s just a speck, a child’s toy. I am sure Master Wabi can carve you one, one much nicer,” says Baso, edging back from the view. He has strong opinions about heights, none positive. They make him dizzy.

“No choice to it, is there?” There is a note of despair in Joshu’s voice.

“The cliff face is not entirely smooth. See, there’s a knob just down there,” Pa Kua bends over, pointing off into space as he talks. “Over there. See, a nice deep crack, must run a hundred yards or more. Lots of shadows off to the left, all the way down, something must be making them. Hard to tell for sure from this angle, doesn’t look difficult though. Ah yes, toes and finger tips all the way down. Take what, maybe an hour? What’s the problem?” He seems perplexed to find himself alone, not counting Master Wabi?

Who smiles that particular mirthless smile and says, “Not to so long, I think, ten, fifteen minutes, maybe less, much less.”

“If we follow the crest of the hill we’re bound to find a trail.” Baso calls over his shoulder to Joshu after a few minutes of walking. “There must be one. We’ll find it eventually,” he adds hopefully. There isn’t, of course. It’s all rock, trees, and thorny bushes, with a lot of going back and forth, steep, but not steep enough to fall off the side of it.

Master Wabi races Pa Kua to the ground, and it’s a surprisingly even race. Pa Kua’s long arms, legs, fingers, and toes find every opportunity. Some that are only hints, mere suggestions, to hang from. Master Wabi is just behind him, his stick stuffed into his robe. As they work their way down, he talks about a dream he once had of flying. Pa Kua is too busy looking for his next grip to listen, or gives that impression.

All they find at the bottom are foot prints in the sand, a woman and a young girl or a boy. Little enough for their pain and trouble.

Baso scowls and waves his hand, “There is no one here.”

“Oh not so, Baso. We were here, and are still here.” Pa Kua responds sarcastically. “Indeed it was true that there was no one here when we arrived, some time ago, as I recall. Was it this morning or yesterday?” It sounds brave, but his heart isn’t in it. ‘When we arrived . . . .’ His mind’s still trying to get around that one. He climbed down, but climbing doesn’t explain what Master Wabi did. It sends chills down his spine every time he thinks about it.

“Ignorant buffoon,” Baso replies absently, looking up at the cliff. “Did you fall far? You appear to have landed poorly.”

“If there’s no one here, they must be somewhere else,” Joshu reasons, looking for a path among the trees.

“Yes, Joshu, they are not here,” Pa Kua answers patiently. “Indeed, they left before we arrived, which may very well explain their absence.” He eyes Joshu askance. “Have you considered a career in stupidity? You would shine like a star.”

They find the path. Not a path in the true sense, just places with less brush and a gentler rise to the ground. The footprints, scuffed and uncertain, come and go. Still, it’s reassuring to know that others made the same choices, however poor. Suddenly they step out of the trees and brush, into a field of rice——nearly into a field of rice. There’s a small embankment that Joshu overlooks until he’s slipping down it. Baso jerks him back up.

In the rice field, a farmer stands holding the nose ring of a water buffalo, his wife and several muddy children work behind him pushing small rice plants into the water. The farmer is muttering to himself, his voice rising in frustration as he addresses the ox.

“Worthless brute. Lazy ingrate. It was not I who gave you this form. You were a buffalo when it was my misfortune to need a buffalo. I paid good money for you. More than you are worth need hardly be said. He should have paid me to take you, had I crossed paths with an honest man? Fool that I am.”
He sees Baso jerk Joshu back and stands there with his mouth open, his tirade forgotten, holding the ox’s nose ring. A look they return. Joshu collects himself, smiles and bows to the farmer. The farmer smiles and bows to Joshu. “Greetings, noble sirs, a fine day for fishing. Did you have good luck?”

“Fishing?” Joshu shrugs, smiling. “Ahh. It’s been a long day good farmer. Is your village near? We need a place to stay the night?”

“Follow the path.” The farmer points to a track along the edge of the field. “This is Old Man Yimm’s lucky day. He will be pleased to have more travelers.” Then he laughs, “Well, maybe not.”

“More travelers? Have others been here today?”

“Oh yes. I have never seen so many people, I shall have to widen my little path.” He laughs again and scrapes a muddy instep over an itchy shin. “Two women. Beautiful women, the most beautiful of women. “Ah, their beauty. . . .” The memory of their beauty takes his mind away, leaving an awkward silence. “I have never seen such beauty. Now, I can die happy.”

His wife clears her throat and spits. “They went to Old Man Yimm’s, he takes in travelers. Though most regret it.” There is a glint to her eye and a bite to her voice.

“My wife,” the farmer points out needlessly.

“Thank you. My friends and I are on our way to Qualin. You and your wife have been most kind,” Joshu says hurriedly, absently. His voice soft, absorbed in thought. Master Wabi is smiling, which means nothing. Pa Kua and Baso just look back at him. No one, it seems, was expecting to find anyone much less two women, two beautiful women. Were they just out for a walk? Out of where. What’s going on here? He’s too far down the path to return when he thinks of the wooden box with iron bands. Were they carrying that too? Why not? With everything else, of course these two beautiful women would be carrying a wooden box with iron bands. There must be beautiful women all over these hills carrying wooden boxes.

The village is at the foot of a western hill and in the dark shadow of the setting sun, it loses the light quickly. The man at the gate nods as they walk through . It isn’t far, still it’s dark before they find the inn. Old Man Yimm’s house is older and perhaps larger if you look closely, but no different than the other houses in the village. As the farmer’s wife said, an inn, when there is need and the need desperate. Still, there will be something to eat there and shelter for the night. No one speaks of it, but there is the hope that they will find the end to this mystery there as well, though that seems unlikely.
A polite cough at Yimm’s door produces only a growing sense of impatience. Joshu coughs louder to be heard over the gay laughter inside.

“You might as well go ahead and spit,” Baso grunts. “We’ll all die of hunger before they hear you over that racket. Old Man Yimm,” he bellows. “You have guests.”

The door slides open and a face to fit the name peers out. “Go away,” the face says as the door slides closed again.

“Innkeeper,” roars Baso. His voice brings heads to every door in the village. A scowling Old Man Yimm opens the inn’s door with obvious reluctance. “Yes, yes, yes, I heard you. I’m busy. Go away.”

Pa Kua leaps onto the porch to keep him from closing it again. Old Man Yimm hops back howling, holding his foot and leaning against the door frame for support.

“My foot. You stepped on my foot. You, you, big idiot.”

“How rude of you to treat guests,” Pa Kua beings as he steps into the street, his voice trailing off.
“Master Yimm.” Inside, a woman’s voice sounds softly chiding. The promise of beauty in her voice is fulfilled by the woman who appears in the doorway. And it was as if the stars had suddenly grew close, more radiant, and the moon leaned down to set her aglow, for she is the personification of beauty, that beauty known only to dreams.

“Of course,” Old Man Yimm says, and smiles, staring off after her as she vanishes inside. Looking after her, he’s transformed, the wrinkles fall away and for a magic moment, long departed teeth reappear. His eyes shining and warm hold only a fleeting trace of disappointment as he looks again at his unwanted visitors and sighs.

Her absence leaves the world empty, stark, its magic flown. Bereft, the young men can only stand there, finding it hard to breath. Such beauty. Who can define beauty, the fleeting sense of it? An illusion more received than given, more hint than substance and yet, this mere hint of perfection is the spark from which dreams are built and is treasured above all else.

“Gentlemen, please come inside,” says the new Old Man Yimm, and not for the first time, from the tone of his voice.

The room is long, low, smoky, and dim, despite having the shutters removed for the summer. In the center of the room an old woman cooks dinner. Steam rises from the black iron pot she takes from the fire ring and the aroma of rice fills the room. Beside her a wooden platter of vegetables, washed and sliced, waiting to be cooked. The sight and smell of her cooking envelope the hungry men, making them swallow. Their eyes continue down the room, then suddenly all else is forgotten. At the end of the room two women kneel on cushions talking across a low table. Echoes of the women’s laughter hangs in the air, their conversation falls away and the room becomes still. In the silence, the young men forget to breathe.

The first woman is small and dressed in a silvery white robe like moonlight on snow. But Joshu sees only the other, the taller one, the one dressed in the cream and pink of swirling cherry blossoms. Her face, her hair, the way her eyes softly glow, squeezes his liver. Something is happening to him. Something that pulls him outside of himself. He hears a flurry of wings, a thunder of hooves, feels the ground shake beneath his feet. There are no words to describe this feeling. Then it recedes to the waiting shadows of his consciousness, where desire reigns, and doubts and questions are forgotten, where reason goes begging, He stands there, a changed man, different somehow, a pure and better man, all lesser thoughts, baser thoughts stripped away, banished. Then the moment passes, and details begin marching in like dutiful little soldiers. That face, I have seen that face before. The thought stuns him. The girl on the road. The girl with the ox cart. The recognition is simultaneous, the surprise mutual.

She’s on her feet, her eyes flat and hard, a long thin ribbon of shiny steel held with easy familiarity makess tiny circles in the air. She fully intends to kill them all, the first half dozen cuts already planned. And she finds she cannot move, or doesn’t want to, which is very strange and more than a little frightening.

Joshu experiences an instant of great and ominous clarity, like a mouse looking over its shoulder at a hawk’s descending talons. His smile is strained, yet hopeful, oddly hopeful.

“Atsuma, please sit down. You will give these young men a bad impression.” It is the woman who does things to moonlight. Her voice is oddly soft, calm and reassuring. It dispels the tension. Atsuma blushes and her sword vanishes behind her robe. She sits down quickly, turning her head to the shadows.

Joshu is swirling in chaos with out measure or definition. So much, too much, is happening. His heart’s hammering and it’s hard to think with all that pounding. The sword? The sword was a shock, no the way she held it, that was a shock, as was the look in her eyes. He had seen that look before, that look of cold, murderous intent, but never had he seen it come on so quickly. Then there was tingling line he felt across his throat. It wasn’t his imagination, not entirely. Given a choice he would rather forget about the way she held that blade, the way she looked at him. If he could he would like to go back outside and start over. Yes, of all things, starting over would be best.

Baso entered the room as if going into a storm, mentally tensed and emotionally prepared to endure hostility, rebuffs, rejection in all its myriad forms. All the unreasoning horrors an active mind conjures up to give its insecurity substance. He is relieved by the sight of the sword. He can deal with swords, spears, arrows, wounds, mutilation, death itself has no terror for him. His thoughts pause seem to catch on mutilation; mutilation would be troubling. Then that’s behind him, overpowered by his greatest fear, his only fear, well two, ridicule and rejection. It’s the far keener cut of a woman’s laughing scorn that people his personal hells, and he is ready for that. His eyes flare, his muscles tense preparing to endure, to overcome, but there nothing, only this, this wave of friendliness, this acceptance, this feeling of being welcome there, washing over him, nearly taking him to his knees. He glances at Pa Kua, that helps. Pa Kua looks pathetic, like a small boy offering the first love of his life a flower. There is such innocence, such wonder in his face. He wants to slap him before he does something to embarrass them all. And Joshu, he looks like he needs to sit down. He’s staggering like a pole-axed ox, swaying on his feet, eyes all weird like. It all seems unnatural, although that’s no longer troubling, not in the sense of being unexpected. They all are welcome, wanted here, he can feel it. All that in the few steps it takes to reach the table. “Baso,” he says by way of introduction and smiles, feeling lucky to get that out. He drops to his knees by the table and feels the building shake.

The vision in silvery white smiles. “Gentlemen, please sit with us. Have you eaten?” Her voice is soft, gay, and politely attentive, a butterfly in a world grown used to moths.. Her eyes fill the room with light, her voice with music and Atsuma’s display of homicidal fury is forgotten .

For Joshu, the room glows so brightly his eyes feel dry and seem to squeak in their sockets This woman, this Atsuma is like no other. What a lovely name? Her every movement redefines the meaning of grace and beauty. She’s all that beauty can ever hope to be. He aches for her, trembles, and yes, he feels a little dizzy, still the feeling is wonderful. He doesn’t want this moment to end. He drinks in the moment, letting it wash over him, reveling in the memory of her sparkling eyes as she turned away. He doesn’t notice her staring at the far wall as if she suspects a rat is hiding in its shadows, waiting, wanting to take her unaware.

“And this is Atsuma. I am Lady Wa,” the smaller one says.

“Atsuma?” Joshu’s voice caresses the sound. Such a strange and lovely name. Such a lovely woman. All thoughts of the girl and the ox cart are pushed aside and forgotten. Such beauty, the curve of her lips, the softness of her cheek, the list grows with each passing moment. There’s something he should say, something important, something hiding among his other important thoughts. He can feel it rustling in the dark, being a nuisance, but not presenting him with anything to work with.

Then Pa Kua bows. saying. “I’m Pa Kua, son of Lord Pohan of Qualin.” he seems oddly contrite, barely whispering.

“Joshu, son of Lord Sunza.” It comes out a croak, his bow quick and jerky. He’s half a step behind everything and can’t quite catch up. He knows he shouldn’t try, but the knowledge lacks the will to do him any good. He hears a cough behind him as he starts to sit down, the sound pulls him back up. “Allow me to introduce Master Wabi, a woodcarver, and the guest of my father, Lord Sunza.” It doesn’t sound like his voice. It certainly isn’t his idea. He sits down slowly, apprehensively, suddenly alone again, the pesky thought gone. Atsuma and Lady Wa bow deeply to Master Wabi from where they sit, a courtesy he returns in full. It’s as if, for a moment, Lady Wa and Master Wabi recognize something in each other that sets them apart. A flicker of jealously courses through the young men, vanishing quickly when Lady Wa turns her attention to them.

The meal is simple, eaten with little conversation at first, and that between a delighted Old Man Yimm and Lady Wa. They speak of small things, of eggs and radishes, the color of tea leaves after a summer’s rain. Lady Wa transforms all around her into something very special and wonderful, bringing out the best in people. Old Man Yimm dotes on her and the young men are attentive. She draws attention away from herself in some manner, focusing it on Atsuma. Joshu hardly knows Lady Wa’s there.

Only Master Wabi notices, him and Urti, and they watch with fascination and pride. She was a bit heavy handed there at the beginning, but seems to be getting hang of it, don’t you think, Urti? Who smiles and turns with pleasure in his hand. Master Wabi eats cheerfully, saying little, not wanting to interfere. He’s a connoisseur of the human condition and watches the raw power flashing about him. The young men have no thought of statues, wooden boxes, or dead bandits. Only the presence of the two women occupies their attention, as it should. A presence much too awesome to address directly, apparently. The thought makes Master Wabi smile, listening to Pa Kua and Baso struggle to overcome their shyness with a show of casual talk about little known fighting techniques. Fighting techniques? Its enough to make Urti giggle, which makes him smile. Largely talking to themselves, speaking over and beyond one another, raising their voices whenever there is a pause in the conversation between Lady Wa and Old Man Yimm, Hoping to impress or failing that, at least not annoy the two women. He agrees with Urti, it must be a young man thing, and both wish they could help Joshu who suffers so dreadfully.

The shyness that has fallen upon his friends crushes Joshu. Forlorn thoughts, despondent as falling autumn leaves drift through his mind. He feels himself part of the shadows, there, but not there. Did she smile just then? Did she glance at Pa Kua or was it Baso? No matter, she didn’t glance at him , or smile. He is lost in the shadows, not really there. And why is this? His head jerks up and his eyes flare wide. Because, he’s a fool. A fool and a coward afraid to try. How will she know how he feels about her if he’s afraid to talk to her. No, fool he may be, but certainly not a coward, he squares his shoulders and steps into the fray.

Gradually Old Man Yimm grows interested in the young men’s stories of skill and bravery although he cannot say why. Still, he gives them room, trading gardening tips for lethal places to strike an opponent as if such knowledge might prove useful one day. Lady Wa contributes to their ritualistic male display with little gasps of awed appreciation, and laughter, at appropriate moments. Gradually she induces a difficult Atsuma to join the party by her example.

Atsuma’s eyes slowly move from the shadows to the lively conversation of the young men. They puff and strut like fat pigeons, is her first thought, before long she’s giggling shamelessly. It shocks her at first and her eyes flash, still she smiles at how they compete for her approval. They really are funny, and yes, sweet. The thought catches her by surprise.

Master Wabi excuses himself, not that anyone one notices, and slips away. The door slides shut softly behind him. The evening passes quickly, all too soon the need for sleep asserts itself as Atsuma grows quieter and less responsive. Old Man Yimm takes the screens from the walls and hangs them from the rafter, giving his guests a little privacy. The night’s still and bright with moonlight. Joshu groans softly in his sleep until Pa Kua kicks him. He dreams of cherry blossoms swirling in the moonlight around a silvery white statue. A statue who turns away each time he tries to see her face.

The rabbit in the moon is out, throwing dark shadows across the dusty village street. No one sees the dark figure fly over the village wall and up the steep boulder-strewn western hill. In an open glade among the oaks and pines,, two figures begin to dance, their movements flowing into one another, turning, always turning.

Chapter Six, Chicken Walking by Ed Parker

Chapter 6-–Weeds In The Garden

Master Wabi strolls into the inn just before dawn and prods his sleeping companions to wakefulness with his staff, silencing their muttered gripes and protests with a cheerful, but meaningful look. Having their full attention, he motions them outside. In the dark stillness of the chilly morning, Master Wabi surveys his half blind stumbling little group with every sign of satisfaction. His eyebrows arch with amusement as he announces, “We shall walk, my chickens, and we shall continue walking until you may be presented without embarrassment to our two lovely ladies.”

The announcement is received in slack jawed silence. He coughs quietly and continues. “Ah yes, we shall walk and think light thoughts, while we breathe and breathe. Someday you will be grateful. Toes out.”

It is not their first choice so early in the morning. Had there been a choice, they would still be asleep, or failing that, eating breakfast. Still, they fall into line, grateful for the darkness that conceals their awkward, stumbling forms. The chill of being presented, whatever that means, fades as they remember the past evening with soaring delight. Were there ever more beautiful and charming women? Thoughts of smiling eyes fill the young men’s heads and they spring light as thistle down. Soon they are all Master Wabi can hope for and he leads them back to the village.

In the courtyard of the inn, Lady Wa and Atsuma are dressed in traveling clothes, talking as they wait to leave, or rather Atsuma is talking to Lady Wa and sternly too. Lady Wa seems a little lost in Atsuma’s extra robe and finds it difficult to pay attention. The sleeves are rolled up and the robe’s extra length tucked up under a makeshift rope belt, still it droops and drags as she walks. Its size makes her feel like a child, and feeling like a child makes her dance and skip about the courtyard, lightly stamping her feet and singing, or it did. This is the second time Atsuma has had to chase her down and Lady Wa feels the desire to be bad bubbling up, yet again.

She has no sense of decorum, Atsuma thinks sourly. The courtly robes are packed away in the wooden box Old Man Yimm whisked away moments before. That box had been a struggle to carry up from the river. Though small, Lady Wa never seems to tire and her humor; they laughed most of the time. Still, the box was awkward, Lady Wa wanted to toss it into the river, but such beautiful clothes and jewels, how could anyone think of throwing them away? It’s rude, disrespectful, to well, all those things she never had, not that she missed them, still it seems wrong not to want them. Lady Wa was about to bolt again, when they hear the young men returning. They turn and smile, bowing in greeting as Master Wabi leads his swaggering flock back to the inn.

Master Wabi seems pleased with the three young men bounding along behind him. The young men are pleased with themselves. The walk is difficult and they have progressed to the point where it all most seems normal, almost. Joshu’s thoughts are light as he bounces along, thinking of Atsuma, sure that she smiled at him. Then he sees her watching, her hand concealing a smile, his thoughts turn to stone. How ridiculous they must look, walking like chickens? The walk becomes increasingly difficult as though he’s moving through deep mud. Each step becomes more difficult as he imagines himself as she must see him, a fool, a laughing stock. Stopping comes as a surprise and Baso is like a stone wall. It is all he can do to stay on his feet. Pa Kua grabs his shoulder and steadies him. Entirely unnecessarily. He glares at Pa Kua, brushing his hand aside, who then smiles and pats his shoulder. His face feels hot and stiff as a mask as he glances at Atsuma from the corner of his eye. Was she laughing at him? So, so it appears. Her hand covers her mouth, but not that tiny giggle. The sound of it peels his pride like a plum.
Old Man Yimm leads a packhorse from behind the inn. A large wooden box with iron bands is tied securely to the packsaddle. Bowing deeply, he presents the lead rope like an offering to Lady Wa. Turning without a word, he walks into the inn, a deeply thoughtful man, deep in thought.

Lady Wa bows again to Master Wabi and his little troop. “I’m glad you returned so quickly. We were about to leave and I wanted to say good bye and to thank you for an enjoyable evening.”

“Sad news indeed, Lady Wa. My young companions shall miss you and Atsuma. It is very important, you know to have light thoughts when you train. This morning their thoughts were light as froth, indeed they fairly bubbled with lightness and flew over the ground as if they had wings.” He looked down at the ground shyly, adding. “They must have been thinking of the two of you. I know they were paying little enough attention to me. Now,” he sighs, “look at them, their bellies are filled with sand. They may never recover.” It’s an attempt at humor, but having too much truth to it to be funny. In truth, he sounds worried.

“The “Walk”, I believe that’s what it’s called?” Lady Wa tries to wrinkle her brow, but fails. She holds up a finger to make her point, though she’s unsure why.

“It has been called many things Lady Wa, ” replies Master Wabi curiously, as if wondering where she is going with this.

“It is so ancient. I thought it forgotten long ago”, she sighs at the thought of such a loss. “I’m glad to see the, ah, art survive.” Her eyes smile as she recovers and continues. “Your students must be honored to have the privilege of your, ah, instruction.” Lady Wa looks at the embarrassed faces of the young men and tries not to smile. They are such nice boys, and they look so miserable.

“The “Walk,” you say. Most polite,” Master Wabi purses his lips. He enjoys pursing his lips and looking thoughtful, it’s one of his favorites. “Far better than what my young friends call it.” Master Wabi glances reproachfully at Baso. “They call it “Chicken Walking,” though I doubt chickens would recognize it. Still, they are improving, or were.”

“It must make the roosters angry and the hens nervous,” Atsuma says, trying not to smile.
Lady Wa gives her, her sternest look, a reproachful look or as close as she can come to one. “No need to be mean, Atsuma, there is much good in life that you might find strange.”

“Well, it looks awfully silly,” Atsuma says with a giggle. She sobers with an effort, looking down at the bamboo flute in her hand, nervously putting it behind her back.

“I knew it,” moans Joshu. Perhaps it’s the heat from his burning self-confidence, his vanished self esteem, that he feels on his face. He looks down expecting to find ashes swirling about his feet, should he be able to see through the smoke and flames, which didn’t seem likely.

“The “Walk, Atsuma,” is an ancient training technique for those who take the practice of martial arts seriously. It may seem silly to those who wait impatiently for their father to give some boy a goose,” replies Lady Wa coyly.

Atsuma jerks back as if she has been struck. Her face pales, her eyes on the ground, hurt, disbelieving. Atsuma’s reaction takes Lady Wa by surprise. She can feel her withdrawing, retreating inside herself. The remark had been innocent enough, a reference to the custom of a father giving a goose to the young man seeking his daughter for a bride. The goose mates for life. It’s a gentle a reminder. Does marriage frighten her? No, sex frightens her. Ah, she should have known. She knew Atsuma held men in low esteem, the good ones, killing the others whenever the opportunity arose. She’d changed that, or thought she did. She’d been wrong. These powers are all so new, maybe she shouldn’t interfere? But how could she not interfere. Atsuma’s pain is like fire. Nonsense, she puts that thought out of her mind. Of course she is going to interfere, there is no choice really. And what good is all this, if you can’t help a friend. How silly? She touches Atsuma’s shoulder with her fingers and lets her remorse, her apology, her love flow out, washing away Atsuma’s pain.

It happens so quickly only Master Wabi notices, he and Urti. They know all there is to know about the pain of remorse. It took them a thousand years to work through all the bitter and sweet distractions behind what they called remorse before they could let it go. Regret took nearly as long, longer still to realize they were fools. There are few benefits to being immortal and time isn’t one of them, everything just takes longer becoming, more complicated.

The three young warriors swell, growing taller and more fierce with Lady’s Wa’s words, missing the rest entirely. They really weren’t looking and if they had of been they wouldn’t have known what they saw.

“To walk like a chicken,” challenges Atsuma? The blood climbs in her cheeks, her eyes snap and flash. Lady Wa is forgiven. She can feel Lady Wa’s sorrow, she didn’t know, anyway, she trusts her. She hasn’t had much experience with trust and the feeling is precious, there’s no need to tear it apart to see how it works. Then it’s behind her, forgotten, but there is still this, walking like a chicken, nonsense.

Lady Wa’s voice is gentle, soothing. “Those who have mastered the art move so quickly they seem to fly. They leap without effort and fight without tiring. It’s very difficult to learn, perhaps you are not interested in such things.” There is a smile in her voice as her power reaches out to Atsuma, gently probing, determined to make no more mistakes. She concentrates and then begins straightening the trampled flowers of Atsuma’s mind. Suddenly she feels the festering hate and sorrow of an old wound, feels the pain below the scab and backs away. She can take away the pain, some of the pain, some of the hatred, but not its cause, not without Atsuma’s help.

Atsuma sniffs, her eyebrows arch disdainfully. “A secret of the immortals, no doubt. You tease me with such stories and fables. The only difficulty I see is in overcoming a natural reluctance to appear foolish.” Her look says Lady Wa doesn’t know what she’s talking about, not about this, not about the fighting arts. How could she? Everyone talks about magical techniques, chants, meditation, and such nonsense. There’s no magic, just people wanting to be proficient without working for it. Her skills with a sword are real. She has worked her butt off achieving them, practicing for hours, for years. She can flip a grain of rice into the air and cut it in half length wise with her sword, not every time, mind you, but often. That isn’t magic. That is skill. She impressed the Sisters and they’re not easily impressed. Though Sister Akai scolded her for wasting food. There’s no magic.

Lady Wa smiles knowingly, “These young men have made good progress in the art, but Master Wabi is a master, perhaps he will demonstrate.”

He grunts and looks away. “I’m am only an old man, young women are not interested in what old men can do.” He looks at Atsuma and then the young men trying to look nonchalant. “Baso,” Master Wabi barks suddenly. “Atsuma left a comb on the floor inside the inn. Get it for her?”

Baso, leaves with one step, returns with another, offering Atsuma a comb she had not known was missing. He’d acted without thinking, moving with incredible swiftness. Oddly, he’s as surprised to be offering her the comb as she is to receive it.

“Forgive my rash words Master Wabi, I spoke in haste. I’m very foolish. I wish to learn. If you will teach me?” Atsuma, bows very deeply. She’s awed, very awed. That big boy can move. His first step was from the road to the porch of the inn, ten feet or more. He must weigh three, four hundred pounds. It astounds and frightens her to think of a male possessing such speed. Speed is her armor. She feels a twinge of vulnerability. It’s irksome, irksome and unacceptable to be inferior to anyone, any male. Her speed and skill are all she has. Besides, if he can do that, what could she do if she really worked at it?

“To walk like a chicken?” Master Wabi cocks one eye quizzically

“And to think light thoughts, and to breathe,” replies Atsuma. Or whatever it takes, she adds to herself. Men may be stronger, she can’t change that, but no man can be faster than her.

Master Wabi smiles, “Everyone teaches and everyone learns, something. As we are traveling in the same direction, and should Lady Wa find it suitable, we will travel together.”

Old Man Yimm stands in the door of the inn, watching his guests prepare to depart, thinking that it passed too quickly. An evening beyond his dreams, an evening he will always remember. For a short time he had been witty, speaking with such clarity and understanding. He had amazed himself with such words. And she had bowed to him. To him, a nobody. Just her presence had unlocked places in him he had not known existed. She had appreciated him, drawing out his secret thoughts, listening to him as if he were of singular importance and lived in the world, the same world. He felt understood. Her attention to him had revealed something about himself that he had long overlooked, his dignity. That was the true beauty of Lady Wa.

There is some natural law that determines the amount of time people are delayed in departure that increases sharply with the number of people leaving. Most of the morning passes before the travelers, now six and a horse, finally take to the road. Behind them they leave a village oddly changed by their passing. It will be years before the village becomes accustom to Old Man Yimm’s toothless, smiling face. He says hello now and sometimes sings little songs as he sits on the steps of the inn. There is a little shrine in Old Man Yimm’s courtyard, his wife decorates it with tiny white flowers that turn silver in the light of the moon. Each night before going to bed, she claps her hands three times to the gift Lady Wa gave her husband, a gift that made her own life a joy.

Master Wabi gives Lady Wa and Atsuma a quick lesson in Chicken Walking, neither pay him much attention, joking and giggling, without actually being rude. Finally, he shrugs and smiles, changing the subject until he is left out of the conversation entirely. The travelers stop frequently, sandals are retied, this and that adjusted with is a great deal of overly polite discussion, both condescending and pretentious, regarding who should walk with whom and little progress is made.

“Think of the rest of us, Joshu. Knowing your keen eyes have sought out the dangers behind each bush and rock, knowing your noble nose has sniffed out every evil doer. It will be such a comfort to everyone. We all depend on you, our hero, our leader, our glorious shining light. Joshu, you must lead, and in leading, assert your leadership like a beacon in the night that guides all who behold it to safety. You must therefore be our vanguard, well out in front, nothing else will quite do”

“Vanguard?” Joshu looks at Pa Kua as if he were asking for money.

Pa Kua ignores him. “We are but lambs to your lion. Lumps to your mountain. If only I had one small tenth part of your skill, your talents. Alas, it will never be. Ah yes, well out in front. Out of sight would be most advantageous.”

Joshu gives Pa Kua a rough embrace, wiping a tear from his eye, he says, “I shall keep you safe my friend.” There’s a catch to his voice. “Your well being is my burden. I carry it willingly. My sword, my body shall shield you from all danger.”

Pa Kua bows deeply. “And I shall repay my great debt to you by walking in the dust of your noble sandals, rendering what small assistance my limited ability allows in the mysteries of chicken walking to the lovely Atsuma.”

“Turtle dung,” whispers Joshu, giving him a last hug. “May you rot in turtle dung.”

Atsuma falls into line beside Pa Kua with the tiniest of smiles, attentive, absorbed in his every word. She can play this game. Joshu glances at her, shrugging sadly as he turns away, setting off at a quick pace.

“Joshu, are you on fire?” Pa Kua shouts to the rapidly disappearing Joshu. “Have some consideration. Our gentle companions cannot keep such a pace.”

A surge of anger surges through Joshu, he straightens, stiffens, turning slowly, a smile fixed to his face, the strain showing in his eyes as he grates out. “Just so, oh wise and considerate Pa Kua, thank you for your kind advise, “ Then sets a pace appropriate for leading cats on a leash.

Baso is constantly drawn to aid Pa Kua in the instruction of Atsuma. Unneeded assistance, Pa Kua repeatedly points out, which Baso ignores. Atsuma struggles with this odd manner of walking, despite the deluge of solicitous advice. If asked, she would deny it, but she enjoys the attention and the way Joshu’s back stiffens every time she laughs. The walk is ridiculous and no faster than other, far more normal ways of walking. There’s nothing normal about pushing each step into a leap. It strains the muscles of her buttocks and legs. No, worse than strains, something terrible is happening to her buttocks and legs. This must look absurd, she sighs to herself. Still she grimly perseveres, waiting for the magic transformation, hoping it will be soon.

Lady Wa follows a short way behind, watching the young men strut and stumble. She delights in Atsuma’s enjoyment of the young men’s attention and finds it difficult not to giggle, impossible not to smile. She whispers comments to the packhorse and Master Wabi, comments which seem to come from some great store of wisdom far beyond her age. She sounds like an older sister or an aunt, though she looks no older than Atsuma, still, no one seems to notice. She enjoys the horse’s lackadaisical pace and is quite unable to take any serious interest in the “Walk” that absorbs Atsuma, contrary to what she had said before.

Hours later they are still on the road and the road still hugs the flank of the low mountains, having made remarkably little progress on their journey. Ahead is a broad valley blue with shadows, behind it is a dark range of mountains touched red-gold by the setting sun. Atsuma has no interest in such beauty. She is racked with pain and barely sees the road. Her legs throb and her butt is on fire, every step is an act of will, and though she refuses to let it show, conversation has suffered. The lengthening shadows that force them to look for a place to camp come as a happy surprise. She hears the sound of running water and gratefully staggers off toward it.

It’s a small stream and Atsuma sits on a rock, scooping water with her bowl to wash dawn the rice balls Old Man Yimm’s wife gave them that morning. She toys with the idea of throwing herself into the stream, but it’s too shallow to drown, too slow to carry her away. Despondent, she thinks of returning to camp, and tries to stand, and fails. Her body below her waist aches and refuses to respond. She can’t move, at least not much or well. The best she can manage is a low and painful crouch that brings tears to her eyes and makes her nose drip. She points herself toward camp, shuffling one step at a time, her eyes fixed on her sleeping mat.

Just before dawn she wakes to an aching stiffness throughout her back and lower body that has somehow managed to surpass that of the night before. Her toes are reluctant, her knees and butt just refuse. She draws her legs up to her chest and rolls onto her hands and knees just as Master Wabi asks if she would like tea. She sways there, uncertain, wanting to pee, all she can see is the weave of the grass mat. A bowl of tea appears in front of her face. She glares at it. This is no time for tea. Why doesn’t he go would away?

“The tea is best hot and most useful, fresh. It soothes aches and warms tired muscles. Drink it quickly. The rest are still sleeping.”

She hears him move back to the fire and sit down. She sees him out of the corner of her eye. He’s ignoring her, staring into the fire. She’s a skeptic by nature. Nothing will sooth this pain. Still, she drinks the tea, hoping just this once that she will be surprised, but doubting it. The warmth of the tea begins to spread throughout her body. She waits, perhaps? She struggles to her feet and begins to stretch. The pain subsides, a few minutes of stretching leaves her feeling close to normal.

Joshu and Pa Kua are sitting by the fire drinking tea, trying not to watch her. Baso is coming back from the bushes below the crest of the hill as Lady Wa leads the horse back to camp. Atsuma eats her breakfast of cold rice standing up and glances at Master Wabi from time to time, wondering where he got that tea, hoping he has more. A few hours later she is still waiting for the magic to begin and becoming skeptical, or more skeptical of this Chicken Walking thing. It had been fun this time yesterday, fun talking, joking, with Baso and Pa Kua, teasing Joshu. That was yesterday, little enough is fun now. She has to concentrate on every pushing step, but refuses to give up. She would much rather die. It’s an option, an increasingly attractive option. Implementation is the problem. She can think of no way of killing herself that would not be misconstrued as giving up, quiting, and she is not a quiter. Such thoughts occupy her mind and take some of her attention off the pain

Joshu is in front, far in front, unwilling to watch her suffer as he had suffered. Pa Kua and Baso are sympathetic, but silent as they watch her struggle. They remember their own pain vividly. Chicken Walking is difficult to learn and has no short cuts. Distracted and hardly paying attention to their surrounding, they are embarrassed to find bandits attacking them.

The road runs straight across the rocky valley floor, only turning to pass by a small brush-covered hill. From its top, can be seen the low western mountains that surrounds Old Man Yimm’s village. Far to the east, near the edge of the valley, is the blue smokey haze of another village. In between and all around is bare, stony ground, too dry and rocky to plow. The Emperor’s wars of conquest left people dislocated and disturbed, many homes and farms were destroyed in the fighting as villages and fields became battlefields. Most people rose above the curse of war with courage and determination, others sank below it, becoming worse than animals. The hill is covered with bushes, small trees and boulders the size of small houses crowd its flanks in, shade. The hill draws travelers to its shade, the only shade for miles, a convenient spot to rest. A perfect spot for an ambush. That’s where the bandits had been waiting. That’s where the attack comes from.

The bandits roam the countryside, moving from place to place, open to suggestion and quick to seize an opportunity. Over the years they have come to appreciate the hill and all it has brought them. They’ve been waiting there all morning, lying in the shade of the bushes near the top of the hill, passing the time, drinking, gambling, and honing the fine points of their trade. They are strong believers in luck and take pride in their patience. Something will come along.

Suddenly their lookout calls out, “Come here, you lazy bastards. See what old Yeep has found.” He waves them up and points to what’s coming down the road. Luck has indeed been good to them. They outnumber their prey several times, a good margin of safety, and there are women. The bandits laugh as they watch their victims staggering toward them: three buffoons and a woman, behind them are two more and a horse. They all appear to be drunk, they must be drunk, walking like that. Closer, they can see that the woman is beautiful. She walks like an idiot, but they won’t hold that against her. Only one of them is armed. The other two, they call fat boy and snake shit, look harmless enough. The two behind are a girl and an old man. The girl looks even better than the first one, a child by the look of her. They will sell the women, after they are through with them. Everyone but the girl walks like that, like they’re drunk or crazy, even the old man, which makes them pause. Crazy is a very serious matter, killing a crazy person is out of the question, very bad luck. They quickly hold a meeting. Everyone has an opinion, they are, after all bandits, and by definition, free thinkers. After listening to the testimony of their best experts, debating the various points, pro and con, they decide that there’s insufficient evidence of craziness, per se, merely an odd, call it eccentric, form of ambulation. Old Yeep’s diatribe against judging others, however odd, or different, is cut short in the interests of time, besides they’ve heard it before. They decide to concentrate on the four in front, kill the three men straight away, and take down the woman. The other two won’t get far. But looks can be deceiving, even to an expert eye, and the bandits are expert in such matters.

True, the fat boy is unarmed: Baso never felt the need to carry a weapon and says so whenever the question is raised. The question is never raised by Joshu and Pa Kua, they know better. Baso’s strong and for all his boasting, he has no real concept of just how strong. Whatever he lifts, rises. Whatever he pushes, moves. And when he pulls something, it hastens to him. He doesn’t think about it, never had to. Snake shit is a different matter entirely. Pa Kua carries two cleavers inside his robe. Kitchen knives, long as a man’s forearm, wide as the palm of a hand, thick backed, straight edged and highly honed. He’s had them since he was a boy. Heavy, awkward things, still he likes their balance and odd as it may sound, their utility. He can slice a radish so thin you can see through it. A bad habit in Baso’s opinion, ruining a perfectly good radish. As a boy, he had been something of a pest in the kitchen, but the cooks liked him, that’s how he got the cleavers. It caused some problems for him at home. He was an only son and his mother, a worrier, always afraid he was going to get hurt, on him all the time about it. The cleavers worried his mother, which delighted him. Left alone he might have forgot about them. Maybe a good whipping would have helped things along. Instead they fought and she threatened. The more she threatened, the more obstinate he became. Finally she turned the cooks away to punish him, proving a death sentence to the cooks. Within a month, two committed suicide and the other disappeared. Pa Kua never forgave her, and she never understood why. That was the story he told Baso and Joshu, and Baso thought it just perverse enough to be true. It explained the cleavers, if not why he kept them. Anyway, he always had them, as long as they could remember. And Pa Kua, being Pa Kua, set out to turned his stubbornness into a virtue, using the cleavers for everything he could think of, carrying them everywhere. A person has to work hard to use kitchen knives as weapons, but that’s what he did. He worked hard, constantly practicing with them until they were extensions of his hands, and he was very fast. He could cut flies in half as they flew, the little ones that fly in your face and disappear. He was a match for Joshu’s sword, at least in Master Yeto’s opinion, a claim Joshu simply ignored. Pa Kua used the thick backs of the blades like the edge of his palm, their width like small shields. He called it the Long Hand Style.

The bandits boiled out from behind some thorn bushes close to the road, screaming like lost souls, brandishing their swords and spears, leaping and yelling. A motley and desperate looking mob of villains and cutthroats, dressed in rags and mismatched stolen finery to shock and awe their victims. They rely on speed and terror and they’re on their unsuspecting victims like a bad dream. And normally, if all has gone according to plan, their victims throw themselves on the ground at this point, and beg for their lives. Then its just a matter of finishing up, killing the men, raping the women, counting the loot over dinner. It was the accepted thing. They worked hard at being terrifying, spending hours on their screams and yells, being professionals and taking pride in their work. Perhaps their lust and greed made them careless? Maybe it was bad luck. It was certainly bad.

One of the faster ones is a step or two in front of the other and confident that he will take out the fat boy with his spear. Baso brushes the spear aside and swats the bandit down with the heel of his palm. Stepping over the dead body and taking the spear with him, sweeping it across the next two, transforming them into a bloody spray of bones and splinters. The bandits having ran past him, he turns to chase them down, surprised by how fast he moves, but there is no need.

Pa Kua’s long wide cleavers flash and swirl around his long twisting form, spurts and sprays of blood fly and bandits stumble and fall all around him.

Joshu sidesteps the slow deliberate flight of an arrow, and leaps to cut down the man who shot it, surprising Joshu, and of course the bandit, who was now dead. Another bandit attacks him and dies just as quickly. It feels so odd. He’s cutting with his usual efficiency, but faster, much faster. He wouldn’t normally be pondering his technique in the middle of a fight, but the fight was over. Curious in itself, considering there were more than enough bandits to go around and he had only killed two. Then he sees Atsuma standing in the middle of what appears to be a great number of dead bodies spread out around her. It would seem that Atsuma’s beauty had drawn the bandit to her and she had been happy to oblige their folly, her. Few if any had even seen her move, none saw her sword, as each stroke flowed into the next, too quickly to follow. The fight is over before the bandits knew there had been one. Their bodies lay scattered among the rocks and thin tufts of grass. Twenty bandits lay dead, twenty out of twenty with no wounded.

Pa Kua counts them twice as his mind races to restore order and redefine its parameters. Twenty. He can remember killing three, maybe four, he isn’t sure. He doesn’t even remember drawing his cleavers. The fight, if you could call it that, was a blur. The bandits were not trained or particularly skillful fighters, hardly more than farmers with a poor attitude and criminal intent, but it isn’t that. It was the quickness. It happened so quickly. Twenty lives. Then something else registers. Most of the bodies were around Atsuma. And where did Atsuma get that sword?

They had become scattered during the fight and now, as if waking from a dream, they slowly return to where Master Wabi is talking with Lady Wa. Atsuma looks at the blood splatters on her robe, however neatly done, killing is wet work. “Did anyone notice a stream around here?” Speaking to herself, absently, her voice fading. “This will stain if I don’t get it out.” It’s a reoccurring problem, she speaks more form habit than need, but it’s not important. She’s tired and aches from the bone out, and there seems to be a fog surrounding her. The fighting, the bodies, the blood, seem surreal.

Master Wabi and Lady Wa talk quietly. Lady Wa nods and Master Wabi unties the ropes holding the box to the back of the packhorse. The beautiful garments are quickly removed, carefully wrapped in cloth, and retied on the back of the horse. The empty wooden box is thrown among the bodies.
Seeing the box, Atsuma screams, “What are you doing?”

“The horse found the box uncomfortable,” Master Wabi answers smiling. Atsuma opens her mouth to speak, hesitates, then closes it again. She is tired and nothing makes any sense, why should the box. No one can believe what had just happened.

A mournful look slips over Master Wabi face at the sight of all the dead. Lady Wa looks to the distant hills and gently strokes the horse’s neck and mane. It’s hot. No one noticed the heat a few minutes ago, but now it’s hot. Flies buzz around the bodies and the fresh blood makes the horse nervous.
“I don’t understand,” Baso challenges, frowning. “You two act like we did something wrong. They attacked us. They deserve what happened to them.

“They are dead now,” Master Wabi says. “Death is what happened to them. The end of what was, the beginning of what will be. Still, it’s always intrusive taking the life of another, however miserable you consider that other to be. Tell me, what have their deaths given you?”

Atsuma looks up from the stains on her robe and snaps, “Given? All I got out of this is a break from your stupid Chicken walking and blood spots on my robe, which will stain if I can’t wash it out soon. And this is my best robe. What have their deaths given me?” Walking back to Master Wabi, she slides the blade of her sword into the flute and snaps it closed, still feeling miffed about the box. “They were scum. Now they’re dead scum.” Her voice tight with anger and bitterness. “Scum like these killed my parents. Scum, all of them. I will kill everyone of them I find. Does that offend you?”
Joshu, Baso and Pa Kua eye that long flute and shudder, remembering how she held it that day on the road, struggling with her temper as her knuckles whitened. How patiently she had been, listening to them, strangers in baggy loincloths babble on and on, like, like idiots. And they remember what Master Wabi had said about her killing them all. He had been right, she could have killed them all. The thought makes them cringe and look away.

“The Sisters taught you the way of the sword,” begins Master Wabi.

Atsuma interrupts him. “Yes, the Sisters. They found me, cared for me, raised me, loved me. They even gave me my name. They taught me the sword and gave me a reason to live.” She stops a few feet away from Master Wabi, looking straight into his face. It’s a rude and challenging look. She doesn’t care. “A man owes me. And he is not going to want to pay, but he will. He will pay dearly.”

“They taught you that hatred is the heaviest burden.” Master Wabi says gently. “Hatred consumes all who hold on to it.”

She scowls at him dubiously, wondering how he could know about the Sisters, what they taught her. “No doubt. And doubtless I will pay that price as well.” She smiles, but it is merely a twist of her lips with no warmth. “they could not change my mind, what chance do you think you have?” she doesn’t wait for an answer. “As for this scum, I feel no remorse for killing scum. My compassion lies in killing them quickly. I don’t make sport of them or cause them needless pain. That’s my compassion. Thats the best I can do.” She waves her flute at the bodies. “The Sisters taught me that a good garden is diligently weeded. Well, I don’t want these weeds in my garden.”

Joshu sheaths his long sword. “I don’t know what this is all about, some bandits tried to kill us, we killed them. Atsuma is right, they are weeds, or whatever.”

Lady Wa disturbed by Atsuma’s rudeness toward Master Wabi tries to sooth her. “Atsuma, please. You did what had to be done with great skill and courage. These bandits are creatures of fear and misery. They forfeited their lives long ago. Master Wabi asks what have their deaths given you. He’s not blaming you. He’s asking you what you’ve learned.”

“You acted without hesitation,” continues Master Wabi. “Nothing more is asked of a warrior, few warriors attain that much. It is either a beginning, or an end. For most it is an end, as if the act justifies itself, which of course, is nonsense.” He pauses, purses his lips and pulls at his chin. “Weeds in the garden of humanity? Curious. You say you only pull nameless, soulless weeds. A reasonable assumption given their behavior, but still an assumption. One made on the basis of fear and hatred, a poor basis for knowing anything. How can you know anything from that?”

Pa Kua listens with a growing sense of impatience. Finally. “You say if we do not leave our hatred behind, we will go no further. At least I think that’s what you said.” He frowns and looks at Master Wabi with a cocked eye, but gets no response. “That killing these people is like pulling weeds from a garden when we don’t know what has been planted there. Is that what you mean? ” He’s impressed with the depth of his thinking and the sound of his voice. He doesn’t see Baso roll his eyes or the curious look Atsuma gives him. “I’m not an expert on gardening. And If these weeds had not been trying to choke the life from my peas and beans, I might have mistaken them for something useful. Knowing their evil intentions solved that particular mystery for me. I prefer them as dead weeds. Far more useful than live bandits.” An impressive speech, one he hadn't planned to make, but now, he wishes he had written it down.

“Pa Kua, If you knew what I was talking about, I wouldn’t have brought it up. You know what they say about frogs? If they had wings, they wouldn’t bump their butts so much, but they don’t, so they do. It’s about awareness. How do you know your true nature?” He suddenly grows taller, bending over Pa Kua, glaring down at him, whispering, “The one beneath all your self satisfied bumblefumble. You don't know, but you will.” Then he grins, becoming his old self again.

"ah, bumble, what?" Pa Kua feels the silence inside his chest. His heart has stopped beating. He looks around. No one notices anything strange or odd. No one is startled or amazed. A sense of wonder envelopes him. How separate, distant, he feels just now. How uniquely himself. How mortal? Then his heart begins to beat. Perhaps, it was, it was, it must have been his imagination. He smiles with relief as Master Wabi continues. Still, he wonders.

“My young friend, a word represents something else, never mind. You have no idea who you are, yet you feel secure whacking away at other people. Granted, this bunch requires little insight. Still, you might wonder if there was something worth keeping. Are you not even curious? Pea, bean, or weed, if you know your true nature, you know the nature of everything, if not, then all you know are illusions.” He stops and looks at them through the brush of his eyebrows. No one speaks, although Pa Kua and Atsuma seem to be trying and failing. His cheeks hollow as he purses his lips, glaring at them all. He clasps his stick behind his back and walks back and forth in front of them. “I shall make it simple, easy for you to understand. Killing is neither right nor wrong,” he says in a voice heard for miles. “But, it’s always intrusive and final. It’s rude, very rude, and rudeness is always best avoided. It leads to hatred, insensitivity and arrogance, which are barriers to intuitive actions, the true nature of Chicken Walking. An obvious fact, and one that none of you are even close to grasping, not that I am surprised.” Master Wabi’s voice trails off, he scowls at the blank look on their faces, even Lady Wa is uncertain, curious. “Barriers to intuitive acts. It’s like describing the nature of flight to a frog,” he sighs. “Why am I such a fool?” He scowls. “Don’t think I’m just speaking to Pa Kua, or to you, Atsuma. All of you are floundering in a sea of ignorance and you scorn all salvation. Yet, I will save you. Now listen closely.” He catches their eye as he leans forward. “You choose your nature by your actions. Who you are is what you do. If you don’t know what you are doing, you don’t know what you are becoming. If you don’t know what you are becoming, you will not like what you’ve become. So, then, how can you know what to do? You must learn to question, question your assumptions. You know what assume does?

Pa Kua raises his hand, “It, ah, makes an ass of you and me?’

“It makes an ass of you, Pa Kua. You shall learn to question, and to question your questions until you know, without knowing, intuitively.” He leans back and smiles with satisfaction. “You can’t ask for anything clearer than that.”

Joshu sighs, shrugging his shoulders. “Ah, yes. Indeed so. Certainly clear enough, I should think.” He pauses. “I have a question, much simpler, I am sure you will have the answer. I have known Pa Kua and Baso all of my life.” Joshu speaks as if thinking aloud. “I have seen them fight, I have fought with them and fought beside them. I know how they fight. Never like this, like they fought today. Nothing like this. I don’t know about Atsuma, I have never seen her fight. I know she fought, ah, I have nevr seen anyone use a sword like that. “Many, most, of these dead weeds are her work. I know she was tired, too tired to do this. Who could do what she did? What any of us did. Help me understand that?”

“A good question and I would like to help you with it. First, you must understand that I can’t always give you a simple answer. I know you have come to expect that from me. I don’t want to disappoint you. Still, some questions are quite complex and answers, question all answers, answers are usually wrong. I fear I have given you too much, too quickly, you seem a little over full. And these dead bodies have created a few problems.”

“What problems?” Joshu asks, confused.

“Look around you, the ground is littered with dead bandits. Who killed them?” We are the only ones here. How could we kill so many bandits? People will wonder, perhaps bring it to the attention of the authorities who will ask about illegal swords?”

Joshu looks stunned then angry, “Illegal swords? What about these bandits?

“Joshu, Joshu,” Master Wabi’s voice is oily, bordering on condescending. “The Emperor has said there are no bandits, Only illegal swords.”

“Most curious,” agrees Lady Wa, as if it had just occurred to her. “How is this? The bandits fought over the contents of the box. Bandits fight among themselves sometimes, or so am told. I may have seen a few bandits run away. Yes, I think so. I was so frightened.” Her smile appears incongruent, out of place. “Dear me. They might have killed us all. There,” she says gaily. The explanation obviously pleases her.

“And that is what we will tell anyone who asks. If they ask. I for one, hope they don’t ask,” Master Wabi says quietly.

Pa Kua looks down at the cleavers in his hands, shrugging as he put them away. “Well, now , if that’s settled, perhaps we can leave,” he says absently, still thinking about how so many bandits could have been killed so quickly. Joshu is right, never did I move so well, so quickly.

Baso listens, nodding sagely from time to time until he feels Master Wabi’s gaze upon him. Baso’s eyes drop and he frowns, confused, feeling an unasked question. “Hey, I took what was there and used it. With great skill, too.”

“You’re very strong, very skilled, Baso. Commendable, but arrogant. Your arrogance concerns me.” Master Wabi looks at Baso intently. “You rely too much on your strength and skill. What would you have done if that man had a sword and the skill to use it as well as, say, Atsuma or Joshu? You won’t snatch a sword from either of them? What would you do, Drown him with your blood, crush him as you fall? No, me bucko, you need a weapon. One that suits your strength and skill before your pride gets you killed.” Master Wabi smiles as he speaks, but his eyes are serious.

Baso bristles, sputtering in anger. His friends move quietly back, waiting for the worse, but the moment passes. He nods. “Well, fine then, what weapon?” But Master Wabi is gone.

Master Wabi sets a fast pace leaving, turning thoughts inward in concentration as his little flock struggles to keep up. Curiously, the pace poses no imposition on Lady Wa, or the horse, a fact that goes quite unnoticed. Atsuma is sore, mind and body. She has nothing to say and ignores Joshu’s half-hearted attempts to talk. Her thoughts are jumbled, strewn about, her sensibilities warring with her rationalizations, and she needs time to sort them out. She hadn’t wanted to put her nose in Master Wabi’s face. It just happened. The anger just came out, just like that. She has always kept her anger to herself, hidden, like a little, mad dog. It wasn’t something she wanted to share, or explain to anyone. I was cut and left to die, my mother killed. My father tortured and murdered. Since then I have been a little edgy around men. Is that what they want to hear? Well, that’s not going to happen. Not that she’s ashamed of what they did to her. Pity me? How dare anyone pity me? What do they know? It’s a wrong that must be set right. No more. Nothing to be ashamed of. Still, the scars are embarrassing, where he cut me. How can I show that to a baby? Men would not understand and she wasn’t going to explain it. It was none of their affair. Then there was what happened today. She had been fast today, much faster than she had ever been before. She knew her skills and abilities, she had to, to stay alive. These certainly not the first bandits she had improved. Still, she had never moved like that before. It was still difficult to believe. She was too tired to think, but something had changed and she had no idea what or why. It frightened her, whatever it was, and nothing frightened her. If this is the magic of Chicken Walking, well, it was pretty weird magic. And all that other stuff Master Wabi talked about, that didn’t make any sense either.

Baso walks rapidly without any intent or conscious effort, deep in thought. Joshu and Pa Kua increase their pace to keep up with him. Atsuma unconsciously pushes herself to stay with them. Soon Lady Wa, the horse, and Master Wabi fall behind.

The road is deeply rutted and in poor repair. Normally farmers throw the rocks they dig from their fields into the ruts. It wasn’t what the Emperor had in mind when he ordered the peasants to maintain the road, but it keeps a cart’s wheels from sinking deeper when the rains come. Here there are no farm, no farmers, and no one fills the ruts which have grown deep enough to make the road useless to carts. Master Wabi seems to be pondering the uncertainty of rural road maintenance with considerable pessimism. Lady Wa is pleased to be alive and sings little songs to the unappreciative horse.

“The young men think only of lovely Atsuma. Our lovely Atsuma.” Lady Wa sings, happy as a little bird, oblivious to Master Wabi’s mood or tone of voice.

“They are distracted.” He grumps.

The import of which makes Lady Wa look at him and smile. Smiling always did wonders, but not this time. He’s not smiling. Maybe, maybe, she has over done it. All this passion, and it wasn’t as if she had done this sort of thing before. Did Master Wabi notice? “They seem to like each other,” she says cheerfully.

“Oh yes, like, would be nice. Friends, yes, of course. Bemused, beguiled and all that, that moon struck mumblefumble, is distracting, Lady Wa.”

She gives him a big smile and shrugs.

Master Wabi laughs.

Chapter Seven, Chicken Walking by Ed Parker

Chapter 7–-Lissu

The audience chamber is large enough to hold thousands without jostling, though it seldom does. Today, like most days, there are no more than a few hundred court officials, dignitaries, supplicants, and servants, mostly servants, and the audience chamber seems empty and loud. Black is the Emperor’s color according to those who know such things, which explains why the walls and floor are covered with black stone as well, polished to a mirror finish. Polished by the servants who work quietly in the background, cleaning, polishing, moving like shadows. Every few feet a painted clay soldier stands against the wall holding a polished brass oil lamp reflecting the light onto the floor. The throne sits on a slab of unpolished black stone six feet high and thirty-six feet to a side. Six is the Emperor lucky number. No light is allowed to shine on the throne. It looms like a dark island of shadows in the center of the chamber. The white blur of four enormous elephant tusks suspends a canopy of darkness that drapes over the sides and back of the throne. The Emperor sits unseen in the shadowy gloom. Behind the throne are two folding screens made of carved ivory. Ivory too, is lucky. The screens give the Emperor a little privacy when he needs it, and he needs it frequently of late.

A few isolated groups of court officials, dignitaries, and conquered heads of state kneel in the lamps’ light, where the Emperor can see them. He likes to keep an eye on everyone, making everyone nervous, which pleases him enormously. There are always supplicants wanting something. These are the most nervous of all. He sees them eighteen at a time, listens to them one at a time, few like his response.

The supplicants are escorted toward the front of the throne when it comes time for them to speak. They take up their positions, their foreheads pressed to little white stones set into the floor. The eighteen white spots form a pattern, three stones across and six stones deep. Kneeling there the eighteen supplicants form a hexagram which interests the Emperor more than anything they say. The hexagram is composed of counting the light colored (yang) robes as two and dark (yin) robes as three. A sum of nine is called old yang, rendered as a primary solid positive line. A sum of six is called old yin, rendered as a primary broken negative line. A sum of seven is called young yang, rendered as a secondary solid line. A sum of eight is called young yin, rendered as a secondary broken line. The secondary lines are silent, the primary’s define the hexagram‘s meaning.

The Emperor lets the experts worry about interpreting the meaning of the Changes. He concentrates on judging the light robes from the dark and curses the drab, nondescript shades that seem neither. He raises his hand for more light. When the lamps are placed on either side, the philosophers, misinterpreting the gesture for courtesy and interest take heart and speak forcefully of their convictions. As they speak, the Emperor gives each of the rows a number. In the first row, two are wearing dark robes and one light for a total of seven. In the next row all three are dark: six. He finishes the hexagram quickly, drawing the solid and broken lines on a strip of bamboo and waves to a senior court official near the eastern entrance.

The stout elderly man sees the flash of white in the darkness, bolts to his feet. Putting his head down he sets off running, racing for the throne, his robe hiked up, fat knees pumping.

It’s warm and the air is heavy and still, smelling of the oil burning in the lamps, of seals and whales rendered down. The Emperor drowses as the philosophers and scholars drone on of their concerns. The closing of the Hundred Schools, the repression of traditional thought and the flood of changes that overwhelm the people. He listens, from time to time, but hears little. He’s heard it all before and has no sympathy for their complaints. The slap of the official’s sandals draw rapidly closer.
The philosopher speaking of the happiness of the people hears the running footsteps and feels a squirt of fear burn through his bowels. His eyes close, his confidence falters, his mind goes blank. He had heard the Emperor was not overly fond of philosophers. He told the others he didn’t want to do this, that it would do no good, but they insisted. He stutters as his mind struggles to find his place again.
The senior court official staggers and wheezes his way up the steps and throws himself down before the throne, banging his head against the stone platform as the Emperor slaps the bamboo strip into his raised right hand. Then he’s up and gone.

Nonsense, the Emperor broods, they lecture me of the teachings of drunks and madmen. They speak of the grief of the people when the ruler grieves. The happiness of the people when the ruler shares their happiness. And yes, of course, the people are happiest when the old ways are followed. How many times must I hear this?
The official is down the steps, half way to the far wall and still gaining speed. Near the eastern entrance, five soothsayers gather around a wide table. They watch the official approach impatiently. Five books of Changes are spread before them. The Changes are divided into eight sections according to the eight primary trigrams and their eight houses. They will interpret the Emperor’s hexagram, agree on it meaning, and send the Emperor their reply before the senior court official gets his breath back. Ample time judging by that rasping, coughing wheeze, and a fair chance, he could die, giving them longer still. The bamboo strip slides across the table, thrown by the senior court official as he falls to his knees. Before it has quite stopped, bundles are hurriedly unrolled and the analysis begins. Each has his specialty, still there is always debate. That’s why there are five, now. The Emperor added a tie breaker when he had the first four executed, now the soothsayers strive mightily for unanimity, ignoring unimportant details. The click of bundles rolling and unrolling stops suddenly. Someone coughs in the silence. Then four brushes write the same message, handing it to the tie breaker. The tie breaker taps his brush against the table nervously. The answer is unfavorable. Still, it’s the answer. The tie breaker sighs. He looks at the faces of the other four. There’s no choice. The answer is slapped into the palm of the waiting senior court official’s hand and he’s up and running hard for the throne. The Emperor is an impatient man.
The Emperor glowers at the fools kneeling before his throne. What nonsense, when did this land know peace and harmony before I conquered it? They hint that nothing lasts that is not based upon antiquity. The spineless worms mean the people will revolt unless I return to the old ways. Revolt. Not a word about necessary and useful changes. As there is only one Emperor, there can only be language, one form of money, one standard for weights and measures, never a word about the importance of standardization. Do they have any idea how difficult it is to tax so many people? Only complaints and criticism. All they think of is themselves. I united the world and put an end to war. Now they complain about the loss of filial piety, the loss of tradition and warn of coming anarchy. They hint I will lose the mandate of heaven. Me, the son of heaven? How could the heavens forsake me? Useless whiners. The land is free of chaos and set in perfect order, still they complain. What must I do for my achievements to be recognized, to stand beside the immortal Yellow Emperor? I have earned immortality by my achievements, yet the gods ignore me.
He sees the hand holding the soothsayers answer raised in the air. It’s shaking badly, the panting, harsh and rasping, he must have been distracted. He scowls at the eighteen kneeling before him and takes the strip of bamboo. His scowl quickly deeps as he studies the strip of bamboo containing the soothsayer’s interpretation of the hexagram. Splitting Apart, six in the fourth place, misfortune can no longer be warded off. Misfortune can no longer be warded off? Each day his health ebbs more strongly, the little failures of his body haunt him. The ache in his bones, the tightness in his chest: are persistent reminders that his time is growing short. Most irritating of all is this need to pee every few minutes. None of the healers’ potions seem to have any effect. How like the poem: Each day another tile falls from the roof. Must I die in these ruins? It’s all he can remember. If that poet lived now, he would have him killed, tortured. Misfortune can no longer be warded off? These people stand in my way. How can I be given immortality when I’m constantly obstructed? I am Emperor of the world. The meaning of the hexagram comes to him.
Grand Counselor Lissu sees the Emperor stir and brings the audience to a quick close. Another delegation of the well-intended shuffles, bowing and backing from the Emperor’s presence. Fools and whiners. They fear change, clinging to the past like their mother’s robe. They should all be thrown in the sea to see who has sufficient purity to float. The Emperor has a bladder problem. As the Emperor’s Grand Counselor, he makes sure his audiences are kept short. A little thing perhaps, his keen skills of observation, but when supplemented with bribery, blackmail and assassination, it has made him the second most important man in the world and perhaps the most powerful. They were made for one another, he and the Emperor. The Emperor wants to rule the world and he, his Grand Counselor, wants a perfectly ordered society with no useless mouths, critics, or rivals. Still, all is not perfect. Of late a tiny crack has developed in their harmonious relationship. The Emperor is mad.

Grand Counselor Lissu values orderliness above all things, delighting in infinite detail, the key to total control. It was his idea to standardize the coins, the grain measures, the width of the axles on ox carts and carriages. It was he who instigated the building of post roads and assigned the peasants to maintain them. It was he who thought of planting trees in long even rows on each side of the road so that one could travel in the shade. Ah the power of details. But, now the Emperor is mad. He should have foreseen it, but there had been so much to do.
The Emperor once found comfort in this well ordered world of my creation, and the belief that the ideas were his. Now all that has changed. Now the Emperor thinks only of immortality and immortals, an obsession which makes it impossible for to get any work done. The interruptions, the changes in his schedule alone are enough to try a turtle’s patience. Frustration. This too, they have in common, he and the Emperor. The Emperor’s search for immortality makes no progress. Each day the roads are filled with messengers bearing new reports of immortals, followed the next, by apology’s and excuses. And the Emperor’s moods, it was like trying to plow uncertain ground behind a mad ox.

The Emperor must pee and calls for a recess. And Idea comes to Lissu as the audience chamber is clearing. The soothsayers response is a state secret, but the Emperor has no secrets from his Grand Counselor. Misfortune can no longer be warded off. Indeed it cannot, it must be embraced.
The Emperor stands between the carved ivory screens, coaxing a few splashes into a porcelain chamber pot. He sighs as Grand Counselor Lissu renews an old campaign, wondering for the hundredth time why he hasn’t had the little pest killed?.
"These dreary fools that constantly plague you with their complaints. They are common men. Common men with common thoughts, who think only of the past. Great men think beyond what is, to what should be, to what will be, as you do," Grand Counselor Lissu whines softly through the screen. It’s an old gambit with a new twist. A little different approach to eliminating his critics and rivals for the Emperor's ear.
The Emperor’s trying to concentrate, finding peeing difficult and the Grand Counselor’s voice raises the hair on the back of his neck. He is considering having his Grand Counselor’s vocal cords cut, when what the counselor has been saying finally sinks in.

"...plot to undermine the Emperor's rule. The Emperor's desire for immortality is well known, yet these so-called scholars and intellectuals offer nothing. These are the keepers of knowledge, who but they have the secret of immortality? Why do they deny their Emperor what is rightfully his?" He has long sought to eliminate these meddlesome, short-sighted fools who criticized every attempt to bring order and law into the world. He hears the Emperor’s near inquisitive grunt and presses his point home. "Every improvement, every new idea is met with resistance. Dangerous breaks from tradition, they whine. How eager they are to point to the words of some long dead and forgotten sage to prove the Emperor confused or strayed from the proper path. How easily they find objections to the Emperor's every decision, yet what have they produced. Nothing, Not one immortal have they brought to the Emperor. They have not even brought news of an Immortal. What use are they?"
It is true he has long resented scholars and philosophers and their constant complaints. They stir up the people, making them question. Misfortune can no longer be warded off? The hexagram hints of the misfortune of obstruction and revolution. They waste his time, time he can no longer afford, to their misfortune. “Worthless mouths,” he mutters, waiting for the next few drops. “Quibblers. All they offer is objections, complaints and criticism. Yes," he snaps through the screen. His voice raising, sharp with irritation. "They plot against me. Bothersome fools. Let the ground swallow them all. Let them vanish from the face of the world."
The Grand Counselor can move promptly when he’s of a mind, and he’s of a mind now. He calls his aides as the door to the audience chamber close behind him and promptly cancels the rest of the audiences, messengers are sent running. There’s much to do. The Grand Counselor’s mind works on several murky, twisted levels, nothing is done for a single purpose. The Emperor’s mandate is broad and his Grand Counselor plans to make it broader still. “Let the ground swallow them. Let them anish from the face of the world.” He can work with that.
The Middle Kingdom is a land of ancients, ancient traditions, ancient rites and ancient wisdom. The philosophers and scholars quarrel and argue among themselves, but when they agree, they agree that nothing can long endure that is not based upon the ancient rites and traditions of antiquity. At the heart of these ancient rites and traditions is the family. Grand Counselor Lissu is not a family man. His family interests were surgically removed, at his own request, not long after he was disowned by his father. Unjustly, he’ll hasten to add, a shameful miscarriage of justice. He and his mother were sent away, all because of a snake. She committed suicide from shame. The surgery had been a career decision, a pledge of commitment to his work. It proved a wise decision. Once accepted into the Emperor’s service, his cold, dispassionate legalistic concepts caught the future Emperor’s attention and he was quickly promoted. His one vice. a hatred of his father and he was about to reward himself for twenty-five years of patience, but revenge is best cold. For twenty-five years he worked that hatred the way a tongue worries a sore tooth. Probing at it, seeking its pain ridden core, keeping it sharp in his mind. Now, with the Emperor’s growing madness and failing health, his hatred can be consummated. AH, yes, he will miss it, the way a bad tooth is missed after it has been jerked from his head. He has spent many pleasant hours stroking it, planning every detail of his revenge. His revenge will be very through, first his family to the sixth generation will die, then his father, the great Lord Sunza, then finally the city of Qualin will vanish from the face of the world. Until no one left alive can recall his disgrace, his shame. Killing the family will be easy to explain once I make it clear that Lord Sunza, is a follower of the Wandering Master, and worse, a dissident. The Emperor was difficult when he learned that Lord Sunza had been thrown into a cage full of snakes. That, of course, was years ago when he was still sane. Now, the Emperor can hardly disagree with executing a dissident even if it starts a minor war. Lord Sunza, his family, many of the most revered men in the city, will be publicly executed. The people will certainly rebel, and the rebellious city destroyed. It’s the law, all very legal and certainly just.
Grand Counselor Lissu works through the night making sure no detail of the Emperor’s edict is forgotten or possibly misunderstood. Court officials are assembled and briefed on the Emperor’s new edict. Each of the Court Officials is assigned a city or region of the Empire and given detailed instructions and a rolled bundle. The Emperor's edict to burn all books will be read in every city and village. The strips of bamboo identifying the dissidents in each city had been bound, rolled and waiting, some for many years. On each long bamboo strip is a name, followed by a list of offenses. The strips slip through loops in the cords that hold it secure in the rolled bundle. He has checked them many times, an exercise in patience, but in a few weeks it will be over. Soon the executions will be completed and as is justice carried out, another strip can be thrown on the fire. Many troublesome fools will find their legs thrown over blocks, their knees crushed by mallets before being dragged, begging and screaming to the pit to be buried alive. Many, numbers hardly matter where justice is concerned, each deserve to die and that is enough.
The sunlight on the table surprises him. When did he have them open the door? There is a lull in his thinking. It must have been late, very late. Ah yes, the room had grown stuffy from the oil lamps burning all night, the room crowded with officials awaiting their instructions; the last one left not long before. Now the waiting begins. He has enjoyed working on his lists, watching the strokes of his brush flow onto the bleached and polished bamboo strips. Every night he would add a name or two, carefully listing their crimes. Only death is sufficient to cause a strip to be removed and regretfully burned. No one is forgiven. It was cathartic after a day of listening to whining complaints and criticism; it helped him sleep. He has worked on his lists for many years; a few of the names are new, very few, those who oppose him seldom live long enough to be listed anymore. The largest bundle is for Qualin, the most important list, the oldest list. On the first strip is Lord Sunza’s name, put there twenty-five years ago. The second strip belongs to School Master Yeto for falsely accusing him of lying so many years ago. The humiliation is still raw, thinking about it still rankles. How Yeto survived the Battle of the Lower Pass is a mystery yet to be unraveled. He will not survive much longer. In Qualin, he is as popular as Lord Sunza. How the people will howl when those two die. The list was given to his best man, Senior Court Official Deng. He’d instructed him personally, at great length. Nothing must go wrong. Deng will have a battalion of the Emperor’s Guard with him; each is worth twenty common soldiers. The people will riot and the twenty thousand soldiers waiting in the Lower Pass will march. It will all come to pass as he has planned, every detail has foreseen, city will be sacked and burned, every man, every woman, every child, dog, chicken, and goat killed. It will send a message. The people need a message from time to time. He beckons to be carried outside, there is much to be done, no detail must be overlooked, power lies in the details. Soon, soon now, perhaps tomorrow, he will follow Senior Court Official Deng to Qualin. He has waited so long, now he is impatient to watch his father’s execution, perhaps he will break one of the old man’s knees himself.
A black lacquered table is brought out to the veranda. On it brushes are carefully placed in holders, blank bamboo strips neatly stacked. He works quietly through the morning, writing in his thin, bloodless fashion. Servants bring him messages and take away what he’s written. There are no visitors, no interruptions, and the morning passes quickly. Then a servant places a leather-covered bundle on the far, right-hand corner of the table reserved for important messages. It bears the Emperor’s seal. His back aches as he picks it up, the need for sleep tugs at him. He reads it twice before the import of what it says penetrates. He stares at it in disbelief. The Emperor wants, what?
An immortal has been seen in the mountains north of Hantan, the note reads. The Emperor will tour this area. Earliest departure. Make it so.
It’s a dream. A very bad dream. He will wake any moment now, this will be gone. He closes his eyes, waits, opening them again slowly. The dream continues, except everyone has disappeared. The cowards are hiding. How did they know? The message had been sealed. They knew. They always knew. An immortal seen north of Hantan. How extraordinary? A rumor of an immortal. A whisper of a crazy man who runs about like a great chicken and I am denied my life’s ambition. Twenty-five years. Is there no justice? Tour the mountains to the north of Hantan. If he worked twenty hours a day, it will take ten days to arrange it. If he starts now, and if there are no floods, rebellions, or earthquakes to contend with. He feels his control slipping away. His plans, his revenge, his reward, twenty-five years, all slipping away. He needs to kill something.

The Emperor’s Guard, they will need them all to guard the Emperor. No. They will do without the battalion marching to Qualin. They left last night and he will not bring them back. He would lose face if he brought them back. That left twenty-three battalions near the capital. They could pick up, his mind flies through the latest reports, another six along the way. Twenty-nine thousand of the finest soldiers in the world. It will have to do. There are two regular armies in the area, say two hundred thousand soldiers in rough figures. Court officials, a thousand, minimum. Cooks, whores, and musicians, say another ten thousand, minimum. He can not go to Qualin. It isn’t possible. His strength leaves him. Twenty-five years. He feels sick to the bone, kicked in the stomach. What has he done to deserve this? He’ll go to the Emperor. No, he cannot risk being denied. When it concerns immortals, he would be denied. His years of devoted service mean nothing compared to a rumor of an immortal. It takes his full attention to stand up. Little demons of vexation gibber in the shadows. They parade his disillusionment, his frustration, mock his pride. It is so unfair, he has so few pleasures. He snaps a leg off the table with a kick. How ironic. Another leg clatters across the floor. There was always so much to do, so many details. He smashes the table against the stone rails of the veranda. He could have had his father brought to him in chains years ago. A painted stone jar smashes into the stone tiles. He kicks apart the bush planted inside it. There were always reasons to have him executed, but no, he kept putting it off. Another painted jar shatters. He steps on one of the broken shards and for a moment the world grows dark as the pain releases him. He breaks things as his eyes come upon them. “Now it is too late,” he screams. He wants to be in Qualin. He wants to be there as his father is dragged before him. “I want to hear him scream,” his voice shrieks, breaking. “To see his eyes as he begs,” he moans. He feels bereft of all that he once cherished. His smallest hope, flown to the fantasy of wishes and dreams. Lord Sunza will not beg. He’s too proud. Yet, there will come that moment when sweat beads his brow. Now there will not be even that. “How I torture myself with such thoughts,” he moans softly. The Emperor’s madness will deny him even that tiny pleasure. He wants to say it aloud, but habit catches the words in his throat.

Lord Sunza will be the first to have his knees crushed. Then he will be forced to kneel and watch as the others are rolled into the pit. He will hear them scream as they lay writhing with pain in the bottom of that hole. Then he will be dragged to the edge of the pit and he will see them there, broken and bleeding. He will be the last. And this is the best part, his favorite part. When he leans down, to whisper in his father’s ear. “A snake should not be punished for being a snake, that’s its nature. Kill it, or set it free, but it is presumptuous and arrogant to try to change it. Oh how I want to——say it. Meeeeeee.” The words come out shrill, high and breaking. Disappointment is like a dull knife, thrust deep in his bowels. But no, he will be here. The thought hangs malignant as swamp mist. He will not see them throw his father into the pit or hear his moans as he adds to the chorus of misery coming from the pit. It would have been perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect, but it won’t happen. “Wait, wait, wait,” he says softly to himself, cocking his head to listen. “I must not spoil the moment. Lord Sunza’s pain, his terror, and despair will not be lessened simply because I cannot be there to share it.” The calm of his voice in stark contrast to the destruction littering the veranda. All is not lost. He must hold to that thought. He must not allow negative thoughts to ruin everything. Lord Sunza will know he is there, in spirit. Yes, in spirit. And in that spirit he resumes his fantasy, rehearsing the execution. They will plead and their pleas for mercy will fall on deaf ears as the men standby to shovel and scrap dirt into the hole. And slowly, very slowly, the screaming will stop. There will be perfect silence. It will be over. But it doesn’t last, his pleasant musings turn cold at the realization that he will be here, in the capital, diligently planning a mad Emperor’s meaningless quest for immortality. Cold gloom fills him. He will insist upon detailed reports, scant consolation. The brush, long forgotten in his hand, snaps. He longs to write the Emperor’s name on one of these strips of bamboo. Ah, but if I wrote down the Emperor’s crimes it would take a forest, burned before the ink dries. How could I explain such a fire? No, that will never do. It’s dangerous, too dangerous, writing down such thoughts. He sighs deeply. Caution has its rewards and living without the incessant need to scream is a compelling one. No, such thoughts must stay quiescent, dormant as winter seeds, if they have any self interest at all. So many thoughts. My head is crammed with the noisy things, all crying out in frustration. With all the empty heads going to waste, it seems unfair. They say immortals can read prayers written on bamboo and burned. Should I worry that they might betray me to the mad man that pursues them so ardently? I think not. There will be more important things for them to discuss. A cure for madness, unlikely? No, how could they chat if either or both were sane. Much has been said of immortals, and not a whisper of sanity. Was it only last month we journeyed down the Wee River to the Great River, from there to the Eastern sea? The rivers were near flooding and the Emperor screamed with joy as we sped along. Five days by Tiger boat to spend a morning watching a ship full of children sail for the mushroom-shaped islands. The return trip took three weeks by fast carriage on the post road. A month wasted, chasing about after a madman’s dream, and no trace ever found of the ship sent to the mushroom-shaped islands. The Emperor thinks the voyage was successful, but then he’s mad as a stud horse in a barn full of mares. His mind’s going as quickly as his bladder.

Below him the river seems to sparkle, a trick of light glancing off the thick, yellow muddy water. Little umbrellas blossom with bright colors as groups of women enjoy a morning’s outing on the bridge. It wasn’t always so. The Emperor was not always mad. Indeed, he’d been a joy to serve until a few years ago. This nonsense about immortals has increased since the completion of his tomb. The Emperor’s fear of dying worked a cold finger up his ass. My schedule is in tatters, destroyed by his mad whims. Does he give a thought to my work? Twenty-five years and I won’t be able to see the dirt falling——the cries of despair. I should have finished it years ago.
The river is still swift, the current powerful. He can see the men swaying from side to side as they hang from the ropes towing the long boats upstream. Their cargoes are the blood of the empire, just as the long lines of convicts filing out of the city’s gates are its excrement. A month wasted sending a ship full of children off to those islands. A waste of a perfectly good ship, no one will see it again. No child of ten can sail a ship with six masts. A huge ship, over a hundred yards long, made of the finest teak. No ten-year-old child can sail it, or a thousand children——not in a storm. After the sails had been set the sailors returned to shore. From the look on their faces they knew the ship was as good as lost. Six masts! The Emperor is obsessed with the number six. Everything is six of this, six of that. All the court officials must have six inch long tassels on their hats. The Emperor’s carriage must have six horses. Another of the Emperor’s dreams. Only a child can find the mushroom-shaped islands, the legends say. Only a child would want to. No one could, or would, tell the Emperor that the mushroom-shaped islands are only clouds. Certainly not his devoted and humble Grand Counselor. There are always storms shortly after the islands are sighted. The ship is doomed and the treasure, It took months to find that much jade, all wasted. What idiot told the Emperor that immortals coveted jade? Twenty-five years! I must learn to control my resentment. Breathing deeply seems to be of some benefit. I must think of something else.

The sun glistens on the flowers and shrubs in the courtyard below, the perfection of the moment holds him. Then something odd catches his eye. Those trees in the garden below. They were to be planted in straight, orderly lines, parallel with the river wall. The instructions were clear, a child could have followed them. That tree there, the third from the left in the second row, clearly leans to the side. “Ha, someone tests me, I see,” he growls. “Do I grow lax? Ha, I think not. Incompetent fools, test me, will they? But who?” He falls silent as he works the puzzle. Who has spoken lately of the merits of the mad monk Kegon, the so-called superior man? Self proclaimed, no doubt. No, not that, something more subtle, more devious. Minister Lu, Minister of granaries. What did he say, something about the Master? What was it, what did he say? A quote from the Wandering Master, “The goodwill of the people is the mandate of heaven,” or some such nonsense. A tree that leans, an independent thinker that tree. How symbolic, a tree that leans? Thought I wouldn’t notice, did you, Minister Lu? That will cost someone their legs, Minister Lu. The gardeners will be questioned. The inquisitor will start with the strongest, when he begins begging the others will cooperate. How will I describe Minister Lu to them? He smiles. He enjoys these little puzzles. Such a pretty day.

The blue mountains are hazy from the smoke of a hundred thousand coal fires. On a still day the mountains are only dark smudges, but not today. Today there is a light wind without the fine silt dust that clogs the nostrils and turns the river yellow. The mountains surrounding the capital to the south and east, hold the river valley in its great protective arms. This is the Land between the Passes. The irony of the success of the Chin in this valley always amuses him, it was a gift from Qualin and the Hawn. Just as he had been a gift. Forty years ago, the Hawn convinced the Emperor’s father to build a great canal between the two rivers that cross this wide valley. Ostensibly to irrigate the great valley, in reality, to drain the Chin’s strength in the futile attempt. They sent the Chin a Hawn engineer and that was where their plan failed. The man dug the canal and made it work. The Chin named it after him. Five hundred and sixty thousand acres turned green and lush with crops that feed the Chin’s armies. Armies that finally destroyed the Hawn in the Battle of the Lower Pass. The Hawn had been the first to fall when the Emperor began his war of conquest. That was his first step toward revenge. The second had been the humiliation of his father, Lord Sunza. Ah, revenge, how sweet on the tongue. How long ago has that been now, he ponders. Six, no, seven years and the taste still lingers. How it must gall Lord Sunza to know he lives at his disowned son’s pleasure. Not for much longer though. The thought makes him smile. He had wanted to see the great Lord Sunza in the cage of snakes, but there had been more pressing business then as well. So little time, it’s his curse.

The traitor Shiko, Lord Sunza’s former chamberlain, the slander. He lied about him to Lord Sunza, blackening his name, causing him to be cast out like garbage. Shiko fled north to a little farm near Hantan. He had to be punished. His death is only a pleasant memory, now. Too brief, yet it had been enjoyable to watch him struggle. To see him lying there in a pool of his own blood, as his wife and daughter scream in pain. Shiko’s wife finally died, he died soon after her, too soon, much too soon. With Shiko dead, the daughter’s pain soon bored him, she’d been dying when he left. Her death was unimportant by then, a pretty thing, but unimportant. He had been in a hurry, other pressing obligations, but justice had been done. Shiko deserved his fate, just like that snake. The ignorant fools, he wasn’t torturing the snake. He had been curious. The snake had just eaten one of his rats, he wanted to see how long it took the snake to starve to death. The snake deserved to die, there was no question of its guilt. He had done nothing wrong. Not like that slut who teased him and laughed when he spurted. He remembered what Lord Sunza said and the cold contemptuous way he said it. “A snake should not be punished for being a snake, that’s its nature. Kill it, or set it free, but it’s presumptuous and arrogant to try to change it.” It will be read to him just before they roll him into the pit, the pompous bastard. Justice, it reminds him that there are trials to oversee that afternoon and the executions, later still. Then he must plan the search for the crazy man who runs like a chicken.

Chapter eight, Chicken Walking by Ed Parker

Chapter 8--Willow

Master Wabi’s Chicken Walking band passes people on the road frequently now. The horse is forced to trot and canter to keep up and they must slow to let it rest. Merchants and farmers with ox carts loaded with goods or piles of produce to sell or trade, watch as they pass, trying not to laugh. Joshu is still sensitive to laughter and any sort of sniggering. He’s quick with a glare that stills the back hand chuckle and whips the smirk from faces. So it looks odd, different, walking about like great chickens, he knows that. Still, he can feel the difference in the mock combats with Baso and Pa Kua. His leaps are higher, effortless. Unfortunately, so is theirs.

One bright morning Joshu is sitting under a tree on a hill outside a village inn, thinking about the day before, thinking how good it feels to be able to put his hands behind his head now that his arms don’t hurt anymore. How good it is to be alive? Whatever Master Wabi put his arms last night worked. He’d often thought about asking Atsuma to practice with him, just to be near her, really. He wanted to go somewhere quiet and talk, someplace they could be alone. A place like this, but she would say no. The roof tops of the village below shows through the trees, the laughter of children seems far away. He would show her the white misty clouds that fill the mountain valley below the village. A flock of geese flew overhead a few minutes ago. He could have mentioned how geese mate for life. Just in passing. It’s hopeless. He just can’t find the right words. She had no patience with affection. Not that she’s hostile. In fact, she’s friendly, just friendly in a distant, don’t-come-any-closer sort of way. Then yesterday, she asked him to practice with her. With swords and something she called Trapping Hands. She was very lovely, her eyes sparkled as she spoke of wanting to practice with swords. So he had cut a couple of pieces of bamboo. He hadn’t taken her seriously, that was something of a mistake. It didn’t feel right fighting with her, practice or not. He didn’t want to fight with her. Maybe he should have said that, instead of what he said? Maybe he shouldn’t have said it didn’t feel right practicing with a girl? Maybe he shouldn’t have said he would take it easy on her? Maybe he phrased that poorly? Indeed everything he said tended to make things worse It might well have been better if he had smiled more and said less. They began with the bamboo swords and never got to Trapping Hands. Trapping Hands would have been better, whatever it was. Few things could have been worse. It was his own fault, but how was he to know. Sure, Master Wabi warned him. He said that she could have killed all three of them that day they stopped her on the road. He didn’t believe him, no one had, not then. Even after the attack by the bandits, he hadn’t realized how good she really was with a sword. He had thought that Chicken Walking had been largely responsible for her speed and skill. Everyone had improved. Yesterday left no doubt, it hurt just thinking about it. He took it easy on her in the beginning, and she had hurt him. Her bamboo stick flicked out with little interference or opposition from him, snapping against his wrist or forearm whenever she pleased. She had said something, but he didn’t hear it. He was too busy. Her stick moved too quickly to follow. He could feel the welts on his arms rising, merging together. He watched her eyes when he could, and what he saw was as painful as what she was doing to his arms, almost. It wasn’t pity, not quite. Things improved while he was watching her eyes, but not enough. Finally, it occurred to him that winning meant nothing, even if he could, and he couldn’t. Continuing was far too painful, worse than stupid. So he ran. At least it felt like running, though he only dropped his stick and walked away. He was as brave as the next guy, braver, sometimes, in some situations. This wasn’t one of them. It just wasn’t how he wanted to spend time with her. It really wasn’t.

Laying there thinking, and it was easier to think, now that the pain wasn’t such a distraction. She hadn’t been angry with him. The thought leaps at him, taking him unaware. She was trying to teach him. Teach him? The thought seems so strange. To think that anyone could teach him something about using a sword, much less a girl, was, well strange. Time slows as he thinks of it, then stops. She wanted to teach him how to use a sword. Master Wabi said the Sisters taught her. Who were the Sisters? If only he could remember what she said to him.

Pa Kua noticed the bruises and told Master Wabi. Actually, he told everyone, things had been difficult since then. Pa Kua and Baso gave him a bad time. Master Wabi gave him a bad time. Lady Wa gave him a small sad smile, that hurt. Still, it could have been worse. Atsuma didn’t actually say that she was sorry. She looked vaguely sad though, which was worse. He wanted to tell her how he felt about her. Maybe she knew. There was something in her eyes that said, not now. At least he thought it something more like not now, than not ever. She did tell him that after the swelling in his forearms goes down, she will show him Trapping Hands. She looked so sad then, hesitant, uncertain. It startled him. He remembered laughing and asking her to be gentle. It must have been the right thing to say. She smiled at him, just for a moment, like the sun burning through the clouds of a rainy day. It would be nice to sit here with her and say nothing at all.

They left the next morning and before noon came upon a small city with walls of stone and fire hardened brick twenty feet high. A serious business like city with sentries at the gate questioning the people waiting in line to enter the gate. Master Wabi ignores the line and the sentries. They ignore the soldiers too, though it strains the corners of their eyes as they pass. No one looks at them. No one, smiles, laughs, or asks awkward questions. It’s as if they were invisible, an odd feeling, both troubling and liberating. Once inside the city, far from the sentries, Master Wabi stops behind a crowd of people at a market ,and suddenly they are getting looks.

Inns are plentiful, they soon find one that’s appears suitable. While water heats for baths and dinner prepared, Master Wabi takes Baso aside. “Come with me, I found just what you need,” he says mysteriously.

“Now?” Baso’s mind is on food and a bath, he has no interest in a stroll with Master Wabi.
“Now?” Of course now. Now is all there is.”
“There’s tomorrow.”
“How do you know?”
“There was one, yesterday. And I’m an optimist. I believe there will be a tomorrow, tomorrow.” It’s a bluff, and they both know it. Baso is not an optimist, but he is hungry.
“Do you wish to see this, ah, tomorrow, optimist Baso?” Master Wabi asks quietly, ominously.

Baso isn’t afraid of Master Wabi. Not in the sense that he poses a threat, still Master Wabi is different, a strange man who lives in a world very different from the rest of humanity. It’s hard to know when to take him seriously. Then he sees the look in Master Wabi’s eyes, a serious look that clarifies the situation.

Master Wabi stops in front of a blacksmith shop just as the sun is setting. The shop’s small, dark, smelling of hot metal and burnt hair. Little can be seen at first, just the glow from the forge. The forge pulses red, flaring to yellows tipped with green as the smith works the bellows with his foot. Iron glows orange-white in the fiery coals. The smith’s tall and lean with muscles that stretches his skin tight. He stands with his back turned, his hair drawn into a single thick braid that hangs down his back to his knees like a frayed black rope. There’s an odd looking hammer in his hand, short handled with a long head, bright as silver and thick as his wrist. Sparks, bright in the shop’s dimness, fly up to the rafters with each ringing blow.

Master Wabi watches with great interest and apparent appreciation for the smith’s skill. Baso shifts his feet, growing rapidly bored. Master Wabi draws Baso’s attention to some long bronze bars stacked against the wall. “Pick one,” he says. The smith’s hammering slows to thoughtful ringing taps as the metal cools, then stops as he watches Baso look through the bronze bars.

“All sound, strong bars awaiting only a hint to be all you desire.” Spoken with a practiced and casual air over the smith’s shoulder.

“What am I looking for?” Baso peers at the bars with little interest?

“One long enough to reach from the floor to your eye, strong enough to be trusted, and heavy enough to command your attention and respect.” There is a chastising tone to Master Wabi’s voice that widens Baso’s eye’s. He pulls a long bar with square edges from the stack, shorter than Baso by a finger width, thick enough, but not too thick to hold in the hand. “This one should do nicely.”
“Do what?” Baso smiles to show his good intentions.

“Tame your arrogance and save your young ignorant life.” Master Wabi’s voice changes, becoming more respectful, as he addresses the smith. “If you will do something with the square edges and temper it, it should suit my young friend’s needs?”

Baso’s not an expert on metals, but tempering a bronze bar? Isn’t tempering something done to iron. He decides to it’s not important, not important enough to bring up, anyway. He’s thinking about the bar and tempering and doesn’t pay much attention to the respectful tone with which Master Wabi addresses the smith, not then. The smith turns an old and lined face towards Baso. A long white beard, sparse and burned by sparks hangs to his chest. The whiteness of the beard challenges the reality of that long black braid of hair. The smith’s eyes take Baso’s mind off his hair, eyes like pockets of night, space and time swirls in them. The smith nods without comment, as though unwilling to question a paying customer, however odd. A strange reaction, given the circumstances.

“It must be done this evening.” There’s an odd tone to Master Wabi’s voice, imperative, yet respectful. The smith nods again, rolling his eyes toward the smoke-filled rafters as though adding great sums in his head, then he smiles.

“Well then, Baso.” Master Wabi sounds vaguely relieved. “Wait here until he’s finished.” The night passes slowly. The smith’s motions are skillful and deliberate, he never speaks. Suddenly dawn has wakened the colors of the world and people are passing by the front of the shop. The smith hands him his staff. It’s eight sided, the edges clean, not rounded, not sharp. The hammer marks are smoothed and the metal gleams like warm gold.

“You will find it grips easily. You will need that.” The smith’s laugh is deep, rolling like a thousand temple bells. The staff feels good in his hands, not heavy, not light. Perfectly balanced, tapering toward the ends, the head is rounded, the foot flat. It seems to have a sense of self, solid and dependable. Comforting, like, he draws a blank. Like what, an old friend? Pa Kua and Joshu come to mind, challenging the concept for an instant, but there is no one else, Master Yeto, the list stops there. He thanks the smith who yawns, hinting that Baso should leave. Which he does, feeling deeply grateful, though he can’t put his finger on why. Leaving is like waking from a dream.

Suddenly he’s standing in front of the inn and when he looks behind him, the smith is gone. Eerie. They’re preparing to leave, waiting for him and the horse in the cold. He presents the staff to Master Wabi, who smiles and nods, but says nothing. Pa Kua is not so respectful.

“Let me try it,” Pa Kua asks with that superior condescending smile of his. “It looks so light and lovely, some gentle maiden must be wondering where she left it.”

Baso places it softly into Pa Kua’s out stretched palms. “You will be gentle,” he cautions, hesitant as a new mother. The tightness around Baso’s eyes promises a terrible future for anyone insulting it.
Pa Kua feels the weight settle into his palms, and keeps settling, much longer than it should have. The skin around his eyes begins to twitch.
“What do you do with it,” he asks a little too quickly?
“The usual things. Shoo away bad dogs, carry water, kill wicked bandits with swords and spears.” The deliberate casualness in Baso’s voice fails to conceal his pride.

“It’s very nice, you must be very proud. Indeed, you must miss it. You must want it back, I know. Thank you for allowing me this moment.” Pa Kua’s voice straining as he places the staff gently into Baso’s waiting hands. It can’t possibly be that heavy. There’s a presence about it, an ominous sense of brooding indignation, uniquely female. Baso spins the staff. A smile of deep satisfaction fills his great moon face as the staff blurs.

“See how gracefully she moves, like a willow swaying gently in a soft summer breeze.”

“Try to keep Willow from flying off and killing someone. Shall we leave now,” Joshu says impatiently?
Baso looks for the blacksmith shop as they leave the village. He’s certain it was right there, but right there is a stall selling vegetables. The woman gazes at him for a minute or two as if he were crazy and then speaks slowly, as if to an idiot.

“Perhaps it was another city. Cities look much alike, you know, once you get inside. So I have been told. I have had this stall since I was a little girl. My parents had it before me.” Quite a while then, Baso thinks irritably.

“There’s no blacksmith shop close by. No tall smith with an old man’s face and long black braid. I would remember such a person. Just as I will surely remember you. Would you like cabbages? I have turnips, radishes, and beans?”

Baso hurries on, only the weight of Willow on his shoulder seems real anymore. Master Wabi turns and winks as he catches up to them, which is disturbing.

They pass through the gate the same way they had entered, as if they’re not there. A few miles down the road, Baso motions to Pa Kua to slow down and let the others go on ahead. No one seems to notice. Joshu is trying to coax Atsuma into forgiving him without actually begging. From the look on her face it may take that. Master Wabi and Lady Wa are talking low and laughing every few minutes. Joshu blushes at the sound, glancing at them accusingly before trying to make a joke of it with Atsuma.
Baso whispers to Pa Kua. “They didn’t see us when we went through the gate.”

“Odd, wasn’t it? Like we were not even there. You know what I think, Baso? I think we were not really there.”

“I don’t find that comforting, Pa Kua.”

“Indeed. It makes one ponder. If we were not there, where were we? I have wondered about that myself. Does anyone really know where they are? Or who they are, for that matter? It makes you think.”

“It makes me think you’re crazy.”

“Crazy? Perhaps. Not just crazy, perfectly crazy, barking mad crazy. My wits long departed, clucking and flapping like a goosed chicken never to return to the hen house. Left me in a bit of a muddle, me wits did, running off like that. No use at all really. Still, I miss it. Now, I am left with only my good looks and luck with dice.

“Ah, yes, Pa Kua, your looks and luck, pity. You will do well, begging, I think, there being many generous old ladies with weak eyes.”

“Begging?” Pa Kua sniffs disdainfully.

“Do you know anything about tempering metal?”

“No, not a twit. I can honest claim complete ignorance without fear of overstating my knowledge. However, that should not blunt the keenness of our discourse, or mine. I shall make something up. Tempering metal, ah yes, I have it. The process of inducing vivacity into overly docile metal.”

“It’s done to iron, not bronze, I think. To harden it.”

Baso’s lack of conviction leaves Pa Kua undeterred. “Both seem entirely docile to me. Take Willow here, it seems hard enough from all the polishing you have been giving it. Do be careful, Baso. They say you can go blind, doing that. No offense. Still, there must be several ways of inducing a temper tantrum in metal. Perhaps calling it names, wicked Willow, wimpy Willow, impertinent Willow, ugly.” Baso feels a shiver go through Willow and hurriedly cuts him off.

“Why do I talk to you, Pa Kua? You’re crazy. No an idiot, I forgive you, but I cannot speak for a certain party who doesn’t know you that well and might well do something rash. No offense.”

“A certain party? Ah, yes. Quite so, Baso. It’s bad luck to be rash with a crazy person, very bad luck. Tell that to your certain party.” He glances meaningfully at Willow.

“Ah, so it is my crazy friend, so it is. How could I doubt you? I’m sure you stand forgiven by a, ah, certain forgiving party. Shall we dash on, Mad Dog? I believe there’s a froth forming on your muzzle.”

Rounding a turn, the road stretches straight as a string across a broad grassy valley. Master Wabi beams and with a bound, he springs ahead to stop Atsuma and Joshu. Gathering his chickens together, he asks them to turn around. “See the trees we just passed? I want you to keep your eyes on the one with bright yellow leaves and walk backwards, like a chicken.”

“Like a chicken,” echoes Baso.

“Like a chicken.

“Chickens do not walk backwards,” Baso states with finality. “I have watched them carefully these last few days and never did one walk backwards.”

“What for,” Pa Kua breaks in?

“It is a lovely hill and worthy of your attention.”

“Why backwards,” asked Baso?

“You can’t see it walking forward.”

Baso is about to respond when Joshu interrupts him. “Who wanted to learn to walk like a chicken, Baso? This was your idea, wasn’t it? You asked him to teach you to Chicken Walk. What can be so difficult about walking like a chicken backwards?”

“Indeed it was. Yes, entirely his idea, Joshu.” Pa Kua chimes in.

“You wanted to know how he does what he does. Now, you pick and choose, and question. I’m sure you can walk like a chicken backwards, if you concentrate. Think light thoughts, and so on.” Baso squares his shoulders and puffs out his chest, his stocky dignity asserting itself in a towering and thunderous silence. He sniffs reproachfully at Joshu who clearly doesn’t deserve an answer.

It is a shambles. An utter shambles. They trip and fall, stumble and fall, and fall again, cursing and laughing. Seldom staying on the road long, they blame rocks, the dryness of the dirt, the slickness of the grass. Their failure doesn’t disturb Master Wabi. He follows along with Lady Wa, calling out suggestions, sage and arcane, and roaring with laughter. “Let your heels guide you,” he shouts. “Center on the tree. Feel the ground push against your feet. Breathe, breathe, my chickens.”

Baso can’t let it go. “Nonsense,” he shouts after tripping and angrily bouncing to his feet for the third or fourth time in as many minutes.

Master Wabi springs forward, swinging his great club at Baso’s head. Baso blocks it with Willow. Master Wabi swings his stick again and again, faster and faster, blow after blow rains down on Baso. Pressed back by the torrent, given no time to collect himself, no time to turn, overwhelmed, Baso tries desperately to get away. Leaping back as far and as quickly as he can, again and again, faster. Master Wabi is unrelenting, his wooden wand, a blur, always there, always in Baso’s face. It’s as if he is tied to this fiend, this crazy old man. Baso leaps backward again and again, each time he leaps a little faster, a little further, reaching down, deeper inside himself, deeper than he thought possible, still it is barely enough. Willow seems to move by herself, he can barely hold on to her as they struggle to survive moment, by moment.

Suddenly it like he is looking down, floating free, high above the flurry of battle. He watches himself being chased by Master Wabi, surrounded by a blur of gold streaks and flashes that deflect the darkness lashing at him. He’s doomed, doomed without the faintest hope of surviving another moment, and yet, he feels detached from the struggle, an objective observer. After a moment, it appears that Master Wabi is wielding an enormous tree, an oddly indignant tree, such is his impression, curious.

Suddenly Master Wabi stops. The resistance gone, Baso sprawls on his back, chest heaving, covered in sweat. Raising onto his elbows, he sees they’ve crossed the valley, Master Wabi has chased him across the valley, the entire valley. He sees his friends in the distance.

“You are strong Baso, but even the strongest must know how to retreat. When to retreat will obviously take much longer.” Master Wabi says quietly, looking down at him with a small smile.

Boso sees a milky-blueness surrounding Master Wabi’s head. How peacefully the clouds slide over the dome of the world. Unchanged, the world has gone on without him very easily, someday it will. When will I learn, he wonders? Retreat? “You could have just said that,” he says irritably.

Master Wabi smiles and taps Baso on the nose with his stick. Smiling, but his hair is bristling and his eyes are large, dark, and snapping. “You should have blocked that, Baso. Never stop. Be aware. Give attention to everything. Know without knowing. Never stop. Did you find crossing the valley, nonsense? Did you find it impossible? Did you doubt or consider? No, not once, not once did think any of these things, did you, Baso? I know this is true, Baso. Do you know how I know?” Baso shakes his head slowly. “Because you are still alive. You were too busy doing, to think about doing. For a few moments you and Willow were one. There is a ‘knowing’ beyond the everyday, this or that, manner of thinking. A way of being in the world that is different from anything you have ever known. There are no words there, nothing that takes the place of something else. You were there, Baso. Remember the experience, you may want to find your way back.”

Baso lays there, his nose in his hand, watching the backs of his companions approach. “Thank you, Master Wabi, I’m unworthy of your generosity and kindness. Please forgive my ignorance.” His voice is stuffed and muffled.

Master Wabi raps him again, a trifle harder. “Pay attention Baso. There is no forgiving ignorance. Challenge it until it’s vanquished entirely. Pick it all apart. Ignorance grows in you unless you examine it. Never stop.”

Baso is on his feet dusting himself off when Joshu passes him, stops, and comes back. “Baso you flew. You flew by all of us. It was beautiful.”
Pa Kua and Atsuma hear Joshu’s voice and stops.

“I am so impressed,” Atsuma says. I have never seen anyone move so quickly, Master Wabi could barely keep up with you.”

“You’re supposed to be looking at that tree?” Baso’s nose hurts and he wishes they would stand back.

“I fell down, ah, several times,” confesses Atsuma. “We all did, except you.” They hang their heads and scuff the ground nervously, glancing at one another, hoping someone else would say something.

“You must never stop, you know,” Baso chides them. “Pay attention to everything. Constantly challenge your ignorance.”

“What happened to your nose, Baso? Where did you get that red mark between your eyes?”

Baso looks up at Pa Kua leaning over him and sniffs. “Ignorant buffoon.” He looks away. Why should I tell him? He hears Pa Kua laugh and walk away. What red mark? And what did Master Wabi mean by “never stop”? Or “this or that mind.” “This or what, mind?” And as for, “Pick it all apart until it is gone?” How can analyzing something make it disappear? None of it makes any sense. He feels awash in ignorance, struggling in its swirling tide.

Master Wabi sits under a tree, his little box beside him, quietly carving. He smiles from time to time with an air of satisfaction. Joshu lies in the grass waiting for his breathing to return to normal. He stares at the distant mountains and thinks of Atsuma. She is always near, yet he cannot find a moment alone with her. Except when they practice. That doesn’t really qualify as alone, although Pushing, Trapping Hands is far more enjoyable than sticks. Sticks make his hair bristle. She said he’s making progress, truthfully he appreciates the encouragement. Once, long ago, it seems now, he thought he was a sword master, it seems so long ago now. Pushing, Trapping Hands is interesting, pleasant, after he told her, hitting is not allowed. He can’t bring himself to hit her, and she hits hard. It thrills him to feel the touch of her forearm. The touch of her hand. It’s easy to maintain contact with her as she moves. He loves the feel of her skin. He wanted to tell her that she’s beautiful. Not just beautiful, filled with beauty. Her eyes. How he loves the way her eyes flash. How her soft full lips bend up at the corners when she smiles. Her silky skin. A flash of light brings him back to this day-to-day world. Black clouds press against a thin, light blue horizon as red and gold streak beneath the darkness in tight beams. There it is again, lightning. “Master Wabi,” he calls out, “there’s a storm coming.”

“Exciting isn’t it.”

“That line of clouds, the dark angry ones. Those are storm clouds.”

“Rain, thunder and lightning. Yes indeed. Exciting, isn’t it?”

“Don’t you think we should find shelter?”

“Oh.”

“Someplace dry and warm, with food, ” Joshu continues with a trace of impatience. “Quickly!”

The storm rolls across the wide valley, catching them as they reach the crest of the next hill. Wind whips their robes as they run, then the rain begins, blown sideways by the wind as if thrown from a bucket. The dark clouds hasten the sunset, cutting it short, suddenly it’s dark.

Master Wabi enjoys storms. The passion of the sky for an earth it can never possess. Something like Joshu’s feeling for Atsuma. The thought brings a twinkle to his eye. Ah, the passion and drama of unlikely love stories? There are great lessons to be learned from frustration? Storms are true theater. Indeed, the ultimate theater. You can feel the raw tension, snapping and crashing about. Yes, very exciting. He leans into the wind walking backwards, pointing out the crackle and flash of lightning to an audience long since fled.

Chapter Nine, Chicken Walking by Ed Parker

Chapter 9-–The Abandoned Temple

It was a clunking sound, the hollow knocking sound of bamboo against bamboo, that caught their attention in the rain and dark and drew them on. A man-made sound, the sound of shelter, a farmhouse if they are lucky. The sound rises and falls in the storm, lost in the noise of the rushing wind through the leaves and branches of trees and tall bamboo, returning again in the quiet of the lulls. Still they missed the overgrown path from the road and might have wandered all night had not Lady Wa called them back. There is little to mark it as a path, even in daylight it would be easy to miss; finding it in the wind blown rain with only flashes of lightening to see by, was the rarest good fortune. Once on the path they can only move forward, their shoulders brush the unseen vegetation as their raised hands wait for the next wet slap of leaves and branches. The clunking sound grows louder until they stumble against the flapping bamboo gate. The fence leans in broken disarray of missing and swayed out sections of tied bamboo. The building behind it is old and abandoned, yet tThe door slides open at Pa Kua’s first tug.

Inside is blackness, their footsteps echo in the stark emptiness. They feel their way forward over wooden planks, loose and uneven. Over their heads, timbers groan in the wind, occasional flashes of lightening reveals openings in the thatch, but little else. Baso drops the pack he had taken from the horse onto the floor, his sleeping mat next to it. “I’ll go take care of the horse,” said more as a warning of his pending change in direction than anything else.

Atsuma hears the pack drop and moving carefully, feeling around with a foot and her bamboo flute, finds it. “Lady Wa,” she calls out. “Dry clothes. We can get out of these wet things.”

“In front of everyone?” Lady Wa giggles.

“If I can’t see them, they can’t see me.” Replies Atsuma.

“A gentleman wouldn’t look. I won’t even turn my head to listen.” Joshu is a true gentleman.

“Liar,” Pa Kua calls out and laughs.

Baso moves forward a foot at a time. He hears the rustle of wet clothing and Atsuma shivering off to one side as he searches for the door.

“Find Master Wabi while you are out there,” Pa Kua calls out. “Don’t step on anyone coming back.”

“Don’t be under foot. Not that I could miss that mouth.” Baso meets Master Wabi coming in the door and leaps back startled, ducking behind Willow as he hears the swipe of his staff.

“Most commendable, Baso, late, but commendable. You may thank me for putting the horse away.”

Master Wabi’s voice carries into the room. “Look at this place. Dust everywhere.”

“Look at what? I can’t see my hand in front of my face,” Pa Kua snaps.

“Oh. Forgive me, Pa Kua, I forgot you were blind.”

“And you can?” The question is softer, uncertain.

“It’s somewhat dim. Be careful there, Pa Kua!” There’s a thump in the darkness, followed by an angry gasp of pain. “What agility!” Master Wabi hoots with laughter. “You spring about like a tiger, Pa Kua. Now that you have found the fire pit. Clean your self up and make a fire.”

“Master Wabi,” whispers a hesitant and somewhat apprehensive Atsuma.

“With what?” Pa Kua, ignores Atsuma.

“I have some salve for that bruise on you buttock, Atsuma,” Master Wabi calls out above the sound of wind and growning timbers.

Atsuma screeches in indignation. The young men’s appreciation of Master Wabi skills soar. “Clods all of you,” Atsuma gasps. “Callused, insensitive clods.” The sound of rustling clothes increases.

"What was that about," Master Wabi sounds perplexed.

“Atsuma dear, it’s inside out,” Lady Wa says softly.

The silence that follows is tangible. Pine branches beat against the roof, the creak and groan of tall bamboo swaying in the wind cannot drown out that silence.

“I’ll get some wood.” Master Wabi’s voice sounds troubled as he slips out the door. No one else moves. No one has anything to say. He returns quickly with an arm load of dry wood and soon has a fire started. He and Lady Wa chat as he puts a pot of rice over the fire. The rest sit in silence staring at the fire.
Lady Wa fills Atsuma thoughts. How could she have seen the robe’s seams in the dark? The seams are so tiny I have trouble seeing them in the daylight. But then, Lady Wa is, ah, more than normal. How my heart pounded, the night I met her, I was trying to calm myself. She has told the story to herself many times since, hoping someday to understand it all The bandits surprised me. Even after they are dead, I am still shaking, never having actually killed anyone before. The rabbit moon was rising full and bright as polished silver, casting sharp black shadows across the white dust of the road. Suddenly there’s a woman, a beautiful childlike woman dressed in fantasy and dreams, standing not far away, the moonlight shimmering around her. Her silvery white robe sparkling with diamonds, glowing with pearls. Her hair dressed in some unfamiliar and formal fashion, held with silver pins and flowing cascades of diamonds and pearls. She looked up at me, afraid, bewildered. Suddenly, just for an instant, she stiffens, standing as still as stone. I stared at her awe struck. The Goddess of the Moon, she could be no other, right there, standing in the middle of a dusty country road. Of all my childhood stories, I loved The Goddess of the Moon the most. And there she was, just the way my mother described her.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” I say. I knew it sounded stupid. I didn’t mean to say it, it just came out.
“I am not frightened,” she said. “Well, a little. Startled, I guess. I, ah, wasn’t expecting to see anyone.” Indeed she didn’t, she looks dazed, terrified of something or someone. Just the thought of it made me angry. How could anyone want to harm her? She is so beautiful, so helpless? “What are you doing out here? Why are you dressed like that?” It sounded even dumber. What’s wrong with me? There was a dull stranger inside my head using my tongue to embarrass me. Her eyes grow large, then close, she raises one hand to her face. Suddenly her eyes fly open, fingertips gently flicking out at the dangling sprays of diamonds and pearls. “I ran away,” she says and smiled. As if, pleased with herself.
“Ran away? From what?” I didn’t mean it to sound rude. My mouth seems determined to embarrass me. I remember biting my lip.
“My, ah, wedding?” There’s a hesitant, tentative sound to her voice. Then she smiles again.
“You must have been marrying the Emperor.” Again, it just came out. Traitorous tongue. I bit it to keep it still.
“0h, Please, don’t ask.” She sounds so forlorn. As if overwhelmed by the hopelessness, the impossibility, of an explanation. There was sadness as well, in whatever it was that she could not share. Of course I didn’t, how could anyone intrude so?. ”Well then,” I said, “we must get you off the road before someone sees you.” I took her arm and led her off the road into some trees. Thinking back, it seemed unlikely someone would come along, and she was frightened, yet she trusted me.. A wedding? Arranged marriages are common. Indeed, they’re expected. Brides don’t run away from weddings, they’ve nowhere to go and that’s where she was now, nowhere. It wasn’t right. He must have been a beast. It was the mood I was in, I suppose. Those bandits must have been waiting her. The poor dear. But they found me instead, too bad for them. Men, she wants to spit, but everyone is waiting for the rice and it would seem odd. She sighs, looking around, most men, are just no good, most men, but these were not so bad. She smiles to herself, turning her head from the fire so no one would see. She wanted to think.
“Wait here,” I told her, “and don’t worry. No one will hurt you. You can’t go around dressed like that. And try to stay out of sight.” I knew it was a waste of time as I said it. “Oh, never mind.” I might as well try to hide a bonfire. “I will be right back,” I said, turning to leave. Then I looked back again at this strange person I’d found. She didn’t appear frightened or worried now. She was looking up at the rabbit moon, smiling as if she hadn’t a care. It was all so strange, so very strange, and wonderfully weird. I couldn’t help laughing. She glanced over at me and smiled.

She was still standing there when I returned with the ox and cart. That cart creaked and groaned with every turn of its wheels, it was embarrassing. In the cart was a wooden box and a pile of white linen. I tossed my sack of things in there as well. The wet robe thrown over the side of the cart to dry was mine as well.
“We can’t have you running around dressed like that,” I told her, handing her the sack. “Put these on. They may be a little long. I hope you don’t mind. They’re all I have, that’s ah, dry now. There’s a stream not far, I, ah, fell in. Silly me. These old things will be fine until you can get something nicer.” I looked down shamefaced, they were all I owned. “They won’t attract attention anyway.” I couldn’t help thinking of all the blood spots I washed out earlier. That would have been hard to explain. Probably frighten the poor thing to death. I never washed clothes so fast in my life. “You can put what you have on in this box.” The box seemed smaller, looking at all the robes she was wearing. She was running away in style, wearing half the treasury of where ever she came from.

“Can you help me, please? She sounded so plaintive, so lost inside all those robes. “I don’t think I can take these off by myself. I have no idea how I got them on. It must have taken forever. There are all these pins and things in my hair.”
It must sound strange, but the jewelry was so lovely. “Can I? I would love to. I have never seen anything so lovely in my life. This silk weighs nothing at all. I love the way it feels, no, I can’t, really, my hands are too rough.” I suppose I was excited.
“Nonsense, touch it. You have no idea how long I have been inside these things.”
“These are diamonds? Are they really diamonds?
“Yes, I think so, I mean, I don’t know. What else would they be? If you want them, they’re yours. They’re only my tears.” She looked at the silk and sighed. “It is sad to think of all the tiny, little worms who died making all this.” It startled me, what I could understand. No one had offered me diamonds before. “I can’t take your diamonds.” I cried, shocked by the idea. Her tears? How poetic? It tugged at my heart.
“Take them, please. It gives me to pleasure knowing they make you happy. Forgive me. I have forgotten myself entirely. My name is Lady Wa.”
“Lady Wa, how beautiful. My name is Atsuma.”

“Atsuma. Such a pretty name, it has a musical sound to it. I see cherry blossoms floating on the wind, twirling gently as they fall to the ground. So lovely.”
I admit I was astonished. No one had guessed the meaning of my name before. I looked to see if she was teasing me, but no, she had other problems. She was stuck inside her robes, her hair pins entangled in the silk. She must have lost patience and tried to just slip the robes over her head. Her voice was coming from inside a writhing pile of silk as she giggled and muttered in vexation.
“One of the Sisters gave it to me.” I wasn’t thinking, not clearly, being too full of my own problems. “She, ah, was from an island far to the east. It means cherry, or cherry blossom.” Lady Wa was making desperate sounding cries of laughter and sobs of frustration. Suddenly she stopped. “What?” She said, peering out of a gap in the pile of her clothes with one eye. “Please, could you help me?” She sighed, sounding sad and lost, “I’m stuck in here.”
“My name, Atsuma. It means cherry blossom.”
“Yes, of course it does. Atsuma, really, I’m stuck. I love your name, I do, but I ah, can’t move.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Don’t worry,” I told her. “I will get you out.” It took a while, as robe after robe was removed, carefully folded and placed in the box. And as each robe was removed, Lady Wa grew steadily smaller and more comfortable. The rabbit moon was still high and bright when we left, walking beside the cart and talking. Lady Wa could find joy and wonder in the most common things. Her attention wondered from the feel of dust on her toes, to the singing of crickets. She bubbled with words and talked, scarcely pausing for breath, until the first rays of the sun touched her skin. How she smiled as the warmth of the sun touched her skin? I think she would have taken off her robe and ran around naked if she had been alone. When the sun washed her face with its warmth, she danced and kissed the ox on the nose. Then for no reason at all, she threw out her arms and shouted, “Thank you!”
“Thank who?” I asked. I couldn’t help laughing.
“Thank you, she said as her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, she said again softly.”

It didn’t make any sense, but it didn’t matter. I shrugged and said, “Thank you, Lady Wa.” It was a wonderful moment and it seemed to linger. How can I describe it? Precious? I was happy and amazed by the feeling. We laughed as though we would never stop. There was something contagious in her joy. I reveled in her delight, sharing some small part of it. Time went unnoticed until we heard the sound of voices ahead and Lady Wa hid in the back of the cart. It was these three, Baso, Pa Kua and Joshu. It wasn’t their fault, but they spoiled the moment, and the moment had been, well, precious. “Men,” she growled aloud, the sound of her own voice breaking the run of her thoughts . Joshu looks over at her. The sight of him makes her sigh. It’s frightening to think how close she came, those poor boys. The break doesn’t last long.
Lady Wa wouldn’t say who she is hiding from or why, changing the subject whenever it came up. She seemed to relax after we found the boat, strangely she insisted that we go upstream and not down. That was a life time ago. So much has changed, being here with such wonderful people. Is it important that two of them can see in the dark? Ok, they are not exactly normal, more than normal, I guess. It feels good sitting here watching the fire, listening to the storm raging outside. So, more than normal. So what if my best friend can see in the dark. Sure, it takes getting used to, she is so different. She wants you to think she’s ordinary, but there’s nothing ordinary about her. She’s beautiful. Not just beautiful, perfect. Perfect little hands and feet, perfect face, perfect black eyes, tiny little perfect teeth, tiny little perfect ears, perfect little nose, perfect, perfect, perfect. And she can see in the dark. Perfect. If I didn’t love her so much, I would hate her. No, I could never hate her. I know all about hate, there isn’t a mean, spiteful, cruel bone in her body. She would never qualify. Or Master Wabi, he sees in the dark too. What is there about people who see in the dark? How could he see a bruise in the dark? It was black in there, not just dark. Then he blabs about it. I still like him, though. Her laugh startles her. Suddenly she snaps upright. What else did he see? She feels the fear squeezing: the burning inside her. The scars? He must have seen the scars, if he could see a bruise. Maybe not. The bruise was dark, the scars, Lady Wa saw the seams, she must have seen the scars. If she….? He saw the scars. The bruise is just a bruise, it will go away, but not the scars. He knows. He knows, that’s why he didn’t mention the scars. The thought of someone knowing terrifies her. No one must know. What to do? She feels herself grow cold inside. She feels eyes touching her. Eyes? It’s true, however strange it must sound, she can feel someone watching her, touching her with their eyes. And yet it is not intrusive. A feeling of warmth, like a sunrise, a touch far gentler than anything she had ever known. She glances up slowly from the fire’s dying embers. Expecting to see Joshu staring at her again? But, not this time. Master Wabi and Lady Wa are looking at her. But not looking, their eyes are like empty holes, like windows of blackest night. Shadows, it must be shadows, still she can feel her scalp tingling, tightening, her hair stiffening. She can’t swallow. She looks down quickly. Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear. Deep breaths. Feeling dizzy, feeling dizzy. Should lie down. The warmth, the comforting warmth, flows through her, reassuring and loving. She looks up, again. They’re still looking at her, smiling softly. They’re so much alike. It just came to her. That’s it. Not just the eyes or seeing in the dark, they look alike. Well, they don’t exactly look alike. Master Wabi is far from perfect, or even good looking. Oh, my no. Still, there’s a likeness. The sound of her own laugh startles her again. She ignores the stares and questioning looks. This is so weird. Then it passes and everything’s normal again. Master Wabi and Lady Wa are talking to each other, something about the moon. Joshu is looking at her with his puppy eyes. Why doesn’t he stop that, its annoying? Then she smells the rice cooking and realizes she’s hungry.
All they have is rice and very happy to have that. They eat in silence: each lost in thought. Lady Wa looks at Master Wabi and gives a barely perceptible shrug of her shoulders and a quicker smile. Master Wabi laughs, for no apparent reason.

They sit on their sleeping mats next to the warmth of the fire talking quietly as they eat. The mats soon became their beds as they snuggle deep into their robes and sleep until dawn.
Joshu wakes and lays without moving, his eyes slowly taking in the room around him. It’s a habit left over from a childhood game he often played with Pa Kua and Baso. It’s called, first one up, empties the chamber pot. It wasn’t much of a game, or something you wanted to explain to strangers. Still, having the most patience and the largest bladder, he usually won, and a win’s a win, something important to a growing boy.
The storm passed during the night, light streams through the shutters and the holes in the thatch roof, cutting the gray gloom inside the old building to a golden rose. Master Wabi has a fire burning in the fire pit, the smoke obscuring the rafters and taxing the vent. Still, there’s some hope of tea in the near future. Lady Wa returns from outside, her face radiant from a brisk scrub with cold water. Each day she seems more cheerful, happier, more alive. Atsuma is missing! Pa Kua is snoring on his shoulder, Baso next to him, or was, he is gone, too. Joshu leaps to his feet and runs out the door. Pa Kua smiles and lays there, exulting in his victory, last up. A few minutes later, Atsuma returns with an armload of greens, roots, mushrooms, and vegetables.
“There is a garden behind the house. Anyway, there was a garden, a long time ago. Look, what I found.” She drops her armload on the floor in front of Master Wabi.
“A feast,” he hoots happily. “Now if we had a little oil and something to cook on?”
“I have some oil in here some place,” Lady Wa calls out from deep inside the pack. “I bought it in that last village. Ha, here it is,” she cries as her head emerges from inside the canvas pack.
Pa Kua is looking at a rack of poles near the door. The poles are dusty and old, looking closely he sees that the poles end in what looks like a sheath. Lances. He feels a stir of interest.
Master Wabi is looking around the fire pit and growing annoyed. “Something to cook on Pa Kua.” Pa Kua glances back guiltily. There’s something on the wall behind Master Wabi. Something metal and round. He leaves the lances without another thought. “What’s this? A pan. Indeed so. Yes, I have a pan,” cries Pa Kua, lifting the round concave shape from the wall. It’s made of copper, six inches deep in the center, close to three feet across. There are two hoops brazed to the outside rim. The metal has been hammered thin and feels oddly light. Pa Kua bows deeply, the pan extended before him. “Your pan, venerable cook.”
“So ’tis. A wonderful pan,” exclaims Master Wabi. “A most useful and wonderful pan. The spirits are kind. Blessed are the pan makers and those who use them. Take it to the stream and scour it with sand. Hurry! Wait, leave me one of your cleavers. Now, hurry with that pan. Quickly someone, a clean board.”
The fire pit sits in the floor, small, round and lined with bricks. The top of the fire pit has spaces to allow the smoke to vent away. The pan fits into the top of it like it was made to be there. As the pan begins to smoke, Master Wabi pours a bit of oil onto it. Each ingredient is added in an quick sequence and vigorously stirred. An audience forms around Master Wabi, appreciative and impatient. They’re hungry, and hunger adds a special spice to cooking. The pan is quickly pulled off the fire and after a few word of appreciation and gratitude, its contents attacked.
With the last morsel chased around the pan and its passing mourned, they lay around the fire, warm and comfortable, talking quietly. The morning passes slowly, lazily. Everyone seems to have their reason for doing nothing. While the others talk, Pa Kua wanders back to the rack of lances. It’s an interesting building, older than he thought last night in the dark. It must have been abandoned long ago, yet nature has made few intrusions. The roof needs work, but not as much as you would think, a few holes here and there. A temple, Master Wabi said of it, leaving the story untold. A small temple at that. It couldn’t hold more than thirty monks and thirty stretches the point. Pa Kua considers pointing out that not many temples require an armory, but lets it go, knowing he’s no expert on temples or monks. And now that he thinks of it, he’s heard stories of fighting monks, but then he’s heard stories of flying snakes and long feathered birds that poop rubies and emeralds.

The rack filling the far wall is covered with dust and cobwebs. It must have been quite a collection once, judging by size of the rack. Pa Kua walks slowly along it, most of the slots are empty. The remaining lances rest butt down, the blades high against the wall, their wooden sheaths covered with leather, or the dusty remains. Some look to be works of art, or were long ago, the shafts dried out and cracked, their tassels faded, dusty, It’s strange that they should be left behind when the others were taken, strange that they have not been stolen. The blades appear to have suffered as badly as the shafts, what little can be seen is eaten by rust. Near the end is one unlike the others. The shaft is black wood, eight feet in length with a blade as long as his forearm. His curiosity rising, Pa Kua wipes the dust from the shaft. There are many tiny characters rising from the wood, but the style is old and unfamiliar. He taps it lightly, rubbing it with his fingertips. The wood feels good, the grain fine and hard. It’s as if it had just been returned to the rack, except for the dust and cobwebs. A trifle ornate, but the raised characters will give a good grip, if the wood is truly sound. Taking the lance down, he swings it behind him in one smooth motion. The sheath flies off and a two-foot ribbon of steel gleams bright as starlight. The shaft feels good in his hands, as if it wants to be there. “Ya ho, I’ll take this one,” he shouts, rapping the butt against the floor hard enough to make the blade vibrate. A little dust puffs out of the tassel, but nothing cracks, or breaks. It sounds, sound as when it was new. He moves toward the door to try it out.
Master Wabi rises with a sigh. “Pa Kua.”

“Ah, Master Wabi. I ah, found this lance. I was going outside to try it out. It feels sound.” He frowns suddenly. “The temple’s abandoned. Isn’t it? I don’t want to take some holy relic. It’s not stealing is it?”
“No, it wouldn’t be stealing, Pa Kua.” He walks over to where Pa Kua stands eyeing the door, looking impatient. “Have you looked at it carefully?”
“Yes. Well no, I, ah, need more light.” His eyes twitch toward the door.
“Odd, I can see well enough. Have you been eating properly?” He lifts one of Pa Kua’s eye lids, looks at the eye, and coughs contemplatively. Sighing as his attention shifts to the lance. Pa Kua holds the lance upright, its butt resting on the temple floor, the blade several feet over his head. The shaft is eight sided and seems to fit Pa Kua’s hand. His fingers close easily around it, sliding gently, caressingly up and down it, as if bemused by the feel of the wood. Master Wabi arches a bushy eyebrow and smiles. Pa Kua notice the smile and what’s causing it, becoming conscious of the movement of his hand. Color rising up his neck, climbing his cheeks to the edge of his hair. He coughs and clears his throat.
“The shaft is eight sided, like Willow. See there’s characters along each side.” His voice drops as he peers at the carving. Each character is distinct, cleanly cut in a style unused for centuries. “Must have been hard to carve, raised up from the shaft like that? None of the characters are chipped or broken. Maybe, it’s never been used?” He gives Master Wabi an odd quizzical look. “Can you read them?”
“You have a very good eye, for someone who nearly blind. Come walk with me, Pa Kua. I will tell you a story. You like stories don’t you Pa Kua? Yes, of course you do. This is a very special weapon and as with many every special weapons, it has a story.” He turns toward the door.
Pa Kua furrows his brow, looking dubiously after Master Wabi, “You know about this lance, this particular lance? Ok, this has to be good.
“Do I have to come get you, Pa Kua?”
The stream is muddy and swift from the night’s storm. The first leaves of fall, swirl in its rushing current. “Place the blade of the lance in the water, edge up, there, where the leaves float along the bank. Now watch.”
Pa Kua watches the leaves. After a few minutes he glances at Master Wabi. “What am I supposed to see?”
Master Wabi points impatiently at the lance’s blade. “You are supposed to see what is here to be seen. Now, what are you seeing?”

“I see a blade rusting in a stream while leaves float by.” Pa Kua is fast losing interest the demonstration and growing irritated.
“Anything touch the blade, bright eyes?” Master Wabi’s voice is gruff.
Pa Kua is find the whole business irksome. He’s about to say so when he notices that the leaves veer away from the blade’s edge. All of them, every time. Strange. “Ah, the leaves move away from the edge of the blade just before touching it.” He sounds undecided, unsure. It seems unlikely.
“Strange isn’t it, Pa Kua? People speak of mean blades. I’ve never seen this myself. I think sometimes people do things that they cannot accept, then offer up their blade or a curse, or some such nonsense, as the reason. Sometimes though the blade really is different. This blade for example, it was made by a master smith by the name of well, Master Smith, long ago and given to Nansen to teach him moderation. It never cuts unnecessarily.
Pa Kua squints up his eyes. “Nansen? Who is Nansen? How can a blade know what to cut? Putting a two-foot blade on something intended to teach moderation is kind of weird too. Don’t you think?”

“Is it? You are what you do, Pa Kua. Keep your nose on that and you will follow me nicely. Nansen was called Teacher for a long time. Ah, I have gotten ahead of my story. Dry the blade, and do be careful. You could lose a finger calling something you know nothing about weird. I will tell you the story while we walk.”
Ferns grow in the shade of the trees and the stones of the path are covered with moss. The grass high and wet with rain and pulls at their legs and feet. Their footsteps scarcely make a sound as they pass under trees and through open meadows. Master Wabi seems to be following an old path no longer apparent, it’s a while before he begins the story. Pa Kua follows closely behind carrying the lance, trying to pay attention.
“Long ago, when ignorance was new and illusions fresh,” Master Wabi begins.
“When,” interrupts Pa Kua?
Master Wabi snorts, lowers one eyelid and stares back at Pa Kua. “Like talking to a fish about wet. Long ago. Long ago, a man came over the western mountains and stopped at the temple here. The monks were struck by his aura.”
“Excuse me, Master Wabi. An aura? Was anyone hurt?”
“You’re jerking my robe here, Pa Kua? Think. An aura is like a light that comes from inside. Now, be quiet.”
“That would’ve been useful last night.”

“Concentrate Pa Kua. You are squandering a wealth of my patience. Not everyone can see an aura. Truthfully, most can’t. It’s not like they’re on fire. You, it would seem do not have an eye for it, so to speak.” Master Wabi smiles, but Pa Kua is following behind and doesn’t see it. “Apparently the monks had such an eye. They saw that he was a holy man and started asking him all sorts of questions. Nansen ignored them and the more he ignored them, the more they persisted. They asked him mystical questions, arcane questions, questions like, ‘What’s the meaning of life? What happens when we die? Who created God?’ Silly questions. He ignored them for many months and the monks became frustrated. Then one asked, ‘How may I know my true self?’”
Confused, Pa Kua stumbles, calling out, “Wait. What does happen when we die?”
Master Wabi stops and turns. “Pa Kua, one day you will know. Until then it’s not important. Now, as I was saying, Nansen made a gesture with his hand, like he was throwing something away. The monks became excited at this.” Master Wabi turns to walk away. Then stops and looks back at Pa Kua to see if he got the humor.
Waiting to follow, Pa Kua has the lance balanced on his left shoulder, a forefinger deep inside a nostril. Surprised, he pulls contemplatively at his nose.

Master Wabi shrugs and continues his story. “The monks ask him other questions. Nansen ignores them. Then another. Nothing. Finally one asks, ‘How can reality be known from illusion?’ Ah now, Nansen raises his hand, closing his fingers into a fist as if holding something tightly. The monks blink with excitement, their livers leaping with joy.”
“Leaping livers?”
Master Wabi’s shoulders twitch, but he doesn’t turn around. “They leap. Be quiet. Later that night after evening meditation, but before the lamps are put out, the monks talk among themselves. They decided to make a list of those questions that had drawn a response from Nansen. The next day would they ask him similar questions. And sure enough, more progress. They’re onto something now. Each day they ask him questions and each night they write down his responses. It was very difficult, exciting work. Sometimes Nansen would respond with a motion of his hand. Sometimes he would leap up and hit his questioner with whatever came to hand. It wasn’t safe to let your mind wander around him, Pa Kua.” Pa Kua takes the hint and ducks under a tree limb. “Sometimes, not often, Nansen would roar out, ‘Kwatz!’ They weren’t sure why he did that. It puzzled them. Suddenly he stops, half turns to Pa Kua, pinning him with a knowing look. “Everyone had an opinion though.” He coughs gently and he walks on, talking over his shoulder. “The questions he responds to, they call ‘Untying the Knot.’ There aren’t many of those. The rest they call ‘More Rope.’” He peers back over his shoulder, “Their little joke. One day as the monks gather around him, he raises his hand and cries out, ‘Enough’. The monks drop to their heels in surprise.”
The ground is muddy and the path slippy, Pa Kua’s mind is on his footing. It takes him a bit to digest what he just heard. He stops, as if unable to think and walk at the same time. “He spoke?”
“Pay attention, Pa Kua. Of course he spoke. He said, ‘For ten years you’ve asked me this and that. You think and talk, turning everything around. Now, tell me one true thing.’ Nothing. No one says a word. Complete silence. Oh, they clear their throats, cough, squirm and wiggle their toes in the dust, but no one has anything to say. They knew many things, Pa Kua. Many knew things that were true, or might well be true, but no one knew one true thing.”

“Ah, Master Wabi?” Pa Kua seems lost.
Master Wabi is lost in his story and ignores Pa Kua’s question. “‘Crows picking at bones,’ Nansen storms. ‘All you know is how to set things apart. Names for this and that. No idea what life is. Not a feel.’” “Nansen’s voice gets real low here, Pa Kua. ‘To know, you must know yourself. To be aware, you must do more. You must grasp the whole of your ignorance, your illusions, your opinions, and eat them all, skin and bones, until you disappear.”
Pa Kua drops back, his eyes starting to glaze. Feeling a need to say something, but hoping to be ignored, he says softly, “Eat them all?”. The trees look familiar. They must be walking in a circle. He hopes so.
“All they had was a long list, Pa Kua. Pieces of pieces, no more. A long list of this or that. Imagine their surprise?” Master Wabi whoops with laughter.
Pa Kua doesn’t get it. “Ten years without saying a word? What kind of teacher is that?”
The path follows the rise of a hill. Master Wabi glares down at him.
Pa Kua tries to look contrite. “So what did they do?”

Master Wabi walks on up the path. “Nansen gave them something to pull it all together. That’s what.” He sounds a little testy. “A dance, a form of dynamic meditation called the One Dance, Pa Kua. They didn’t want it, not at first, too unusual, too secular. Nansen ignored their soft mouthed gumming, waiting for them to swallow. “Says the dance will give them something to do while they chew on their pretensions.” Then he tells them to go cut bamboo poles. As they return, stripping leaves and cutting off branches, he forms them into a circle around him. ‘You must learn the One Dance,’ he says, silencing their murmuring. Then he starts to move. In his hand is a great black lance with a long silver blade.
Pa Kua looks doubtfully at the lance. “This lance?”
“Was it?” Master Wabi stops, glancing back with narrowed eyes. “Constant motion, Pa Kua. Unchanging change, flowing from movement to movement, like the spinning of the heavens, the rolling of the earth. Ah, it’s useless. There are no words to describe the One Dance.”
“Interesting.” Pa Kua has just developed an interest. A lance dance, it makes him smile. He knows several, maybe he’ll give Master Wabi a lesson or two.

“Is it?” Master Wabi smiles grimly and goes on. The crest of the hill is not far. “Then Nansen shakes his lance and begins the dance again. The dance is martial, yet there’s no sense of violence to it. The movements are logical solutions to any number of blocks and strikes, or simply continuous transitions, depending on your attitude.” Master Wabi stops at the top and scowls over his shoulder in disgust. “It’s not what you think. Useless things, words, like writing on water. Yes, that’s the lance, Pa Kua. It drew Nansen outside of himself and defined the One Dance for all time.” Master Wabi sighs, “It’s useless to speak of it.”
Pa Kua opens his mouth, but Master Wabi holds him silent with an eye. He’s not finished, merely waiting for Pa Kua to finish climbing the hill. Pa Kua follows him down the other side as Master Wabi continues his story. “They tried to follow his movements. Each time he repeats the dance, they improve a little. Finally each monk is a perfect reflection of Nansen. ‘This is the One Dance of dynamic meditation,’ he tells them. ‘Practice it and the Dance will polish your soul bright as a mirror. You can look inside and find yourself there, if you choose.’ Most didn’t listen, much less, choose. The next day he was gone. No one saw him go
“But he left the lance?”

“Yes, he did.” Master Wabi rolls his eyes. “The monks practiced the One Dance, first with long poles, later with lances. A few became proficient, then everyone left. The lances have been here ever since.” Master Wabi turns, cocking an eye at Pa Kua. “I think Nansen wants you to have it?” Then he laughs.
Pa Kua lets that go. Master Wabi has a strange sense of humor. “What happened to the temple? Why did the monks leave?”
Master Wabi looks off into the distance. Birds can be heard fussing in one of the trees. Suddenly a crow flies up, followed by two little birds pecking at its head. He follows the birds with his eyes. “People do things, Pa Kua. Why’s are meaningless. The monks left.” He coughs to hide a smile and glances at Pa Kua out of the corner of his eye. “Some left to follow Nansen, some for other reasons. Some went to live in the mountains. Most forgot the dance.”
“Joshu said you lived in the mountains.” He said it to be saying something. His mind wandering off in another direction, a dangerous habit he couldn’t break. “The One Dance must be a good technique. Does anyone still know it”
Master Wabi’s eyes turn black and disappear, a warning that goes unnoticed. “Technique? You think the One Dance, a technique?”

Pa Kua’s concerns about Master Wabi’s true nature suddenly return, startling him. The feeling hangs there like a fart during meditation. He’s made a mistake, but what? “Please forgive me, Master Wabi, I’m young with much to learn.” It has never failed him, until now. He doesn’t see Master Wabi’s stick move. His head snaps back and he slides into oblivion.
Cold wetness against his back wakes him. Then pain. The pain keeps him from moving his head. Out of the corner of his eye, through tiny flashing lights, he sees Master Wabi moving in slow, flowing circles, a kind of green woman moves with him.. He blinks, but the illusion remains. A kind of green woman? He looks away.

It seems so peaceful lying there, so beautiful. A canopy of leaves arches in green lit splendor high above him, casting him in dappled green light. Nearby, water rushes soothingly over stones. He can see glints of light from the tumbling water and Master Wabi and his companion are still moving in slow, lazy turns. It seems dangerous somehow, watching them. He focuses his eye on the stream, watching it for the longest time. It’s a lovely and kind stream, green with moss, brown with streaks of swirling mud, dark as tea from the shade of the willow trees that line its banks. He slides his eyes over carefully and sees the gray trunks of apple trees huddled, stunted in the willows’ shade. Man’s creature, apple trees. Their broken limbs, drooping, sagging, ache to be pruned. The plight of the apple trees moves him deeply. He would help them, prune them, if only he had longer to live. No, that’s true, not entirely. The truth seems very important to him now, lying there on the cold wet ground, most likely dying, or possibly waiting to die. The truth is, he’s afraid. His face feels badly swollen and hurts, very badly. He can’t breathe through his nose. What is troubling him, one of several, is that he has no idea how it got that way.
“Ah, Pa Kua.” Master Wabi’s voice crashes like thunder around him, his head tightens, quivering like a sprouting seed. “You must be careful when you kiss an old man’s butt. Don’t you think? Perhaps not? Not clearly, or well it would seem.” He chuckles at his little joke.
“What happened?” Pa Kua whispers. “Did you hit me?”
“Of course I hit you.” Master Wabi voice rolls and echoes in the void of Pa Kua’s largely deserted head. “Is there anyone else here to hit you? Did you imagine a nut fell from heaven and conked you on your great fleshy beak?” Gales of cruel laughter rattle and shake the universe.

“I, ah . . . was it something I said?” It was only a guess really, he often said things he wished he hadn’t.
“Oh yes. Try to remember. It would be a shame to have all that pain and learn nothing from it. Now, with whom were you are talking and what about. I’ll give you a hint. The One Dance is not a technique.”
“With, ah, you and the one dance which is a dynamic meditation that Nansen taught the monks of this temple, a long time ago.” It was there, waiting to be said.
“A long time ago,” Master Wabi muses. “Yes, it must seem so. You thought it might be useful. Why?”
The truth? Not entirely. No, the world is just not ready. “Ah, so I could be skilled with the lance. More skilled.” He glimpses a patch of blue through the tree branches, the dome freshly painted.
“Let me walk you through this, think carefully. If the One Dance might make you more skilled, and yes, I know this dance? Therefore, perhaps, just perhaps, you should treat me with respect. For my skills, of which, by the way, you know nothing. Certainly for my age. For in Pa Kua years, I must seem ancient as time itself, which, by the way, merely keeps everything from happening at once, but that is another matter.”
“Yes, Master Wabi.”

Master Wabi sniffs. “Respect, Pa Kua, gives young people the appearance of having some intelligence. I want you to glow with shrewdness and wit. You can certainly burn a good deal brighter than you are now. Rounds of dried cow flop have more luster than you have now. What were you thinking when I told you of Nansen?”
“I was listening.”
“You were thinking.”
“You said, sorry, but you said, you can’t read minds.” It came out in pieces, worried, defensive, and more than a little reluctant.
“I did? Ah, Pa Kua, why must you inflict your limitation on the world? Never mind. Let me guess then. You were thinking about the lance and what a fine weapon it would make. Did I mention it’s called “Commpassion?” What do you know about compassion, Pa Kua?”
“Kindness?” Pa Kua seizes on the concept. “Caring for others? I think caring for other is a very good thing, Master Wabi.”
“Not much then. You see Pa Kua, we humans live a passionate existence, peopling our minds with wants and desires and the fear of them going unsatisfied. It creates tension and tension leads to pain, and pain leads to compassion because everyone else is suffering just like you, most everyone. Did you know that?”

“No, Master Wabi. I hadn’t thought about it, not like that.” He sounds forlorn, abandoned. The conversation isn’t going well.
“Which brings us to remorse. Do you know anything about remorse, Pa Kua?”
“I feel remorse, Master Wabi. Great remorse. Deep remorse. Please. It hurts to talk.”
“And well you should. Remorse is important to compassion. Now whether remorse leads to compassion or compassion to remorse is unimportant. The questions you ask define how you experience the world, did you know that? We’ll get to that later.” Master Wabi paces back and forth as he talks. “There’s so much pain in the world. I know you’ve thought about it and wondered how much you’ve contributed. It is a matter of taking responsibility for your actions, Pa Kua, however small. You look to be a responsible young man. Taking responsibility breaks the grip of ignorance, gives you room to be more interesting.”

Pa Kua hears Master Wabi’s footsteps moving through the grass. He feels the weight of Master Wabi’s shadow on his nose as he passes, feels the wet ground pushing up against his body. Every inch is cold. He knows all about remorse, regret, having experienced it, pondered it, most of his life without having learned anything he could put his finger on. There is much he doesn’t know, maybe everything. He feels his ignorance as a endless void, an ocean spreading out from around from his one small drop of certainty. Depressing. Master Wabi has to be a hundred years old and he hadn’t seen him move. An old man? It’s like that time he pinched his ear. That was surprising. No, this is worse. This is, well, depressing.
“Well, here’s the thing Pa Kua. Pa Kua. You’re listening to me, aren’t you boy?”
“Yes, Master Wabi. Remorse is taking responsibility, or is it compassion. I hope it is compassion.”
Master Wabi coughs quietly. “Learning the One Dance means taking responsibility for what you do. Becoming aware, if you will? Most people never understand why they do what they do. Yes, remorse is a powerful thing.”
Pa Kua feels his mouth go dry, his spit having recently turned to ashes. Did he ask to learn the One Dancer? Doubtful. Remorse? The thought crowds out everything else. “Master Wabi, I really regret kissing your butt. It was inappropriate, disrespectful, motivated entirely by habit. Forgive me”

“Ah the One Dance. It’s a demanding exercise, Pa Kua. See how fit I am? Given my age. Indeed, you must marvel. Yes, exercise. A good diet. No animal flesh, there’s enough killing in the world without having to eat it. Rest, regular bowel movements, you’ll be a new man.” Master Wabi stops pacing and looks down, his voice softening as he scratches his head. “There is more of course, but that’s a start.”
“Remorse?” Pa Kua’s voice sounds small, overpowered.
“Oh, killing, mostly. Did I mention, killing is very intrusive? I can’t think of anything more intrusive.” He laughs and his laughter shakes the ground. The sound hurts Pa Kua’s nose. “Ah, remorse. How painful, the sting of regret? If only. Terrible words, if only. If only I knew? Isn’t that the truth, Pa Kua? If only I knew, how different life would be? Maybe so? Maybe not? Ah, we never know. Later, an instant, or a thousand years, we feel remorse. What does remorse mean? You pick it apart, piece by piece, never knowing, not for sure? Feeling vaguely distressed by something, you have done or left undone. Crows picking at bones?” He changes the subject. “Your nose hurts. I can see it in your face. Lets talk about pain. We all feel pain, Pa Kua. Pain is good. It gets our attention.” Pa Kua’s eyes are large and wet, mournful. He finds no good in pain, but is reluctant to disagree, willing to keep an open mind. “Pain, Pa Kua. How many kinds of pain are there? How many ways to feel pain? Physical pain. Emotional pain. Many kinds. The pain you cause yourself. The pain you cause others. Think of the mistakes you’ve made in your short life, Pa Kua. The pain you’ve caused. Now think about the pain you have caused that you know nothing about. That you never intended. Ah yes, it’s enough to make you pause. The ripples of your actions spreading out to unknown shores. And well you should. How can anyone not have compassion? Many mistakes can be corrected, but not killing. When you kill, you take away something you cannot give back. You should know what you’re doing when you take a life, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” a tiny uncertain, yes. The best he can do.
“The One Dance values life. Do you value life, Pa Kua?”
“Yes, Master Wabi.”
“You sound stuffed up. I could adjust your nose so that you can breathe through it again, if you like? Does it surprise you that a little respect can be so comforting?
“No, Master Wabi, not anymore. Nothing surprises me. If you would adjust my nose, I would be grateful and value remorse and compassion above all things until I die a thousand times.”
“Ah, yes. Well then, Pa Kua. You seem quick enough, a thousand lifetimes should be sufficient. Hold still. There, blink a few times to clear your eyes. You can get up now.”

Pa Kua slowly rolls to his hands and knees and doesn’t die, much to his surprise. Below him on the ground, the leaves are dark, reds and browns with the dark mottling of rot. He can’t bring himself to look up. “You were here? Here at the temple?” He said that, or his tongue did, the assassin. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to, I don’t wish to offend you. I mean, but why did everyone leave? Why did you go live in the mountains?”
“The One Dance changes many things, Pa Kua.”
“You learned the One Dance from Nansen, you are not Nansen, are you?” He makes it to his feet alive. The world moves loosely for a moment; the sunlight is much too bright. There is no pain in his nose and he can breathe. Everything becomes still. Why did he say that?
“I had another name then. No, it wasn’t Nansen. It was always peaceful here. There were things, things I wanted to work out.”
Pa Kua stares at him stupidly. “Work out?” The ramifications overwhelm him. He changes the subject. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Time, Pa Kua, is not so many little nows, strung together like beads.”
“What?”
“Never mind. It’s not important.”

Finally it sinks in. It was hundreds of years ago, longer maybe. Pa Kua staggers. “You don’t look” And stops himself in time, besides what does a hundred years matter. “Could you teach me?” Again, his tongue takes him unaware, slipping out while his mind is turned. His wicked, wicked, willful tongue. Why does it hate him so? He bites it and groans.
“But, of course. You had only to ask. Yes, I will teach you the One Dance of Dynamic Meditation. Yes, that has a ring to it. And that is how you will learn it, Pa Kua, as a form of dynamic meditation to develop intuitive awareness.” He looks at Pa Kua sternly. “It could mean coming to grips with your true nature. Are you willing to risk that? You live a life of illusion, can you bear to leave it?”
“Please, Master Wabi, my nose?” His tongue is swollen and bleeding, it’s hard to speak. “I’m stupid. Not always. I mean it comes and goes.” The futility of it unnerves him. This isn’t going anywhere useful. “I know, I know I live in illusion. I mean, I don’t know if, I mean, how do I know if I can bear to leave it or not? But I will work hard, if you will teach me.” There’s no going back.

“Good answer, Pa Kua. You surprise me. Such ignorance and arrogance, yet you still overcame yourself. Not often, but well. Who knows who you will be under all that foolishness?. Well then, it seems the choice has been made.” Master Wabi pauses, pursing his lips and frowning. “Now then, there used to be an open spot up here.”
“Please forgive my ignorance Master Wabi,” Pa Kua began.
Master Wabi cuts him off before he’s forced to hit him again. “There is no forgiving ignorance, Pa Kua. Ignorance is the bane of humankind and binds us to the eternal wheel of life. Never forget that, even if you’ve no idea what it means. Now be quiet and come with me.”
Moving is difficult, and he does so gingerly, expecting terrible things to happen in his head, but the pain is gone. Only the memory hangs over him. “Ah, this One Dance of Dynamic Meditation. I thought meditation is about sitting, chanting things.”
Master Wabi gives him a look of long suffering. “It can be that, Pa Kua. Some sit to empty their mind and find sitting useful. Some don’t. Nansen taught that the body and mind are one. The One Dance challenges both.”
“A contest then?”
“Pay attention, Pa Kua, your nose will thank you. Contest.” His voice is a caricature of Pa Kua’s. “A monk must protect those weaker than himself. The One Dance has some utility there.”

“Like a martial art?”
“No. The One Dance is not a martial art. It has a higher purpose, a greater purpose. Don’t make that mistake again.”
“Ah, no, I will honor its higher purpose.”
“And what is that higher purpose?”
“To help monks protect those who are weaker than themselves.”
Master Wabi looks away and coughs gently. “Close enough. The One Dance is not about anything. Did I say that? No matter. It achieving nothing and leaves nothing undone. You saw how the leaves turn from the edge of the blade. That comes from the skill of the smith who forged it. The blade has nothing to achieve by cutting leaves. So it is with the One Dance. What the dancer takes away from the One Dance depends upon the dancer. If some becomes skilled with a lance or a staff, their time is not entirely wasted. Still, it is like going to pick apples and returning with a basket full of stems.
Pa Kua holds up a finger, wanting to say something. Master Wabi looks through him.

“Skill with weapons can be important, not all violence can be avoided, however hard we may want to. The purpose of martial arts is to control violence, which has its positive side, much is lost dying foolishly. True, many may well benefit from starting life over, having gotten off on the wrong foot, so to speak. But then, alive you have some dim chance at becoming aware. And along the way you just might get to take a swipe at those intrusive sorts who would oppress others.”
“Is that what you do Master Wabi, fight intrusive people who oppress others?” It just came blurting out and his tongue is too sore to bite.
“How intrusive is blind, unfeeling ignorance, Pa Kua? How oppressive? What do you think?”
“I’m not sure, Master Wabi. I have met people I didn’t like. Most were ignorant, oppressive people. I may have called them both those things and worse, mainly worse. I know I’m ignorant of many things, perhaps most things. I have learned there’s a lot I don’t know.”
“You are like that copper pan. Pa Kua. You could use some scouring. You, Pa Kua, have an uncertain ignorance which is very hopeful. I have found two types of ignorance , Pa Kua, each taking many forms. The first, and worse, is the ignorance of certainty, most difficult to deal with, and second is the ignorance of uncertainty, the foundation of all true knowledge. The first requires patience, the second, persistence.”
“The One Dance will help me overcome ignorance?”

“I have confused you, Pa Kua. What do words know of meaning, still less of the One Dance? Perhaps, the dance stills the mind by taking away the need for words? Perhaps, without words there is no ‘this and that’ no illusions, only your true nature?” Master Wabi sighs, “Yes, Pa Kua, it will show you many things.”
“Master Wabi, forgive me. I, ah, don’t really understand any of this. I want to, but I’m confused. If my mind is still, I don’t even know what a still mind is? And then it gets worse. Remorse, pain and compassion, II don’t get any of it.”
“If the words confuse you, try to think past them, to what is meant.”
Pa Kua stares at him in confusion. “First things first, Pa Kua. Remember to think light thoughts and breathe, or like Chicken Walking, the One Dance will just make you tired.”
The thought chills him, like Chicken Walking. His mind goes blank, the pain. He forgets about his nose. His nose is nothing. Chicken Walking is pain beyond pain, but it passed, eventually. He holds onto that thought, wanting to believe it. “I, ah, will try, Master Wabi.”
“Your mind wanders like a grazing goat Pa Kua. Bring it back. You’re confused. What did I say? Of course you’re confused. I’ve been talking. What can you learn from talking? To know an apple, you must bite it. Kwatz. You must dance the dance to understand the dance. Then everything will become clear. I shall demonstrate.”
Pa Kua watches as he sweeps his old stick slowly to the right, turning behind it. The dance doesn’t appear difficult. Some unusual combinations of turns and reverses without any change in speed, simple enough. Nothing new or unusual, but taken as a whole, he has never even imagined such combinations. How can they be done so slowly? The control it must take? He watches Master Wabi and sighs. How old is that man, hundreds of years, older? He suspects most of it was spent learning this dance. The word “immortal” keeps wiggling into his thoughts. He pushes it away. He doesn’t know how to act around an immortal. He doesn’t want to think about it. When Master Wabi stands still. Pa Kua walks over to him and bows.
Master Wabi smiles, “For once you know just what to say, Pa Kua. Shall we begin?”

Chapter Ten, Chicken Walking by Ed Parker

Chapter 10–-Lissu’s Vengeance

Master Yeto watches the Emperor’s Guards march past him through the street. The stamp of their heavy nailed sandals echoes from the stone walls surrounding the main gate. Few others in Qualin wish to see them. He doesn’t want to see them either, morbid curiosity perhaps? How long has it been, Six years? Yes. Only six years. Six years ago half the city was forced from their homes to make the long walk north to the Wall of Bones, half, it seems so incredible. Word of their fate comes back slowly, little of it good. Many died, too many. The old people didn’t live long enough to see the Great River, most of the small children died of the cold crossing the mountains. Those who survived to reach the wall of bones were over worked and under fed, their messages home, shorter. Not a word of their fate this last year. Now the Emperor’s Guards are back and people like him watch from doorways to hide their hatred.

In the city square an official reads the Emperor’s latest edict concerning the writings of the ancients. He listens quietly, knowing what will be said, still disbelieving such madness can be happening. The books must be surrendered immediately, to be burned, expunged from history. Those who fail to comply by tomorrow will be considered dissidents and executed. There it is, the words said yet again, like a play he’s seen before and thought to horrible to be performed again. The dream is coming true, soon he will be among the worthy dead. Maybe today, most likely tomorrow, but soon. It has been a long life, longer than most. There’s more than a twinge of regret at the thought of giving it up, not that there is all that much left. The Emperor must be mad. Who but a madman burns books? Still, he’d kill him if he could and live with the bad luck killing a madman brings.

The school rests against a low hill near the center of the city. The front of the school is supported by cypress posts thick as a man’s waist. A narrow veranda runs the length of the building and overlooks the courtyard. The courtyard is large enough for fifty students with lances and spears to practice there without doing too much damage to one another. A high stone wall encloses their screams and shouts from the neighbors. It’s a martial arts school and Master Yeto’s students spend most of their time outside on the theory that few wars are fought inside. Those he trains will be leaders one day, he teaches them to think as well as fight. Today the courtyard is empty and silent. Walking through the gate, the silence feels strange. The school is closed, most of the children are home, only the orphans are still there. Everyone must be gone tomorrow. Lord Pohan promised to care for the orphans and reopen the school someday.

“Master Yeto.” Gijoo calls out in his thin piping voice.

The pang of guilt is unexpected. He’d planned to slip into his quarters in the back undetected. He knows he is being a coward, but there’s only so much he can bear. “Gijoo, why are you still here?”
Gijoo bows without answering, sliding the double doors to the main entrance open wide. One of the older students who have taken over some of the household duties, he’d been crying all morning and his eyes are red and puffy. Suddenly a dozen children run out and quickly form a line on each side of the door and down the wide steps. The youngest Jimyo, is trying not to cry and sniffling terribly. There’s a lot of that, no one notices. Gijoo glances quickly at the children in each line. At his signal they all bow, it’s all very formal. They bow so deeply Master Yeto worries they will hurt themselves. He walks stiffly between them, inside and down the hall to his room. Dog stands up as he enters, waiting as he slides the door shut behind him.

“Go back to sleep, Dog.” Dog’s hindquarters flop against the floor followed by the front, then with a whimpering groan, his head. The loud whistling snoring resumes a moment later. The dog is old and given to naps. They’re all good boys, he will miss them all. Still, it must be done. He struggles to put them out of his mind. There has been no word of Pa Kua, Baso, and Joshu, although he’s had some amusing dreams. In one, they’re trying to walk like Master Wabi. Chicken Walking they call it. He did the right thing, sending them away. They are far from here, alive and safe. He believes these dreams; he wants to believe them. There’s a stirring outside his door and couple of attempts to cough: one of the boys. “Come in before you hurt your throat,” he growls.

The door slides open and a young face, frightened and unsure, peers around the half-opened door. “Master Yeto, forgive me for disturbing you. There is a visitor. He said, he said, he’s here on behalf of, of the Emperor.”

The boy is twelve or thirteen, he can’t recall. Chia, yes Chia, progressing well with the staff and sword, though he presses down too hard with his brush making horrible smears, no one can read. He catches himself, some things are hard to let go of. “We shall hear what he has to say. Did you offer him tea? Has he eaten? Even dogs have to eat,” he adds quietly. It would not do to be a bad example now.
“He refused, Master Yeto. He was very polite about it. He is waiting in the courtyard. There are soldiers with him. Ah, twenty, I think. ” The boy drops his eyes. “Will they take you away?” His voice sounds choked.

Master Yeto looks toward his empty rack of books. “Twenty, the last time they sent a half million and left without me. Have I grown so old?” He glances sharply at Chia. “Not a word. It wasn’t asked to be answered.” He coughs and hides his smile in his hand. “We shall see what our distinguished visitor requires.”

The soldiers stand in a two lines in the middle of the cobblestone courtyard. The overdressed court official in front of them looks around impatiently. His head turns toward the sound of double doors sliding open and grows pale. An involuntary gasp passes through the troop behind him. There are many stories told about Master Yeto, about the Battle of the Lower Pass. Still the sight of his scarred face comes as a shock. How could he survive such a thing?

“I am Master Yeto.” He bows stiffly from the top of the stairs, not trusting himself to go closer. “Who honors my school?” It sounds as rude as he feared it would, but it’s the best he can do. He needs to spit. The short round official steps forward, his small square hat dips in the most perfunctory of bows. He’s very professional, he clearly wants that understood, refusing to stare at Master Yeto’s face. He cuts straight to the matter.

“You may address me as Senior Court Official Deng.” He let that hang ominously in the air. Master Yeto waits impassively for him to continue. “I have the honor of representing Emperor.” The name has grown since Master Yeto heard it last. He is Sovereign now as well as the First. There is no mention of his madness. He almost smiles. “ I am here today,” Deng says with cultivated indifference, “in my official capacity as a Senior Official of the Court of the Emperor.” He looks up at Master Yeto, trying to concentrate on the right side of his face, the other side. There’s still no reaction. Disappointed, he continues, “Regarding the instruction of forbidden topics to children and possession of certain forbidden works of literature.” The bundle makes a dramatic clattering sound as it unrolls. Grasping the dangling bottom in his left hand he gives the roll a quick half turn and begins reading the first strip. The edict itself is short, the list of forbidden works by forbidden sages and philosophers lengthy. When the list is exhausted, Deng rolls the bundle together with appropriate flourishes. “You are known to possess some of these books,” his tone is matter of fact. “You are known to have taught children forbidden subjects. You must surrender yourself in the city square tomorrow morning at first light. If you fail to appear.” He pauses to let the fear and dread build. “Everyone in this household, your students, your students’ families and their households, will be executed.” Deng gives Master Yeto another quick bob of his head, turns, and strides stiffly out of the gate. A moment later the soldiers come to attention and follow. Master Yeto watches them march away, listening a moment for their footsteps to fade in the street. Now it’s official. It doesn’t feel any different.

Suddenly students spill out of the doorway behind him, shouting defiant sounding things in indignant, angry voices. He raps a couple on the head with his knuckles. “Go home,” he says patiently. When the voices start again, he just looks at them. They knew that look. Still, it takes awhile for them to leave and most are crying when they do. His chamberlain appears in the door. Master Yeto holds up his hand before anything can be said. “Please. Send tea to my bedchamber.” He wonders if he should have asked for dinner as he slowly walks toward his room. He often eats in his room. Soup perhaps. But then he would have to eat it. The idea is more than he can bear. No, tonight will be tea and memories. For twenty years a part of him has felt guilty for surviving the Battle of the Lower Pass. That part is relieved. The rest of him just feels empty. He’s lived a long life, but that doesn’t make the life he has left, less precious. He will die tomorrow. He’s known it was coming for some time. The days pass one by one, still, it comes as a surprise to find them gone. Life is changes, great and small, death is just one more. His eyes look beyond the walls of his room to another time and place. “I never liked Lissu,” he says to the shadows, “not even as a boy.” He stops himself. Talking aloud? What will they say, Old Lucky spent his last night jabbering away, just him and Dog, and Dog asleep. He laughs and lets his thoughts drift.

Lissu, you piece of bad meat. This is your doing, it has your smell about it. Mad as you are. Your madness is like a wound, black and stinking of hate. Your hatred for your father has crawled up your ass and died. It will kill you if the world let’s you live that long. Throwing your father into a cage full of snakes. Sending half of Qualin to the Wall of Bones. Madness. They should have wrapped your cord around your neck and strangled you at birth. “Ah, before I forget.” Said aloud, a slip of the tongue. Sounding louder than it should have. It’s so quiet. It’s as if the building is holding it’s breath. The floor shrieks and groans as he crosses the room. He takes his best robe from a large wooden box and hangs it on the cross bar of a bamboo robe tree. He wants to look his best tomorrow. Dog snorts and makes himself more comfortable in his corner. “Tomorrow I shall don my silken armor and do battle with an evil, evil man, Dog. He’s back to finish us. His father, me, the city. We’re an embarrassment to his memories, I suppose. Anyway, he wants us all dead. All he lacks is a reason. If we don’t give him that, old dog, he’ll fail. And we won’t give him that. We’ll die with dignity, though he does his worse. There will be no revolt. Qualin will wait, and he’ll rot with disappointment.” Falling silent, knowing tomorrow will be difficult, he must be prepared.

He kneels facing a small table, gathering his thoughts, toying with the brush. Tomorrow Master Wabi will dream of me. I hope he will forgive this last intrusion. The boys must stay away from Qualin. Master Wabi will see to that. He will know what to say. He stares into the shadows and begins to write the prayer, a message to the other side. The prayer sticks flare and burn, coiling black under the flames. The smoke hangs thick in the rafters, slowly venting into the night. The empty book rack keeps drawing his eye, he glares at it in disgust. It’s not the books. It’s what they represent. They’re the bridges between the ignorance in which all are born and all the possibilities, real and imagined, of those who left them behind to tease and question. The right or wrongs of those ideas are of little importance, they can be improved upon or discarded. In either case we learn from them. Lissu and the Emperor want to burn those bridges. Few have ever attacked knowledge with such vengeance and determination. In the battle of life, they support ignorance, the primordial enemy of mankind. What can they be thinking?

Someone brought tea while he was tussling with these great truths. It’s not entirely cold. Master Wabi would laugh, saying I should have applied myself more to the tea, and less to my disgust. Perhaps so. And this cow like acceptance of death, it’s all a sham. Such a hypocrite. How much better to go out fighting?. I‘m not that old. I can still take a few of the bastards with me. When the grazing goats scatter my bones, there will be a enemy’s head in my fist. Together, our shades will explore whatever comes next. What else are enemies for? That’s the way he’d thought for most of his life and looking back, it hadn’t been so bad. Simpler times, when he fought enemies head to head. None of this murkiness. It’d be wrong, and worse than vanity to deny it. Only pride, duty, and honor mattered then, that and the enemy. These are the things that carry men past the limits of human endurance. Can that be so wrong? The Chin were turtle heads then, and they’re turtle heads now. Nothing’s changed, except the clarity of it, a clarity grown murky with far too many considerations. The days of clarity ended with the Battle of the Lower Pass. Such is change.

I led the finest soldiers of them all, the King’s Own Battalion, everyday of it an honor. We were the best and we proved it at the Lower Pass. All the nightmares since have changed nothing. Ah, to run with a lance again. Point straight on, all your weight behind it. Pride, kiss my ass, old man, what do you know of pride now? Have you forgotten the taste of it, the smell, the feel? Old fool. Calling it this and that, letting it go so cheaply? Pride was everything then, still is. The great fighting Chin. Dogs, all of them. We fought like tigers, though like tigers we were too few. The Chin were like a pack of dogs, snarling and snapping. Far, far too many, finally they pulled us down.

It started with gong’s and drums as the morning’s mists burned away, so long ago, so long ago. They covered the long valley floor and the low hills beyond. A few hundred thousand or more, a half million? Who could count them? A meaningless number, a million, half a meaningless number, is what? His thoughts linger there, uncertain, distracted by so abstract a figure. He had thought in simpler terms then, of not enough and too many, meaningful terms. And they were far too many. They had been like a forest covering the hillsides, shoulder to shoulder, thick and dense. Behind the blocks and tiles of too many battalions in their reds and blues, were the hard tight squares of black and green. The black armor and green capes of the Emperor’s Guard. Our foes, and worthy foes. The cool of the morning passed quickly and it grew hot, not a cloud passed over the dome of the world, and it was still, not a breath of wind. The Hawn army stood rank upon rank, ranks that seem meager compared to the endless Chin. Pointless, if honor and duty were not all that fighting and dying required. We were the best Hawn had. The best anyone had. For all that, we were all that Hawn had. Hawn was small then, as now. We kept the Chin back with bribes and oiled words for many years. A small backwater state, east of the old capital of Loyang, too small to stand alone, and too proud to seek allies, cursed with great strategic importance. An army could save weeks by marching through our mountain passes to the coastal plains. How could we have been so blind? The Chin played one state against the other, and in the chaos and confusion, devoured the world.

The first Hawn army marched off in support of the state of Chao and it had been destroyed with the Chao capital of Hantan. The Chao survived, but the King of Chin, King Cheng, the man who would become Emperor, wanted our heads. Was that Lissu’s work even then? Maybe so. We brought them down upon us, some said. There was always a certain number of fools. The Chin were coming anyway, it was inevitable. They ate up the land and destroyed more than they ate, finer things, far grander things. The ignorant pigs. Ah, dear pigs forgive me, I have slandered your worthy name and belittled your intelligence. The Chao are at least civilized. The Chin would quarrel over a clean licked bone.
King Chanor marched us out to draw the Chin away from the Chao and our army in Hantan. Then word came that Hantan had fallen and our army destroyed. The King’s plan worked well enough and it would have been successful had it not been too late. The Chin dropped Hantan and took up our trail. The thought makes him smile. It’s a small, sad smile. He touches his eye and curses the smoke as he throws a few more lumps of coal on the fire, calling for tea. “Worthless dogs.” He must have said it out loud. A cold wet nose nudges his hand until he pulls a long ear affectionately and whispers, “Not you old friend, dogs, Chin dogs. No, not half so good as you. Go lay down, now.” He pauses to write a note giving Dog to Chia.

The Chin dog us all the way up the Great River, yapping and snapping at our heels. We manage to cross before the river rose and the flood slows them for a time. It was a race and for a time we won. We had to reach the Lower Pass before the Chin. We could stop them there. By then it was not about winning, it was about not losing everything. It was a race we thought we won. The Lower Pass was empty the night before. Our cavalry reported the way to the Lower Pass was clear, little more than a hour’s jog. You could just see the top of it, there beyond that long line of hills. So close, it was depressing. The King’s Own could have continued, tired as we were. I begged the King to continue. “Sire, we are so close, too close to stop now.” I was young then, well, younger, and foolish. The King gave the order to camp. The night was sticky warm, muggy, but I felt a chill when the King gave that order. He just looked at me and smiled. He was right. We had jogged and walked and ran from before it was light to when he gave the order to make camp in the dark. The army could not march any further, they were stumbling with fatigue and thirst. Still, well, it doesn’t matter now. What’s done is done. He was a kind man, a gentle man. Some said he was too good to be King, maybe it was true. There were none better, man, or King. Most of our soldiers fell down where they stood and slept in their armor. They would need water and what food we had when they woke. There wasn’t much, a Chin raiding party burned most of the supplies a week before. All we had was dry soybeans soaked in water that stank of the skins that held it. Terrible stuff, boiling it didn’t improve the taste. Worst tea I ever had, I will never forget it. The men slept, dreaming that tomorrow they would eat in Qualin. Lapping wine from their women’s navels from the sound of their groans. The stars hung hard and bright against the endless blackness of night, but only for a moment.

The men of the Red Guard were strong and hard, the finest soldiers in the Hawn army. Ten thousand heavy infantry, ten battalions of the best, commanded by General Wang, a good man and general. I was proud to serve under him. There were other battalions of heavy infantry in the Hawn army, seventy of them, but none like the Red Guard. Every heavy infantryman wore thirty pounds of overlapping iron plates riveted to heavy leather and tied with silk cords. All good men, but the Red Guard were the best, and the King’s Own were the best of the Red Guard. We wore that thirty pounds of armor like so much silk. He paused to reflect that it seemed heavier last week when he pulled it out of his trunk to cleaned it. Everything was different now.

The King’s Own battalion, were my men, my thousand sons and brothers. I knew their fathers and mothers, their wives and families. Five years we trained and fought together. “Ah, my children,” he sighs softly. His eyes cloud and tears spill down his cheeks. He catches himself, none of that. There must be no tears, some would misunderstand. Each man was as hard as the iron plate they wore, willing to stand between the King and all harm. They did that and did it well. No one could ask more. Each fought like a demon. He could still see them, straight and strong, spears flashing, the black iron plates of their armor gleaming as they ran. Black plates tied with red cord. The same red cord that wrap the folded braids of their hair. Red was the color of all the Red Guard. Red collars to protect our necks from the armor’s chaff, long red capes that drag at our necks when it rains. But the red cords were ours alone. A gift from the King, we were proud of the red cords.

Someone brought him another pot of tea and left without a word, unwilling to disturb his thoughts. They must have brought it some time ago, it had grown cold and bitter. He throws more coal on the blazer. A waste, the coals are cold and gray as the hair on his head.

The Chin gongs and drums started with the first light of dawn. Disconcerting in the misty darkness, coming from where it did, our front. Disheartening to see them there, so many of them, as the sun burned away the mist. The Chin had marched around us in the dark, taking the hills below the Lower Pass, at least that’s what we thought when we woke to find them there. A grim surprise being outnumbered, out flanked, cut off from any hope of retreat. A few started pissing down their legs, not many, none of mine, none of the King’s Own. Below us, Chin skirmishers fill the valley floor. Smug looking bastards with crossbows cocked and waiting. Behind them, the square formations of heavy infantry battalions tile the hillsides. Our gongs and drums beat as the King’s tent is struck. Then only the shouts of officers reporting can be heard as the men of Hawn stand in grim, angry silence, waiting for the Chin to attack, as they’re want to do.

“Let them come,” the men whisper. “Let them come.” The sun rises higher, grows hotter, still we wait. Little men with crossbows stand in small clumps across the valley floor, more peak from gullies like ground squirrels. How they labor. How quickly they work. How diligent. Bobbing up and down, drawing back the strings, locking them in place. Bows backed with bamboo, faced with horn, it takes a strong man using notched rings on both thumbs to draw and lock those vile things. Ugly little bolts, short and stout with varnished black leather vanes slip into slots. A touch of the finger and the tips of the bow fly forward like the horns of a bull. They rise in a blur, forming a dark, ominous cloud, and fall like hail. Ugly things, he remembers with distaste, closing his eyes for a moment. The thought lingers on, a memory more real than the present. No armor is good enough. The long barbed steel head glance up under the overlapping plates as often as not. If the angle’s right, you might as well be naked. Their job is to weaken morale, break ranks and provoke an attack. The sons of old whores and monkeys take great joy in their work, never pausing to aim, they shoot, draw and shoot again. My men stand and endure, here and there, one suddenly staggers and falls. Now and then a few companies of light infantry run out to chase the bastards away, but the soulless weasels return just as quickly. It’s like chasing smoke and goes on far too long.

One of our scouts rides a sweat streaked horse through the ranks, informing King Chandor that a Chin army is approaching our rear. The same army that has been chasing us for the past few weeks. It changes everything. The Chin are famous for attacking, now the mystery of their patience is revealed. Two armies, not one, the larger one behind us and coming at the jog. They say the Chin army has a million soldiers. A million, a meaningless number, a million, a number to ponder, I still struggle to grasp the meaning of it. They say the army behind us numbers a half million soldiers. So many? Who plows the fields back in Chin?

The monkeys with the crossbows finally run off. The wait is over. The Chin are marching down the gently sloping foothills in long clumsy lines like waves on the ocean, amateurs. The green squares of the Emperor’s Guard hold their position and wait. The Emperor’s Guard, the name started as a joke, a reference to the ambition of King Cheng of Chin, but they took it seriously and the name stuck. They’re the best of a poor lot. The valley is several miles across, narrowing as it approaches the mouth of the Lower Pass six miles away. The valley is cut with gullies, covered with dry grass and clumps of brush, with little to recommend it. Still, it will have to do. With the report of the Chin army behind us, the little sloping hills on our side of the valley have lost their appeal. The war chariot of the King pulls up in front of my battalion, King Chanor steps down. The chariot races away. Useless things, chariots. The horses make a fine target for those monkeys with crossbows, then there you are, afoot and like as not, far from a friendly face.

I still see him in my mind and heart as he was that day, a strong young man who smiled grimly and drew his sword as the beat of the Chin war gongs quickened. He had no intention of taking his place inside our ranks where we could protect him. He doesn’t want protecting, he wants to fight. We have little chance, truth be told, but no one thought of that, we accepted we were going to die when the war started. Those who worry about surviving are the first to die and usually poorly, everyone knew that, none of us thought of surviving. No, we had a loftier goal, a greater purpose drove us, to do our duty and die well, nothing less. Still it was a daunting task that lay before us. We would have to cut our way through the army in front of us before we’re crushed by the one slogging up from behind. It’s not something you want to think about very long and we didn’t.

The heavy infantry form into marching columns on our exposed left flank, setting off across the valley at a jog. The Red Guard and The King’s Own wait for the last to leave before following to protect the rear. The Chin would curl around our line and eat us like a bird eats a worm, tail end first, if we let them. There’s where the fighting will be heaviest, and that’s where King Chanor places his standard. We urge him to save himself. There are trails over the mountains, he can be in Qualin in a few hours. He refuses and his refusal fills us with pride and a terrible fear that we might fail him. His safety is our responsibility, a grave and worrisome responsibility at the moment and he is not making it any easier, being the man he is, the king he is. He wants his men to know that he’s with them, calling out to men by name, joking about the heat, the Chin, questioning the Emperor’s parentage: encouraging us, keeping up our spirits. More than a king, he is a good man. I saw him turn away from a young boy nervously fingering the smooth skin of his war drum. King Chanor’s face grew pale, his smile vanishing under the responsibility of that boy and the thousands like him. He blames himself for all the mistakes of heaven. Then his face hardens and my liver turns to stone. He knew he was going to die and he intended to die with us, nothing had to be said. We had a choice, a poor choice as choices go, between a fighting chance or none at all. If we hit them hard enough, maybe we can break through. At worse it would change nothing, the Chin take heads, not prisoners. Either way we will give the storytellers a tale to tell. We drop our capes in the dust, tie our iron half masks over our braids and jog out into the valley.

The Chin light infantry hit our column before we’ve gone a half mile. Active little monkeys, and loud. They run at us, screaming insults, carrying only a throwing spear and a short sword. Our light boys run through the breaks in our lines to answer them; flights of throwing spears cross and men die. The lines mix as the fighting becomes face to face and bitter. Our recall drums begin beating, those who can, fight free and run back to the column. Many will not, or can not, fighting on, dying one by one. Their deaths give us another quarter of a mile.

The King isn’t twenty feet away when he pitches forward. A bolt from a crossbow sticking out his chest, driven in so deep, all I can see are the vanes. My tears cut the dust on my checks as I shout for men to make a litter. The King is dead and I have failed him. Soon every man in the army feels the shame of it and weeps with grief. How the news spread so quickly no one knows, perhaps they saw him fall or his body being carried on the litter. Ahead, our column is being pushed back by the Chin heavy infantry. Then suddenly our lines stiffens, then roars out in anger and defiance lashing out like demons. They slam into the onrushing Chin, running them down, pushing them back. We make another mile before they recover, but it’s not enough.

What little chance we have of winning the battle disappears as the vanguard of the second Chin army breaks over the crest of the hills behind us. It’s just a matter time. We know it and so do they. They will keep attacking, forcing us to stay in battle formation until the second army arrives. If we march, were open and the first army’s heavy infantry will roll over us, if we stand and fight, we’ll be crushed between them. It’s a grim choice, either way the outcome is certain.

General Wang pulls in front of me in his command chariot and nods toward the Lower Pass. Our column has turned, forming up to engaged the Chin attacking our left and can go no farther. Ahead of us the Chin are forming up between us and the Lower Pass, thirty or forty battalions, more or less, it’s hard to see for all the dust. They are milling about like sheep, an awful lot of sheep.

“The Red Guard will punch through them.” He doesn’t have to finish. He nods again toward the one green and black square on the far hill. “They’ll be waiting for you.”

“And they’ll die,” I roar to be heard in Qualin. “The King’s Own will carry the King’s body to Qualin.” The King’s Own answers with a roar that causes the chariot horses to rear. General Wang salutes us with his war ax and drives on. Our column is a wall holding back the Chin charging down from the hills on the left. The attacks are continuous, spear to spear, with no stepping away. Behind our army’s wall, General Wang orders the Red Guard forward. Nine thousand men running hard for the Chin ranks drawing up across the Lower Pass. Every man determined to knock a hole through the Chin line to make a hole, however brief, for the King’s Own to pass through. A hole to carry King Chanor’s body back to Qualin, a hole the Chin will remember, then let the Emperor’s Guard try to stop us.

The battle rages all along the column, the Red Guard jog in close formation behind the fighting. Behind them jogs the King’s Own. We’re in the hollow square formation, the King’s body in the center. The hollow square formation is what it’s called, although it isn’t square or hollow. The first three ranks run as close together as they can, hoping no one trips. Twenty yards behind them run three more ranks, then three more twenty yards behind them. The first three ranks hit the enemy like a falling wall. The rest slow, sometimes splitting to cover the flanks, sometimes filling holes, whatever is needed. The men carrying the King’s body run inside a block of a hundred men. If they’re attacked, a rank or two can charge forward, but their main task is to screen the litter bearers with their bodies. Behind them are two ranks, then two more, our reserves and rear guard. Each rank is led by a lieutenant running just in front on the left. His men watch him, not the enemy, when he signals they move. There are never more than three ranks running together, one behind the other each staggered to allow the spear of the last rank to extend in front of the first. That’s not much room and if you trip that spear had better hit the ground first. With the exception of the block of men in the middle carrying King Chanor, it’s the standard fast attack formation of the Red Guard.

A hundred yards from the head of our column, General Wang signals for the battle gong to sound. The forward heavy infantry battalions in the column throw themselves into the Chin and the battle line straightens. The Red Guard surge past them, fifty yards away, the Chin stand waiting. The Red Guard begin picking up speed, keeping pace with their lieutenants. When they reached the Chin, they are running hard, every spear straight and level, tight to the side.

Behind us, our column begins to double, drawing together, forming a square of its own. It was the last command General Wang gave. He was running at the head of the Red Guard when it slammed into the Chin heavy infantry blocking the mouth of the pass. The sound of it rolled back like a dragon’s groan and the earth shook. In the last moment before the red Guards’ spears struck, the Chin broke. They tried to protect themselves and their spears wavered. The spears of the Red Guard tore through them, smashing armor and flesh as they rush forward over broken spears and dying men. As they push forward the ranks of the Red Guard begin to merge, the intervals collapsing as spears are broken and swords are drawn. The edges of their formation fold back, growing rounder and thinner, eroding slowly as they cut through three times their number. Behind them, the King’s Own slows, waiting, stepping on and over the dead and dying. The Red Guard shoulder on, individuals and groups running to fill gaps as the fighting grows still more desperate. Face to face, it’s all sword work now, the Chin are on their heels, falling back, the Red Guard slowly dying, yet still pushing forward. There is only a thin screen of the Red Guard left standing when they break through. The King’s Own close behind them, running hard, gaining speed.

I shout to the remnants of the Red Guard to follow my battalion as they move aside to let us pass. So few are left, all staggering from wounds and exhaustion. They’ve done their job and more. Behind us, the Chin are reforming. The shouts of their officers roll after us. Ahead of us, a Emperor’s Guard battalion pulls itself together behind a black banner with a red chariot in the center. The first Emperor’s Guard battalion and the best of the best, or so goes their drinking stories. Their battalion commander is giving orders, shouting, waving his men into position. So am I, and doubtless saying the same thing. “Form up tight, keep your intervals, center your spears.” Behind me, I hear Pohan call out.
“Who’s the best?”

“King’s Own,” they thunder back. I don’t know how it started. It’s something we did every time we entered anywhere: army camps, cities, towns and taverns. Who we are? A notice and a challenge, we roared it out. “Who’s the best?”

“King’s Own.” Ah, they could have heard us in Qualin. There’s a ripping crash as we collide: The King’s Own and the Emperor’s Guard. Armor to armor and pride against pride, spears snap and shatter as splinters fly. The commander of the Emperor’s Guard and I find each other to the side of the swirling chaos of blades and broken spears. I lunge as I approach him, wanting to end it quick. Looking back on it, I may have slipped a bit. The lunge was a bit longer than I had intended leaving me stretched out a like sacrificial goat. A mistake I vowed on the spot never to make again if I should survive this one, which didn’t seem likely at the time. He twists away and slashes down as I would have, given the chance. As luck would have it his sword is deflected by my iron half mask and merely takes my ear and peels the skin from the side of my face and neck. I take his head with a backstroke as I recover, before I feel the pain. The pain is beyond describing. I thought he’d killed me, but the pain continues, pain that takes my breath away and makes me want to puke. I drop into a crouch, stunned, holding my knees, trying to brace myself, trying to breathe, helpless as a sick pup. Men are fighting and dying all around me and my body will do nothing I tell it. Not that I have much to say. My left eye blurs and goes dark, and I hardly notice or care, I’m that far gone. Later I’ll wonder if the bastard has taken my eye, but at the time all I know is pain. I don’t feel the blood, not at first, though there was quite a bit of it. My feet swim into view, anyhow they look like mine, it takes a few blinks to recognize them. Between them is this head, his head, the battalion commander of the Emperor’s Guard’s head. “I took your head,” I whisper, “and you’re dead”. Nothing too brilliant or eloquent, but heart felt. His face has a shocked and dusty expression from rolling in the dirt. Next to it is a wrinkled wad of bloody skin, I recognize the earring and want it back, but it’s just too far down. My sense of purpose returns, if not my reason. I pick up my enemy’s head by the hair, grip my sword and wade into the fight. The rest is a blur. Then, it’s over. My men are carrying the king’s body are through the dead and dying, running hard for the Lower Pass and the gates of Qualin.

He leans back and drops the last piece of bamboo into the blazer. The wood smolders, then flares brightly as the fire consumes his last prayer. The light plays on the slickness of the old scar that spills down the side of his face. From the edge of his brow down over the irregular puckered hole on the side of his head, the scar flows like spilt wine to his collarbone. It’s a delicate area, the pain alone should have killed him. Why it didn’t is a mystery second only to how it healed. He had been a demon then, so they say, splashed with blood, wild with pain and anger, cutting and slashing, swinging that head like a club. “Maybe so,” he says out loud? “Swinging a man’s head, screaming like a mad man.” He laughs softly. “But then I was not myself, Dog. A terrible thing, war.” He smiles sadly. “Between that dripping head and the bloody horror swinging it, I suppose it was enough to give the Chin pause.” Dog’s snoring stops and one eye opens reluctantly. “Am I keeping you awake? I apologize. I’ll try to keep my thoughts down.” Promised with no tone of commitment. “I had the luck then, as a crazy man will” The forgotten brush swoops and darts about in the air cutting down fleeing Chin soldiers. “They say I made a hole. It must have been a thing of beauty, Dog. My boys pressed in behind me, pushing them back, kept them on their heels, ripping that hole wide open. We left the Emperor’s finest, strewn behind us, broken and bloody.” His voice falls silent. The glory of it fading just as it had faded then He’d lost a battle, a war, his country, and a king. And he was still alive. How could he be still alive? It just felt wrong. “So long ago, and it still feels wrong,” he whispers.

The blazer’s embers pulse from unfelt currents, throwing a dark play of shadows on the wall. He can still feels the choking dust and heat of that day, the terrible day that King Chandor and the Hawn army died. It was also the day he first met Master Wabi. There’s a different feeling entirely to that memory, though the three are intertwined. King Chanor’s body was on its way back to Qualin, the rest of us following as best we could, which was poorly. The mouth of pass was coming up. we didn’t have far to go, now. The hills are slowly turning into high broken cliffs the closer we get to the Lower Pass. Cliffs that trap the heat shimmering off the fine, thick yellow dust. No water, since dawn and sucking pebbles does no good anymore. Everyone has wounds of some kind, behind us the thick dust is spotted with our blood. Flies buzz at my eyes and nip at the agony that’s my face. Distractions, but worrisome all the same. Behind us our friends and brothers are fighting and dying in that yellow cloud of dust that fills the valley floor. Soon the Chin will come in their endless thousands. There’s no stopping them, but just maybe. maybe we can must delay them until King Chandor’s body is safe in Qualin. An hour would do it. It ‘s not too much to ask, though we may not get it, still, we have to try. We are the King’s Own, it is our duty. We cannot allow his body to be dishonored, not while there’s a breath left in us. It keeps us shuffling on at a dog trot. We must get inside the pass. No one thought of anything else, nothing else mattered. Time lost its meaning. Strangely, I remember worrying about how my head would look hanging from some Chin soldier fist. Not much to brag about, covered with blood and dust, pieces missing. Given the way the my own men looked away from me, it wasn’t much to look at now. Depressing, considering the care I have put into the my hair. The rest of my head was never much to look at, now perhaps no one would want it. I didn’t. However bad it looked, it felt worse, like fire ants were nibbling at it. Just a passing thought, of no importance.

There are a few hundred of us left, and some impossible number of them. We won’t slow them long, but maybe, hopefully, enough. It has to be enough. The Lower Pass is getting closer. They can’t get by us there, have to go over us. Need to be there to have a fighting chance to give them time to take King Chanor’s body to Qualin. What little thinking I did was about that.

The old man’s eyes drift across the shadowed room. There is little left to see. The rack that once held the rolled bundles of his library is almost empty. Most of the writings are gone. Shong’s Discourses on the Water Way, confusing at times, yet he enjoys the challenge. Then there’s the works of the Wondering Master. His thoughts are like the walls and rafters of this building, constant and reassuring. The books are safe. The works of the great philosophers are hidden beside the body of King Chandor, only these few copies of military text remain. Something for them to burn.

The weapons that lined the walls have been given away. His sword was the last and he gave that to Joshu. All that remains is his armor in the cedar box by the wall. He’d been saving that for his funeral. Now who can he give it to? It will have to be hidden. If Joshu survives, he’ll need a good set of armor. It won’t fit Pa Kua or Baso. It will give Chia and Gijoo something to do. Pohan and Mozuto, Pa Kua and Baso’s fathers’ must endure this life a little longer. The black smoke from the oil lamp swirls as it rises toward the dark of open ceiling beams and his mind follows it.

The men stagger, their eyes glazed. They move with that jerkiness that comes when exhaustion has taken everything except pride and force of habit. I’m losing interest myself, with that one eye stuck shut (someone told me it was still there) and the other blurring with every stumbling, jarring, step I take.
“Cavalry,” someone shouts.

Cavalry? I formed up them up from the same force of habit with which they obey, and we prepare to meet the Emperor’s cavalry. They are coming on fast in a great cloud of dust, yipping and yelling.
“Only a few hundred them,” someone says trying to sound cheerful.

“Well, fuck them all,” someone adds with a certain sincerity.

Cavalry, dragons or flying fish are all one to me. My mind is slow to start, disinterested, and it takes a bit to focus that right eye of mine. I decide to take their word for it. Then, I realize, cavalry, and my liver turns to stone. We’re a half mile shy of where we need to be. They will ride around us and there is nothing we can do about it. They will find the King’s body and drag him through the streets of Qualin. Our own mothers will spit on our heads, cursing us for faithless scum. Maybe the Chin won’t even bother to kill us, just to show their contempt. The cavalry is splitting up to go around us and we’re looking around for rocks to throw when Master Wabi passes through the lot of us, disconcerting in itself. He was by us before I could get a look at him, that right eye of mine being what it is, turning my head was out of the question. He’s taking ten, fifteen feet a step and is well out in front of us by the time I get turned around. Odd looking sort, was my first impression. I think it was the hair. He has a lot of hair, loose and flying in all directions. A wild man with a wooden box slung around his neck and a great club on his shoulder. We just stand there, awed and bewildered, our jaws hanging loose and feeling stupid. He stops and points out to each side. A moment later a wall of dust rises up right where he’s pointing. The wind’s from down the canyon, not strong, but it seems to build. Suddenly the Chin horses turn, put their bellies to the ground, running for their lives. I remember wondering why, staring at the them racing away, numb, no idea in the world what any of it means. Then I feel the wind, it's touch on my neck is like fire and makes me forget about the Chin. Next thing, he’s back, sprinkling that powder that stops the pain and the bleeding. One moment the pain is there, the next, it’s gone. The release was, like an orgasm or cutting the eye of a boil, like both, all together. It sets me back on my heels. I still feel it.
It’s odd, being alive, we aren’t prepared for it, or greatly pleased by the prospect, standing there like oxen suddenly cut loose from the plow, no idea what we should do. Master Wabi heads us toward the pass and we follow like sheep.

He traces the slickness along his scared neck, his finger tips grazing the hole that was once an ear. Twenty years. It might have been yesterday. The skin’s still thin. It hurts when he’s in the sun too long, or when it’s cold. He’d long since stopped trying to understand it. No one lives through such a thing, it’s impossible. He thinks about tea, but no, the house is quiet. It must be late.

The gates of the city stand open, resistence is futile, the Chin would kill every living thing in the city. There’s no flowers, no hero’s welcome. It feels unnatural being alive, shameful. So few survive, so few return to Qualin. So many good men lost. Impossible, like running through a rainstorm and coming home dry. How is it possible? There’s no explanation. The singularity of our survival is overwhelming. We put away our weapons and force ourselves to endure. It’s months before we can talk about it, even to each other. None of us are the same. We see the eyes of the mothers and widows, there is nothing to say to them. No answers, no explanation sound right. There is only the silence of mourning in the streets of Qualin. Like coward, we stay inside our homes to avoid their eyes. Still our army fought well and died hard, it takes the Chin months to reorganize, by then they have other armies to fight. Then one day they appear, Chin soldiers in the garrison, Chin soldiers at the walls and gates. It’s over. Still, life goes on, children are born. Battalion Leader Yeto became School Master Yeto and old friends send me their boys. I teach them what I know, martial arts, and something of the great minds and ideas that have gone before. The school was small in the beginning, but it grew with the years. No one speaks of the King’s Own or the red cords. The children laugh when they see my gray braids tied with the bright red cord. I tell them it’s to make me pretty. The younger ones laugh and the older boys look away, embarrassed. When they whisper and giggle together at night, they call me Master Lucky.

The house is quiet, except for old Dog, who whines and yelps as he dreams. He’d been a puppy when the children named him Puddles. An embarrassment to us both when he outgrew the name. I just call him Dog. He’s been a good dog. Chia will take good care of him.

The Emperor’s tomb is south of the river, just beyond the great palace. Lissu peers out of the second carriage behind that of Huhee the fool, second son of the Emperor. The high mud brick walls roll by unseen as he worries. Behind, the line of carriages stretches out of sight down the walled road from the capital, somewhere in that procession is the Emperor. No one knows just where. Such waste, Lissu considers in his forced idleness. The Emperor is frightened witless of dying, yet constantly visits his tomb. He was King Cheng of Chin when he ordered the work begun. Now he is Emperor and his tomb is finished. Does it whisper and beckon to him in his dreams? The tomb was the first of the Emperor’s grand projects. Shrouded in secrecy, constructed inside a pit that had taken the lives of thousands of criminals. A great hole, enclosed within two, twenty foot high walls. His clay army, his guard of honor, stands watch over the hole and the palace inside. Each clay soldier modeled after a soldier in the Emperor’s Guard. Now the hole’s a mound, covered with trees and bushes, but the walls remain. Those who work inside the tomb, never leave, at least not alive. Gossiping is discouraged.

Beyond the high stone archway of the outer compound is a great cedar post studded with iron nails. A post so large a man cannot put his arms around it, higher than a man can reach. Most of the nails are bare, their square corners rusting and weathered. Others hold withered, shapeless dark brown lumps, each in the center of a faded reddish brown stain. The smell and a few fresher pieces, triangular and pinkish gray, solve the mystery of the others. A sign on the post proclaims, “Still, at last.” The errant flesh nailed there by their former owners, so it is said. Ah, justice is clarity above all things and never more so than this. No one misunderstands and the value of silence is instantly appreciated by all who behold it. Still, bad habits are hard to break, such is the curse of opinions and the fools who voice them. Ah, the eternal question: can an opinion exist unvoiced, unshared. Court humor, dry to begin with, is dust on Lissu’s tongue, chalky and bitingly bitter. At court, silence is more than a virtue, it is survival. One must guard their opinion like the Emperor guards his tomb or where he intends to sleep each night. An overactive interest in the tomb is not wise, though less taxing for some than others. Some, like myself have interest in the Emperor's pit, none that I would willing share. Odd that there should be so much fascination and fatal curiosity in marveling at its jewel studded dome and rivers of mercury buried under so much dirt. It’s oppressive being under so much dirt alive, how much worse it must be to be there dead. From the way the Emperor spoke, others will be allowed inside today, his loyal Grand Counselor perhaps? Allowed, how gracious? Why? For what reason? Never having shown any great interest in it, never once hinting to be allowed to share its dark secrets, certainly none in establishing eternal residency there, now to be allowed? It does no good to wonder. It would be indiscreet to ask, or speak of how my skin crawls, drawing tight, entrails twisting, coiling upon themselves like nesting snakes. He holds his body stiffly erect against the horsehair-padded seat and sighs, his pleas would not dissuade the Emperor. The Emperor is terrified of dying, yet when he is not dreaming of immortality, he wanders the corridors of his tomb, always concerned with his future. Could he not be satisfied with more tangible pleasures, little fat boys perhaps, or an affectionate goat? But no, no, he must tour his tomb with Huhee the fool, and the lesser unwilling lights of his court. The elder son, Foosoo, is banished. A bit of luck that, a reward for hard work. Foosoo does not share his father’s vision, our vision; he would be difficult to control. Both are dangerous, Huhee and Foosoo. Foosoo because he does not see the merit of controlling the impulses of the masses. Huhee, because he is a vaporous twit who acts on whim and thinks of nothing. Yet, I can control him. I must. I am less certain of Foosoo, he may still come to a early end.

He hears the horses slowing ahead. It’s not much further. The Emperor will spend eternity inside this great hole. Does he wish his Grand Counselor to guide and counsel his eternal dreams?. An unpleasant thought. There could be few worse companions and little chance death will improve him. It would be far better to be eternally alone than eternally at the beck and call of a madman’s ghost. Not that there will be any surviving him, not for me, so it is whispered, so they believe. So many enemies. My enemies crouch in the shadows even now, wooing the Emperor’s son. Huhee enjoys the warm stroke of their tongues, but then he’s a fool. A manageable fool? Perhaps? There lies his only virtue. Manageable, yet still a fool. Can foolishness be more troublesome than his father’s madness? It’s likely. Indeed fools are more unpredictable than madmen. It will be difficult, as difficult as surviving the death of the fool’s mad father. Yet the future will flutter and fall to ruin without a steady hand to guide it. As surely as a kite with its string cut. Is that the reason for this visit? Will he point to the little box at the foot of his great one and say, “For you, faithful friend?” Something to be prepared for. And the mad fool may very well offer, expecting me to hug his knees in gratitude. May his search for immortality be successful and his tomb remain a moldering monument. Ah, but it is unlikely. Fantasies of immortality aside, he will be dead soon. Any day, from the poisons his physicians give him. Potions of crushed jade and mercury, isn’t it obvious that neither holds the key to immortality? Mercury, people die just being around it. What can they be thinking? Idiots. The Emperor is unbearably irresponsible, worse than a child. There is no predicting what will cross his tongue.

How can work be scheduled with these uncertainties? Where will his death leave our work? It will all end, left to wither from want of care. The dream of future generations burning incense in praise of the great philosopher Lissu, who brought peace to the word, ashes.

The carriage is stopping. People are watching, find another thought. He smiles thinly, a twitch of the corners of his lips, as he imagines himself straddling the neck of some great bull elephant. A fanciful image, one that surprises and delights him, riding a great nosed elephant’s neck. He has only seen the one, live. Well, dead, to be a stickler, at a court feast, presented whole with its little trunk held high. A huge calf, quite tender, although a trifle gamy. There had been an ice carving of the huge trumpeting adult, impressive in its size and strength. A handler sits astride the elephant’s great neck, guiding it with a hooked club. How like an emperor’s Grand Counselor, had he a hooked club to prod his great beast? His lips tighten as he imagines himself ripped from that great neck, hurled to the ground and trampled to a red paste. An occupational hazard for the handler of any great beast. Our, my, it is mine, my great work lays unfinished while he wastes time on foolishness. Immortals? The superstitious fool.

The old ways of thinking must be destroyed to the last book. The old ways are like lice, requiring strict attention and constant diligence to be free of them. Bothersome fools with their questions. His anger surges at the thought of all the small minds pecking at his work. It is a struggle to pull back from it. What do they need to know? To farm, to raise babies to farm, to dig, gather, reproduce, like so many bees and ants. Let them concentrate on that. How can there be any progress when new ideas are tested against the old, and criticized for each difference? A hindrance to progress, a nuisance as great as the intellectuals who perpetuate it. Now, finally, they lie silent, their mouths filled with dirt, no more to snipe and chatter at his back, their tongues stilled at last. He smiles, at least none has crawled from the pit to renew their arguments. Only the news from Qualin bolsters his mood. The executions had been carried out as he instructed. Lord Sunza had wept with grief as his old friends and cronies rolled into the pit. In the end, he’d been talking to old Yeto and spitting dirt, a nice touch. It would have been good to be there. But no, even that pleasure is denied me. There’s always more to do, so little time, and so much of it wasted. Tomorrow we leave for the north to search for immortals. Such nonsense.

He doesn’t bother to turn his head as the carriage door swings open. A courtyard cobbled with black and red stones leads to the tomb’s outer compound. The need to pee tugs at him as he steps from the carriage. He should have he used the pot inside. Too late now, everyone is watching. He scowls at the officials waiting by the compound gate.

Chapter Eleven, Chicken Walking by Ed Parker

Chapter 11–-The Monastery

The monastery sits in the hill’s evening shadow as the sky darkens to indigo, and rose hues of twilight brush the air with a bluish haze. To the left of the main buildings, are the dark mingled shadows of an orchard, to the side and behind, dark terraced fields climb the flanks of the hill. Here and there monks walk quickly toward the largest building.

“Evening prayers,” Master Wabi comments. “Shall we join them?”

“They look like people late for dinner. Ah, my nose. Please accept my apology Master Wabi. I did not mean to contradict you.” For the past week Pa Kua’s nose has hurt whenever he fails to show Master Wabi the utmost respect. Disconcerting, more than painful, the way a thought could make it come and go with nothing said. Whose thought, troubles him, his or Master Wabi’s? He tries not to think about it. Still, it hurts.

Atsuma and Joshu joke about his politeness toward Master Wabi. “Just like Baso,” they say and laugh. And like Baso, he has a red mark right between his eyes. Baso stares off toward the retreating monks, silent, and with every intention of remaining that way.

Atsuma rolls her eyes, Joshu looks away with a smile. Pa Kua ignores both of them. What do they know? Baso is hungry, and sympathizes with the running monks. All day Master Wabi has been finding new ways to make their lives miserable. Testing their will. Running and walking backwards, dodging rocks, a storm of rocks. No one is sure where he got them. Pa Kua’s ribs still ache from that. Then they ran again. From sun up ‘til now, there has been no time to rest or eat. Everyone is hungry, even Lady Wa who had nothing to do with such silliness, having spent the day talking to the horse.

“If you are hungry, eat an apple Pa Kua. They are followers of the enlightened one. They don’t usually eat an evening meal.”

“An apple? Master Wabi, I was hungry several hours ago, it has since become more serious, perhaps terminal. Perhaps if we ask politely? Would it be unseemly to beg? Our pleading eyes and pinched features would move a stone to pity.” He glances at Baso worriedly. “We can hide Baso someplace.”

“Skinny runt.”

Master Wabi shrugs and smiles at Pa Kua, “Perhaps. They are known for their compassion.” The buildings are made of rough cedar planks with little ornamentation. A large bronze bell hangs in a roofed open structure, its striker, a small log on chains, hangs beside it. Inside, the walls are wood, hand-rubbed and oiled until they glow in the lamplight. Thin straw mats line the raised floor along the long sides of the rectangular hall. On each mat is a wooden box, near twins of Master Wabi’s, all showing signs of use.

In the golden dimness surrounding the flickering oil lamps, boy monks sit in rows across the center of the room. Orange robes and brown, shaved heads, smooth, and shiny, mix with heads dark with stubble. The monks sit with their backs to the door droning words, unfamiliar and foreign. Unaware or unconcerned, none turn to see who enters the hall.

Another sound, deep, reverberating, as from a mighty horn, builds, rises and falls overlaying yet not overpowering the monks. The sound makes the visitors’ skin prickle, their hair stiffen. The sound comes from nowhere and everywhere, it fills the room, roof to floor. A man sits on a raised platform facing the room, his shaven head gleams like polished brass in the lamplight. His eyes touch the monks one by one, lingering at times, as if sharing something intensely personal and delightful. A sense of calm radiates from him, a sense of being master of himself. The monks fall silent. a moment later the other sound stops. Master Wabi kneels on the floor, Lady Wa close behind him, they smile in appreciation of the moment. The others politely follow their example. The silence breathes and fills the hall with its presence. As the monks rise they appear older, the moment spent. They file purposefully out of the hall, some to study, some to finish chores.

The Master flows to his feet, he can be no one else. He moves without haste, his long saffron robe barely touching the floor. Baso watches him cross the room, passing along the wall, behind the mats, moving without apparent haste. Still he’s surprised to find him standing in front of Master Wabi. How did he cover the distance so quickly? Baso to check his companions reactions out of the corner of his eyes. With the exception of Lady Wa and Master Wabi, everyone’s face is stiff, their eyes checking everyone else.

Master Wabi and the Master kneel, bowing deeply, their foreheads touch the floor as one.

“My name is Sozan. Welcome to our monastery.” The way he says it, draws you to him. Something in the sound of his voice adds meaning beyond his words, a sense of being truly welcome there. “Where do you come from? Where do you go,” he says? The questions are not about here or there. Master Wabi claps his hands three times, his eyes on Master Sozan.

Master Sozan raises an eyebrow and smiles. “You have not eaten. You must eat. The body must be nourished to serve well.” Hearing this, Pa Kua and Baso warm to him as to a fire. Atsuma watches Lady Wa, waiting to see what she will do. Joshu watches her. “It is late. It shall be medicinal food, to nourish your body and heal your hunger. After you eat, you must sleep. I see your day has been eventful. You will be shown a place.” He smiles, “It is only the mind we seek to rouse here.”

Master Wabi shifts on his knees a half turn to Master Sozan’s left to introduce his companions. “Lady Wa, Atsuma, Joshu, Pa Kua, and Baso.” Each bows to Master Sozan as their name is spoken. “I’m called Wabi. We deeply appreciate your kindness and generosity.”

“Thank you for allowing us to share with you.” Master Sozan says softly. “You must forgive me if I seem brusque. Our monks will be returning soon; they will be tired. Our days are long and a night’s rest, short. We keep a small house for the few women who visit here. If Atsuma does not mind sharing it with Lady Wa?”

“Not at all. If my presence is not a burden to Lady Wa?”

“I will be honored, Atsuma,” Lady Wa replies with mock formality, stifling a giggle with commendable aplomb.

“You will find food there and privacy.” There is a gentle emphasis on privacy. Master Sozan is not concerned that the women will prove a distraction to the monks. The women are beautiful, but naturally so, not artful or seductive. A monk so easily distracted has only to look to himself. Still, the daily routines of the monastery are tightly ordered, there must be no disruptions.

“The Dining Hall is not far, someone will guide you there.” Master Sozan bows and flows to his feet, leaving silently.

The women are shown to a little house, a hut, but spotlessly clean. A table stands by the window and on the table, a black lacquered tray, two white bowls with covers that steam, smelling of fresh made noodles. Cold pickled vegetables fill a rough stone dish garnished with a dab of horseradish. A pot of hot tea. Dreams are made of less. The night is warm and the moon shines full and bright through the open window. They eat quietly, watching the moon, neither feels like talking. As the evening passes, Lady Wa grows more withdrawn and quiet. She watches the silver moonlight cast sharp, black shadows across the white gravel courtyard and sighs as clouds pass over the face of the moon. Tears suddenly well in her eyes and roll down her cheeks shining like soft diamonds.

Lady Wa’s tears confuse and trouble Atsuma. She’s never seen her cry and doesn’t know if she should stay or leave. She wants to hug her, but she’s afraid of intruding. She sits there, uncertain. The sound of Lady Wa’s voice startles her, she sounds so far away.

“Thank you. You have been very kind.”

Atsuma pushes the last pickled beet around on the plate with her chop sticks, not knowing what to say. Glancing up at Lady Wa, confused, she says, “Ah, did you want this beet?”

“Please forgive me. It’s just, I’m so happy.” She turns away and looks out the window at the moon washed stones. Her eyes are shining. “You’ve been a wonderful friend Atsuma.

“What? No, please. It’s you who are kind. I’ve been a nuisance, I know. Forgive me. You saved my life.”

“Oh no, if I’ve been of some assistance, then, thank you. Thank you for allowing me that honor. Really I was delighted to step out of my troubles and into yours.” She laughs, nervously and quick, “Have I done something, you’re crying.” Her voice changing, breaking with uncertainty. “I, I didn’t mean,” her voice softens into silence.

Lady Wa laughs softly. “I can’t remember being so happy.”

Atsuma inhales, swelling with pride, words suddenly tumbling out of her. “I was so happy to see you that night, you know. All I could think of was that you needed someone to help you, and I could help you.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I really needed to help someone. I don’t know how to, words aren’t much good, are they?. Like colored stones for sweet berries, they fall short of what is intended. I felt such joy helping you.” Her eyes drop to her lap. “It shocked me. No, I should have thanked you before this. I feel so stupid. I have been happy too. I’d forgotten what happy is.”

Lady Wa glances down. The moon has filled her tea bowl with silver shadows. “Happy. Such a funny little word, happy. I would not trade all the love in the world for it, if one could long exist without the other.”

“That night at Old Man Yimm’s. That look in Old Man Yimm’s eyes as he talked with you. That was the first time, men ah, make me uncomfortable.” Her eyes dip down. “Anyway, I felt good then, young then. Sometimes I feel so old, like I was born old, so serious about everything.” Her brow wrinkles as she struggles to find the right words, finding it hard to say them. “I enjoyed being a woman that night. Listening to you talk with Old Man Yimm. I cared about the uncertainties of growing turnips, or whatever he was growing. I think you were the first person who ever listened to him. He seemed so happy that you were listening to him, that you would share your time with him.” She watches her fingers idly pluck at a loose thread, hover uncertain, then smooth the cloth of her lap. “And Pa Kua, he’s so funny. It seems so strange that he and Baso are such good friends.”

“And Joshu, what of him? I have seen the way he looks at you.”

Atsuma smiles, her eyes seem to glow, then her voice drops, her smile falls away. “Joshu. Oh, Lady Wa, there is so much I don’t understand and none so much as men. He’s very handsome, isn’t he?”

Lady Wa lowers her voice to one husky with seriousness, tinged by the threat of a giggle, stifled, waiting to escape. “Ah, so tell me about this handsome man you don’t understand.”

“He is handsome.” The tips of her ears flush bright, she feels the heat and wait for her ears to burst into flame. An awkward pause; she coughs gently. “He’s ah, always watching me.” Her voice dropping to a whisper. His eyes follow me everywhere I go.” She seems unsure what to say next. Then gushes, “At first I was flattered,” her enthusiasm stumbles, dying away as she sighs. “Now, I don’t know. I think he’s in love with someone, someone who looks like me. With who he thinks is me. Like he’s in love with being in love. Does that make sense to you?”

“In love with being in love?” Lady Wa blushes, uncertain, worried, but no it wasn’t her doing, not anymore.

Atsuma doesn’t seem to notice, not expecting an answer. “I like him, well, sometimes. He thinks I’m pretty, I guess, but he doesn’t really know me.”

“But Atsuma, you’re beautiful,” Lady Wa interjects without thinking, her words tumbling over themselves. “So tall and graceful.”

“Legs like a horse.” Atsuma snorts and looks away.

“I wish I were tall,” Lady Wa muses, waiting.

“Tall? You’re perfect. Just tiny.”

“A runt. People think I am a child. Besides, I like horses.”

Atsuma sighs. “Anyway, he doesn’t know me.”

“Who?” Lady Wa teases.

“Joshu.” Atsuma stops. “Oh you. He doesn’t know me. No, it’s more than that. He makes me feel like, I don’t know, someone I’m not. It’s very confusing.”

Lady Wa mumbles something, but it isn’t clear. Her eyes are on Atsuma waiting for her to go on.
“I don’t know. Maybe, I’m not being fair. Old Man Yimm wasn’t like that. He appreciated you, for who you are, a person, I mean.”

Joshu is a young man, Atsuma.”

Atsuma is not dissuaded by details. “You shared Old Man Yimm’s interests, listened to him, made him feel important. Made him feel good about himself. He didn’t care that you were beautiful. All right, he enjoyed that too. Everyone does, but it was something else. He appreciated your concern and interest in him. Then they arrived and spoiled it.”
Lady Wa’s confused and a little embarrassed. She wanted all three of the young men to like Atsuma and for Atsuma to like them, and she made it happen. Later she took that away or thought she did. She would have to pay more attention. “I thought, you seem so close to Joshu. You like Pa Kua, and Baso?”

“Oh, I like them all. That’s the problem. Joshu is handsome and sweet. Too sweet. Pa Kua and Baso are different. They treat me like, like they like me, like another warrior. Joshu has those big eyes, big, brown, wet eyes. Always standing around with his tongue hanging out.”

Lady Wa seems absorbed by the wood grain of the table. She covers her mouth to keep from laughing. Composed, she looks away. “His tongue hanging out,” she says under her breath.

“And he gets angry whenever Baso or Pa Kua speaks to me. I wish he would stop that.”

Lady Wa laughs. She looks down quickly, and tries to look serious. Atsuma glares at her. “I understand, Atsuma, really.”

Atsuma isn’t sure. It’s in her wrinkled brow and eyes that seem to squint with seriousness.. “Remember the way Old Man Yimm looked at you? My father used to look at me like that, like he was happy I was there.” Her voice fading with sadness. She pauses, a hesitant searching quality in her eyes. Lady Wa suddenly realizes she’s been wrong. Terribly wrong.

“People are so cruel. How can they be so mean to each other? All men want to do is hurt you.” There’s so much pain in her voice. “Most men, not all.” Trying to be fair, as if it’s important to be fair, to recognize some good in the sex, finding it difficult. She reaches out for good memories, again, finding few and those hard to speak of, her voice breaking from the struggle. “Old Man Yimm, Joshu, I guess. Baso, Pa Kua, my father. . . .

An image begins to form in Lady Wa’s mind as Atsuma speaks, the sound of her words falling away. She feels the weak sunshine of a winter’s late afternoon, the chill of the wind as it blows through a small village. She sees a young girl, twelve or thirteen, grinding wheat beside an older woman in the courtyard of a farm house. There’s a marked resemblance, the mother is tall, the girl will be soon. The girl holds a basket, pouring wheat into the grinding stones in a steady thin stream. The woman turns a round flat wheel, watching the falling grain, humming to herself. The basket is heavy and the girl sits it down as she bends to check the trickle of flour falling into a wide clay bowl below the grinding wheel.
Suddenly there’s the rush of horse hooves and voices shouting, strange, angry, frightening voices. In the midst is one voice that’s familiar, an angry voice, yet frightened too, despairing of something beyond his control. The sound comes closer, a long line of soldiers in black armor and green capes trotting side by side through the village streets. As villagers ran out of their homes, the soldiers cut them down. A man is being dragged between the horses, a man covered in blood. A feeling of terrifying confusion fills her. She wants to run, but where? Her mother tells her to be brave, her voice is frightened, desperate. Suddenly there are horses wheeling in the courtyard, the bloody body of the man falling to the ground.

“Shiko.” Her mother screams rushing forward. The men stop her, whooping and cry out, saying bad things, their voices cutting and cruel. The man on the ground raises his head and looks at her through the blood streaming down his face.

“Father.” She is screaming now, like her mother. He struggles to his knees as the soldiers beat him. Somehow he has gotten one of their swords and is cutting around him a few soldiers stagger back, bleeding. She doesn’t see the man behind him until her father starts to fall, turning, slashing at the man who has just killed him. She moves to help him, throwing herself forward, but hands grab her, hands that rip at her clothes.

Lady Wa feels the sense of separateness leave her, she has become the girl, become Atsuma. She feels her horror, feels her pain, the nausea. Pain washes over her, terror and confusion, disbelief. Thoughts scream, this should not be happening, this is all wrong, these people don’t belong here. What have they done to my father? Sounds rush at her, too loud, strident, men shouting, dogs barking as they dodge between the horses feet. Horses blowing, snorting, screaming in anger. Things breaking. The screaming of women and children, of soldiers chase them, hunting them down, killing them one by one. Jumbled sounds, foreign and loud wash over her. Nearby a girl is screaming, her voice hoarse, straining. “Stop it. Why doesn’t it stop? It must stop.” Strange men are pulling at her mother. She must stop them. Suddenly something snaps her head back, her teeth click together, hard, loud. Then nothing.

She floats in dreamlike terror, helpless. Hands hold her body down. Men laughing. She feels the hurting, the weight pushing against her, into her, pressing her legs back against her chest. She can’t breathe. She can’t wake. She drifts with shock, floating. Far below her, people struggle in front of a burning house, detached, yet not free of it. A young girl stares up over a man’s shoulder with unseeing eyes. Her clothes open. The man driving, thrusting, between her legs. She feels her mind trying to push it away, the way a mind will. But there is no time, and far too much rushing in, and it goes on far too long.

A man stands looking down at her, watching her as she turns her face away from the wet hairy mouth, the bad breath, of the man hurting her. A slim, delicate man, dressed in courtly clothes against the blue-gray sky. He leans forward, detached, curious, idly enjoying her pain, her humiliation. Then he is distracted, walking slowly away. Her eyes fallow him on their own, unable to turn her head, unable to close her eyes. Men pass by carrying familiar things that look out of place in their hands. Another man throws a torch inside their home. Her eyes follow the man in his courtly robes across the courtyard. All around, men shouting like they do when they watch cocks fight, what are they cheering for. He stops by a group of soldiers, on the ground a woman is screaming, struggling with the men holding her down, covering her. That robe bunched beneath her is mother’s robe. Her mother? Her mind recoils in horror. There’s too much blood, too much to put it all back. The blood runs in a thick winding stream across the courtyard stones. Suddenly he is back again, the slim, delicate man, in the courtly clothes. He looks down at her, listening to her whimper. His hand reaches down, wipes a tear from her cheek, tastes it. A look of contempt and waning interest crosses his face, almost of disappointment. He says something, then the weight is gone. His hand flicks a strand of hair from her face. A knife appears, coming towards her, casually cutting her breasts with fire as if drawing in the sand with a stick. She watches him toy with her pain, tasting it with his eyes, then he is gone. The only voice screaming now is her own. There is a separateness in the sound that grows to be too much, then it stops. All that remains is the stillness. The quiet. She is alone and the only sound is the moaning of the wind and the village burning around her. It is very cold.

The tone of Atsuma’s voice changes, bringing them back to the small house in the moonlight. “He was the worst of them. Like a cat with a crippled bird, fascinated with its fear, indifferent to its pain. He watched them kill my mother and father, never blinking. He enjoys other people’s pain. That’s why he let me live. That is why he stopped cutting me. He wanted me to suffer. I can’t stop thinking of it, the way he watched me, licking my fear and pain with his eyes. I can still feel his eyes, like the tongue of a snake, touching me, tasting my pain, swallowing it whole like a snake swallows a rat.” She tries to let that thought go, the feeling of it.

“The Sisters found me a few days later. I don’t know how. The Valley of the Sisters is a long way from our village. They said that some people live lives without harmony, and that this disharmony makes them insane and insanity makes them cruel.”

“Do you know what they meant?” There’s an odd tone to Lady Wa’s voice.

Atsuma looks at Lady Wa curiously. “I know his lack of harmony is worse than any sickness, but I have the cure. Her laugh is cold, cutting. I will kill him, and quickly though, though he doesn’t deserve it. That’s the only cure I know for his sickness.”

She’s never told anyone about what happened to her, could never say the words. The Sisters knew, at least they never asked. Lady Wa understands, it’s in her eyes. “Master Wabi says it interferes with my spiritual progress, though I never told him what happened, I guess he can see the result. The Sisters said that too. I know I can’t get past that face until I see it die. Him, it, demon of hell, whatever he is.”
Lady Wa turns away and looks at the moon. Her expression one Atsuma has never seen before. For a moment she seems withdrawn, faraway. Then she smiles as if she had just made a decision and is confident it’s the right one. When she looks at Atsuma there’s a strangeness in her eyes, dark as if they are not there all.

“You are right of course, Atsuma. There is a terrible wrongness in this man that cannot be cured, not in this lifetime, not as people think of being cured. I will help you put an end to this one, but before he dies he must know a little remorse. A gift to help him in his next life.”

“I don’t want to help him. I want to kill him”

“Yes dear , I know. Do you know where to find him?”

“Find him? No. I, ah, don’t understand. I mean, how?” The idea of Lady Wa being dangerous startles her, yet there is no mistaking it, though the how of it is uncertain.

Lady Wa laughs, her eyes normal, though brighter than usual. “Neither do I, but he must be cured, the manner will come to me.” And that doesn’t help. Atsuma doesn’t know what to say and sighs softly. This little woman is a force of nature. One moment she fills the room, pushing out at the walls. The next moment, she’s changed, different, as if outgrowing herself. It’s hard to keep up with her. It’s not a logical or rational thought, she hadn’t had many of those lately, but true, all the same. Lady Wa can move mountains. If she called, they would come wagging hills and valleys behind them. Most wonderful of all is that Lady Wa is her friend.

“His name is Lissu,” she hears herself say. “One of the men called him that when they were leaving. No, wait, there’s something else.” She studies the blank wall, her brow squeezing her eyebrows, furrowed in concentration. “Yes. He was treated with great respect, as if he was someone important from the court. I keep hoping I can remember his title. He had one. I just can’t remember it. I’m sorry. I wasn’t listening very closely. I have to kill him. That is all I know.” Her shoulders slump. “That’s why I left the Sisters. He’s too wrong, has too much disharmony, to go on living.”
“Have you ever looked for something you didn’t know you had and found it? Does that make any sense?” Lady Wa is looking away, the moon in her eyes as she speaks

“Ah no. I don’t think so.” Atsuma’s smile is forced.

Lady Wa laughs, her eyes smiling at her. “You’re right. It doesn’t make any sense, not a bit. Still, I feel it all the time. Strange, I guess, but it doesn’t feel strange. I’m always finding things like that. Memories and how to do things. Like going someplace you’ve never been before and finding everything is familiar. Anyway, I’ve always felt that way about you. That we were supposed to meet and help each other.”

Atsuma studies her face. “With Lissu?”

“We will deal with him. All of us. Don’t ask me how, but we will deal with him. The how, will come to me. When did you leave the Sisters?” Lady Wa smiles like she already knows the answer and is just waiting for Atsuma to confirm it.

Atsuma can’t get that far. “All of us?” She laughs nervously. What do you mean all of us?”

“All of us. You and I, Master Wabi, Joshu, Baso and Pa Kua. All of us. We will deal with this Lissu and a few other things.”

“But why, I don’t understand?”

“Neither do I. Why’s are always troublesome. Does it matter? Maybe Master Wabi knows? Maybe not. Maybe there’s no reason?” She stops to giggle. But no, one or more reasons always show up eventually. It’s not important.

Atsuma interrupt, “You sound like Master Wabi, now.”

Lady Wa purses her lips, giving her a mock glare. “Now tell me about leaving the Sisters, when did you leave them?”

“Not important.” Atsuma laughter sounds dubious, but she’s unwilling to press the issue. “Of course. Let me think. I left there in the afternoon; I met you that night. I said that, didn’t I. It does seem strange, doesn’t it.”

Lady Wa leans forward, suddenly intense. “Why did you decide to leave?”

Atsuma’s eyebrows arch, her eyes widen. “I didn’t. The Mother did. I asked her before, I don’t know how many times, if I could leave. She would always say that I wasn’t ready, and that would be the end of it. Until that morning. That morning one of the Sisters told me that the Mother wanted to see me.” Atsuma squirms, embarrassed. “I thought I was in trouble. I’m usually in trouble when she sends for me. I remember standing in front of her, trying to think of what I had done this time, not listening very closely. I had it narrowed down to losing the sheep. I thought she was going to scold me for that. And it was my fault, about the sheep.” She looks guiltily at Lady Wa. “I can’t stand sheep, they are so stupid.” She shrugs pausing, “Anyway, it wasn’t that. She says it’s time I left. Today. Immediately. It shocked me. I mean, I had been asking and asking, suddenly I had to go. I wasn’t expecting that. I tried to tell her the sheep couldn’t have gone far, I would find them. I felt heartbroken, like I had been abandoned, like I was being punished. She said it wasn’t about the sheep. She said it was just time for me to go. I couldn’t understand what I had done that was so wrong and kept apologizing for losing the sheep. When you ask for something so long, then you’re told that you have to have it, well, it’s confusing and a little frightening too. And I loved her. I still love her. She’s Mother. I wish you could meet her.”

“Did she say anything unusual. I mean, besides telling you that it was time to go?”

“Now that you mention it, she said I couldn’t do it alone, something like that. I was still thinking about the sheep, I guess. I let it go. There were other things I wanted to talk about. Anyway, I was upset. She calmed me down and gave me some money, clothes and food. Then she told me that I must leave, ‘right now.’ It is hard to be happy about leaving when someone says, ‘right now.’ She said I was to travel at night to avoid meeting anyone.”

Lady Wa still smiles, but more from habit than happiness. “Are you sure?”

Atsuma looks down and shrugs. “No. I’m not sure of any of it. She wanted me to travel at night. I just, you know, assumed, it was so no one would see me.”

“We were supposed to meet. It must be. Well, I feel better now. Do you remember why you stopped to help me? You were going to kill Lissu weren’t you?”

Atsuma’s laugh sounds a little forced. “I wanted to help. I mean, I didn’t think about Lissu at all. Besides, Mother didn’t say anything about Lissu. Do you really think she knew? You know, that we would meet?”

“Lady Wa laughs, “She is your Mother.” They watch the moon in silence, absorbed in their own thoughts. Later, speaking softly so as to not disturb the quiet, Lady Wa says. “I remember how you looked that night. The look on your face. You were so angry. I almost ran away.”

“I’m sorry. There ah, had been some, unpleasantness earlier. You startled me standing there, the moonlight shining on your robes, jewels glistening in your hair. So beautiful. I have never seen anything so beautiful. So, ah, nice. And so out of place, like you had just stepped away from the Emperor’s court.” She looks down at her fingers twisting and twining around themselves in her lap. “Oh, yes, I was startled, very startled. It was as if the Goddess of the Moon had suddenly come to life. You looked, frightened. I wanted to find whatever was frightening you and kill it.” Her voice drops, her eyes on Lady Wa, moist and pleading. “You weren’t frightened of me, were you?”

“No, not of you Atsuma. Oh, perhaps for an instant until I felt who you were. It was a very confusing moment. I didn’t know where I was or how I got there.”

Felt who I was? Her eyebrows raise, but she let that one go. “You said you ran away from your wedding?”

“Did I? That would explain the robes and things, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose it would.” The conversation is feeling weird and Atsuma hesitates, wondering if she had missed something. Did she just say that, about the wedding? She shakes her head, confused. “Yes. I suppose it would,” she says again, surprised at herself. She wants to ask about the wedding; something urges her to say something else. “Some thieves stole some money and a statue that night. I don’t know what happened to the statue, but I, ah, found the thieves.” Where did that come from? Why can’t I just be quiet? But, no. “That’s where I got the ox cart and that box, ah for your robes.” That didn’t sound right.

“Thieves gave you an ox cart and a box?” Lady Wa eyes are questioning.

“I, ah, I had to kill them.”

“You killed them for an ox cart and a box?”

Atsuma stares at her, not knowing what to say. Does she think I’m a murderer? No, she wouldn’t think that. They were thieves, weren’t they? They needed killing. Still she is disappointed, she had been expecting praise. It occurs to her, how odd that is. She feels a rush of chagrin. I was bragging. Have I become so shallow? Apparently. “Oh, no. Don’t be silly. They attacked me. I just defended myself, out of habit I guess. That was before I saw you. There were still blood spots, I was embarrassed.”
Lady Wa seems pleased. “I over heard the boys talking about it. The, ah, dead bandits, they were very impressed. They don’t know it was you, and you must not tell them. Not for a while, anyway. It would make them uncomfortable.” Suddenly she looks at Atsuma sternly, her eyebrows lowered. “You must not kill the boys. Even if they make you angry. You must promise me?”

Atsuma’s taken aback. Lady Wa is serious. “How could you think such a thing? Why should I kill the boys? I admit I wanted to, when they stopped us on the road, but I didn’t.”

“You have a lot of hate inside you, Atsuma.

“Not for them, Lady Wa.

“Hate is hate. The wrongness in Lissu comes from hating. Do you want to become like him?”

“Become like him?” Her words are choked with rage. She realizes she’s on her feet and blushes as she sits back down. She didn’t want to do that. It was like she had tripped over something in the dark, unexpected and painful. “How could I become like him? Lady Wa?”

“You become what you do Atsuma. If you fill yourself with hate, you become hateful. Now promise me you will not kill the boys.”

“But Lissu,” She doesn’t see the connection.

“Will be dealt with, Lady Wa finishes for her.”

The idea that Lady Wa might possibly think that she was like Lissu, though she hadn’t actually said so, makes her shudder. Anyone else would be dead now. She catches herself there. Habit, she tells herself. She feels her willingness to kill, swirl around in her mind a moment. Not a good habit. “I, ah, promise. I won’t kill any of them, even if they make me very angry. I mean,” but she didn’t really know what she meant. “And I will promise I will think about what you, what you said.”

Lady Wa’s smiles. She knows she’s been interfering with Atsuma and the boys, though she isn’t sure how, which was disturbing. Worse, she thought she had stopped, very disconcerting. She will have to work on that. That will make Master Wabi happy. Atsuma will have to like Joshu on her own?

“Atsuma. There’s so much I don’t know. I make mistakes, sometimes I feel confused. I don’t even know where I came from. Does it matter where I came from?”

The question startles Atsuma who is still giving the “hate thing” a lot of thought, not liking it and wanting to change the subject. “No, not to me, Lady Wa. Can I tell you a story?”

“Certainly, Atsuma.”

“When I was a little girl, my mother would tell me this story. Atsuma shifts her weight, straightens and grows serious, coughs. Changing the tone of her voice to one suitable for story telling.

“Long, long ago, before words were written down, a young maiden was kidnapped by an evil wizard named Kegon. She was the only daughter of the Wizard King and beautiful, more beautiful than beautiful can describe.” Atsuma smiles quickly and coughs. “You, ah, have to concentrate to see her properly. Small, like you, her face pale, touched with just a little rose, her teeth, whiter than the whitest pearls. Her eyes, dark as a moonless night. Diamonds glisten like stars in the blackness of her hair. She dances like thistledown and sings like glass chimes blowing in the wind.” Atsuma could have gone on. Truthfully she wanted to, this is her favorite part, but Lady Wa coughs, looking impatient.

“Her father, the Wizard King, is kind and good and Kegon, the evil wizard, hates him for his great skill and goodness. He wants to steal the Wizard King’s secrets. One day while the Wizard King is out doing his good work, the evil wizard treacherously kidnaps the Wizard King’s young daughter, innocent girl.” She whispers, “The evil wizard plans to force the Wizard King to give him the one thing he wants above all else, the Elixir of Immortality.” Her voice rises in indignation. “A cowardly and vile plan, but Kegon is a vile and cowardly evil wizard.” She see Lady squirm and frown. Good, then she likes the story.
“The good Wizard King returns home to find a dead flower on the table, a sign that she had been stolen by the evil wizard. Heart broken, he falls to the floor, desolate, weeping with despair. The love of his life, his sweet and gentle daughter in the clutches of such a fiend is more than he can bear. His heart’s torn asunder, his liver is hard and cold, he tastes ashes.

“Kegon, an evil wizard?” A frown wrinkles Lady Wa’s forehead, she stares doubtfully across the little table at Atsuma.

Atsuma eyes widen in surprise. “Well yes. That’s his name, Kegon, the evil wizard. You’ve heard the story? I’m sorry. Of course you have. Everyone has heard the story.” Disappointment draws out her words, filling them with sand.

“Ah, no. The name sounds familiar.” She shrugs, smiling. “I don’t know why. But no, I haven’t heard the story. Please tell me the story. Please.”

She looks serious. Atsuma sees that. Still, it’s hard to believe. “Are you, are you sure?”

Lady Wa leans forward, smiles encouragingly. “Please,” still there was a edge to her voice

“All right then.” Atsuma’s voice, still uncertain. “Where was I?” She says it low, to herself, not expecting an answer.

“The Wizard King’s daughter had been kidnapped and he was trying to get her back from Kegon, the, ah, evil wizard?” There is a dubious quality to Lady Wa’s voice that grows stronger as she speaks of Kegon.
Atsuma narrows her eyes suspiciously. “You’ve heard the story?”

“Atsuma, please.” Lady Wa says impatiently.

Atsuma watches her closely for a moment, then shrugs. “The Wizard King and Kagon speak in dreams and their dreams are long and difficult. The evil wizard is tricky and his tricks irritate the Wizard King who keeps waking in disgust and anger.” Atsuma smiles knowingly. “The evil wizard is stalling,” she explains, wanting to be clear. “You see he wants to keep the Wizard King’s daughter. Her beauty has him bemused, her wit and intelligence draw him, he’s bedazzled by her joyous and gentle ways.” Atsuma grins. “She’s won his heart, evil as it is, rotten as he is.”

Lady Wa frowns impatiently. Atsuma sighs. She enjoys elaborating on Kegon’s evil qualities, it adds drama and passion to the story, but, oh, well.

“He’s in love with her, though he doesn’t know it. Never having experienced love and thinks the tightness in his chest is gas.” She looks at Lady Wa expectantly, but there’s not a hint of a smile. Atsuma coughs and continues. “He buys her the whitest, softest silk for her robes, covering them with diamonds and pearls. He says they were just lying around, the liar. But true love flickers and burns inside that cold empty shell. A small flame, but one that warms his evil heart and casts its tiny light through the shadowy, twisted caverns of his nefarious soul.”

“Kegon?” Lady Wa gasps.

“Yes Kegon, the evil wizard,” Atsuma continues, irritated by Lady Wa’s failure to pay attention. “He tempts her with money and power, but she is not interested in material things. Then he tries to impress her with his knowledge of the magical arts and shows her his strongest spells, the secret of invisibility and transmutation. It does him no good. She knows her dear father’s art is far grander and spiritually pure. Still, the Wizard King’s daughter has a knowing eye and a talent for magic. She learns his spells more quickly than he realizes: she can make herself invisible and turn herself to stone. But his greatest secret he’s kept to himself, a love potion,” Atsuma whispers.

“A what?” Lady Wa gasps.

Atsuma frowns at the interruption, a hint, hoping Lady Wa will take it. “A love potion. One so potent it could make fire love ice, changing the nature of the universe forever. So dangerous that he keeps it locked away, guarding it closely with powerful spells and dragons, and such. You see there’s a catch to it,” Atsuma lowers her voice to a conspirator’s whisper. “The love potion must be shared. You know, taken together.”

“He wouldn’t do such a thing,” Lady Wa protests indignantly.

“But he does,” she squeals. “It gets better,” Atsuma bubbles happily, pleased with Lady Wa enthusiasm. “Finally, after many nights of fruitless dreams, the Wizard King forces Kegon to an agreement. He promises to let her go in return for the Elixir of Immortality.” Atsuma pauses to whisper. “Wizards must keep their promises, you know. It’s in their covenant.”

“Covenant,” Lady Wa repeats slowly.

Atsuma continues: “They hammer out the details for exchanging the Elixir of Immortality for the girl. The evil wizard agrees, but knows he can’t go through with it. He devises a plan, a treacherous plan, to steal the elixir and keep the beautiful maiden for himself.” Atsuma narrows her eyes, scowling with at such behavior, wanting to hiss. “He isn’t thinking clearly by then, not by half he isn’t. The cheater.”
There’s no reaction from Lady Wa. Atsuma sighs with disappointment, this is the good part. She returns to her story voice. “His feelings for her change everything, disrupting his cold calculations, making him reckless and foolish. But he doesn’t know it. Villain’s never do, she adds in a whisper. “He’s blind to the power of love, being an evil, wicked man.” Atsuma squirms and giggles, before continuing. “The time for the exchange is growing closer; he can’t stall any longer. The Wizard King is forming a posse.”

“A posse?”

Atsuma frowns. “A wizard’s posse, to, ah, enforce the agreement. It’s in the covenant.”

“Sorry.” As Atsuma looks away, Lady Wa quickly rolls her eyes.

“The last night, the night before he is to release her, he prepares the love potion. When he brings her, her supper, there are two glasses of wine on the tray and a small vase. The vase is earthen, unglazed on the outside. It might have passed unnoticed except for the green glaze on the inside, the green of tea leaves, wet with spring rain. The vase holds two small branches, covered with perfect white-pink plum blossoms. A work of art, its subtle beauty catches her eye.”

“What?” Lady Wa sits very straight, her eyes wide, as she struggles to remain calm. “The vase. Tell me about the vase.”

Lady Wa’s reaction makes Atsuma pause and look at her closely. “The vase? Well, it was small, brown, glazed on the inside. You’ve seen tea leaves after a rain shower? The glaze was that color. Why?”

“I had a vase just like that,” Lady Wa says softly. “Forgive me, please go on.”

There’s a note of uncertainty in Atsuma’s story teller voice as she continues: “He often sits with her, watching her eat, drinking a glass of wine. She thinks it rude of him to intrude, but says nothing, being a gentle, kind and compassionate soul, overlooking his boorish manners. She likes the vase and the flowers are pretty, still she thinks it’s strange. He has always been a cold, empty man, but tonight he seems different, almost charming, in a sad, insensitive way. She pities him. Pities his coldness, his inability to feel anything beyond his own selfish needs. Then it comes to her. He’s trying to change. He’s trying to be charming and considerate, putting a real effort into it, too. She’s embarrassed that it’s escaped her so long.” Atsuma winks, knowingly. “She tries to be cheerful, playing along. At times she sees a flash of warmth in his pale yellow-brown eyes.”

Lady Wa’s hand flies to her mouth, “What?”

Atsuma scowls. “I wish you would stop that.”

Lady Wa stares out the window, ignoring her. “Golden. Could his eyes have been golden?”

“Pale yellow-brown, golden. I suppose so. Why?”

“Never mind. I’m sorry,” Lady sighs deeply, “please, go on.”

Atsuma sighs too, wishing these interruption would stop, hoping she can recapture the spirit of the story. The subtleness of the little vase, the natural beauty of the blossoms, delights the Wizard King’s daughter’s eye. She prefers looking at them, than him. Kegon is not an attractive man: short, with a hollow chest and thin. As she drinks the wine, she feels an uncanny attraction for him growing inside her. She mulls that disconcerting thought over quietly. A disquieting thought, one that worries her. She never suspects, never dreams, of anything as underhanded and cowardly as a love potion. She feels confused and thinks she’s losing her mind, barely listening as he talks of business: the difficulty of collecting his fees from thieving clients, the price of lizard livers. She isn’t interested, and tries to concentrate on the blossoms. Then he tells her that her father is coming for her tomorrow. It takes awhile to sink in. At first she’s delighted, but only for a moment. Then her delight fades as the love potion works its iniquitous way through her innocent, unsuspecting heart and liver. She becomes sadder and sadder, as the potion takes effect. He seems so lonely and sad, poor man, her poor mind bemused. The meal becomes even quieter than usual, soon neither have anything to say. Finally, she excuses herself and goes to bed. The potion continues working through the night. Its effect growing stronger, more compelling and desperate as the night passes. Suddenly, in the middle of the night, she wakes as from a nightmare. A feeling of dread fills her as she thinks of leaving the evil wizard. She knows it’s wrong. She knows he’s a miserable person. Still, however miserable, she doesn’t want to leave him. It’s crazy, she knows that, but can’t help herself. She’s filled with strange thoughts that frighten and disturb her. She tosses and turns trying to calm her mind. As dawn nears, she lays awake staring at the blush of dawn streaming through her window, thinking of the evil wizard. Not as the evil, dastardly villain she knows him to be, but as a man of some ill-defined, unspecified merit.”
Atsuma pauses like a good story teller, to allow the tension to build. “And so it begins, her descent into drug induced madness. She finds reason to doubt her judgment. Could he really be so terribly evil, so ugly, she wonders? Perhaps she’s been hasty, unkind, unfair. Perhaps, he’s not so unspeakably vile. Perhaps, he’s merely misunderstood, his nature misconstrued. Perhaps, perhaps, so it goes. Heretofore hidden virtues begin to parade themselves before her mind’s eye. Virtues that swagger as they approach, turning with graceful arrogance and to stalk off in disdain. Each appears brighter and more attractive than the last. Her reason, shamelessly seduced, her passion, wickedly enthralled by the powerful potion. Ah, but she is not suffering alone.

Kegon suffers terribly all night, from remorse. His sleep’s troubled by the whispering of his conscience, a new demon, one he’s never experienced before . His self-confidence falls away, soon he’s drowning in doubt. The wrongness of what he’s done squeezes his liver with each beat of his heart. With each beat, the light of love flares brighter, his conscience begins to gnaw and howl. Love slowly fills his shrunken and blighted soul, exposing the wretched wickedness lurking there. He weeps with shame and despair as his evilness is frog-marched out to the drum roll of his beating heart. Despicable deed follows despicable deed, each nastier than the last. The night passes with the slow grinding of uncounted vile deeds. Long before the sun rises, he knows he’s not worthy of her, her sweetness, her love. Still, he can’t let her go. She belongs here with him. And she, she realizes that he needs her. It comes to her as she lies there in bed. All the ‘but why’s’ shoot out and swirl around her, like tiny flying things you hear on warm summer’s nights, irritating, but of no serious importance. She swats them down one by one. She’s staying, and she’ll not be swayed by reason or argument. Her father is behind this. That comes to her as well. He’s forcing Kegon to send her away and that’s so wrong. It’s her father’s fault. Why is he being so mean to her? No answer reveals itself. Nothing she can understand, nothing that makes sense. Her melancholy turns to despair and keeps turning until her head spins. A little voice argues against these feelings, shouting the alarm and pointing out the dreadful wrongness in all this. She feels so empty all she hears is the tiny echoes. After awhile, the little voice falls silent.

A wizard’s house is made of the magic of its builder, and shapes itself in his true image. The evil wizard’s house is mud brick, two stories high and narrow. The windows are few, dark, and badly in need of cleaning. Behind a barred gate an inner garden lays withered and full of weeds. There are no guards or attendants to blow horns and bow to announce the coming of visitors, as is done in all other wizard houses. The house fits the evil wizard and the Wizard King expects nothing more. He’s alone as they agreed, standing in the ruins of the courtyard, expecting villainy.

The evil wizard appears from the gateway, the Wizard King’s daughter beside him. The Wizard King’s magic sweeps over them absorbing every detail and draws back puzzled. Kegon’s strangely resigned, vaguely repentant, his arrogance, his cocky self-assurance, long flown. He’s tired, disheveled as if from a night of pacing, his new found conscience aches with remorse. There is no trace left of the love potion. It’s been forgotten as it was intended to be forgotten, that’s the curse of the spell.” Atsuma checks Lady Wa’s reaction.

“His daughter worries the Wizard King, she seems remote, her smile fixed by habit, her face, deathly pale. She moves with great deliberation, her steps reluctant, dragging. The three face each other in the courtyard. The Wizard King holds out the Elixir of Immortality in exchange for his daughter, telling her to step away from the evil wizard. She pulls herself toward her father as if against a strong wind. She loves her father, but the love potion’s power is irresistible. Kegon reaches out to take the elixir, but all he thinks of is losing her. The thought of her leaving closes over him, he feels her footsteps on his heart. The love potion won’t allow him to let her go. His conscience won’t let him keep her. Forever stretches out desolate and empty, meaningless without her. “No,” he shouts. “I can’t. Please, no. Keep the elixir, just go.” The torment in Kegon’s voice, the pull of him, snaps her sense of duty. Without warning, she turns, inadvertently brushing her father’s arm. His mind on Kegon, the Wizard King’s arm jerks back. The Elixir is flung into the air, rising it becomes a fine mist, falling, it becomes a shimmering silver fog. A silvery iridescent haze cloaks the three of them, sounds die away as the rainbow mists surround them. She feels Kegon holding her in his arms as her father tries to pull her away. Suddenly, the fog disappears with a crinkly, tearing sound. Instantly, the world feels brighter, sharper, more distinct. They have stepped to the other side. The feel of her, the warmth of her body in his arms sweeps away all thought from Kegon’s mind. He’s vulnerable, exposed, the moment the Wizard King has been waiting for. The next instant Kegon lays unconscious on the ground, she kneels by his side, holding his head tenderly, protectively. Her tears soak Kegon’s robe as she screams at her father to go away.
The Wizard King draws himself up tall, concentrating all his power on the evil wizard. There’s a sharp crack, a rending sound like close thunder. The earth shakes. Kegon vanishes, wrenched from her arms. “Kegon. she cries” Shocked, her voice rising as outrage replaces disbelief. She looks at her father, “What did you do?” For an instant silence separates all that went before, from all that will follow. “What did you do?” Tears well in her black eyes as she stares at her father. “He is gone,” the Wizard King shouts, raising his arms in triumph, in jubilation. He’s saved his daughter and defeated his arch rival. Kegon, the evil wizard is gone, the world’s a better place. He dances a little dance. “What did you do to him,” his daughter shrieks? His joy slips away, his steps slow, stopping in confusion. She is free of him. She can do what she wants. She must realize that by now. “Do to, do to who?” He stops in amazement, anger. Why is she screaming at him? He saved her from Kegon? Is she mad? What has that monster done to her? “Kegon.” She shouts, her voice thickening with anger. “What did you do with him?” “Do to him,” he shouts back, “What did he do to you?”

Now she’s angry, stiff. She’s had little experience being angry, she doesn’t like it. Being angry makes her still angrier. Her anger astounds him. He’s never seen her like this. What is he to do? His mind goes numb for a moment. She’s hysterical. Yes. A woman thing, screaming like that. Still, the onset is sudden. She’s his little girl. Times like this make him miss her mother more than ever. She’s so much like her. He tries again. “It’s all right. Don’t be afraid. He can’t harm you now. I sent him away forever. He’ll not bother you again,” “Where, did you send him,” she screams? “To the moon,” The Wizard King shouts, suddenly angry. “What does it matter? He’s gone.” She falls to the ground in a swoon, laying there still as death. Bereft, the Wizard King conjures up a cloud, soft and deep, to take her home. Later that night, she dresses herself in magic and turns herself to stone. A tragic victim of Kegon’s evil love potion. As she finishes the story, Atsuma’s thoughts are far away, in a little farming village near Hantan. She sighs happily and looks at Lady Wa.

Lady Wa sits in silence, looking at a bleary moon through her tears. It all seems so familiar. A dream. A dream of a dream. The images come and go. Laughing, golden eyed Kegon. The perfect little vase. Yet, so different. A coincidence, no more. There must be a hundred Kegons. Kegon was no evil wizard. No one had been kidnapped and there was certainly no need for a love potion. “It wasn’t that way,” Lady Wa says softly, “Kegon was never evil.”

“What? I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.” Atsuma says, distracted by her own thoughts. “Did you like the story?”

Lady Wa looks at her and smiles, “It’s very sad, don’t you think?”

“Of course. It is supposed to be sad. It’s a children’s story.”

“Why doesn’t the maiden have a name? Lady Wa asks. No one has a name except” her voice drops, “Kegon.” She doesn’t want an answer and hurries on. “It’s an old story isn’t it. There’s a strange look on Lady Wa’s face, sad and wistful.

Atsuma laughs, “Oh yes. No one knows how old. Very old. Promise, you won’t laugh?
”
Lady Wa laughs too, “Starting now.” She grimaces and struggles to hold it. Between clenched teeth she says, “But hurry. I can’t keep up this up very long.”

Atsuma doesn’t laugh and her voice sounds sad and apologetic. “The story reminds me of you.” Before Lady Wa can say anything she quickly adds, “I know. It sounds strange. You must think I’m crazy. Anyway, when I saw you that night, I thought you were the Goddess of the Moon.”

Unsettled, Lady Wa is unable to respond. There’s a swirl of thoughts and images in her mind demanding more attention than she can give them. She tries to dismiss them, saying. “It must have happened long ago. A stray thought comes to mind, a question, idle, of no consequence. She finds it on the tip of her tongue, slipping out before she is aware of it being said. “Why is the story called, The Goddess of the Moon? There is no Goddess in the story?”

“Silly, what maiden can turn herself into stone?” Atsuma expects her to laugh, but she doesn’t.

Chapter Twelve, Chicken Walking by Ed Parker

Chapter 12–-Green Wood/Remorse

“Medicinal food,” Pa Kua mumbles under his breath.

“Rice and pickles,” Master Wabi chuckles. “You live in your words like a prisoner in a cage. The last meal of the day here is eaten before mid afternoon. If it is cold or someone is ill, they may eat again, calling it medicinal food. You don’t eat the name and they have to call it something.”

“What’s wrong with calling it rice and pickles?”

“Bhah. You whine like a puppy, Pa Kua. Bring your bowl and be grateful.” The dining hall’s long and narrow with a high ceiling of thick cedar beams. A low table runs the length of the room and thick woven straw mats cover the wooden floor on each side of the table. Sixty or seventy people can sit there comfortably without elbowing or jostling, and do, twice a day, and sometimes, like now, three.

The cold rice and pickles are delicious. Hunger does that to the plainest food. They sit at the end of the long table, eating quickly, silently. Whenever they put their bowls down, a smiling monk puts more into it. Two monks hover around Baso, watching in awe as he eats. From time to time they glance worriedly into the wooden serving buckets they carry. Finally, Baso slows, places his hand over his bowl and smiles. The monks look relieved and move away. Next to him, Pa Kua has a sated, glazed look in his eyes, his bowl empty and shining. A monk enters the dinning hall with a bucket of hot water.
“To wash your bowls,” he says as he bows. The monk is tall, nearly as tall as Pa Kua, of the same age, perhaps a little older.

“So, what do you do here,” Pa Kua asks? Then adds a smile to soften the rudeness of his words.

“I carry water.” The monk replies beaming.

“I can see that,” Pa Kua replies dryly. “Are you new? How long will they keep you in the kitchen?” It’s his way of being friendly.

“As long as I work hard and prove useful.”

Baso smiles up at him, “You do good work.”

The monk bows. “It is a pleasure to serve.”

“Good thing.” Pa Kua quips. “Serving food to Baso leaves little time for anything else.”

Master Wabi coughs gently. “Pa Kua, ask him what he knows of the ‘way’? You may find it useful.”
Pa Kua looks blankly at Master Wabi and shrugs. “The ‘way’? What is this ‘way’ good monk?”

The monk smiles down at him and says, “When you have eaten, wash your bowl.” He pauses and adds, “That is the ‘way’.”

“Now that’s useful. Did you know that when you came here, or only after much study,” Pa Kua snaps?
The monk just smiles. “Like you, I knew many things when I came here. Now, I know very little. I feel I’ve made some, small progress. If I study hard, perhaps someday I’ll know nothing at all.”

“You know less than you did when you came here and you say you have made progress. What progress is that?”

“Life is full of illusions. When you know them, they go away. Wash your bowl,” the monk says, placing the pot of hot water beside Pa Kua.

Pa Kua shrugs, thinking it foolish to argue with a crazy man. Suddenly his nose begins to throb. He washes his bowl in silence, wondering what he had done wrong.

“I have a question,” Baso says, breaking the silence. “How can I tell the difference between right and wrong?” He asks it smiling, his voice casual, knowing there’s no answer, but wanting to start a conversation.

The monk holds up his palm to Baso. “What do you see?”

“Your palm,” Baso replies evenly, keeping his face stiff, stifling a smile.

“What of my fingers, what of me, what of the great everything that holds us all in place?”

“You ask me what I saw and held up your palm?” Baso frowns, perplexed. This isn’t what he expected.

“My palm stopped you. What you saw stopped at my palm.” The monk looks at Baso for a moment. “Your answer’s one of many, neither right nor wrong, simply limited.” The monk pauses. “You look for a right answer, when you find one, you stop.” The monk smiles. “Now, wash your bowl.”
Baso doesn’t say anything, but he’s thinking he should have kept his mouth shut. Why am I talking to this water boy? He dips his bowl into the monk’s bucket.

“How wet is the water,” the monk asks?

“What?” He snaps, then stops.

“Wash your bowl,” the monk says.

Baso stiffens as if he had been struck, then washes his bowl, bowing deeply as the monk leaves. There’s no great light, no thunder of drums, still, something is happening, he begins to wonder. There’s no answer, no one answer? He knew that, though he can’t stop looking for one. How much different is the monk’s way of thinking that leaves the world of, ‘this or that, one thing or another, right or wrong,’ ways that stop you.’ And all the rest,: the monk’s palm, the nature of water, right and wrong with its little piles on each side of the scale, all distractions that hold him prisoner, that limit his thinking. To be free, one must first know that they are a prisoner of such thinking, then that all you have learned, all that you consider true, might not be, that it might be all an illusion. There’s no cell, no bars, only a prisoner, afraid to think of all that might be, and doubtless is, true. For a moment Baso’s bars fall away. Outside is a memory. Master Wabi’s club flying at his head, the chase across the valley. How did he survive that? He hadn’t thought of blocking, running backwards, or where he was going. He hadn’t thought at all. But his hands and feet did what was required. All without a thought of how or why. “Never stop” Master Wabi said. The words swirl around inside him like a leaf in a stream, drifting without will or consciousness, making him dizzy. This or that thinking, starts when the mind becomes aware of itself, thinking. When thoughts form words, shouting, whispering, forming opinions, arguing. Who with? Is there two of me inside here? More? A committee of personalities, of interests, speculating, evaluating, picking everything apart? No wonder so little gets done. Why do I doubt and question myself as if there is an answer to be found that is the real me? Why am I only at peace when I’m too busy to argue. He feels the point of it slipping away, becoming insubstantial as he struggles to find its structure. It was just there, a moment when understanding permeates the consciousness directly and the thinker drifts away, something understood with a clarity beyond words. A voice, somewhere back in the crowd of Baso’s mental confusion shouts out, “You have only to be in love to know the ashes of words. And beauty? Is it not a thing of the mind’s eye? Can we separate what is, from what we bring to it? What we need from it? Should we even try? It seems somehow rude, said that way.” Satisfied the heckler sits down. But another, more pompous and disagreeable demands the floor. “Words are symbols representing something else, creating a falseness that sets it apart, distinct from reality. We must wonder, how shy reality must be, to mask its nakedness with such shadows as mere words? No word can convey the taste of an apple, the loss of a loved one. Chasing a meaning with symbols, how can we ever know anything, if all we know is only symbolically so? Symbolically, everything is second-hand, a reflection, a shadow of reality. For a moment, sadly, the truth of it leaves us wanting a better word, not quite getting it and feeling foolish.” Another voice demands to be heard. “It is not the questioning, but your need for one answer that frustrates you.” Ah, maybe so, maybe so? Baso kneels by the table staring at his hands. They leave him there, with only a grunt to acknowledge their leaving, and that well after they had left.

The mystery of the little voices haunts him most of the night. Little voices that speak then disappear, saying things he realizes he already knows, closing the debate abruptly, starting another In the silence an image forms, just there, whole and complete, there are no words to describe it and he doesn’t try. Each thing in life simply is, needing no justification beyond the fact of it’s existence. How absurd to consider it good or bad, right or wrong, definitions we impose on it from our point of view. It was enough to let him go to sleep.

The lamp is dry, empty, and gray dawn streaming through door, when the tall monk returns to clean, Baso leaps to his feet, takes the monk’s broom and begins sweeping the floor. The monk shrugs, and goes for a mop, instead. Soon, the first meal of the day is being eaten as the sun rises over the hills.
The monastery is a beehive, a living monument to industry. Everyone works. A troubled Master Wabi finds Master Sozan weeding a plot of vegetables behind the dining hall. He smiles in greeting and rakes behind Master Sozan’s hoe. The quiet whisper of their words is lost in the quiet scrape of rake and hoe. The warmth of the sun touches the vegetables, the rich dark earth, as Pa Kua finds them there.
“Please forgive my interruption Master Wabi, Master Sozan. Is it proper for the master of such a fine monastery to hoe weeds so early in the morning?” He smiles to show that it isn’t a serious question, leaving enough concern to dispel any thought that he’s being disrespectful. A difficult combination and he doesn’t feel confident that he succeed.

“Would it be proper for me to hoe weeds in the afternoon?”

“There seems more, ah, important things for you to do. ” He feels it going wrong, slipping away from him and wishes he could change the subject, wishing he had remained silent.

“What can be more important, Pa Kua? We live a simple life. Everyone works. It is very satisfying,” Master Sozan replies, his face radiant with good humor and sweat.

“To hoe weeds on an empty stomach?” It just slipped out.

“Ah, you missed breakfast, that is unfortunate.” The Master’s eyes are on his hoe and the few weeds that sprang up overnight. Still, there’s warmth in his voice. He too has been hungry and more than once.

Pa Kua stares, uncertain. “I, ah, didn’t think you would be eating so early. I went for a walk to, ah, meditate.” He’d gone to practice the One Dance, but that was meditation, or close enough. Master Wabi called it dynamic meditation and he saw no need to explain further. He had been planning to slip away as soon as he could to the dining hall, perhaps there was something left over.

“Very commendable. Now you must meditate upon the virtues of work. A challenging task on an empty stomach. However if you persevere, you will find it satisfying.” The Master smiles as he glances quickly toward Pa Kua without any pause in his work.

He isn’t going to get breakfast. “Satisfying? Yes, of course. Although I admit, I don’t know why, still, it must be so.”

“Ah, a mystery then. Let me help you divine it’s meaning. It is satisfying to eat,” Master Sozan grins. “No work, no eat.”

“Well, then, I must find a basket to carry these weeds.” Suddenly he laughs. Hoe weeds, rake weeds, carry weeds: eat. Simple enough. No troublesome illusions lurking here.

For a while the three work together in silence. Monks come and go on various errands, always busy. An observation that weighs on Pa Kua’s mind.

“Master Sozan, may I ask you a question?”

“You mean, another one, Pa Kua?”

“Ah, yes. Thank you. Yes, another one. Earlier this morning I saw monks leave the monastery with begging bowls. Everyone works here, there is plenty to eat. Why do monks go begging?”

“It is a gift.”

“To beg from people?” Pa Kua looks up from filling his basket, his expression confused, as expressions go, it’s a classic. Master Wabi nods in admiration and decides to work it into his repertoire. He’s something of an artist with facial expressions.

“There’s karma in giving. If no one begged, how could anyone give and so attain the virtue of charity. And begging teaches humility, some require more of it than others.”

“Ah, humility. Indeed so, Master Sozan, indeed so,” his deference due in large part to a curious consciousness of his nose, a nose that did not hurt, yet he had learned to be aware of it, to appreciate it. The great bell sounds. The time for morning chores is over. Suddenly there is a great stir as singly, and in their common purpose, streams of monks hurry by. Each focusing with single-minded determination on the meditation hall. The rush of hungry, sweating monks, comes as a surprise to Pa Kua who feels it’s well, unseemly. Other monks, faster or more advantageously situated, rush out the same door, bowls in hand, striding purposefully for the dining hall. There is no running, no shoving, everyone is polite, yet it demonstrates a need for wider doors. A fact not lost upon Pa Kua. “I hope no one falls down in the doorway, they could be badly trampled,” he jokes to Master Sozan, who is headed for the meditation hall himself and rapidly drawing away.

“Be careful going through the door, it’s inconsiderate to cause a delay, and painful,” Master Sozan calls over his shoulder.

Over sixty monks sit at the low table. Joshu and Baso are already there, Master Sozen, Master Wabi, and Pa Kua hurry to squeeze in.

Serving monks bring vegetable soups, pickles, and rice to fill their bowls. Five meditations on eating, and more meditations on the essence of the ‘way’ are recited. Each monk takes a few grains of rice from his own bowl and places them on the table, offering them to the demons and spirits of the triple world and begin to eat. They eat silently, seriously, focusing all their attention on eating. It’s all so formal, so quiet. No one speaks, no one rattles their bowls, the only sound is the soft clicking of chopsticks. The meal is the satisfaction of physical hunger, one completed with a quiet and steady deliberation. Pa Kua watches them carefully, sighing in appreciation of their efforts. Master Wabi watches him closely. Pa Kua often speaks in haste, sometimes, foolishly, but he’s no fool, or no more than that which all are burden with. He soaks up experiences the way sand soaks up rain. How the monks empty their bowls and fold their hands in front of them on the table until more food is brought. How they wipe the bottom of the bowl with their hand before it’s refilled. It means enough, when the monk being served lightly rubs the fingers of one hand with the other as the serving monk fills his bowl. Everything taken is eaten, waste is rudeness and scorned as such. Pa Kua follows their example. Joshu and Baso are already experts, having had breakfast to hone their technique. They eat silently until the wooden blocks are clapped and the dining hall empties.

Pa Kua rises as the monks file out of the dining hall, then notices that Baso and Joshu are still seated. A look from Master Wabi causes him to sit back down. Joshu squirms and looks like he wants to say something, but the look on Master Wabi face changes his mind. It’s a serious look, a look of great sadness. The tension will have to stay. They sit there idly admiring the ceiling beams and the weave of the grass mats. Lady Wa and Atsuma enter the dining hall a few minutes later and Master Wabi motions for them to be seated.

“We must leave here tomorrow morning. Much has happened, there is little time left to us.” He straightens his back and looks at each of them. “It will have to be enough.” Suddenly Lady Wa’s eyes grow round, her hands fly to her mouth. Master Wabi looks into her eyes for a moment and sighs as something passes between them. Something Lady Wa finds deeply disturbing. She too straightens her back, visibly trying to collect herself. She says nothing, but there’s a terrible sadness in the way she stares across the room, at nothing. Atsuma glances from her to Master Wabi and back again, tenderness and anger flashing in her eyes. Master Wabi has done something to upset Lady Wa. She doesn’t like it, whatever it is. Or him either, just now.

Master Wabi looks like a man with terrible news and no way to make it less terrible. “Last night I dreamt of Qualin,” he begins, “Of Master Yeto. He said farewell and wished you well.”

Baso, Pa Kua and Joshu stiffen, fists on thighs, their eyes searching his face. “Farewell?” Joshu whispers across the table to Master Wabi. He doesn’t trust himself to say anymore. He wants to shout and call him a liar and other things he knows he’ll soon regret. He wants to ask him how he can know such things, knowing he wouldn’t understand if he were told.

Tears well in Lady Wa eyes. She touches Atsuma’s hand with her finger tips to stop her from speaking. She can see part of the dream in Master Wabi’s eyes. Everything is about to change. In a moment there will be unspeakable sorrow, violence, and anger. It has to be this way. There’s nothing she can do. Well, there isn’t much. She begins creating calm. They will need calm.

“Master Yeto was executed this morning in Qualin. Many were executed, Joshu.”

Baso narrows his eyes. “How?” He begins, then stops.

Master Wabi ignores him. “The Emperor has issued an edict banning books, knowledge. Books were burned and hundreds of scholars thrown into pits and buried alive.”

“But, Master Yeto, begins Pa Kua, and ends there.

“Master Yeto was a scholar, Pa Kua. and in the Emperor’s eyes, a dissident. He fought the Emperor the only way he could and gave his live to save what was important to him.”

Baso and Joshu are looking at the table with vacant eyes. Pa Kua turns away to hide his eyes. Master Yeto had been like a father, more than a father. He raised all three of them.

Atsuma looks about in confusion. “Joshu, forgive me. Who is Master Yeto?

“Our teacher. He trained the three of us from the time we were children.” He looks sadly into her eyes, unsure how to describe who Master Yeto was to him. “He gave me his sword.” Joshu’s voice sounds forced, fading away, even in his own ears. Suddenly he leaps to his feet. “Lissu. Lissu did this,” he shouts at Master Wabi, his voice breaking. “Didn’t he?

The name of Lissu, has Atsuma on her feet. “Lissu,” she shouts back, her uncertainty vanishing. “What do you know of Lissu?” She’s a warrior now, one with a simple solution for the Lissu’s of the world.

Master Wabi raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Of course Lissu is behind it, Joshu. He’s the Emperor’s Grand Counselor and mad with hate. No one else has the power or the will to create such difficulties.”
Joshu is trying to listen to Master Wabi while ignoring Atsuma, difficult for him under the best of conditions. “What?” He snaps, irritated and confused.

Atsuma interrupts, “This Lissu, what does he look like?”

Master Wabi has other things on his mind and doesn’t pay her question the attention he should have, being something less than perfect. “Much like Joshu, I imagine, older of course, and thinner. They’re brothers. What does it matter what he looks like?” Suddenly irritated by her interrupting him.

Atsuma’s hand cracks against Joshu face, driving him to the floor, the sound of it echoes throughout the dining hall. Only the monastery’s rule against carrying a sword kept Joshu’s head on his shoulders. A fact lost on Joshu, too dazed to be furious, but headed in that direction. Pa Kua and Baso sit back down. They hadn’t paid any attention to how it started, their thoughts on Master Yeto, likely Joshu deserved it. They look down at him on the floor with disapproval, thinking it is a poor time to be fooling around. Lady Wa is on her feet too, shocked, confused, and wishing she was still sitting down, which she does as inconspicuously as possible. When she raises her eyes, Master Wabi is looking at Atsuma, suddenly he glances back at her, slowly lifting that dubious eyebrow. She shrugs and looks away as though unconcerned, which wasn’t entirely true. She’d told him Atsuma was fine, not the least homicidal. She pointedly looks at Baso and Pa Kua. They aren’t worried, are they? No one’s bleeding. She lifts an eyebrow back. It takes a few moments for Joshu’s head to clear, which is good. Giving Atsuma time to remember her promise to Lady Wa. Lady Wa gives her a look too, a reminder of her promise. She inhales deeply and tries to be calm. She promised not to kill him, fine. Still, he lied to her, or didn’t tell her everything, which is the same thing.

Joshu isn’t angry, but feels he should be, but that too is passing quickly. “Who else?” Joshu voice startles everyone.

“I wanted to tell you, I‘m sorry Joshu, your father, Lord Sunza was executed as well.”

“You. You’re Lissu’s brother?” Atsuma screams, having given up being calm. He betrayed her, deceived her. A dangerous glow burns her cheeks, making her eyes water.

He keeps his eyes on Master Wabi and ignores her. “My father? How, how did he?” He can’t go on.
“Does it matter how?” Master Wabi answers softly, wishing he was better at this sort of thing. “He died bravely.”

Joshu’s shoulders slump. “Master Yeto, my father. What of Lord Pohan and Lord Mozuto?” Baso and Pa Kua’s head jerk up.

Master Wabi catches Baso and Pa Kua with the corner of his eye, holding them as he turns. “Lissu hated Master Yeto, and Lord Sunza, he wanted them dead, but he also wanted to provoke a riot so that he could destroy Qualin. They all knew that. They knew that the only way Lissu could be defeated was if there was no fighting. Lord Pohan and Lord Musuto’s duty was to stop the people from rioting and giving Lissu the excuse he needs to destroy Qualin. So far they have been successful. There has been no fighting.” He seemed to be struggling with something he didn’t want to say. “There’s still much to do.”

Joshu struggles to his feet. His jaw is not entirely where it should be, it hurts to talk. “You knew.” His voice is soft in the silence of the dining hall. Behind him, he hears Baso and Pa Kua stand again. “You knew.” It comes out of them like an echo. Joshu is trembling now, hurt in his eyes as he stares accusingly at Master Wabi. “They sent us away. That’s what all this is about, isn’t it, They wanted us out of Qualin?”

Master Wabi’s sigh sounds loud in the sudden silence. “Know?” Master Wabi rolls the word around on his tongue. Tasting it as one might taste a lentil in a pot of rice. “I know that if you pick up a snake by its tail, it will try to bite you. It’s the nature of a snake.” He’d lost them. It was in their eyes. “Yes, I knew. Answers are all around us.” He coughs quietly, “All that’s required is the question.” They didn’t understand that either. “I knew Lissu would return to Qualin, hatred like his leaves it’s sign. The man is full of hate, it had to come out. He wanted to punish your father, Master Yeto, the city, everyone. He’s a crazy man who thinks he’s sane, the worst kind of crazy. He needed a reason to destroy so much. The executions were harsh. He wanted the people to resist, to fight. Then he could destroy the city. I brought it to Master Yeto’s attention.” He stared at them all, no one spoke, waiting for him to finish. “They could not allow Lissu to destroy Qualin. That’s their nature.”

“Why didn’t they tell us?”

Master Wabi looks perplexed, then disgusted. “They sent the three of you to me because you’re bull headed and arrogant. That is your nature. When did you ever listen?” The room is quiet. They want to argue. They want to tell him he’s wrong, but he isn’t, and they know it, which makes it worse. There’s nothing to say and the silence is irritating. For all that, they feel a strange sense of calm. One they hardly notice.

Atsuma studies the workmanship of the woven mats on the floor as if she had never seen one. Embarrassed, she turns to Master Wabi, “Was I sent to you, too?”

“You’re supposed to be here.”

“Why,” with sincere wonder in her voice.

“Same reason,” he snaps.

She looks back down at the floor, then over at Joshu. Her voice softens. “Lord Sunza, he’s your father?”

Joshu takes a step back, not recognizing her tone of voice. There’s a ringing in his ears, but it isn’t that. Her contriteness is disturbing. It must be wrong to feel what he’s feeling. The news of his father is like a bad dream. He should have woken up by now. Now Atsuma is being nice, he wants to continue dreaming. It’s confusing. “Yes, Atsuma.”

“My father was called Shiko. He often spoke of Lord Sunza when I was little. And Battalion Leader Yeto and his lieutenants Mozuto and Pohan. My father fought at the Battle of the Lower Pass, too. I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize ‘Master’ Yeto.” Her voice dies out.

“No one wanted to talk about the Battle of the Lower Pass in Qualin. If you asked about it, you got your ear pinched or worse. We stopped asking about it.” Joshu’s mind is somewhere else, his voice sounds distant, wistful.

Suddenly Atsuma turns to Master Wabi. “Is that why we’re here?”

“Arrogant, and bullheaded being insufficient?” Master Wabi’s stick appears in his hand. It seems to come and go of late. He taps it against the floor a few times to get everyone’s attention. “Why are we anywhere? We’re born, we learn a thing or two, we die. Each of us has a reason for being here.”

“Even you?” Pa Kua looks down quickly, embarrassed. He feels Master Wabi’s eyes warm the top of his head.

“Some have a great deal to work through before passing on. Other’s are like wandering stars, a flash and they’re no more. There’s much to do.” It’s seems minutes before anyone speaks.
“We are supposed to be here?” Baso sounds skeptical, his voice tentative.

Again Master Wabi ignores him. “Master Yeto sent the three of you to me, with your fathers’ blessings. They believed, correctly, that your superior fighting skills and poor judgment would get you killed and Qualin destroyed. Master Yeto was a very insightful man. The Mother sent you, Atsuma, although your instructions were different. Not that you listened. You were all told to obey me. Did you not find that strange? Obey a woodcarver?”

Joshu nods. He looks at Baso and Pa Kua. They’re quiet, listening, thinking the same thing. Master Yeto, their fathers, they all knew Master Wabi. No one knows what to say.

“Master Wabi, you are not a woodcarver.”

“But I’m, Pa Kua. Indeed I am. I carve the wood of ignorance, dense, curly grained, and green. There is no better description of the three of you. If you recall, we had this conversation before, you must learn to pay attention.”

Pa Kua looks up, “No one told us. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Tell you what? That you’re green wood? Do you call stupid people, stupid? Didn’t I say the work is demanding and sometimes, one cracks? How much clearer can one be? Who learns from being told something, anyway? Certainly not any of you. Words, useless things, waste of time. Awareness comes from doing. You are what you do, no one does it for you.”

“You sent for us, to teach us?” Atsuma sounds dubious.

“Teach, carve. Clumsy things, words. Yes, something like that. Guide, perhaps. Pay attention, Atsuma.”

Atsuma swept her arm around the room. “Guide, then. Well? Now what?” She thinks she knows where this is going. More of that “Way of the Sword/No Sword” nonsense. No sword? She doesn’t want to go there. She needs her sword to cut Lissu into dog meat.

“First, there is someone you must meet. Then, we must stop the Emperor before he can do more harm.”
“The Emperor? What about Lissu,” Lady Wa asks.

Atsuma starts to speak. Master Wabi’s interrupts her.

“What has Lissu done to you,” he growls at Lady Wa?

Lady Wa scowls back, unwilling to growl. “This creature, Lissu. What are you going to do with him?”
“I’m not even sure what I’m going to do with the Emperor,” Master Wabi replies warily. “Lissu is a tick who will fall away as soon as the dog dies.” He says it in a consoling tone, perplexed by Lady Wa concern.

“Well, I don’t want this tick to fall away,” Atsuma shouts. “I want to burn his butt.” Her voice rises as she becomes animated. “I want to twist him out and squash him., and proceeds to act it out, lest anyone misunderstand her. ” In the midst of her stomping and twisting she realizes she’s out of control. She slows, then stops, her face burning. No one says a word. First Joshu, now this. Calm. She must be calm. She clutches her hands behind her back and studies the floor again.

“It would appear so,” Master Wabi says and coughs gently.

Lady Wa glares at Master Wabi, her eyebrows arching in disapproval. Atsuma will not let Lissu’s fate hang unresolved. And poor Joshu, how cruel to tell him of his father’s death in such a fashion. “It appears you have no plan at all. Changing it will not be difficult.” She sniffs primly. “This Emperor must be punished and Lissu as well. Whatever you decide to do with the Emperor, you can just include Lissu. We will be satisfied then, won’t we, Atsuma, Joshu?”