by Jin Yong
For while the Empire regards the south as unruly, law and order in this part of China is in reality maintained by a proud community of men and women who have trained for years in the martial arts. They name themselves for the symbolic landscape of rivers and lakes that is their home, the jianghu, or even the “martial forest”, the wulin, both metaphors for their community. Organised into sects, schools, clans and bands of sworn brothers, or even travelling as lone “wanderers of the lakes and rivers”, they live by a moral code they call xia. Rivalries between the sects and martial artists are fierce, moves are jealously guarded, and disputes are settled by hand-to-hand combat. But on one thing they are united: the ineptitudes of Song Empire must not be allowed to destroy their country.
Fuelled by patriotic fervour and anger at the corruption eating away at the Empire, a rebellion is taking hold of the countryside. It is up to these martial arts masters of the south to save their country from complete destruction at the hands of the northern tribes.
ANNA HOLMWOOD
Translator of this tale,
Hangzhou (modern-day Lin’an)
Chapter One
Suddenly a Snow Storm
1
THE QIANTANG RIVER STRETCHES FROM THE WEST, WHERE ITS waters swell day and night, past the new imperial capital of Lin’an and the nearby Ox Village, on to the sea in the east. Ten cypresses stand proudly along its banks, their leaves red like fire. A typical August day. The grasses are turning yellow beneath the trees and the setting sun is breaking through their branches, casting long, bleak shadows. Under the shelter of two giant pine trees, men, women and children have gathered to listen to a travelling storyteller.
The man is around fifty, a pinched figure in robes once black, now faded a blue-grey. He begins by slapping two pieces of pear wood together, and then, using a bamboo stick, he beats a steady rhythm on a small leather drum. He sings:
“Untended, the peach blossoms still open,
As fallow fields of tobacco draw the crows.
In times past, by the village well,
Families once gathered to vent their sorrows.”
The old man strikes the pieces of wood together a few more times and starts his story.
“This poem tells of villages, where ordinary people once lived, razed by Jurchen tribes and turned to rubble. One such story concerns Old Man Ye, who had a wife, a son and a daughter, but they were separated from one another by the invasion of the Jin. Years passed before they were reunited and could return to their village. After making the perilous journey back to Weizhou, they arrived to discover their home had been burned to the ground by enemy forces, and they had no choice but to make for the old capital at Kaifeng.”
He sings:
“The heavens unleash unexpected storms,
People suffer unforeseen misfortune.
“Upon arrival,” he continues, “they encountered a troop of Jin soldiers. Their commanding officer spotted the young Miss Ye, by now a beautiful young maiden, and eager to capture such a glorious prize, he jumped down from his horse and seized her. Laughing, he threw her onto his saddle and cried, ‘Pretty girl, you are coming home with me.’ What could the young Miss Ye do? She struggled with all her might to free herself from the officer’s grip. ‘If you continue to resist I will have your family killed!’ the man shouted. With that, he picked up his wolf-fang club and smashed it down on her brother’s head.
“The nether world gains a ghost, just as the mortal world loses one more soul.” He breaks again into song.
“Old Man Ye and his wife threw themselves on top of their son’s body, weeping and sobbing. The commanding officer raised his wolf-fang club and once again brought it down on the mother, and then once more on the father. Rather than cry or plead, the young Miss Ye turned to the soldier and said, ‘Sir, rest your weapon, I will go with you.’ The soldier was delighted to have persuaded her, but just as he let down his guard the young Miss Ye grabbed the sabre from his waist, unsheathed it and held the point of the blade to his chest. Was she about to avenge her family’s death?
“Alas, it was not to be. Being experienced on the battlefield, the soldier knew that if he took a deep breath, tensed his muscles and pushed against the blade, she would tumble to the ground. Then he spat in her face. ‘Whore!’
“But young Miss Ye brought the blade to her neck. That poor, innocent girl.
A beauty made of flower and moon,
And so was taken the sweetest soul that night.”
He alternates between singing and speaking, all the while beating his small drum with the bamboo stick. The crowd is entranced by the old man’s words; they snarl with rage at the soldier’s cruelty, and sigh at the young girl’s sacrifice.
“Dear friends, as the saying goes, ‘Keep honest heart and ever gods in mind. For if evil deeds go unpunished, only evil doth one find.’ The Jin have conquered half our territories, killing and burning, there is not an evil deed they have not committed. And yet no punishment is forthcoming. The officials of our great Empire are responsible for this. China has plenty of men, healthy and willing to fight, yet every time our army faces the Jin they turn and run, leaving us peasants behind to suffer. There are stories, a great many stories just like this one, north of the Yangtze. The south is a paradise in comparison, but still you live each day in fear of invasion. ‘Rather be a dog in times of peace, than a man in times of trouble.’ My name is Old Zhang, thank you for listening to the true story of young Miss Ye!”
The storyteller bangs together the two pieces of pear wood and holds out a plate to the crowd. Villagers shuffle forward and drop a few coins onto it. Old Zhang puts the coins into a pocket and starts gathering his belongings.
As the crowd disperses, a young man of about twenty pushes his way up to the storyteller. “Sir, did you just come from the north?” He is short but strong, with two hairy caterpillar eyebrows stretched across his brow. He is from the north; it can be heard in his accent.
“Yes,” the old storyteller answers, surveying him.
“Then may I buy you a drink?”
“I dare not receive such favour from a stranger,” comes the old man’s reply.
“After a few drinks we will no longer be strangers.” The young man smiles. “My name is Skyfury Guo,” he says, before pointing to a handsome, smooth-faced man behind him. “And this is Ironheart Yang. We were listening to your story, and we enjoyed it very much, but we would like to talk with you, ask you some questions. You bring news from home.”
“Not a problem, young man. Fate has brought us together today.”
Skyfury Guo leads the storyteller to the village’s only tavern and there they sit down. Qu San, the owner, hobbles to their table on his crutches and sets down two jugs of warmed rice wine, before returning to fetch snacks of broad beans, salted peanuts, dried tofu and three salted eggs. Afterwards, he sits down on a stool by the door and gazes out as the sun dips lower towards the horizon. Out in the yard his young daughter is chasing chickens.
Skyfury Guo toasts the storyteller and pushes the simple snacks towards him. “Here, please eat. Out in the countryside, we are only able to buy meat on the second and sixteenth days of the month, so I’m afraid we have none tonight. Please forgive us.”
“The wine is enough for me. From your accents it seems that you are both from the north?”
“We are from Shandong province,” Yang replies. “We came here three years ago after the Jin invaded our hometown. We fell in love with the simple life in the south, as well as the people, and stayed. You said before that the south is a paradise, with only fear of invasion to disturb the peace. Do you really think the Jin will cross the Yangtze?”
The old storyteller sighs. “It is as if gold and silver covers the ground, everywhere your eyes are met with beautiful women, such is the richness and enchantment of the south compared to the north. There isn’t a day that passes that the Jin do not think about invading. But the final decision lies not with the Jin but with the Song Imperial Court
in Lin’an.”
This surprises Skyfury Guo and Ironheart Yang. “Why do you say that?”
“We Han Chinese outnumber the Jurchen by more than a hundred to one. If the Imperial Court decided to employ honest and loyal men, our great Empire would prevail. With one hundred of our men against one of their worthless soldiers, how could the Jin army win? The northern half of our country was handed to them by three generations of useless Emperors, Huizong, Qinzong and Gaozong. Grandfather to grandson, they all entrusted our country to corrupt officials who oppressed the common people, and purged all the mighty generals who wished to fight the Jin. Such a beautiful land and they gave it away! If the Imperial Court continues to fill its grand halls with corrupt officials, then they may as well kneel before the Jin and beg them to invade!”
“Exactly!” Skyfury Guo slams his hand down on the table, rattling the bowls, plates and chopsticks.
Ironheart Yang notices their jug of wine is empty and orders another. The three men continue cursing and drinking as Qu San goes to fetch them yet more broad beans and tofu.
“Huh!” Qu San snorts, placing the dishes on the table.
“What is it, Qu San? You disagree?”
“Good cursing! Great cursing! Nothing wrong with that. But do you suppose it would have made any difference if the officials had not been corrupt? With such useless Emperors, generations of them no less, it would have made no difference if the officials had been as honest and good-hearted as the Buddha himself.” He turns and shuffles to his stool in the corner, from where he goes back to gazing at a sky now filled with stars. Qu San has a young face for his forty years, but his back is hunched and wisps of white are threaded through his black hair. From behind he looks like an old man, much aged since losing his wife. He moved to Ox Village only a year or so ago with his daughter, fleeing painful memories.
The three men look at each other in silence, until presently the storyteller speaks. “Yes, you are right. That is quite true.”
Bang! Skyfury Guo slams his hand down on the table once again, this time knocking over a bowl of wine. “Shameful! Disgraceful! How did these sorry excuses for men ever become Emperor?”
“Xiaozong succeeded Gaozong,” the storyteller replies with renewed energy, “and Guangzong succeeded him, and all the while the Jin have controlled half of China. Now Emperor Ningzong has succeeded Guangzong. And all he does is take orders from Chancellor Han. What is our future? It’s hard to say.”
“What do you mean?” cries Skyfury Guo. “We are in the countryside, not Lin’an. No-one is going to cut your head off here. There is not a person in the whole of China who does not call Chancellor Han a crook!”
Now that the topic has moved on to current politics, the old storyteller is beginning to feel nervous and dares not speak straight from the heart as before. He downs another bowl of rice wine and says, “Thank you, gentlemen, for the wine. But before I go, may I offer a modest word of advice? I know you are both passionate men, but still, it is best to be cautious in both word and deed. This is the only way to avoid calamity. With things as they are, the best we normal folk can hope to do is muddle along. Ah, it is just like the old song:
Surrounded by mountains, dancing in halls,
The shores of West Lake echo in song.
Southern fragrances entice and intoxicate
As drunkenly our noblemen mistake Lin’an for Kaifeng!”
“What’s the story behind that song?” Yang asks.
“There is no story,” the old man says, pushing himself to his feet with great effort. “The officials care only for parties and pleasures, and as long as that is the case, they won’t be trying to recover the north any time soon.”
And so the drunken storyteller takes his leave.
2
IT WAS DURING THE THIRD WATCH LATER THAT NIGHT. SKYFURY Guo and Ironheart Yang had been waiting for more than two hours to spear a boar or a muntjac in the woods seven li west of the village, but it was looking increasingly unlikely they would catch anything and they were losing patience.
At that moment a loud smack of wood against metal echoed around the woodland from beyond the tree line. Skyfury and Ironheart looked at each other.
Then came the sound of men shouting:
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Stop, now!”
A shadow had entered the woods and was running in their direction. The moonlight caught a man’s robes and Guo and Yang were able to make him out. It was Qu San. He was jabbing his wooden crutches into the undergrowth. Knowing that he would struggle to outrun the men following him, Qu San flew straight up into the air and back down behind a nearby tree. Guo and Yang looked at each other in astonishment.
“Qu San practises martial arts?”
By now Qu San’s pursuers had reached the edge of the woods. There were three of them, and they stopped, whispered something to each other, and began to walk towards Guo and Yang. They were dressed in military clothing and each carried a sabre, their blades flashing a cold green in the moonlight.
“Damned cripple! We can see you. Come out and surrender!”
Qu San stood utterly still behind his tree. The men were waving their weapons like machetes, swinging and chopping through the straggly bushes, slowly edging closer.
Just then: Thump! Qu San thrust his right crutch out from behind the tree, hitting one of the men squarely in the chest and sending him lurching backwards with a yelp. Startled, the other two men waved their blades in the direction of the tree.
Using his right crutch for leverage, Qu San flew up to the left, dodging the flailing blades and thrusting his other crutch in one man’s face. The man tried to block the crutch with his sabre, but Qu San pulled back and swung his right crutch at the other man’s stomach. Though he needed the crutches to support himself, he wielded them with speed and elegance.
A sabre cut into Qu San’s bundle, ripping the cloth and spilling its contents all over the forest floor. Taking advantage of the distraction, Qu San smashed his crutch down onto one man’s head, knocking him to the ground. Terrified, the last soldier turned to run. Qu San reached between the folds in his robe, and with a sharp flick of his wrist hurled something at him as he fled. It glinted an inky black as it sailed through the air, drawing a curve and landing on the back of the soldier’s head with a dull thud. The man howled and dropped his sabre, his arms waving wildly. He fell forward as if in slow motion, and landed in a crumpled heap on the ground. His body spasmed twice, and then he was still.
Guo and Yang watched, their hearts thumping, hardly able to catch their breath. “He just killed government officials. That’s punishable by death.” Guo gasped. “If he sees us he’ll kill us too, to keep us quiet.”
But they had not hidden themselves as well as they had thought. Qu San turned towards them and called out: “Master Guo, Master Yang, you can come out now!” Reluctantly they rose to their feet, grasping their pitchforks so tightly their knuckles turned white. Yang looked at his friend and then took two steps forward.
“Master Yang,” Qu San said with a smile. “Your family’s spear technique is famous throughout our land, but in the absence of a spear, a pitchfork will have to do. Your best friend Guo, however, prefers to fight with a double halberd. The pitchfork doesn’t fit his skills. Such friendship is rare!”
Yang felt exposed; Qu San had all but read his mind.
“Master Guo,” Qu San continued. “Let’s imagine you had your double halberd with you. Do you think together you could beat me?”
Guo shook his head. “No, we couldn’t. We must have been blind not to have noticed you were a fellow practitioner of the martial arts. A master, even.”
“I don’t have full use of my legs. How can I be considered a master?” Qu San shook his head and sighed. “Before my injury, I would have defeated those guards effortlessly.”
Guo and Yang glanced at each other, not sure how to respond.
“Would you help me bury them?” Qu San continued.
/> They looked at each other again, and nodded.
The two men did their best to dig a large hole using their pitchforks. As they were burying the last body, Yang noticed the black, round object sticking out of the back of the dead man’s head. Yang tugged at it and succeeded in pulling it out. He had seen one of these before. A steel Taoist Eight Trigram disk. He wiped the blood onto the dead man’s uniform and handed it back to Qu San.
“My sincerest gratitude.” Qu San took the Eight Trigram disk and put it back inside his robe. He then spread his outer robe on the ground and started to gather his belongings. Guo and Yang finished shovelling soil into the makeshift grave, and then turned to look at Qu San’s collection, which included three scrolls, as well as several shiny metal trinkets. Qu San put a gold jug and bowl to one side. After tying up his bundle he handed the jug and bowl to the two men. “I stole these from the Royal Palace at Lin’an. The Emperor has done enough harm to the peasants, it’s not really a crime to take something back. Consider these a gift from me.”
Neither man moved.
“Are you afraid to accept them, or is it that you don’t want them?”
“We did nothing to deserve such gifts,” Guo replied. “That’s why we can’t accept them. As for tonight, you don’t have to worry about a thing, Brother Qu. Your secret is safe with us.”
“Ha!” Qu San scoffed. “Why should I be worried? I know all about you – why else would I let you walk away alive? Master Guo, you are the descendant of Prosperity Guo, one of the heroes of the Marshes of Mount Liang. You are skilled in the use of the halberd, as taught to you in accordance with your family’s customs, only your halberd is short rather than long, and has two blades instead of one. Master Yang, your ancestor is Triumph Yang, one of the commanders who served under the beloved General Yue. You are both descended from two of this country’s most loved and respected patriots. When the Jin army conquered the north, you began wandering the lakes and rivers of the south, practising your martial arts. It was then that you became brothers-in-arms. Together you moved here to Ox Village. Am I right so far?”
