by Greg Ripley
“And he’s no fan of mine, either. We were in the same class. I was one of the people he didn’t get along with, and it probably didn’t help that Burt and I did. Burt took me under his wing, along with a few others, which made Rooney hate us with the same venom he had for Burt.
“The one upshot might be that he doesn’t know me as Jane Smith. But I’m sure they’ll make the connection eventually. When they do, he’ll be only too happy to believe the worst about me. He’s a smarmy bootlicker who’s managed to climb his way up the ladder, ingratiating himself to all the right people. No, I’m afraid that’s a dead-end.”
“What about President Powers? She must know we’re innocent,” Rohini said hopefully.
“You’re probably right, Rohini, but we’ve got no way to get to her directly. As soon as anyone spots us we’ll be lucky to get to tell our side of things before we’re in a deep dark hole. If the real perpetrators aren’t flushed out, eventually they’ll need someone’s head on a platter, and they might just settle for ours,” Jane replied. “Our biggest problem is that I was working directly for the president. There was no one else in the chain of command to vouch for us. As far as anyone knows we could have gotten close to President Johnson in order to carry out the attack.”
“Can’t we just turn ourselves in and get this all straightened out?”
“I wish we could. What’s got me worried is that someone on the inside could be responsible for this, or at least helped pull this off.
“For all we know, the same people could be framing us, in which case we’re screwed. It would be a piece of cake to manufacture a story that I was some sort of traitorous double agent, especially with my link to the SOC and—no offense, Rohini, but you are brown—even though your mother isn’t Middle Eastern or Muslim, there are still plenty of ignorant fools in this country who will be more than happy to see you as yet another homegrown terrorist if it fits into their narrative.”
“I’m sure I don’t help in the mix either,” Guangming said, joining the conversation. “There have been quite a few Chinese students caught spying over the years.”
“Industrial espionage and patent infringement are one thing, assassinating the president is something else entirely,” Jane said. “I guess we’ll just have to hang tight for now.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, each of them deep in thought, trying to come to grips with the predicament they found themselves in. A dark mood had descended until Rohini changed the subject.
“Did you go to college here, Guangming? Is that why your English is so good?” Rohini said.
“I did. I was also an exchange student in high school, so my English was already quite good by the time I started college,” Guangming replied.
“Where did you go to school? And where did you stay with your exchange program?” Rohini asked.
“I went to USC, which was a bit of a culture shock. Although most of the cities in China are quite large, Jinchang, the city I am from, only has a population of about 200,000. My exchange program was less of an adjustment. Gansu Province has sister cities in Oklahoma, so that is where I stayed. Jinchang’s sister city is Shawnee, Oklahoma.”
“Whoa, I would’ve thought that would have been a bigger change than going to Los Angeles,” Rohini said. “I think Shawnee, Oklahoma, would be a culture shock for me.”
“Perhaps, in some ways,” Guangming said. “There was a larger Chinese-American community in Southern California. But, oddly enough, Shawnee felt familiar. The Native Americans there reminded me of some of the ethnic minorities in my region of China. So did the cowboy culture.
“The part of Gansu I am from is in a narrow passage called the Hexi Corridor which made up part of the Northern Silk Road. It’s tucked between several minority autonomous regions; Tibetans, Mongolians, and the Hui people all live in the area. Although they are less nomadic than in the past, the area is still well known for its horses.
“There is a famous place, Shandan Horse Ranch in the Qilian Mountains west of Jinchang, which was originally founded by General Huo Qubing all the way back in 121 BC, to raise horses for the Chinese army after he defeated the Xiongnu people and forced them out of the area. They have been raising horses for the military and royal families throughout our history.”
“Isn’t that also where the Dunhuang Caves are?” Rohini asked. “I thought they were along the Silk Road somewhere in that part of China.”
“You know about the Dunhuang Caves?” Guangming asked, surprised.
“Just a little, I hadn’t thought much about it in years, but I was really into the Daode Jing in high school. I seem to recall them mentioning the Dunhuang Caves in the translator’s introduction to the edition I read. That’s where they found a lot of ancient manuscripts like the Daode Jing and the Diamond Sutra, if I remember correctly.”
“Yes, in fact Wang Yuanlu, the Daoist monk who found the cave with the manuscripts, was a member of our society. He was practicing as a wandering Daoist at the time and came upon the Dunhuang Caves one day around dusk. Seeing light coming from one of the caves, he headed towards it, hoping to find a meal and a warm place to sleep for the night. As he approached the mouth of the cave, an old monk with wild hair and a big bushy beard popped his head out. He said he was the caretaker of the caves, and invited Wang to stay the night.
“That night as they were sitting around the fire after dinner drinking tea, Wang realized the old hermit had green eyes. Naturally Wang thought he might be a member of our society, so he made some overtures to see if he was—members of our society often make ourselves known to one another through hand signs or code words.
“The old man feigned ignorance, so Wang figured it must simply be a coincidence. The old man told Wang he was getting too old for the job of caretaker and perhaps it was time to leave the caves’ welfare to someone else. He asked Wang if he would consider the job, saying surely it must have been the currents of the Dao and destiny that brought Wang to him. Wang, in his humility, told the old man that he was not worthy of such an honorable responsibility. After repeated requests from the old monk, he said he would consider it, and they retired for the night.
“The next morning when Wang awoke, the old monk was gone. Wang searched the nearby caves, but could not find any sign of him. Returning to the cave in which they’d slept, he noticed the thin ribbon of smoke from what was left of the previous night’s fire streaming towards the back wall of the chamber, as though drawn by a draft. Investigating, he found there was air flowing into a crack in the wall. Figuring there must be another chamber behind it, he set to work knocking it down, revealing another room stacked to the ceiling with ancient manuscripts which had been hidden away from the world for over a thousand years.
“There was a story in our society of a library somewhere in that part of the country which had been sealed up for protection after the neighboring kingdom of Khotan was sacked and burned by the Karakhanids in 1006 AD. Its location had been lost to the sands of time. People had come to think it was only a legend. Looking over the manuscripts in the days that followed, reading through their titles—at least of those he could, as many were in languages other than Chinese—he realized that this must be that library. But that was not his greatest discovery, at least not for the society.
“In the back of the chamber, set into a niche in the cave wall, Wang found a lacquered wooden chest, decorated in designs similar to those sometimes used by our society. Opening the chest, he found histories of the early years of the society and its founders, as well as many of the prophecies of our early Guanzi. Until then, what we knew of the earliest years of our tradition was somewhat murky. All our histories were written after 1000 AD, at least three hundred years after the time of Zhongkui.”
“I thought all of the Dunhuang Manuscripts had been collected and digitized years ago by a research consortium,” Rohini said.
“That’s right, at least all of the man
uscripts they were aware of. Wang Yuanlu realized the importance of keeping the manuscripts relating to our society a secret. He kept them separate from the rest, hiding the chest away until he could return them to the Guanzi. He knew the remaining documents—of which there were thousands—would be of historical significance to the entire world. He contacted local officials, offering to send the manuscripts to the provincial capital. This was right in the middle of the Boxer Rebellion, however, so they weren’t terribly interested in a bunch of old scrolls at the time.
“As word of the library got out, much of the collection was spirited away over the next ten years before the government finally transported the remaining manuscripts to Beijing, but I realize this isn’t terribly relevant to our current predicament,” Guangming said, trying to contain the obvious pleasure he took in telling his tale.
“Don’t worry about it, Guangming, it’s a welcome distraction while we’re stuck here, biding our time,” Jane said, grabbing the carafe from the coffee maker and pouring them all another cup. “We’re going to need another pot. Have a seat, Guangming. I’ll make this one.”
“Jane, what year did you say that Hopi man met Tesla?” Rohini asked.
“1900. Why?” Jane replied, pouring more coffee beans into the grinder before putting on the lid and pushing the button. The apartment once again filled with the aroma of fresh ground coffee as Rohini exchanged a meaningful glance with Guangming. She waited to speak until the buzzing of the grinder subsided. “That’s the same year that they found the Dunhuang Manuscripts.”
23
“That can’t be a coincidence,” Rohini said. “I’m adding that one to the list.”
“What list?” Jane said.
“I’ve been having a lot of weird déjà vu moments lately. I’m not sure I’d call them premonitions, but I’ve been having a lot of… I guess I’d call them synchronicities.”
“Like what?” Jane asked, intrigued.
“Well, like yesterday at the memorial. Remember the murals we were looking at?”
“Sure. What about them?” Jane replied.
“Do you remember the president’s speech about Faith, Hope, and Charity? I had been thinking about them like President Johnson mentioned in his speech—about how they were universal values. I know that doesn’t sound like that big of a deal, but when I heard him speak, it felt like he was saying exactly what I’d just been thinking,” Rohini said.
“He was probably inspired by the memorial when he wrote his speech, just like you were,” Jane said.
“I know, that’s what I thought too, but it was so striking at the time,” Rohini said. “OK, here’s another one. When we were hiking in Virginia, I remembered this Chinese painting I had seen in a museum in Boston years ago—Nine Dragons by Chen Rong— then when we drove into Chinatown yesterday there was a line of nine dragons on the arch. Again, maybe not that big of a deal, but I got that same feeling at the time, like it was more than just a coincidence.”
Guangming, who had been sitting quietly listening, staring contemplatively into his coffee mug, straightened suddenly. “Did you say Nine Dragons, Rohini?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You may be onto something, after all,” Guangming said.
“Why do you say that?” Jane said.
“I don’t believe I’ve told you the name of our society yet, have I?”
“Don’t tell me it’s Nine Dragons,” Rohini said, her eyes widening.
“Not exactly, but close enough. We’re known as Long Sheng Jiuzi Hui; the Nine Scions of the Dragon Society, and Chen Rong was one of our members.”
“OK, I’ll grant you that one, Rohini. That’s too much of a coincidence to write off,” Jane said.
“Well, now you’ve got to tell me about Chen Rong,” Rohini said. “All I ever knew about him is that he was famous for painting dragons.”
“Yes. That is his main claim to fame. What is less well known about him is that he was also a scholar in the court of the Song Dynasty and a warrior known for his great virtue and integrity. Like Zhongkui, he achieved the highest degree by passing the exams at the Imperial Palace.
“In his younger years, he proved himself a great warrior, once leading an army against the Mongols in the Yin Mountains at the eastern end of the Gobi desert, keeping them beyond the Jade Gate Pass, west of Dunhuang.
“It wasn’t until later that he achieved fame as a painter while at court. The Song Emperor at that time was named Lizong. He had a favorite concubine who convinced him to lend his ear to her brother, a man named Jia Sidao. Jia was a cruel and conniving man who eventually rose to the Premiership, virtually controlling the court and the Empire along with it.
“He was a corrupting influence who eventually became little more than a mob boss, enriching himself by selling government goods on the black market. He kept a collection of rare curios and antiques which his underlings would procure for him by any means necessary. If objects were not given to him willingly, his thugs would take them by force. Jia Sidao tried in vain to enlist Chen Rong into his schemes, until Chen had finally had enough.
“One night, Jia invited him to a sumptuous feast, intent on convincing him to join Jia’s nefarious plotting. Chen, who was miserable simply being in the presence of someone like Jia, became increasingly drunk over the course of the evening, draining his wine cup every time it was filled. Eventually, he couldn’t abide it any longer. He called Jia out for his double-dealing and plotting behind the Emperor’s back and left in a huff.
“The following day Chen Rong sought an audience with the Emperor, attempting to warn him about Jia Sidao’s conniving ways. Chen’s entreaties fell on deaf ears, however, the Emperor wrapped completely around Jia’s finger by this point. As it became clear he would not be able to extricate the court from Jia Sidao’s grasp, Chen retired from the court and left the Emperor’s service. After a short time, the Song Dynasty fell to Kublai Khan, uniting the whole of China under the Yuan Dynasty. Most historians hold Jia Sidao responsible for the fall of the Song, with good reason. Chen left the court knowing it was too late to save the Dynasty.”
“What happened to Chen Rong?” Rohini asked, intrigued by Guangming’s tale. “What became of him after he left the court?”
“Well, it was during his time in the northwest that he was recruited into our society, but his home town was in the opposite direction, in Fujian, in southeastern China. After his retirement from the court, he returned there and continued to serve as our eyes and ears in that region.”
“So, tell me more about the green eyes in your tradition,” Rohini said.
“Well, I already mentioned the yin-yang eyes. We also call them jade eyes for obvious reasons. Another story about the green eyes relates to the area in which our society was founded. The area around my hometown. There has been a much higher concentration of green eyes there, as long as anyone can remember. There is a theory among historians that the reason for this is that a lost Roman Legion of a General named Marcus Crassus had wandered east along the Silk Road after his defeat in what is now Turkey.
“The story goes that after his defeat—one of the worst in the history of Rome—the remnants of his legions either wandered east or were captured and assimilated with the local population in what is called Zhelaizhai village, a part of Jinchang City. It used to be called Liqian, which historians speculate is a name which sounds like legion, pointing to the Roman theory. They have performed DNA testing on some of the residents there and many were found to carry Caucasian traits, but this is the area of the Silk Road and the edge of the Gobi Desert. People such as this have existed there long before the time of Marcus Crassus.”
“That name sounds familiar for some reason, but I’ve never heard that story,” Rohini said, furrowing her brow.
“He is most well-known to history for putting down the slave-revolt of Spartacus,” Guangming said.
“Tha
t must be it,” Rohini said. “I’ve always been a sucker for anyone who fought against slavery; Harriet Tubman. John Brown. Spartacus. But please, continue, this is all fascinating. I think last night you said the green eyes had to do with Zhongkui also. What is it you called him, the Vampire Slayer?”
“I think that’s Buffy you’re thinking of, Rohini,” Jane said and smiled.
“A modern classic, to be sure,” Guangming said. “But no, Zhongkui is usually known as the Demon Hunter or the Ghost Hunter. I suppose the idea is basically the same, but I think he would be closer to the character Angel. In some stories Zhongkui is made king of the ghosts, responsible for hunting down unruly ghosts who are bothering humans, like the vampire Angel fought other vampires.”
Jane and Rohini looked at each other and smiled. “You really know your Buffy,” Rohini said.
“It was one of my earliest exposures to American television. The host family I stayed with in Shawnee had a teenage daughter who was obsessed with it. She had a DVD boxset of the entire series which we watched during my stay.”
“So, with Zhongkui, is this literal ghosts and demons we’re talking about?” Rohini said.
“Well, not in the way you might think. According to our Guanzi there are energetic forces which could be described that way, but we usually think of them in more psychological terms; the negative emotional states like greed, anger, and hatred, for example, as being like demons which possess a person’s mind. We also think of memories which you are haunted by, which you are unable to let go of, as being like ghosts,” Guangming replied.
“Was Zhongkui an Elder, do you think?” Rohini asked.
“Well, not that we knew. But I suppose it’s possible, or more likely that Zhongkui became an Elder—as Jane mentioned was possible—and that our founder carried the Elders’ bloodline,” Guangming said. “Our leaders, starting with our founder, often had the ability to sense the future, sometimes in the form of premonitions that something was about to happen. Occasionally they left more detailed prophecies of events which were expected to occur far into the future.
