The Jade Spindle

by Alice Major

  “The capital,” Mark murmured. “So perhaps the others are right to go there.” He said this with a certain longing in his voice, then thought for a few moments. “But you know it. They didn’t have to go there after all.”

  “I know nothing to help you,” the guardian said firmly. “Believe me, I have thought about this deeply since you arrived.”

  “Why won’t you tell us what you do know?”

  “It should only be told to the apprentice who will succeed me. If such a person is ever sent . . .”

  “Perhaps you should pass it on—just in case no-one arrives.” Mark made the suggestion cautiously, wondering if he might insult or hurt the old man.

  “Pass it on to who? To a foreigner who will leave as soon as he can? You are the only other male that has been here in more than three passes of Yao-chi’s shuttle.”

  “How about P’eng?”

  “To a girl!” Li-Tsai sounded gently scandalized.

  “Why not? She knows all the rituals. You can tell she likes this sort of stuff.”

  “I could not. It is not for a female to know. And anyway, the daughters of the garden only serve here for a time, then return to the capital when they are of an age to marry. New ones will arrive.”

  “Will they?”

  Li-Tsai did not answer, and eventually Mark went on. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t tell her. If the choice is not having anyone else at all who knows these secrets and losing them altogether.” He saw that heavy sadness come into the guardian’s face again, and said hurriedly, “But maybe the others will remind the officials in the capital that an apprentice needs to be sent.”

  “Perhaps.” Li-Tsai’s tone was bleak. He stood up and trudged over the field back to his work. A few minutes later, Mark followed and dug his spade into the soil again.

  Meanwhile, the girls had returned to the garden. Molly put the little frog back in its niche under the rock, showing P’eng how to find it with her fingers. The older girl moved her fingers in the water dreamily and said, “How strange this is.”

  “Strange?”

  “Being in the garden like this. After all that time of coming no further than the gate. And now to be inside, as though it was ordinary.” She sighed, almost as though she almost didn’t want things to be ordinary. Then she told Molly about seeing the humped shape in the garden and hearing the soft whirr that told her everything was as it should be.

  “And you never saw her up close?”

  “No. But I miss her.”

  They talked a while longer about who the lady might be, and how impossible it was that she could really be the Lady Lo-Tsu, wife of the Yellow Emperor, who had lived countless generations before. Finally, P’eng said she must go back to the chores of the li.

  Left on her own, Molly felt almost tired—although not tired enough to sleep. Her shoulders ached, and so did the burn on her palm. She examined the crinkled, still-pink circle on her palm. It was healing rapidly, but was obviously going to scab and flake for a while yet. She dipped it in the pool again, thinking that the water seemed to have a remarkable ability to soothe the pain. As she did so, a flake of white in the grass at the edge caught her eye. Peering, she found a tiny, cup-like flower growing on low green leaves that trailed into the water. She touched it delicately. The flower has hardly the size of the nail on her little finger, but she imagined she caught a whiff of perfume.

  Looking up again, she noticed almost for the first time that there was a small building in the far corner of the garden. It was such a soft brown and so heavily screened by branches that it was almost invisible. She stared at it for a while. Finally, a determined look settled on her face. Half-crawling, half-pulling herself with her thin arms, she began working her way around the marshy end of the pool. It took her a long time, with many stops to rest and catch her breath before she reached the spot where a short path opened between the bushes in front of the hut. Her arms shook with the effort, but she kept on until she found herself in a small clearing at the front of the building.

  The roof was almost flat, angling down just a little at the back like a lean-to or a shed, and covered with moss that grew deep and thick. There was a single door in the wall that faced her, but no window. Molly stopped and listened carefully. Nothing moved, but the clearing had an air of waiting, as though something—someone—was expected.

  She was tempted to try the door, but something held her back. Instead, she made her way around the little building. Beyond it, in an area just under the high walls of the garden was a plot of cleared land, carefully raked into rows, as though something was planted there. Here, too, was that sense of watchful waiting.

  There were two low windows in the back wall of the building. Molly dragged herself to the nearest and peered in. The room inside was hardly bigger than a closet, only a little wider than the narrow bed beside the wall. The only other thing in the room was a length of cream-coloured cloth hanging beside the door. A cloak?

  Clutching the wall for support, she made her way back around to the front. This time, she had no hesitation about trying the door. It opened directly into a second, larger room. From here, another door led into the tiny sleeping room on the left. This main chamber was also sparsely furnished. A rough table and chair stood against the far wall under the window, and a low stool in the centre of the room.

  Around the silver-brown planks of the wall hung hanks of thread, glimmering in gentle colours from white to dull gold, from soft grey to deep brown. Around the walls stood baskets filled with what seemed to be unspun wool—fluffy piles that looked like cotton batting, but in the same soft colours as the skeins on the wall. Molly reached out to touch the nearest hank of thread. It didn’t feel like wool. It was silkier to the touch, although not perfectly smooth. Here and there it had small lumps and thicker spots.

  She let herself slide down cautiously to sit on the doorstep, and pulled a small tuft of fibre from the basket nearest the door. Like the spun thread, it felt cool and silky. Absent-mindedly, she rolled it between thumb and forefinger, teasing it out into a strand about ten centimeters long.

  The sense of quiet waiting gathered around her. Still absently, she wrapped the thread around her wrist and leaned back against the doorpost. She saw how the surface of the table by the window seemed to catch light into a small round pool in the centre. For this moment she felt as peaceful as she ever had in her life. Anger seemed a long way away.

  “This feels like my place,” she said to herself and held out her arms as though she could gather the hut, the pool, the whole garden into them.

  Later, after they had eaten the last meal of the pulse, Li-Tsai put down his bowl and stroked his long beard, as though he was firmly stroking down the last of his doubts.

  “I have been thinking about what you said,” he told Mark. “And I think it is more important that even the little knowledge I have should not be lost, than that the strict rules of the past should be observed. I do not expect any apprentice scholar to arrive from the capital. And I do not know what knowledge is still there any more. Those who instructed me are long gone.”

  He looked around at the expectant faces. “Don’t expect too much,” he warned them. “Secrets usually seem like small, bare things when they are finally revealed.”

  He paused for a few moments. “I will tell you what I know on two conditions. First, that you will promise to learn and remember it faithfully, so that, when the time comes, you can pass it on undistorted. Second, that you will not reveal it until the right time comes.”

  “When will that be?” asked P’eng.

  Li-Tsai sighed. “I don’t know. I must leave that decision in your hands.” He looked at each of them searchingly, until they nodded and said, “I promise.” Finally, the guardian stroked his beard again, pressing down some last reluctance. “I will tell you the true story of Huang-ti, the Yellow Emperor, and how people arrived in this world.” Then
he told the story, word for word, as it had been taught to him.

  “There are two sides to the universe. One is the world of the Ten Thousand Things, the world of the round sun and the circling moon, of revolving light and darkness. The other is the string world, which stretches long and thin like a web or interlacing branches in a forest. The two worlds are intertwined but do not touch. They are the two halves that, together, make up all of space and time.

  At one time, in one place, there was a window between the two halves of the world. The wise learned that it might be opened, but only with great care. If it was opened carelessly, so that the two worlds touched, it would destroy whole regions of the universe. If it was opened carefully, like a fine needle slipping through cloth, all would remain whole.

  Huang-ti, the Yellow Lord, found ways to open the window, and came to the centre of the string world, bringing his wife, the Lady Lo-Tsu. He built a garden there. The creatures of this world welcomed them at first. Then Shen-ch’i, the Tiger, learned of Huang-ti’s power in the round world and grew jealous. He was the wildest creature in all the string world. His tongue lashed and his tail lashed the heavens. He swore he would rule the puny race of humans. He persuaded other creatures of this world to follow him, promising they would each rule over a wide country in the world of Ten Thousand Things.

  But Huang-ti was warned of this plan. On the night that the Tiger came snarling through the window, the Yellow Lord was ready and caught him in a great net of spells. He bound all the creatures of this world with spells to ensure the peace of his land. He closed the window, and made it a mirror in which the creatures of the other world could only imitate, as if in a trance, the actions of men.

  Before he closed the window, he brought some numbers of his people to dwell on this side of the world, forever. He also brought such animals and plants as would enable them to live here. He gave them the task of guarding Lo-Tsu’s garden and the other sacred places, and of watching the mirror. For some day, the spell will unravel and the mirror creatures will start to awaken. The first to do so will be the Fish. Deep in the mirror, there will appear a colour like no other colour and a line like no other line.”

  The guardian finished speaking and opened his eyes. They were all gazing at him. “You must learn this word for word as I did.” He spoke more to P’eng than to the others, and she nodded her reply.

  “So there were animals here,” Mark breathed.

  “And still are. Somewhere,” said Molly.

  “Oh,” P’eng whispered and looked back over her shoulder, as if she half-expected a tiger to come leaping out of the thorn trees.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Joss surveyed the city in the valley below them. Unconsciously, she had been expecting tall buildings and highways. What she saw was a walled town, stretching along a bench of land that lay well above the level of the river. The only tallish buildings were in the centre, a cluster of curiously curved roofs that gleamed red. A light haze surrounded the city, as if dust were catching the reflection of gold from the light node.

  From above, they could see that each of the four walls was cut into segments by three wide openings. People were streaming in and out of most of these gates. One of them, the centre gate in the wall closest to them, was strangely quiet amidst the bustle.

  They started down. The trail was now a broad roadway churned to dust by passing feet. As they got closer, the city began to look more imposing. At the base, the walls had sloping, grass-covered shoulders, but higher up they were straight, sheer cliffs of a brown, brick-hard clay.

  They were carried along the roadway to the nearest gate by a jostling crowd of people so intent on their own business that they hardly spared a glance for the four travellers. The tide carried them through the gate and along a broad street lined with booths and shouting storekeepers.

  “Hot millet cakes,” they shouted. “Good wine.” But few stopped to buy. The crowd was pouring onward, determined, loaded down with bags and sacks and rough woven baskets. The smell of food and people and animals hit Joss like a punch after all the days of travelling across almost empty prairie.

  Not far inside the gates the street emptied into a large square. Here, at last, Chuan was able to pull them off to one side. The stream of people continued to flood across the square and along the street that continued on the opposite side.. Merchants were hastily setting up booths and squabbling over who had reached the choicest spots first.

  “It’s market day,” Chuan gasped. “I’d forgotten how many people . . .” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

  “Where are they all going?” asked Alasdair.

  “The Great Market, on the north side of the palace. This is the Lesser Market square.”

  “And where are we going?”

  Uncharacteristically dazed, Chuan twisted a few hairs that had strayed from her braid and looked around. “I thought that . . . My father’s house is nearby.”

  “Which way?”

  Chuan turned around, trying to get her bearings, then beckoned to the others to follow her along another street that led off the square at right angles to the direction they had entered. This street was much quieter, almost deserted. It was lined with what seemed to be small workshops. Each shop had a leather awning. Some had a bench and a grindstone; some had cooking pots; others had piles of half-finished baskets.

  “These are the artisans’ quarters,” said Chuan. “My father’s house is in the Street of the Potters.”

  They followed her as she dived down another lane and stopped before a workshop that seemed more imposing than the others, set further back from the street.

  “It’s bigger than the others,” Joss commented.

  “My father is the first potter in the capital,” Chuan said. She ducked her head under the awning and called, “Father? Father?” But the workshop was empty, except for mute rows of unbaked pots and pitchers.

  Chuan walked through a door at the back of the shop, into a roomy, enclosed courtyard. Along the back was built a solid, comfortable-looking house flanked by two rows of low-growing fruit trees. To the right, in an area fenced by woven wicker, several hens scratched in the dust, making dainty, ballerina-like gestures with their outstretched toes. Apart from the hens, the place seemed deserted.

  “Father,” Chuan called again. This time, there was a small explosion of noise from a shed off to their left. A silly-faced boy had been startled by her call into falling off the bench where he was sleeping. He gaped at them, rubbing his eyes.

  “Who are you?” Chuan demanded. “Where’s my father?”

  “Father?” he asked, not very intelligently.

  “Guang-shi, the potter.”

  “At the market.” By this time, the boy had taken in the foreign faces and garments of the others. His eyes grew rounder and more confused than ever. He made a sign with his fingers to avert evil.

  “Go away,” he said, not very hopefully.

  Chuan ignored this. “I suppose you’re supposed to be looking after things. Fine job you’re doing. We could have walked away with forty pots.”

  The boy gave a fleeting, alarmed glance towards the workshop. Chuan went on, “Are you apprentice to my father? Where are the others?”

  “At the market, too.”

  “Should we go find him or wait here?” asked Joss. The boy looked as startled by her voice as if he had heard one of the clay pots speaking.

  Chuan frowned. “It will be a long time before the market is over. I suppose I should go and find him. I wonder what he’ll say when he sees me.” She considered. I’d better not take all of you—too conspicuous. You come,” she said pointing at Joss and laughing. “I’ll need at least one monster to convince him I haven’t just run away from the garden.”

  The two girls set out a few minutes later, leaving the other two to take off their shoes and sit gratefully under the freshness of the trees. Chuan had rummaged t
hrough a wooden chest inside the house to find a tunic and trousers like her own for Joss to wear. Dressed in the soft grey-blue cloth, with her hat pulled down, she would attract less attention from passers-by.

  It was a long time before they returned. The apprentice had given up watching Alasdair and Ariel with his apprehensive gaze and had fallen asleep again. Finally, voices could be heard in the street. “What else could I have done?” Chuan was asking defiantly.

  Her father looked harassed. He was a small-built man, barely his daughter’s height. Chuan must have taken her large bones from her mother’s side of the family, thought Ariel, watching him hurry towards her. He had P’eng’s round face, but wore a worried, nervous pout.

  “You should have stayed where your duty had taken you,” he said pettishly. “What will become of me—of us—now?”

  “Here are the others,” Chuan said. “And there are two more back at the garden. How could I have stayed there? There wouldn’t even have been enough to feed them over the next winter.”

  “Oh, hush.” He studied Ariel then motioned Joss to stand beside her sister and looked even more searchingly into their eyes. He turned Ariel’s face up to the light. While the rest of his movements were sharp and anxious, his hands were calm and deft, his thumbs curiously flattened by many years of working with clay. His eyes were not unkind, although he kept shaking his head.

  “We need someone who can help us,” Joss said urgently, moving back from his scrutiny. “We have to get back.”

  He looked even more harassed and turned away. “I’d better get the Count of Religious Affairs.”

  Chuan’s face was resigned. “Must it be him?”

  “He is the most obvious, the most suitable. Wait here.”

  “I’ll come too.”

  “Wait here,” he repeated gruffly. “I don’t want anyone else to see you. Get them something to eat,” he ordered the apprentice. “And see they don’t go anywhere outside the courtyard.” He bustled off.