by Gage Lee
She chose one end of the corridor and began walking.
Just before she reached the end, a young man of an age with her came around the corner wearing the loose gray pants and jacket of warrior artists, held closed by a blue-gray sash tied about his waist. The young man stopped suddenly when he saw her, surprise lighting his face. Before his reaction could be considered rude, however, he recovered his manners.
He pressed his fists together and bowed deeply to Lanfen, keeping his eyes locked on hers. It was the first time in years Lanfen had been bowed to as one equal greets another, and she thought it unlikely he would do the same if he knew her occupation. The New Tongue had dozens of speech tones for varying levels of familiarity and respect, and Lanfen was surprised once more when the young man spoke to her in a tone of kind reverence.
“You have traveled a great distance to our school, honored guest,” the young man said. “How may I make you comfortable?”
Lanfen returned his greeting bow, one hand holding her baby’s head stable against her breast as she bent.
“Gratitude, brother, but I’m confused. Is this establishment not a monastery?”
He smiled at her familiar address. Most men did.
“This is the school of the Path of Darkening Skies, sister,” he said, matching her tone. “Are you lost?”
“I am beginning to wonder,” she admitted. “In Kokuji, your sister was told of a monastery on the highest peak of the Shangyang Mountains, peopled by an ancient order awaiting the thunderbird of prophecy.” She raised Raijin in his sling so that the young man could see the baby inside. “You see, brother, I have him. The chosen one is here.”
Rather than burst into throes of ecstasy as Daitai had, the young man just nodded.
“You are looking for Grandmaster Feng. Follow me, little sister. I will bring you to him.”
THE YOUNG MAN LED LANFEN down the corridor and into one of the doorways on the interior wall.
Lanterns hung from the ceiling and a hearth stood in the corner, saturating the room with light and warmth. Elaborately woven silk tapestries lined the walls, wafting in a draft too faint to feel, each one valuable enough to set Lanfen up comfortably as the madam of her own teahouse in a much nicer city than Kokuji. A low desk on a thick colorful rug faced the doorway. Sitting behind it was a man with long white hair as fine as spider’s silk, ageless skin, and ancient sapphire eyes. As they entered, he looked up from the scroll he was studying.
The young man with the blue-gray sash dropped to his knees before the desk and pressed his forehead to the rattan mat on the floor, just inches shy of the colorful rug.
“Apologies, Grandmaster, but I met with an honored guest in the hallway who needed to speak with you.”
“Yes, yes,” the grandmaster said, waving a hand heavy with rings.
The young man rose up to his knees and backed to the doorway before bowing his face to the floor once more, then standing and leaving.
Bored sapphire eyes turned to inspect Lanfen.
“Which mud-farm village are you from?” the grandmaster asked in a rude tone she was much more accustomed to hearing. She opened her mouth to answer, but was stopped by another dismissive wave of his hand. Firelight glinted off the precious metals and stones in his many rings. “Never mind, I don’t care. I can hardly keep track of them anymore, anyway. Tell me about the latest chosen one. The child is the reason you’ve come here, is he not?”
Lanfen thought it likely that when faced with this grandmaster’s rudeness, most people cowered and faltered, uncertain of how to proceed, but his discourtesy didn’t upset her composure. She had dealt with many a merchant and noble so rich they could no longer feel anything but superiority.
She bowed deeply, exposing the back of her neck as if the grandmaster were no more than a fragile elderly man.
“My apologies for interrupting your evening rest, grandfather,” she said, her voice a patronizing coo. “Your granddaughter will be quick so you can make your way to bed. This child is the thunderbird. He has a moon-mark of the Deep Root for thunder behind his right ear. I will bring him close so your tired eyes can see.”
She knelt on the edge of the lavish rug and held Raijin out across the desk. With one finger, she folded her son’s tiny ear flat to better expose the pale mark.
The grandmaster snorted. “Have you any idea how many ancient symbols that supposedly say ‘thunder’ and ‘rain’ and ‘rainbird’ and ‘storm’ I see every year, woman? Never mind that most of you rural bumpkins are too ignorant to tell a moon-mark from a smear of white sauce, let alone read the ancestors’ language. How many of them do you think can actually be the chosen one?”
“One, grandfather. This one.”
“Get that bastard whelp out of my face and go back to your teahouse, granddaughter,” he sneered. “I’m sure you have customers waiting.”
With that dismissal, the grandmaster spread his scroll across his desk once more and returned to his reading as if she were no longer there.
Lanfen scowled. The weight of the pouch, so reassuring on her journey up the mountain, now hung heavy in her robes. The pipe and sticky ball of brown qajong inside seemed to burn her skin through the layers of fabric. Panic prickled down her arms and into her fingertips, and she saw her son’s life stretch out in two parallel paths: one growing up in the teahouse with a mother who entertained men for room, board, and opiate money and the other in this school.
In her heart, she knew Raijin was the chosen one. Whether the grandmaster realized the truth didn’t matter. All that mattered was the honorable life her son could lead here.
Holding Raijin to her heart, Lanfen backed away from the desk off the precious rug and pressed her face to the rattan.
“Apologies, venerable Grandmaster. Please forgive this lowly sensha’s insolence. She was ignorant and arrogant to assume that her knowledge outweighed the grandmaster’s infinite wisdom. She begs you, please do not turn away this child. His mother’s sins are not his, and her dishonor should not be his, either.” She wasn’t surprised to feel tears wetting the mat beneath her eyelids. “Please, revered Grandmaster, if not as a student, then take this child on as a servant. He is weaned and will soon be old enough to complete simple tasks. He need not be a burden, but a boon to your school.”
“This isn’t a monastery where you can drop off your unwanted bastards,” the grandmaster said without looking up. “Find the door and leave by it.”
His words struck like a fist to Lanfen’s solar plexus. She stifled the sob of desperation that shook her shoulders.
“Please, Grandmaster,” she begged. “Please reconsider.”
The soft grunt of a cleared throat came from behind Lanfen.
“Apologies for the intrusion,” a throaty, elderly voice said.
Lanfen crawled backward once more and turned to the side so she would not be disrespecting either the grandmaster or this new arrival by giving them her back.
In the doorway stood a stooped, balding, wrinkled old man much closer to her imagined monk. Unlike the grandmaster, the old man’s brown eyes shined from beneath his wild brows with warmth and barely contained humor.
The grandmaster sighed. “What is it, Master Chugi?”
“If the grandmaster would honor Chugi so greatly as to consider his input, the school could greatly use another servant.” The old master smiled at Lanfen, his eyes twinkling. “And if in time this new servant should prove to be the chosen one, then at least we won’t have to go looking for him.”
Hope tightened Lanfen’s throat. Afraid of what she might find there, she turned her gaze to face the grandmaster’s face.
“Fine,” the grandmaster said as if he were bored of the subject and prepared to say anything just to be left alone. “The boy may stay. But until he’s old enough to work, he’s your responsibility, Master Chugi.”
“Thank you, Grandmaster.”
“Feh.” Grandmaster Feng returned to his scroll.
On her knees, Lanfen crawled to M
aster Chugi and handed him her son, the tears rolling down her face now.
In spite of his elderly appearance, Master Chugi took the baby in strong, sure arms. Lanfen swallowed hard as she let her son go. She could already feel his warmth fading from her skin. The cold that replaced it stung like a blade.
“His name is Raijin, Master,” she whispered, unable to raise her voice any louder.
Master Chugi smiled down at the boy. “It suits him, granddaughter.”
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Hollow Core is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Gage Lee and Shadow Alley Press, Inc.
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