The Ming Storm

by Yan LeiSheng

  An ironic smile stayed on Wang Yangming’s face as he went on his way.

  Chapter 7

  The Xiaoling tomb in Nanjing covered an area of over two thousand five hundred mous10 and encompassed almost all of Zhongshan. It had taken almost twenty-five years to complete the final resting place of the founder of the Ming dynasty, Emperor Hongwu.

  10 An old unit of measure equivalent to a fifteenth of a hectare.

  While Nanjing was officially one of the two capitals of the empire, it was solely in name , and only disgraced civil servants or those at the end of their careers were sent there. Nonetheless, Chen Xijian carried out his duties as keeper of the tomb with exemplary professionalism, despite the increasing desertification of the area. The region’s inhabitants worried about inadvertently breaking one of the numerous laws governing the place, as the punishments inflicted were terrible: twenty-four strikes with a stick for cutting wood, disturbing the soil or bringing a herd to graze on the grounds of the mausoleum; twenty-five strikes with a stick for those who entered the building or approached the tumulus without permission; and the death of a thousand cuts for any who broke anything within the tomb, and banishment for their entire family. And any who witnessed a violation but failed to report it could face one hundred strikes with a stick and exile to a location at least three thousand lis distant.

  And so it was frequented only by the stooped old eunuchs sweeping the grounds in the vain hope that a ritual feast might one day deign to be held there. Yet Chen Xijian was not lazy: wind or snow, every morning and evening he inspected the five lis between the Golden Water Bridge and the arch where visitors dismounted their horses, a not insignificant task for a septuagenarian like himself, and it took him some considerable time. He knew that, despite his hopes to the contrary, this post would undoubtedly be his last and that it could have been worse, one way or another. His companion on the other hand did not share this opinion. That said, at his age, it was quite normal that Xiao Dezi – as he was named – who was just twenty years old and had been a eunuch only for several seasons, complained of having to work in such a dreary place…

  Even when Xijian complained, he still had an authoritarian air, as if to remind those around him that he was a member of Uncle Zhang’s family and deserved better than this position as head attendant of the mausoleum. But he had lost all his influence at court when the emperor changed and unlike the leader of the Tigers, he was not a follower of the yelikewen faith, which did not count in his favor.

  “I’ve become a worthless old machine,” he sighed as night fell. From the great golden gate, he could see the arch where visitors were required to dismount from their horses, with the inscription ordering visitors to do so seeming to dissolve into the gloom.

  As he remained standing still, Xiao Dezi asked him, “Uncle Chen, you’re not going as far as the arch today?”

  “That will do for tonight. Write that nothing has happened today.”

  His companion nodded while thinking that nothing ever happened anyway. He couldn’t stand his master any more. “Pretentious old fool,” he thought to himself, “you’ll get yourself killed eventually if you continue with your grand airs. You will regret it one day.”

  Seeing the annoyance in his eyes, Xijian fingered the silver coins he carried against his chest.

  “Dezi,” he said, “given that the last two days have been difficult, you can have the day off tomorrow. Would you like to take advantage of us being near the town and clear your head there this evening? I have a little money for you.”

  This generous offer was so unexpected coming from his miserly master, who had never offered him the smallest bonus, that the young man almost couldn’t believe his ears. But his eyes were already fixed on the five or six taels on Chen Xijian’s open palm. The master knew that his assistant was going to get drunk, because after all, no man in this world could live without women and wine, he thought, and as a eunuch, Xiao Dezi could only enjoy the pleasures of drink. Of course, he was not allowed to buy wine in Zhongshan, and certainly not to consume it at the Xiaoling tomb, but this money would allow him to purchase a good meal and several pitchers of wine in the city. He was already imagining the hustle and bustle of the city and the boats floating like clouds on the river Qinhuai like in a traditional painting, as well as the salted duck he would buy in Nanjing, accompanied by stuffed donuts… His mouth watered.

  “But, Uncle Chen, how can I…”

  “You have served me well for several years, it’s the least I can do. Take this money and go to the Spring River Pavilion, you can bring me half a duck on your way back.”

  Famous for its duck and its wines and liquors, the Spring River Pavilion was Dezi’s favorite restaurant when he went searching for a drink. Even better, the place had applied a ten-percent discount for attendants at the mausoleum ever since it was founded, partly funded by a eunuch. Five or six taels was more than enough for a feast, even after buying the half-duck for the old man.

  “Uncle Chen, I will get you a wonderful fatty half-duck,” Dezi promised before his master changed his mind.

  “Perfect. Make sure you say the duck is for me, and that I would like it prepared by Master Yao and no one else.”

  “How does a crusty old man like him know the managers at Spring River Pavilion? Never mind, knowing the name of the boss might get me preferential treatment,” thought the young man as he reached to take the coins.

  “Thank you, Uncle Chen, I will go immediately.”

  While he normally failed to bow and generally cut short his courtesies, this time he bowed without being reminded, before following the path down the hill towards the city. Chen Xijian walked up the hill, hands pressed to his back.

  Arriving at the Square Tower, he brushed the base of the stele that stood there – he would have no peace of mind if even a single dead leaf lay there. Erected in the eleventh year of Yongle’s reign, it bore the inscription Stele to the miraculous benevolence of the Xiaoling mausoleum of the Ming dynasty, and it was rumored to perform miracles. Looking up as he contemplated it, the official looked as if he were about to be crushed by the monument, which was tall as six or seven men and casting a long shadow as it was silhouetted against the setting sun.

  The stele stood on the back of a sculpture representing Bixi – a tortoise – one of the nine sons of the dragon king, given the role of carrying stelae due to his strength. The statue itself was so tall that Chen Xijian looked like a stalk of mustard in comparison.

  Night fell quickly during this season, particularly around the mausoleum where tree cutting was prohibited. The faint light remaining around the Great Gate suddenly disappeared, absorbed by the walls of the Square Tower. As his shadow faded into the gloom, the old official suddenly had the feeling he was no longer alone. He seized the brass vajra resting next to a ritual bell at the foot of the stele and rushed to the other side, where to his astonishment and anguish he discovered a silhouette dressed in a dark cape which faded into the growing darkness so as to be almost invisible.

  He pointed his weapon at it, ready to stab it through the heart.

  “Did Uncle Zhang send you to kill me?” he asked in a deep voice.

  The vajra had been given to him by a great tantric master named Singgibandan. This important figure in mizong, esoteric Buddhism, was an expert in the use of kundalini, a latent human energy he had trained Chen Xijian to use. He had reached levels five and six in his practice.

  Singgibandan viewed progression in the use of kundalini as a scale with five stages – smoke, yang flame, campfire, lantern, and cloudless sky – and eight virtues – contained vitality, humidity, abundant heat, peace, lack of envy, purity, invisibility, and unfettered.

  The martial artist who attained the seventh virtue could move without being seen by anyone; past the eighth, they would be able to pass through a mountain, free themselves of all constraints, achieve complete freedom. For the master
who also attained the five stages, nothing was impossible.

  Despite training for a long time, Chen Xijian had only achieved the yang flame and the virtue of peace. Though he might never achieve a high level, his skill conferred upon him an above-average level of agility and vitality. Sometimes Xiao Dezi had trouble keeping up with him on their daily travels, despite his age. When he drew on his inner heat through his tantric mastery, it was as if he were filled with an incredible strength.

  The troubling visitor seemed surprised by this show of vitality, but still rushed to the front of the stele and adopted a defensive posture, stepping back each time the old man advanced. Chen Xijian had the upper hand, but if this dance continued for too long, he would undoubtedly tire before his adversary. He took a deep breath and was readying himself to launch an attack when the silhouette suddenly spoke.

  “Uncle Chen, don’t you recognize me?” it asked.

  The voice hit him with a wave of familiarity. He almost choked with sobs of relief and joy.

  “Miss… The imperial… favorite!”

  Shao Jun was reassured by this reaction. She didn’t need any more proof to convince her that the old man was not in the pay of Zhang Yong.

  “Yes, it’s really me… but I no longer bear that title.”

  “Miss, you will always be the imperial favorite in my eyes. But why have you come to visit an old imperial slave like me?”

  The first time he had seen her, she had just been promoted concubine, and Emperor Zhengde had taken her to the Leopard Quarter to show her the tame hawks he had recently acquired. The other eunuchs had shown her little respect, but Chen Xijian, always irreproachable in his manners and greeting, had bowed deeply and sincerely before her. Later, when he had surprised her when she spied on the shadowy operations taking place in the Leopard Quarter, he had hidden her so she could return safely instead of reporting her offense, despite its seriousness. He had also remained at the Emperor’s deathbed to his very last breath when he had succumbed to an illness after falling into water, and had thus been present on the day Zhengde gave the scroll to Shao Jun. His own life had been turned upside down when Zhang Yong had sent him to Nanjing to attend the Xiaoling mausoleum and keep him away from official business.

  The years had passed and the young woman had matured as the old man had weakened, but her voice was the same. The former imperial favorite felt a wave of nostalgia.

  “Uncle Chen, do you know my current status?” she asked.

  “Of course. But even though I already have one foot in the grave, I could never see you as a criminal as long as I walk this earth. You will always be the imperial favorite to me.”

  The steward’s caution set the young woman a little on edge, but his complete lack of hostility was encouraging.

  “Uncle Chen, you thought I’d been sent by Zhang Yong… Why would he want to kill you?”

  He lowered his head and was silent for a moment.

  “Miss Favorite, that does not concern you. But if I may give you some advice, you should go. This humble imperial slave will not tell anyone of your visit.”

  She realized he feared more for her life than he did his own.

  “You fear that Zhang Yong will come after you if he learns I visited you.”

  After a febrile silence, he responded, “This is not the place to have this discussion. Follow me!”

  Beyond the Square Tower, the Spirit Way ran straight for several lis before veering towards Plum Blossom Hill, which housed the tomb of Sun Quan, the first of the Wu emperors. The commander in chief of the works on the Xiaoling mausoleum had suggested to Emperor Hongwu that it could be moved, but he had been firmly opposed to disturbing the proud warrior’s eternal rest. And so, the Spirit Way took its current path, resembling that of the Great Bear.

  In one of the curves the road made to avoid the hill lay a small pavilion surrounded by trees, usually serving as a lodge on wet or snowy days for the eunuchs who normally lived in buildings on either side of the Golden Waters. As it was currently unoccupied, Chen Xijian invited the young woman to enter.

  While she remained on her guard as a precaution, she didn’t feel in danger, partly because she was convinced that the old man still bore an unyielding loyalty to the dead Emperor, and partly because she knew her martial skills were of a higher level than his, having seen them demonstrated near the stele. What’s more, she had arrived suddenly and it was therefore impossible for him to have prepared an ambush, particularly with so few people around.

  “Uncle Chen…” she whispered.

  He struck his flint to light a candle on a candleholder resting on the central table.

  “Here we are safe from eavesdroppers, Miss Favorite. Please, sit.”

  The pavilion’s location had been chosen to ensure that it was not visible from the Spirit Way, as it had once housed high-ranking officials come to pay homage to the deceased emperors. Like all the buildings within the Xiaoling mausoleum, its red walls were topped with splendid varnished tiles, but the interior was much more basic, featuring only a table, a bench, several bamboo chairs and clothing hooks on the wall. No visitors used it any more.

  Seeing the austerity of the room, Shao Jun thought that the old man’s demotion could not have been easy to bear; his living conditions at the palace had been much more comfortable.

  “Uncle Chen, I’m sorry you were sent here.”

  “It’s nothing,” he responded with a bitter smile. “Tell me what brings you here.”

  She hesitated for a moment, then made her decision.

  “Can you tell me more about what happened at the Xifan pavilion?”

  Chen Xijian’s hand, which had been in the process of lighting a second candle, began to shake.

  “Ah, so that’s it.”

  “What are you saying?”

  He gave her a rueful smile.

  “We had only met on a few occasions at the time.”

  “Yes, three times.”

  “I saw you four times,” he said with a small smile. “But you didn’t notice me when I caught you spying on the pavilion.”

  “Of course,” she responded impassively.

  He regarded the young woman almost half a century his junior with admiration. She must be talented indeed to have caught the Emperor’s attention and elevated herself to the rank of imperial favorite, and have extraordinary strength of character to overcome the collapse of her dreams and former life.

  “When Zhang Yong sacked the palace to find all the objects left by the deceased Emperor, I knew it must have something to do with your disappearance.”

  “But what was happening in the Xifan pavilion?” Shao Jun pushed, frowning.

  A gust of wind rushed in through one of the torn paper windows, blowing out the candles. Chen Xijian hurried to re-light them.

  “Are you sure you want to know?” he asked, his face marked with pain and sadness. “I-I’ve tried to make myself forget.”

  “Yes, I need to know the truth.”

  “Do you still have the scroll our deceased Emperor gave you before his death?”

  “In the confusion and with Zhang Yong on my tail, I didn’t have time to open it. But it wasn’t for me anyway, I was told to give it to someone.”

  “Was that person Yang Tinghe?”

  Yang Tinghe had been the head secretary responsible for the constitution, rites, and military affairs for twenty-seven years. Traditionally, therefore, he was considered to be the first to have served as prime minister. But during the succession, Zhang Yong had sent him back to his home village.

  “No,” Shao Jun answered, “it wasn’t him. Do you know what the scroll contained?”

  “Ah, miss, that was seventeen years ago…”

  At the time Shao Jun hadn’t yet celebrated her sixth birthday and had no inkling of the future that awaited her, when the young Emperor Zhengde, an irreverent,
impatient, and unpredictable youth who cared little for the affairs of the country, had just ascended to the throne. During the first years of his reign, he invited Master Singgibandan from the Huguo monastery to visit and teach his faith at the palace, and was so captivated by it that he proclaimed himself the “great Buddha of Wisdom – the enlightened Sakyamuni”. One of his predecessors, Liang Wudi, had attempted to take his life three times in an attempt to hasten his reincarnation as a buddha, but Zhengde was the first in China to claim this title while still living. As ever, a crowd of extravagant individuals presented themselves at court to offer gifts to the Emperor to gain his favor. One of these presents, sent from Guangdong, was an incomplete page of a Western manuscript, covered in plans and designs and written in a language that resembled no known tongue.

  The official who had brought it claimed that it came from a volume in which a mysterious Western soldier had recorded the discoveries of an entire life dedicated to studying the occult. He wrote it in an incomprehensible language to protect its dangerous secrets, which he still shared with a Western king of the time to help him achieve dominance. The book could only be deciphered using an antique box whose location had been lost to time. The official had himself come into possession of this extract through a traveler from the West.

  Having always been intrigued by the unusual, Emperor Zhengde immediately charged his best magicians to work on this mysterious document, hoping that even if they were unable to translate it, they could at least obtain some small pieces of information. However, while the group of imperial magicians was largely composed of charlatans, some were true scholars. Through discussion and with the talents of some compensating for the weaknesses of others, they were able to identify within it the alchemical process needed to create a pill that grants immortality.

  “Does such a thing really exist?” gaped Shao Jun.

  Chen Xijian let out a forced laugh.