by Yvonne Wang
“Ha ha, we meet again. How is it that? You have seen Tianyin?” The two are only inches apart, Lacson narrows his eyes and ogles. Wonbayer shakes his head, his hat in his armpit and puffs, “No, but I want to ask you, what are you doing nesting in Moscow?”
“Oh—that’s simple,” Lacson is pleased with himself and his mustache curls upward, “The last time you said Hesig was shot by half an arrow, so I am waiting here for Tianyin to walk into my trap.”
“What—”
Wonbayer’s thick brows knit into knots and he calls out loudly.
Lacson’s devious look is hard to fathom, he sneers, “Hesig is shot with Hualin powder, no doubt he will die in less than three days.”
“You . . . . you! You took advantage of the time when we were at the same camp and dipped my arrows with poison?!” Wonbayer is suddenly inflamed; his hateful eyes boil over with blood.
“Hey, wait.” Lacson raises one hand to block his anger and says, “This is to help you for fear that you may not be able to do the job. I also have this on my arrows too. Besides, is that not good?” His two palms facing the sky and he looks about with his arms stretched in an open embrace. He then continues, “You know too how difficult it is to mix the prescription for it. And the city of Moscow—ha ha—is the backup storage warehouse for the western expedition this time, food, weapons and medicine are all transported westward here. To save Hesig, Tianyin will definitely sneak into Moscow to find the antidote. At that time we can capture all of them and report back for reward.”
“Ha.” Wonbayer sneers, jeering at his hubris. With disdain he turns around and mounts his horse, pulling on the rein and heading another direction. The colt kicks wildly and swings its tail. “Ah!” Lacson staggers and steps back, breaking out in a cold sweat.
“You sure understand Tianyin.” Wonbayer clicks his heels and snaps, “But you don’t understand Hesig.” Finished, he orders his army men to rush back, leaving the city like a tornado.
The next day, the slim sun shines through the fat clouds while light sprinkles over the sparse bushes. Winter trees are looking to spring and woods are dripping with melted ice. Wind smokes bare branches. Three people on two horses front and back go through the forests and trot eastward. The horse hooves dig into the black dirt with a crisp click and clack.
Tianyin has Angela in his arms while his straight arms hold the rein. He is deep in thought. The Mongols have caught up with them. The gate at Volga River is most likely to have received news already. They will probably dispatch eagles to search the entire river. The plan now can only be to travel eastward on the southern route and at the south section of the Volga River, ferry across the waters. But . . . . the road is drawn out and people are delayed, there is likely more danger. Besides, he does not even have a bow and arrows. Even if he sees investigative eagles, he can only let them go back to lead the enemy . . . .
Suddenly, a plop behind him sounds like a rock hitting the ground, then the neighing of a horse in shock. The Angela in his embrace turns her head and with a horrified expression on her face, pale and perspiring, “Uncle He!”
They only see Hesig roll on the ground with his shirt muddied, his rigid body twitching and he hooks his neck in pain. Tianyin is alarmed and secretly tells himself this is bad news. He drops Angela, shoos and leaps down the horse. Taking three steps in two’s, he is crouched down and kneeling before Hesig in the blink of an eye. He cups the back of Hesig’s head and caresses his back, saying anxiously, “Uncle He, Uncle He!”
The old man’s hair by his temples is dabbled with grass but he still forces himself to smile. His lips dry and he waves his hands, “No problem . . . . I can keep going . . . . let me rest a while.”
Tianyin frowns and anxiety permeates his eyes. He sets his teeth and calls out, “This . . . .” He squeezes Hesig’s right arm that is as stiff as stone, he is swiftly sweaty. He peers at Hesig’s face and checks his pulse, uttering slowly, “Hualin powder?” He is immediately on fire, pressing him, “Let me take a look at the wound—let me see!”
Tianyin rips off his shirt sleeve by force and notices that a large piece of flesh on his bare arm has been sliced off. Grimy blood coagulates into a thin membrane and around it is ruptured skin. Poison invaded too far in to rescue. He inhales and exhales cold air, white teeth doing battle.
The old man cringes then blandly says, “I immediately cut off a piece of my flesh then and sucked clean the venomous blood, figuring that the problem is solved . . . . ha . . . . just unlucky . . . .”
Angela slides down the horse, rushing up close, covering her mouth in shock and in silence.
Tianyin is enraged, he shakes Hesig and ruthlessly criticizes, “Why did you not tell me?! Why did you not tell me earlier!? I could have gone to Moscow—”
“No,” Uncle He interrupts him, coughing dryly and shirking, says with a sense of urgency, “I concealed it from you because I did not want you to go to Moscow. They used poison . . . . which means that they have laid a trap for you for sure . . . . you are absolutely right to keep walking south. Do not turn back for my sake . . . . It cannot be because of me that you and Angela do not reach the city of Chenghai.”
Tianyin’s voice trembles, “Damn, what are you talking about—”
“I just want to beg of you . . . .” Hesig’s elderly eyes turbid and withered, squeezing Tianyin’s hand and says sincerely and lovingly, “When it is my time, please kill me yourself. I do not want to die by a Mongol’s arrow . . . .”
Tianyin does not respond. His panting is deep and difficult. His dark pupils flash pain, his thin lips tightly shut and his lower jaws shake slightly.
“Ah?” The old man wills him expectantly, “You hear me . . . .”
Tianyin’s face is stony and sharp. He does not say a word. Suddenly he turns fierce, his eyes are firm and he rises like a flame, boldly picking up and pushing Hesig onto the horse.
“No, it is already too late . . . . Tianyin, listen to me . . . .” Hesig says meekly.
Tianyin does not allow him to say anymore. Intensely stubborn and determined, he insists on his way. He pulls Angela onto the saddle. With one rein in each hand, he races like mad toward Moscow, wind flapping their robes.
Tianyin controls the horse and heads north. Unaware of time, they run until dusk comes. Weary rays cover the land and both horses slow to a stop.
“Tianyin . . . .” On the horse next to him, Hesig is at the brink of danger and paralyzed. He speaks lazily, with the barest of energy.
Tianyin trembles and dumbly pulls on the rein. The two horses slow their steps. His eyes dim and he stares at the grass out front. He is pale and stunned, as if having been split asunder by thunderbolt.
“I don’t have time . . . let’s sit next to the tree . . . . okay?”
Tianyin stills himself. One trace of determination after another gradually strips away from his dark eyes. He is hopeless and deflated. His quickened breaths gradually retard. He languidly releases the hands that have been tightly grasping his rein. He stares at the old man for a long time, swallowing his voice while facing him—finally he dismounts and slowly carries him on his back to a tree on the side of the road. He only feels Hesig as stiff as iron and as light as feather. Angela helps him to lead the horses and tie them to a tree.
The old man sits leaning against the tree and looks up at the green pine and bare poplars, fingers touching the sturdy roots and the luxuriant grass. Instantaneously he snorts, vomiting up nothing and grasping for air with twitching hands. His eyes black out and his head faints. Hesig leans against the tree with his head cocked. He sees Tianyin kneeling on the side and pupils full of worries. Angela is on his right, examining him up close her moist eyes. He only feels comfort.
To have these two kids accompany me at my last moment; I am actually luckier than Brother Hanyuan.
“Don’t be sad, you two . . . . everyon
e has to die . . . . I am pretty content . . . .” Hesig’s inky eyes query to the left, stretching his palm out into midair, he says hoarsely, “Tianyin, I . . . . have . . . . something that I must tell you.”
“Go ahead.” Tianyin holds his hand, still swollen, hard and bleak to the bones.
The old man laments and stares for a sustained period of time, smiling, he says, “Actually . . . . you are not Brother Hanyuan’s real son . . . . You are Emperor Ningzong of Song, Kuo Zhao’s son—you are the real imperial son of the Great Song . . . .” At this point, he becomes extremely emotional. His throat shakes and his eyes red, his four limbs shriveled due to pain.
Angela hears him and is suddenly in shock and dumbfounded. Her blue and dark brown eyes watch the old man, then glance right at Tianyin, as stupefied as a clay statue. Imperial son! He is an imperial son! So, actually . . . . he is like Alexander . . . . a prince? She only feels something strange hit her heart; she is tongue-tied and speechless.
Hesig looks earnestly at Tianyin, pausing then continuing, “In the Sixth Year of Jiading,20 Concubine Chen was rumored to have had an affair with Imperial Physician Wu. Later she gave birth to a child, who is you . . . . Emperor Ningzong doubted whether you were his offspring . . . . Brother Hanyuan was responsible for Concubine Chen’s delivery from beginning to end at that time . . . . He deduced according to the months and petitioned along with more than ten other imperial physicians claiming that you are definitely Emperor Ningzong’s son . . . . but . . . . Emperor Ningzong refused to believe it and wanted to execute you—”
The old man again coughs up filth and in pain, his cheeks and neck bright red and his dry lips purplish. Tianyin pats his back and holds his hand tight, listening with eyes downcast. “Later other imperial physicians were afraid of the might of the Emperor, so did not dare to say anymore. But your father . . . . always insisted. Concubine Chen had knelt down to him and said that Emperor Ningzong has few sons . . . . and pleaded with Brother Hanyuan to save your life. I was at court then too. You dad did not listen to me, so . . . . he bought a child and switched it with you . . . . later he resigned from the post of an imperial physician and brought you into society . . . . He said that were Emperor Ningzong to have no more offsprings in the future, he would have been considered to have saved Great Song’s lineage . . . . therefore,” Hesig hooks his neck with all his might, eyes bright and sincere and he trembles, “Tianyin, Tianyin, Yin means inheritor . . . . Who would have guessed that besides you, Emperor Ningzong’s eight other sons all died one by one . . . . not one reached adulthood . . . . Your dad refused to let you study medicine because there are more important things for you to do . . . . more important . . . .”
“Um.” Tianyin responded lightly, most sober and at peace. His eyes are like ponds without waves, stable as usual. Angela is shocked at his calm. Hesig notes his indifference and opens his mouth in surprise too, “You . . . . know all this?”
“Not all of it . . . .” Tianyin is sad and lowers his head to hide his distress; his voice as pure as jade, “At the age of twelve, while I was sleeping I overheard a conversation between you and Auntie. She said that you should not have hit me a few days ago, after all I am Imperial Son so-and-so . . . . Seven years ago when I was searching for my father, I had gone to Lin’an21. A rumor is still going around there about a theory that Imperial Physician Wang had switched the Imperial Son . . . . That’s when I knew it was real.”
Hesig’s face is the color of white wax but in the midst of fatigue, he smiles, recalling happy memories, “Yeah—You heard it all . . . . Ha, when you did not agree with me that time . . . . you smashed all the porcelain bowls I brought from Great Song to Mongolia to avenge me . . . . you sure do have the Zhao family temper . . . . Ha . . . .” The old man coughs intensely all at once and his smile immediately vanishes so that sorrow slides across his dusky pupils. “I had beaten you and scolded you . . . . but your dad, your dad . . . .” Before words come out, he is already choking, “always treated you with the courtesy between the emperor and a minister . . . . He was hoping that one day you will be a fine emperor, reviving Great Song, making the country prosper and people strong . . . .”
“But I . . . . cannot . . . .” Scenes of the past surface and Tianyin cannot help but roll in grief and frustration, burying his head in guilt and remorse, “Jun Zhao22 has already been enthroned. Were I to go, I would only cause internal chaos in the Great Song and let Mongolia have an opportunity to enter—what I can do for Great Song is to divide Mongolia and end its warfare . . . .”
“Yeah . . . .” Hesig’s breathing becomes difficult and two teardrops roll down his cheeks. He says weakly, “But I have no face to go and see Brother Hanyuan . . . . to have to see you assassinate Ögedei then die in the hands of the Mongols . . . . he will not forgive me . . . .”
“This is my choice; it has nothing to do with you.” Tianyin’s face is stern. “Furthermore, were we to let Mongolia expand its boundaries and occupy Song, then the country will splinter and the dynasty will collapse. Even if I were to become the emperor, it would be meaningless . . . . In this lifetime, it does not matter whether my family name is Zhao or not. As long as I am a Song citizen, this is what I should do.”
“Okay . . . .” Hesig’s strength is depleted and he shuts his eyes to rest, appearing to be satisfied.
Strands of clouds bid farewell to dusk; evening light is peaceful and solemn. Wind travels through forests and fields, fertile wilds of orange and yellow. Angela’s two hands contain the old man’s right palm and she could not help but weep, pea-sized tears dropping fast and furious. She does not know what to say; she only feels her heart tearing apart and her emotions colliding. How helpless.
Suddenly, Hesig again vomits up nothing; his eyes puffed up and his mouth round, his body is numb but he convulses with an intensity. With much effort he extends his stiff hand, tugging the long straight sword at Tianyin’s waist and suffocating, he says, “Hurry, kill me with your sword . . . . I do not want to die by the Mongols’ arrow . . . .” Tianyin looks stunned and kneels on the ground without moving. Grabbing the lone hand on the handle of the sword, Tianyin trembles slightly. He oscillates his head and loses his voice, he says, “Uncle He . . . . I . . . .”
“Tianyin . . . . you, you must . . . . kill me . . . .” Hesig forces down his bitter saliva and tries to drag the sword out of the sheath, forcing and entrusting in him. He utters each word with difficulty, “Back then I . . . tried to save my family and betrayed Great Song, turning the weapon in reverse . . . . I became Mongols’ lackey . . . . I, He Zhou . . . . had in times past committed a crime that deserves capital punishment.” He gasps painfully and his back propped up closer; he lifts his eyes and pleads, “You . . . . you just execute me . . . . in the role of Great Song’s prince, huh?”
Tianyin holds his breath for a brief while, his jaws shiver and his eyes sad. He knows that this is Hesig’s final wish. Even if he were to continue to waver . . . . he cannot save the old man. But as he beholds Hesig, bits and pieces of those 18 years pour forth, yanking at his heart, knocking down all his obstinacy and removing all his strength in raising the sword.
Tianyin’s eyes are downcast and he breathes rapidly. His arms propped on the mud; he does not want to focus on the old man. Sorrowful and unable to decide, he is at an utter loss. He shakes his head in despair.
Hesig barks like mad and suddenly his muscles are cool; he shrieks in grief, saying, “Tianyin, please, I beg of you . . . . hurry . . . . it will be too late.”
Tianyin lifts his head and breaks out in a cold sweat; bitter and loss cut him like a knife. He breath is haphazard and he dolorously draws out his sword; the steel blade scrapes the metal sheath, the sustained ring is harsh to the ears—suddenly, the tip of the sword is struck in the wrong place, into the soil next to Tianyin’s own leg.
Whereas for Tianyin, one tear slides down his cheek, then another.
“Don’t . . . .” The old man sees Tianyin struggle next to him and is disquieted. He tries to wipe off his tears but his fingers are as rigid as chopsticks. He can only say, “You haven’t . . . . cried . . . . in eighteen years . . . . don’t . . . . don’t break this rule for me . . . . ah.”
Tianyin’s lips quiver and he stops gasping for air. He forces himself to hide his pain and he lifts his head to stare and say, “Okay . . . . I . . . . will see you off . . . . you go in peace . . . .”
“Um.” Hesig is pleased and looks at Angela kindly. His ebony eyes glisten with gold under the sunset. He has quick spasms and his breathing is making him tired. He says serenely, “I . . . . will go on ahead.” Finished, he shuts his eyes in peace.
Stunned, Angela watches and she is completely numb, as if falling into hell’s abyss. Tears pouring down, she prevents Tianyin, saying, “No, no Tianyin—you can’t . . . .”
Tianyin closes his eyes and waits until he finishes tearing. Then he takes a deep breath, clenches his teeth, ferociously and quickly brandishes his sword so silver light flickers. It plunks right into the old man’s chest—blood released from spinning the sword handle and blood splatters. Tianyin’s hands are stained red. Hesig jolts violently and his life ends with a long-lasting slumber.
At that spur of the moment, Angela collapses, crying and wailing so tragically that it shakes the sun, splits the clouds asunder and scares the birds. She is utterly heartbroken. She rushes toward Tianyin, rattling his shoulders madly and blaming him with tears in her eyes, “What did you do!? What did you do—”
Tianyin is stunned and numb; his breathing is plugged and his teeth are chattering. He lets go of his bloody hands and falls down to the ground, speechless.
“Why?!” Angela punches him in the face and hateful fists come down like rain, “Why!? Why!? Boohoo—”
Tianyin leans his face to one side, as rigid as a puppet. He lets her beat him violently with her weak fists; his insides are dry and bitter, his entire body frozen and benumbed. Woe tumbles forth. He does not know how to breathe.
