Chapter XLVII (Alternate Version)

Gong Fu

The following passage has recently come to hand, and I believe it represents a fuller, more accurate version of Chapter XLVII. I am attempting now to reconcile this version of events with those recounted previously and will work to correct Chapters XLVIII and XLVIX, as well[DL].

“He was a traitor to his people! He got exactly what he deserved.”

“But isn’t it possible that he was trying to make up for his past errors of judgment? What he did, he did only for love.”

The topic of discussion was General Wu Sangui and his defeat some ten years prior by the armies of the Qing.

After he’d allowed the Manchurians into the country and helped them to crush the rebel army of Li Zicheng, Wu had been granted the title Prince of the South and given complete dominion over an area extending from Yunnan Province to Hunan Province: for all purposes, a small kingdom of his own, with the understanding that—as long as he caused no trouble for Peking—Peking would cause no trouble for him. Which of course was fine in theory, but this uneasy arrangement couldn’t last forever.

In 1674, Wu and two other powerful princes of the south had organized a rebellion, and Wu had declared himself the founder of a new Zhou Dynasty. The war that followed, known among the Qing as the Uprising of the Three Feudatories, lasted four years before it was quelled; much to the embarrassment of the Manchurians, the outcome had been determined more through internal bickering among the Three Feudatories than from any overwhelming military might on the part of the Qing.

There had been a great amount of popular support for the rebellion among the native Chinese, many of whom seemed to think that even the worst of Chinese Emperors would be preferable to the best of Manchurians. But there were also those who regarded Wu as the reason that Manchurians sat on the throne in the first place, and they hadn’t been so quick to fall in behind him.

Loquacious Yu was disposed towards the former point of view, while Golden Abacus Lu leaned more towards the latter, and consequently I’d heard some variation on this argument every night for the past week.

“There can be no justification for what he did,” Golden Abacus insisted. “Especially not a justification so insubstantial as ‘love.’ And I hardly find it stirring that he decided to make his reparations after thirty years of enjoying the fruits of his misdeeds, when he was already an old man and had nothing to lose. I think that you’re sympathizing a bit too closely with the character that you play in our dramas. Remember, no matter how much honor you bring to your portrayal, it doesn’t change the fact that the man himself was a traitor.”

“Even so,” Loquacious nodded. “He had a better chance than anyone else of actually driving the Manchurians from the country, and he should have been more supported for that fact alone.”

“Well, forgive me if I didn’t find the prospect of living under the rule of a traitor to be much preferable to living under the rule of foreigners.”

“And who do you suggest would have been a better alternative? The Ming princes have all been killed. The great Guoxingye’s line has been all but wiped out. And the dragon slayer societies have no real power. It was people like you, placing your faith in these insignificant third parties, who saddled us with this greater evil.”

Lu snorted. “The point is moot. The rule of the empire is an issue for Heaven to decide, as it always has been. And since Heaven clearly wasn’t in favor of the traitor Wu, I don’t even know why we’re having this conversation.”

“We’re having this conversation because, by your logic, Heaven has chosen the Manchurians to lead us! And if that is the case, then I think we can both agree that Heaven needs the help of brave men like Wu in rethinking its priorities.”

“Excuse me, gentleman,” I interrupted one night. “But in choosing whether to support an emperor, isn’t his capacity for leadership the most important concern?”

“Come again?” Loquacious Yu, scratching at the stubble on his cheek with an inquisitive finger.

“It’s just that Kangxi seems from every indication to be an enlightened emperor, attentive to the needs of all his subjects be they Chinese or Manchurian. And in contrast—from what I know of them—the Ming emperors had largely fallen into decadence and corruption by the time their reign came to an end, the court more ruled by the Emperor’s favorite eunuchs than by the officials and military men who had earned their positions by virtue of performance... There was a reason that Li Zicheng—an native Chinese—rebelled in the first place, you know. So isn’t it possible, at least, that this change has actually been for the best, despite the fact that the current dynasty happens to be of a different ethnic origin?”

The two of them regarded me thoughtfully for a moment before resuming their argument as if I hadn’t spoken.

The herbs and medicine that I was provided thrice daily—along with servings of a thin rice gruel that served as breakfast, lunch, and dinner—helped to ease my discomfort for hours at a time, but my condition didn’t seem to be improving in any lasting way. Each morning I awoke feeling little better than when I’d first woken within the palanquin, and as I was thus too weak to walk for any extended period of time we continued to travel under our ridiculous guise.

I say “ridiculous” because the Red Boat Players bore but little semblance to a standard bridal party, and we must have presented quite a spectacle, particularly as my escort became more bedraggled with each passing day, and the bright red of the palanquin began to give way to the dull beige of road dust. Our way was well trod by all manner of traveler—merchants, soldiers, pilgrims, monks—and I imagine that my companions must have daily regretted not choosing a less conspicuous means for my concealment, for it seemed that whatever other business travelers may have had, they could always make time to pay respect to a bride.

But as much as we could, we tried to remain inconspicuous. We passed a good number of hostelries where we might have rested more comfortably, for instance, but we made a point of only stopping in areas that were far enough removed from the road that we weren’t likely to be bothered, and I only emerged from the palanquin at night. This was not the most exciting way to travel, with no one to speak to for most of the day, but it did give me plenty of time to think. And I mostly used that time figuring how I might set about the recovery of Father Verbiest’s calendar.

It seemed to me that Miss Yang was the key. The other Red Boats might or might not have been involved in the theft, but she was the actual thief, and so I reasoned that it was she on whom I must focus my attention. For one thing, while the other Red Boats carried almost nothing with them and slept beneath the open sky or under whatever shelter we might find for the night, Miss Yang carried with her a small tent of her own, as well as a pack which contained no end of surprising things—besides face-paint and other items related to the stage, she had occasion to produce from it: a flint, a telescope, a compass, a map, a knife, an embroidered shoe, a flute, a fan, a dish, a book of Tang Dynasty poetry, a fist-sized metal ball, a candle, a mirror, a jade hairpin, a black ink-block, a red ink-block, a brush, a piece of blank parchment, and a chessboard. So even if the other Red Boats were in on her scheme, she still seemed the most likely member to be carrying the calendar.

The problem was all in how I might manage to search her possessions. She occasionally went off to gather firewood between setting up her tent and the evening meal, but even if I could enter her tent unobserved at this time, my absence would be quickly noted. No, I would have to wait until everyone was asleep.

This presented problems of its own, of course. Ideally I would be able to enter, go through her pack, find the calendar, and leave, all without waking her. But I knew that it would be unwise of me to count on this. Besides, it would be difficult to find the calendar in the dark. I had to assume that she would wake. I knew from previous experience that—though she was a woman—I was no match for her in a physical contest. So loath as I was to resort to it, it seemed but one option remained open to me. I would have to seduce her.

She had taken hold of my penis during our first encounter. It did not, therefore, seem unreasonable to me that she might find me attractive. At the very least, I could use this as an excuse for entering her tent. There was still the matter of her refusal to confess that she was the same woman whom I had met at Mr. Yi’s, but even this could be turned to my favor. A case of “mistaken identity” had justified what the Red Boats had done to me; why should I not use the same justification for my own actions?

But it was foolish to even worry about justification. The more I thought about it, the surer I felt that she would welcome me with open arms. The sky would be clear, the full moon at its zenith, guiding me to the mouth of her tent. I would carefully pull back the flap and crawl within. I would find her already awake, her acute hearing having caught the sounds of my footfall despite my stealth.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she would breathe, breast heaving beneath her blanket, still uncertain whether she was frightened or excited.

“We have unfinished business,” I’d tell her. Quiet but firm.

“About fucking time.” Then she’d smile. And from there I’d have to improvise, taking things as they came.

I occupied myself with the details of this plan—trying to imagine all of the various possible outcomes—for many nights as I lay trying to fall asleep. After seducing her, should I ask her to give me the calendar, relying on her great affection for me, or should I abuse her trust and rifle through her things while she slept exhausted after a night of unprecedented passion? In any case, I reflected, it might take several nights’ effort before I could build within her the necessary trust. But on the night that I’d finally decided to put the first step of this plan into action—the sky was clear, the moon high, just as I’d pictured it—we were attacked by a group of Qing soldiers.

The night was a confusion of clamor and motion. I was the last to realize what was happening. Surrounded, we’d been followed; they’d waited until they were certain we were all asleep. But I was correct about the acuity of Miss Yang’s hearing. And that of her fellow Red Boats. I heard and saw them, on their feet, ready to fight, before I heard or saw anything of the troops who were closing in from all sides. A vision of the Foul-Mouthed Phoenix emerging from her tent and wrapping her robe tight around her heaving breast as a cloud passed over the moon.

“Up!” said Loquacious Yu, at my side.

I scrambled to my feet.

“Can you handle a sword?” he asked.

“What?”

Loquacious raised a sword of his own—I hadn’t observed it in his hand—whipped it around the side of my head, and parried the thrust of a red-tasseled spear that had been directed at my back by the first of the Qing troops I was to see.

“Can you handle a sword?” he repeated, moving around me to engage the spear-soldier.

“No,” I said, quiet but firm, as I watched amazed, Loquacious Yu forcing the soldier backwards despite the superior reach of the latter’s weapon, tassel chasing tip as the sword forced the spear into a swirl then slid up its shaft to graze the soldier’s foremost hand.

“Then run,” Yu said.

I turned to obey but saw three more soldiers advancing from the opposite direction. I froze as they rushed forward, certain that death was upon me. But the Laughing Buddha stepped between us, barehanded, and with flowing circular motions managed to tangle their spears together long enough for the Little Whirlwind to incapacitate the three of them with well-placed golden needles. This was enough to break my trance. Taking no time to think, I ran past Tranquility and fumbled into the darkness.

I don’t know how long I ran. I hadn’t happened to run in the direction of the road, and the terrain became rougher as I went. Moister and more vegetative. When legs aching along with my lungs I could no longer hear the sounds of the fight, I threw myself down on the grass and mud and hoped that the brush would provide enough cover to hide me.

I was breathing hard. The excitement had temporarily counteracted my illness, but lying there on my back in the damp and leaves, I felt the nausea rise with renewed force in my stomach and the blood begin to circle vertiginous in my head. I tried to turn myself over in case the nausea decided to assert its full effect, but my vision reddened with the effort, and in a warm rush I was asleep.

The herbaceous smell of earth floated on the cold morning air. I could hear the sound of birds whistling in the distance. And then a human voice.

“Good, I thought you were dead.”

I squinted awake only to be stabbed with rays of the rising sun. It shone briefly—through black and white clouds that marbled the sky—before retreating. My eyes adjusted slowly to reveal a squat figure staring down at me. After a moment of sense-collection, I realized that the figure was Farmer Gao, and he was speaking to me in French.

“Were you injured?” he asked, hoisting up his pant legs as he stepped over a shrub to hunker beside me.

“Er, no. I don’t think so.” I raised myself on an elbow and rubbed probingly at my aching head. My entire body was sore from uncomfortable sleep. “Did that really happen?” I asked. “It was all so fast.”

“I’m afraid so,” he nodded. “You’re lucky that you slept beside a tea plant. Otherwise I don’t know how I would have found you.” His French was heavily accented, but the inflection didn’t strike me as Chinese.

“Where are the others?”

“I really can’t say. I saw you run off, and I’m rubbish when it comes to fighting, so I thought to myself, ‘He’s got the right idea’ and followed after. You’re a quick one, though. Lost me in the first quarter mile, you did.”

I rubbed at my arms for warmth as I took in our surroundings. A green field, and the shrub beside which I lay was not in any way unique: it was but one in a row, and the row itself one of many.

“Is this some sort of farm?” I asked.

Gao looked out over the field in consideration. “The impression I’m getting is a bit garbled, but I think it’s a communal plot. Not large as tea-fields go, and hardly ideally situated. Any serious tea farmer would plant at a higher altitude. Though I suppose we’re not far from Mount Tai, so I suppose...” He fell silent as he plucked a leaf from the plant beside me, rolled it between his fingers, and slipped it into his mouth. Chewing: “Not bad. I’ll have to remember this.”

“Are you English?” I asked, searching the features of his deeply tanned face.

“Welsh,” he smiled. “You’ve a good ear.”

“Do the other Red Boats know?”

“Of course! You’d have a hard time putting one over on that lot. But come now. Seeing all of this tea has given me a thirst for my morning cup. Let’s find some place where we can build a fire and have a chat.”

“You thought to grab a teapot before fleeing the battle?” I asked, once we’d settled down on a nearby patch of ground that was concealed a bit by taller trees.

“I thought to grab my entire kit before rolling out of bed,” he smiled at me over the fire. “A man has to have his priorities. Speaking of which, let’s save the talk for the moment. I need to concentrate on this water.” His eyes snapped back down to the pot, which sat on a rock beside the fire.

“A watched pot never boils,” I offered, recalling the aphorism that my brother Pedro used to cite whenever a friend came around to ask if he’d earned enough money to pay back a debt.

Gao snorted. “That may be true for old mothers cooking their soups. But the tea is a harsh mistress; a good tea-man never turns his back on the tea.”

Unsure of how to respond, I simply nodded.

“Here,” he exclaimed just as the water was beginning to bubble. “This is what they call the ‘fish-eyes.’ Large, clear bubbles, just barely managing to push up through the surface.” He grabbed some leaves from a pouch in his kit and held them out in his palm over the boiling water. “Wait for it,” he said. “There!” sprinkling the leaves into the water. “You have to wait for the ‘pearls.’” The water had just begun to roll with the foam of many tiny bubbles. Gao removed the pot from its stone and let it sit for a minute or so before pouring us each a cup.

“So what’s the plan?” I asked, accepting my cup. “Should we try to find our way back and see how the others fared?”

He shook his head and explained that he didn’t think it would do us any good. The man they’d been planning to take me to—the man who would supposedly heal me—was waiting for them in Yangzhou, and Gao thought it would best if we just continued to head that way on our own.

“If they escaped—if they survived—they’ll meet us there,” he said.

“Even though they no longer have a patient to deliver?”

He took a sip of his tea and smiled. “You were not the only one who had business with Father Abstruse. Besides, that’s where I’m headed myself. I’m new to the Red Boats and only with them as far as Yangzhou.”

I was about to ask just who Father Abstruse was, but then someone called out from the edge of the trees: “Damn!”

It was Loquacious Yu.

“I was hoping that I’d stumbled upon some of those Qing scum from last night.” He moved closer. “Instead I find you two cowards.”

“Did you fight to the death, yourself?” Gao asked. I noticed now that his Chinese was a bit flat in tone, but his meaning was clear enough.

Loquacious paused. “It’s not like that,” he protested, sitting between us. “I’d gladly have given my life if I thought it would do ay good.”

“Of course,” Gao nodded. “Have a cup and tell us how it happened that you became separated from the Red Boats.”

Loquacious accepted the proffered tea and went on: “It’s not that I ran away. I was just so caught up in killing Manchurians that I failed to notice I’d taken the battle to a location that my allies and opponents alike had yet to reach.” He took a sip of tea.

“So you have no idea what happened to the others?”

Loquacious shook his head. “I’d been chasing one particularly fearsome soldier who’d managed to nick me, and by the time I finished him off and made it back to the camp, the others were nowhere to be found. The palanquin was still there, and a pile of dead soldiers, but no Red Boats. I’m just glad I saw the smoke from your fire and found you two.”

Behind his bravado, he seemed a bit shaken.

“Drink your tea,” Farmer Gao suggested.

Over the course of the morning, Gao revealed himself to be a Welsh adventurer by the name of Jason Kohn.

“Kohn?” I echoed. “Is that a Jewish name?”

“Welsh,” he’d answered. “But I understand your confusion. The Welsh are one of the twelve tribes of Israel, and I do follow the religion of my ancestors.”

I nodded without comment and let him continue with his story. It seemed that he’d come to China to make his fortune. The future, as he saw it, was in tea.

“And so is the past,” he added, almost incidentally.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Well, when I came here, I was only concerned with the future. I saw the potential for a new market: a new national beverage. Given the early enthusiasm, it seemed a sure thing. But the Chinese charge steeply for the finished product, and they refuse to sell the plants themselves. So I came here to steal some. If the British could grow tea of their own, I thought, then prices might drop enough that the drink could gain popularity even among the lower classes. And I would stand to make quite a bit of money.”

“I see,” I replied, though I didn’t. “And how do the Red Boats figure into this?”

“It’s not a change in plan so much as a revision. They took me in because they saw my project as an opportunity to hurt the Qing economically, since the government is the only one that profits from the export fees. Besides which, I’m happy to lend them the assistance of my financial backers as long as they lend me their own assistance. And that seems to be the main reason that they’ve agreed to help me.”

“You don’t share their revolutionary goals, then?”

He shrugged. “I don’t agree with everything they do, no. Drugging you, for instance. Not that I cared at all about you, to begin with, but they were putting it in your tea. Unforgivable!”

“What? Drugging me?”

“You didn’t really think your sickness was all due to Little Whirlwind’s’s needle, did you?”

“Hold on!” Loquacious jumped in.

“What does it matter?” Gao asked, sipping his tea. “It’s not as if he’s going to hurt anyone.”

“But why?” I asked. “I thought the whole reason you kidnapped me was to heal me.”

“It was,” Loquacious said, glaring at Gao. “It all happened as we told you. The Little Whirlwind mistook you for Father White, and—”

“And we also thought it best to keep you dependent on us until we knew what to do with you. After all, you claimed to know Miss Yang.”

Loquacious shook his head.

I nodded. “So just who is this Father White, anyway?” I asked. Then, trying my luck: “And what does he have to do with the calendar that Miss Yang stole from Mr. Yi?”

“Ah, Father White. That’s a long story,” Gao said. “And I’m afraid its beginning was before my time. The Little Whirlwind doesn’t like him much. Some old injury, the shao-yin meridian, whatever that is. Which is how we got involved in this business deal with Abstruse; he’s supposedly going to cure Li as payment for our services. But that brings me back to what I was saying before. Where the Red Boats and I came together is that—like them—I was at least initially focused on the future: on the money... In China’s western regions, tea-dust is often used as a form of currency. Compacted into coin it not only makes for easy trading, but it’s also more portable for use. What I’m trying to get at, though, is that the longer I’ve been here, the more I’ve come to see that the past is where the real meaning of tea is hidden.”

“Don’t get him started on the real meaning of tea,” Loquacious interjected.

“As you may have noticed,” Gao continued without paying Loquacious any mind, “my skin is brown.”

And as he proceeded to explain, it seemed that his brown skin was not a result of exposure to the sun. Rather, it was a result of his imbruing himself with tea.

“Bathing myself in the brewed beverage every morning, rubbing the dust into my pores, I have been able to change not only the color of my skin but also the color of my thinking.”

“The color of your thinking,” I echoed, casting a look to Loquacious. His widened eyes seemed to tell me that he’d heard it all before.

“Yes,” Gao went on earnestly. “The tea has peeled open my mind like an unfolding blossom. It’s a living thing, you know. The tea. The tree. Its essence is in my very skin; it has communicated its entire lineage to me. Even now, I can hear all of the tea-plants in that field calling to me, as if through invisible waves... The plant may look like a shrub to you now, but at one time it was a tree. And this is its real meaning.”

I hmmed as if I understood.

“You have heard of the Tree of Life?” Gao asked. “Not just the tree of Eden, but—”

“The Kabbalah, yes,” I interrupted, think of Don Manuel de Uzeda. “I have a passing familiarity with the subject.”

He nodded. “You know, then, about the ten sephiroth and the twenty-two paths between them, mapping God’s creation onto the body of Adam Kadmon, and corresponding not only to the Hebrew system of numbers and letters but also to the Major Arcana of the Tarot.”

The idea of the tree mapping onto the body of a man called to mind Father Zoetmulder’s picture of Nezha and the map of Beijing, but I tried to concentrate on the discussion at hand. “Each sephirah is also a metaphor for some attribute of God himself, yes?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” he smiled. “You say ‘metaphor,’ and that’s not wrong. It has its figurative meaning. But what the tea has led me to discover is that it’s also literal. There was an actual Tree of Life. The tea tree.”

“I see.” I didn’t.

“You understand the implications, then?” he asked. But he didn’t wait for my answer. “The tea plant in its current form has been degraded by man, twisted, rendering it only fractionally as powerful as in its original form. Easier to cultivate this way, easier to harvest, but less pure. The medicinal effects of the plant in its current state are well known. It’s a miracle cure! If we could return it to its former splendor, nurture it back to the proud tree it once was, why, it could be the key to eternal life.” His expression was one of utmost sobriety, but then abruptly he laughed.

“This all sounds rather ridiculous, doesn’t it? Believe me, I realize that. But it’s just something that can’t be explained. It must be experienced.”

“So that’s your new plan, then?” I asked. “Breed the plant back towards its primal state in order to achieve eternal life?”

“Well, the Tang Dynasty poet Lu Tong once said that he didn’t care about immortality, just the taste of tea. And I think that’s the right attitude to have. To grasp for eternal life is the height of folly. Better just to focus on the taste of the tea and let the rest follow as it may.”

“All right,” Loquacious laughed nervously. “And since none of us has achieved immortality just yet, our time is limited and precious. I think we should be heading out now.”

Gao sighed and poured the last dregs of the pot into his cup.

We kept our distance from the main road, though doing our best to parallel it, trying to keep an eye out for the other Red Boats but fearful that more Qing troops might be keeping an eye out for us; I still didn’t know why they’d been searching for us in the first place, but in the moment I didn’t ask.

And Qing troops were not the only danger, either, as I seemed to recall having heard that the hills of Shandong and Jiangsu were noted for their bandits. None of us were carrying much of value, but we couldn’t reasonably expect bandits to know this until they’d killed us and searched our bodies. The thin grey clouds of morning were growing thicker now, rolling out like balls of dust and hair blown from beneath some broken clock in the back room of a curio shop long unfrequented. I could only hope that whatever bandits were about would turn out to be fair-weather thieves.

“We should be able to reach Yangzhou within the week,” Gao opined towards evening. We’d been walking for hours without rest, except for a brief stop around midday to boil a handful of rice that we took with us in balled up form and ate on the move. “It might mean a few long days. But with our food supply as low as it is, I think it’s the wisest course of action.”

Hearing him say this made me realize that my nausea had largely subsided; my legs were sore and my head still felt a bit uncomfortable, but I’d had little trouble matching the somewhat brisk pace that he and Loquacious Yu were setting.

“Is the food supply so low?” I asked.

“If we need food, it would seem there are alternatives,” Loquacious suggested with a smile, gesturing toward a plume of black smoke rising from a small valley not far off.

In a matter of minutes, the three of us were crouching behind some shrubs lining the valley’s lip, gazing down at the small encampment: a tent, a fire, a pot steaming on a stone beside. With the lowering sun I was beginning to appreciate just how deep into winter we were, and I felt an irrational stab of envy at the sight of that fire.

“Where is everyone?” Gao wondered. We’d been watching for five minutes and had yet to see anyone emerge from the tent.

“I’d be surprised if there’s more than one in the group, judging by the size of the tent,” Loquacious offered. “Perhaps he’s sleeping. Forgot he put the water on. We can’t all be as diligent as you. We might as well head down, though. Let me take the lead. With any luck we can be in and out without waking him. But if it comes to a fight, I think the three of us should be able to take him.”

“You think so?” The voice boomed at us from behind.

We all turned to find ourselves faced with a tall, smiling monk. One of his coarse hands fingered the large prayer beads that were slung around his neck while the other shot forward to strike Loquacious’s wrist, preventing him from drawing his sword.

“There will be no need for that,” he said, withdrawing his hand.

“We mean you no harm,” Loquacious nodded, rubbing at his wrist where the monk had touched him.

“Yes, I can see that,” the monk laughed. “But what a rare beauty this bride is! I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her equal.”

I was still dressed in the bridal outfit, though I’d left my headdress behind. But unless he was blind there was no way that he actually mistook me for a woman.

“She certainly doesn’t appear very comfortable, though,” he continued. “Far more yang than is healthy in a woman, I’d say at a glance. I could probably help, if she would but grant me the opportunity. In fact, I’d say that all of you could use assistance of some sort or another. Why don’t you tell me what it is that troubles you?”

“Thank you, but we don’t need your help,” Loquacious said, trying to assert some sense of confidence.

“Oh? I’ve heard there are many outlaws in these hills. Are you sure you wouldn’t feel safer if we were all together? Unless you yourself are among the very outlaws that I have heard so much about.”

“You’re like a dog chasing a mouse. What business is it of yours what our troubles are?”

“Ah!” the monk raised a finger. “But if you are the mouse, then you should know that I am not the only dog chasing you. In fact, an entire pack of running dogs is on your trail, Mr. Yu.”

“Who are you? How do you know my name?”

“Should I assist you by telling my name? It really is a dilemma. After all, you have made it only too clear that you don’t desire my assistance. So who am I to go against your wishes?”

Loquacious glared at him with pointed silence.

“Enough of such fearsome looks,” the monk eventually laughed, pulling a gourd of wine from his belt. “You are one of the famous Red Boat Players, are you not? So surely you can take a joke. I was hoping to meet your troupe before you made it too far south, and it seems I was lucky. But the only proper way to truly get acquainted is with one or two drinks, don’t you agree?”

Loquacious nodded slowly. “Very well. Down by your fire?”

The monk turned to look more closely at me and Farmer Gao. “Why don’t you and I take a walk alone, first?” he said to Loquacious without turning back to face him. “You can tell me about your European companions.” Then, to us. “But you, gentlemen, feel free to take advantage of my fire’s warmth. The water may be a bit over-boiled, but I’m sure it will still be serviceable if you wish to make yourselves some tea.”

Loquacious looked to us for a moment. “All right,” he said, finally. “Just give me a moment to confer with my comrades.”

“Of course,” the monk smiled, retreating a polite distance.

“Should we be concerned?” I asked in a whisper as we huddled closer together.

Loquacious snapped his fingers in thought. “I really don’t know. Nothing to do but go along with what he wants for now.”

“I don’t suppose you have any idea who that monk is, then, or how he knows your name?”

“No more than you.” He shrugged. “But I can tell you that his gong fu is really something special.” He spoke in an almost reverent tone. “So I imagine that if he meant us harm, we would already have felt it by now.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, genuinely confused by his choice of term. “Gong fu in what sense?”

As is so often the case in Chinese idiom, the term “gong fu” contains a cluster of meanings. I knew that it was commonly used to mean anything from “free time” to “hard work” to “personal achievement.” But I also knew that it was by no means limited to such a narrow interpretation. A generous reading of its two simple characters might even encapsulate the whole of “human endeavor,” fu being roughly equivalent to “man,” while gong combined the characters for “work” and “ability” to come up with something in between: as much “skill” as “meritorious achievement.”

Loquacious’s use of the term in this context didn’t quite fit with any of the preceding definitions. I thought it most likely that he meant “martial prowess,” which was the sense in which it was most often used in the wuxia novels of my youth. I didn’t see what basis Loquacious had for judging, but this guess turned out to be correct. And as to how he knew, I was soon to find out:

“His gong fu,” he repeated. “His skill in the martial arts.”

“But you haven’t seen him fight,” I protested. “How can you make such an assessment?”

He shrugged. “With highly accomplished masters, there’s no need to witness their skill first-hand. One with eyes to see can plainly tell that this monk’s internal strength is quite well-developed. It’s apparent in his bearing. Visible in the lightning in his eyes; audible in the thunder of his voice. Besides, there are few men who could hold my hand down when I mean to draw a sword.”

“I see,” I nodded, though the man looked like any other monk, to my eyes. On the well-built side, to be sure, but by no means the most physically imposing man I’d ever seen. Quite similar in bearing to the Laughing Buddha, in fact.

“Do you suppose he’s from Shaolin?” I asked.

“Shaolin?” Loquacious wrinkled his brow. “Why would you assume he’s from Shaolin?”

“Well, perhaps the stories I’ve read aren’t to be trusted, but in my experience it seems that the monks of Shaolin are often at the forefront of the resistance to the Qing, and the most highly skilled of martial artists. This man is a monk, and you say he’s accomplished in the martial arts...”

Loquacious let out a derisive snort.

“Hmm. I suppose that if ‘ohms’ are any measure of resistance, then the Shaolin monks could be said to be doing more for the cause than anyone else. But if you’re talking about armed insurrection, I think their commitment to inner peace keeps them pretty much out of the game.”

“You say so?”

“Is it such a surprise? In any case, I shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

And so he clapped us on the backs and trotted off to join the monk in a walk.

Gao and I watched them fade into the oncoming darkness then made our way down to the camp. The monk’s pot seemed to have been placed far enough from the fire that the boil hadn’t risen above a slight rollick. Before he even sat, Gao reached into the pouch at his belt and sprinkled some tea leaves into the water.

As we settled in, the warmth of the fire was almost enough to ease the chill of my apprehension.

“What do you know of Shaolin?” Gao asked me, removing two cups from his kit.

I pulled up the bottom of my dress so that I could better massage my aching legs. “Apparently nothing,” I told him. “Just some stories from my youth. Fighting monks, I’d heard.”

“Well, don’t let Loquacious change your mind so easily. Do you know the story of Damo?”

“The name is familiar, but that’s about all.”

He looked down at the empty tea cup in his hand as if it were an unfathomable artifact from some long-forgotten culture. With a shrug, he removed the pot from the fire and poured. “Well, I know him mostly from tea-lore. But as I understand it, not only was he the first patriarch of Chan Buddhism—the variety of the religion practiced at Shaolin—but he was also the originator of Chinese martial arts.”

“The originator?” I echoed, allowing a bit of skepticism to skew my tone. “How long ago was this? People have been fighting in this land for quite a long while, you know. And if the stories I’ve read are anything to go by, there are many styles of martial arts... It seems ridiculous to suggest that they all originated with one man.”

“Perhaps,” he nodded. “But as I understand it, this was over a thousand years ago. There’s been plenty of time for his initial teachings to take on other forms... The exact date is now lost, but it’s generally agreed that he arrived at some point during the Northern Wei Dynasty.”

“Arrived from where?”

He passed me my cup. “If you’ll indulge me, I’ll tell you the whole story.”

The Image:

A solitary windmill.

Translator’s Commentary:

This is, of course, the chapter from which this translation derives its epigraph (Quesada did not include an epigraph in his text). “Gong” combines the characters of “work” and “strength” and by itself can mean “achievement.” “Fu” is a pictograph the character for “man” (“ren”) with a hairpin, symbolizing adulthood. Quesada does a good job of summarizing their meaning when taken together.

Editor’s Judgment:

The windmill evokes Don Quixote, but Quesada’s grandfather can’t be the inspiration for that book, as he would never have gone to Zaragoza. The “Gomelez” in Viejito’s name is more interesting on that front, though. Or I suppose I should start referring to him as Hu Laowai? In any case, I should mention at this point that I’m about to start interpolating bits from the sections of the “General History of China” that were meant to apply to other dynasties besides the Ming/Qing transition. The Tang Dynasty text, for instance, fills in more of the story of Father White and Tang Xiaomei, and it would be a shame to leave that sort of thing out just because it didn’t originally fit into this volume. Also, you may recall that Quesada, ensconced in the box of scientific instruments, has a vision of the memory pavilion as a four dimensional “situational calculus,” and I believe that retelling the same basic events across separate dynasties is his way of rotating the pavilion across time, while rearranging the contents allows him to rotate it across the three dimensions of space. Future chapters, I believe, will bear me out on this.