We left the temple in peace. Nanny had finished what she had asked Baba’s leave to do; now she would do as she pleased. After our pilgrimages, Nanny always took me to the same shabby inn just beyond the temple, for a griddle cake or a drink of cool fruit juice. This was all so matter-of-course that I never wondered why we didn’t rest at the monks’ guesthouse instead. Matter-of-course, too, was Nanny’s disappearance for an hour or so while a cross-eyed old woman in the kitchen taught me Khotanese songs until Nanny returned smiling with a tall man who, if time allowed and the day was pleasant, would walk beside us to the shade of the poplars by the river.
Nanny, the tall man, and I were on such a walk when it happened. I don’t know what manner of men they were – they spoke some gibberish foreign to my ears – but I suppose their veins held the dogs’ blood of Tibet. This was in a troubled time, early in the second decade of the Brilliant Emperor’s reign, when the mountaineers came down from the peaks of the Kun-lun and leagued with the Turgesh tribes to steal Chinese grain, and cattle and horses, and slaves, dashing into the outskirts of the settlements that ringed the Takla Makan, and out again to the safe, twisting valleys of the foothills before armies like my father’s could set off after them.
We wandered along the riverbank, Nanny laughing at some story the man was telling, until my legs tired. So we squatted by a clump of tamarisks, and I sang my new song for them. When I finished, Nanny praised my singing, and the tall man reached out to pat my shoulder and told me that from now on he was going to call me Crystallized Moonlight, as people call the white jade of Khotan, because my face was so fair and my voice so pure. I suppose now that they were putting me in a good temper for the long walk back to the black mare waiting at the inn. But at that moment I was simply and flawlessly happy, for I had always loved to sing.
The man winked at Nanny and opened his mouth to say something more. His eyes widened and his jaw worked. Yet his tongue lay still. He leaned forward towards me as if to share a secret.
He leaned farther, still silent, the arm around Nanny’s shoulders drawing her with him. Her full breasts rose once, quickly. A faint breeze slid up the riverbank and, it seemed, set the feathers of the arrow in his back to quivering. I think I saw every barb in every vane of the fletching. Nanny made a strangled sound as the blood burst from his mouth to splotch the drab hemp cloth of his pants and spatter my silken peach-blow trousers.
Her head whirled to look behind her. I could see nothing beyond the hump of the tall man’s body except a trail of dust in the wheatfield and perhaps a column of smoke rising above the farmhouse on the horizon. ‘Run, Little Imp,’ Nanny said. ‘Go and hide in the reeds, and whatever happens be as quiet as a froggy in the mud?
What of the tall man? I wondered, but only said, ‘Come with me.’
It wasn’t often that Nanny wouldn’t do what I asked of her. But she had to go and hide somewhere else, she said, until the silly game was over. ‘Then’ – and she fixed her eyes on mine as she waved her hands to shoo me off – ‘I promise I’ll come back to you. I promise. Now go.’
I scampered towards the reeds. Usually the laundrymaid would grumble when I dirtied my clothes, and Nanny would frown and say that soon I’d have to put aside my childish running about and learn how to be a young lady. But this time, I could do what I liked. I burrowed down in a marshy spot at the edge of the river. Three or four shallow channels meandered through the broad stony bed; the high water wouldn’t come for some months, when the snowmelt from the great peaks reached the plain in midsummer. Looking back up the bank through the reeds, I could see that Nanny wasn’t playing the game properly: instead of running to find her own hiding place she crouched beside the tall man’s body, as if the scanty tamarisks could hide her. Then she lifted her face from her hands, glanced sharply in my direction, tucked up her skirts, and ran back the way we had come.
She didn’t get far. A broad-chested man rode after her, caught her by the thick knot of her hair, and threw her to the ground. I almost jumped up from my hiding place, but she screamed to me – in Chinese, for safety’s sake – ‘Stay away. Little Imp! Be still.’
The raider clearly did not understand her words, but in any case he paid no attention when she begged him in Soghdian to stop, nor indeed to whatever noises she made. He jumped from his pony and, holding Nanny down simply by placing one foot on her stomach, slung his belt free of his trousers. After he hit her once across the face with it, she was silent. Then he let his trousers fall loose around his knees.
Of course I understood now what happened next. Then I just felt bewildered and dirty and cramped in my little hollow in the mud. Or perhaps I have invented those emotions afterwards. What I am sure that I remember is the sound of tearing cloth and the awkward rhythm of his naked buttocks’ rise and fall.
Before he had finished, two others rode up, laughing. At first Nanny didn’t seem to notice them, but when the broad-chested man stood up and hitched his trousers, and the older of the other two stepped forward, she threw her body over and scrambled up to run away. Broad Chest stooped to catch her arm. The young one bent and grasped a rounded river stone to stun her with.
Nanny spun round and hit him, hard, between his legs. I do know that I was surprised at this, at least – this angry blow from a gentle woman like Nanny, who generally got her way with men by quiet wit or easy smiles. The blow must have been painful; the young raider doubled over, while Broad Chest and the older man roared with laughter. Then the young one straightened and hit the back of Nanny’s head, twice, with the stone. She fell.
The two made quick use of her. Then Broad Chest jerked the ear-rings from her ears and all three mounted, wheeling their ponies back towards the plume of smoke. At last I could run up to her. I think I started crying then.
Is it only my imagination that paints that deadly river stone the dark green of the jade called ‘black jade’, kara kesh? In any case, it was better to look at it than at Nanny’s blood-streaked legs, or the way the red forward thrust of her brains had pushed one eve from its socket.
I didn’t look for long, though. One of the three raiders must have glanced back towards Nanny and seen me standing there, stunned and muddy and useless. Pony hooves thudded. Broad Chest leaned from his saddle while his mount pivoted without breaking stride, and I was flung facedown across sweaty withers, the air knocked from my lungs.
The rest of the band of raiders milled about the farmyard, jabbering and shouting with elation. The smell of burnt timbers hung in my nostrils. Some other child sobbed. Goats bleated their distress. I felt the pony brace as Broad Chest heaved a heavy sack up to balance upon the tops of his thighs. There was hardly room for my body between the rough-woven sack and the pony’s neck, but wedged in as I was I couldn’t fall – or jump away. Broad Chest yelled and the others followed us, splashing through the lazy channels in the wide riverbed, then swinging right, towards the secret canyons at the foot of the Kun-lun range.
Song by the River’s Edge
The White Jade River rushes.
The Black Jade River flows:
Two streams of lifeblood, mingling, wet the sands.
A fire in the Chinese watchtower
Signals, The pass holds firm.
But the desert folk and the tribes of the West roam free.
The bent-necked lute of Kucha
Plays songs of walled Khotan.
Chill as the winds blown down from the Kun-lun range.
Sorrowing like a bird swept off its course.
It thrills to a tale that like all things must end.
The Jade Emperor’s Celestial Palace
Once above a time, deep within the rosy cloudbanks of the morning sky, in the great Yang-Purple Palace of the supreme Taoist deity, the Jade Emperor Himself, the Assistant Undersecretary of Baubles humbly presents a newly arrived gift of tribute to His Divine Majesty. All the spirits, sylphs, and sages of the court gather round to see it: a board for playing Go, made of rhinoceros horn inlaid in squares, and two bowl
s of Go stones, each bowl studded with violet cowrie shells. The courtiers draw in their breaths and move closer.
The Undersecretary slides his eyes sideways to savour the attentive faces of the immortals crowding round him. He has never before approached the Jade Emperor directly and is only able to do so now because the Chief Secretary drank far too much Liquid Sunset at last night’s banquet and lies at home in his bedchamber pressing a silver cup of ice to his head. This,’ says the Undersecretary with only a tiny tremor in his voice, ‘is offered to Your Divine Majesty by his loyal vassal, the Tutelary Deity of Pearlshore. Allow me to show you the Go stones, if you will.’
The Jade Emperor nods, and the Undersecretary removes the first lid with a flourish. Within the bowl rest nearly two hundred perfectly matched black pearls, each just the size to fit the tiny depressions where the corners of the squares meet. The crowd of heavenly courtiers gasps.
Allowing his lips to curve just the slightest bit upwards, the Undersecretary removes the second lid. Instead of the white pearls one would expect to complete this stunning Go set, the bowl holds pearls in a multitude of tints: pale peach, and creamy gold, and powder pink, and the faint blue of the sky seen through thin wisps of fog. The courtiers are still now. The Jade Emperor’s face glows with pleasure, and he reaches forth a gracious hand and runs it through the bowl of coloured pearls. ‘We are pleased with the gift,’ he says, ‘and you. Undersecretary, will write a letter to the Tutelary Deity of Pearlshore, informing him of his promotion to Illustrious Pearl Baron of the Southern Sea. But first –’ the Undersecretary’s heart quickens –‘first, you will join me in a game of Go.’
A buzz runs through the court, and the courtiers settle down on their cloud couches to watch the game. The Undersecretary, who is no fool, chooses the plain black pearls, and they begin to play.
The board is nearly half filled with pearls when the Jade Emperor reaches absently into his bowl. His eyes are on the board, for he is thinking that on his next move he can complete a dragon’s eye, surrounding and thus capturing one of the Undersecretary’s pieces. So he hardly notices that the pearl he takes up is oddly shaped, and a bit smaller than the rest. Just then the Undersecretary lays down a black pearl, encircling eight of the Emperor’s and removing them from the board.
The hot breath of anger rises in the Jade Emperor’s breast. His dark eyes flash like lightning, and the sound of thunder rolls round the celestial audience hall. But the Emperor says nothing, and bends his lips into a smile, and clears his throat. ‘Well played,’ he says. ‘I like a man who gives his, ah, his all to the game.’
The Undersecretary’s head swims with relief. ‘The game is far from over, sire,’ he mutters, not daring to raise his face.
‘Indeed,’ says the Jade Emperor, tossing and catching the lumpy pearl he is holding. ‘Indeed.’
The Undersecretary looks up, fixing his gaze on the pearl. He is just opening his mouth to speak when a tiny voice says, ‘Far from over. Indeed, indeed.’
The spirits, sylphs, and sages crane their necks and look about to see who is the source of this impertinence. The Undersecretary jumps to his feet and glares, hoping in this way to make it clear that it is not he who has irreverently echoed the words of His Divine Majesty. He pulls his eyebrows down as far as they will go, and tugs sternly at his rather scrawny beard. ‘Who presumes to – ‘ he begins in a fierce voice, but before he reaches the fatal word mock, a heaven-shaking laugh rings out.
‘Ha,’ says the Jade Emperor. ‘Ha, ha. Far from over. Indeed. Indeed.’
‘Ha,’ say the courtiers. ‘Ha, ha. Far from over. Indeed.’
The Undersecretary’s eyebrows float upwards, turning as they rise from youthful blue-black to grey. ‘Ha,’ he says. ‘Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.’
‘Ha,’ says the same tiny voice.
‘Who speaks?’ asks the Jade Emperor in a terrible roar, though his eyes still spark with merriment.
‘Who, sire? Speaks?’ the voice squeaks. ‘Who indeed?’
The Jade Emperor holds his sides and laughs some more. ‘Speak!’ he cries out. ‘I command you to speak.’
‘It is I,’ says the voice. ‘In the palm of your hand.’ It pauses and adds, ‘Sire.’
The Undersecretary and the Jade Emperor stare, and the pearl in the Emperor’s palm trembles, as if with excitement. They see how small and greenish it is, and how irregularly shaped. ‘Is it you that speaks, pearl?’ asks the Jade Emperor, screwing up one divinely lustrous eye.
‘Yes, sire,’ replies the pearl. ‘Now that you have commanded me, I do the thing I have long desired: I speak.’
‘How odd,’ says the Jade Emperor in a musing voice. ‘An odd desire from an odd-looking pearl.’
The courtiers wave their fans and whisper, ‘Odd.’
‘Because you have made me laugh, on an otherwise boring day,’ the Jade Emperor says, with a meaningful sidelong glance at the Undersecretary, who smiles and nods agreeably, ‘I shall call you my Luminous Emerald-Green Lunar Essence Sprite and keep you beside me in my Yang-Purple Audience Hall to make me laugh, and I shall grant you any boon.’
‘Oh, if you please, sire,’ says the pearl, ‘there is only one thing I want, and that is to learn to speak the speech of human beings. I first heard it when the divers of Pearlshore pulled me from the depths of the Southern Sea. When they wrenched my shell open and their chattering swirled around me, I felt a great desire and swore a holy vow that I should have no rest until I could speak as they do. Guan-yin the Compassionate heard me and took pity. The blessed Lady kindly slipped me into the pale-pearl bowl of the Go set. That is why I am here.’
‘Ungrateful wretch!’ The Jade Emperor stamps his foot, and down in the human realm a mighty river breaks through its dikes, ravaging two townships. ‘Guan-yin the Meddling Bodhisattva is more like it. She doesn’t want the karmic responsibility, so she passes you on to me. And you! You’d rather suffer through the dusty moils of human existence than enjoy the pleasures of Our court?’
The Undersecretary twists his face in what he hopes is the correct mixture of shock and disdain and amazement and righteous rage. But the Jade Emperor leans back in his star-sprinkled throne and composes himself. ‘I am a deity of my word,’ he says, drawing out each syllable, ‘and you will have your wish.’ He waves his Magic Mushroom Sceptre towards the Undersecretary. ‘This foolish game of Go is ended. You, my lad, are transferred to the office of the Acting Assistant Controller of the Ministry of Babble. Effective now. Your duties will be to watch over this silly thing you brought me, and to report to me of its adventures. I sentence you, green pearl, to a lifetime in the human realm. I daresay you will learn to speak.’ With that, the green pearl vanishes. ‘And,’ the Emperor’s voice rings out after it, ‘I believe you’ll have a tale to tell.’
PARROT
SPEAKS:
2
In the long morning shadows of a valley in the foothills, I awoke to a snarling and growling of curs: the words of the Tibetans clashed in the chilly air. Broad Chest, and the young man who had crushed Nanny’s skull, and three other raiders strutted near a meagre cooking fire. A one-eared man hunkered down across from them. He spoke from the side of his mouth, first snapping at Broad Chest, then turning to the clot of dirty nomads behind him for confirmation of whatever it was he said.
Some say that upon waking in a strange place they are lost at first, and forgetful of how they came there, but that morning I knew instantly where I was and all that had happened. Jolted, filthy, barely able to draw breath, I had watched the trampled grain and pebbles fly beneath the hooves of Broad Chest’s pony as his band met up with a larger group and we left the last outlying farm village for the raiders’ camp. The ride was hard and long. It was nearly dark when he jumped from his mount, tied my ankles carelessly, and pushed me over, half stunned and exhausted, to huddle with five other children. A thick-lipped farmboy of some eight years began to howl as we approached. Perhaps I reminded him of someone; perhaps Broad Chest did. An in
different cuff silenced him. None of the rest spoke or acknowledged my arrival with more than a blinkless gaze.
After that, the Tibetans built a fire, and feasted and drank and sang, not fearing – or pretending not to fear – pursuit. They were safe enough. Some say the troops of Tang, men like my father’s, stationed there in the far frontier had grown weak, their administration sloppy, their discipline slack, too many of the soldiers not Chinese. Yet my father was a good general; he must have been. Who could maintain perfect watch over a desert basin ringed by a maze of mountain hiding places for barbarians who refused to recognize the commands of the Son of Heaven? Who could pacify the uncultured when those who ruled the high fastnesses of Tibet stirred them to rebel against the hegemony of Tang? In their hidden camp, the raiders celebrated freely.
We children drew together, cold, and finally slept. If I dreamt, I have lost the memory of those dreams. Now, in the early morning, surely no more than a few hours after the last roistering had slurred into silence, the men around the cooking fire quarrelled. Broad Chest and One Ear gestured towards where we lay. One or two of the raiders, ignoring the skirmish of words, slung booty into saddlebags and rounded up the stolen goats and cattle. An old man, toothless and almost too bent to ride, brought us a leftover haunch of half-cooked kid. None of us would reach to take it from him; he grunted and tossed it at our feet. The farmboy picked it up and began to eat with energy and greed, then passed it to an older girl who looked like his sister. When it was my turn, I stared at the greasy, blood-pink thing and thought I could not choke down even a bite of it. But soon enough I did.
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