by John Wilson
“Calm,” Ting said. “Isn’t that what wushu masters must be above all else?”
Chen looked abashed. “Of course. I forget sometimes. I must practice.” He tucked his legs into the lotus position, placed his hands on his knees, palms up, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The golden dragon on Chen’s chest seemed almost alive as his chest rose and fell. Ting smiled at her friend’s seriousness.
As Cheng meditated and Ting stroked the sleeping Fu, voices came to them from outside.
“But, sir, the Ma Zhang are disorganized and unmotivated.” Ting recognized the voice of Fan Tong, Shenxian’s arrogant, bullying and not very intelligent assistant. “Can they really hope to capture a walled city as big as Sanxingdui?”
“What?” Chen lost his focus at the sound of the voice. Fan Tong was jealous of Chen’s position in the imperial staff, and the two had had a number of arguments.
Ting put her finger to her lips to quiet Chen. They heard Shenxian’s reply.
“Don’t worry. I shall cross the mountains and motivate them. As the prophecy says, When the Min Mountains fall, the time of danger will be at hand. That will be my opportunity.”
There was a long pause before Fan Tong said anything. He sounded uncertain. “Sir, much could go wrong. What if Kun leads his army out to meet the tribes before they reach the city? What if the timing is wrong? What if—”
“You doubt my plan?” Shenxian’s voice rose in anger. “Kun suspects that we are coming, but he does not know when. Even that sorceress of his does not know when the mountains will fall. Only I know that. The timing will not be wrong—it is everything. In any case, the tribes do not need to win the battle. They simply need to create a big enough distraction that I will be able to enter the Chamber of the Deep and retrieve the Golden Mask. But if you’re frightened, I could always find another assistant.”
“No, no. I’m not frightened. You can rely on me.”
“Good, because there is much at stake here. Once I have released the power of the Golden Mask, I shall control the forces of the universe itself. Then you shall get your reward. Now, go and organize my loyal guard. Tell them to be ready to leave tonight at midnight.”
“Yes, sir!” Fan Tong shouted loudly enough to wake Fu, who recognized the person who tormented him at every opportunity and began yapping frantically.
“Who’s that?” Shenxian asked. “No one must overhear our plans. Go and see if anyone is there, and if they heard anything.”
“Yes, sir!” Fan Tong repeated.
Footsteps headed for the door of the storeroom. Fu leapt off Ting’s lap and shot out the door, yapping frantically. The yaps soon turned to growls.
“Get away from me, you horrible little beast!” Fan Tong shouted. “Ow! You bit my ankle.”
Ting stood up. “I have to go and rescue Fu.”
“It doesn’t sound as if it’s Fu who needs rescuing, but I’ll come with you. I can beat Fan Tong.”
“No. You must stay here in case there are others out there. Someone has to tell the emperor about Shenxian’s plans.”
“But—”
“No buts. Hide.”
Ting rushed out the door. Chen hesitated, listening.
“Leave my dog alone!” Ting ordered.
“The little brute attacked me.”
“And Fu is such a vicious beast that obviously your life was in great danger.”
“What were you doing in the storeroom?” Fan Tong asked, changing topics.
“It’s my break. I was having a nap before I have to help prepare the evening meal.”
“What did you overhear?”
“Nothing.”
Chen heard Shenxian join the conversation. “So! You have braved the demon dog and captured the eavesdropper!”
“Yes, sir,” Fan Tong said. Chen imagined him standing to attention and saluting. “She claims she heard nothing of our plans to bring the tribes over the mountains to attack the city when the mountains fall.”
There was a long silence, and then Shenxian said, “Have you always been stupid, or have you dedicated your life to learning the craft?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“I mean that she may not have overheard our conversation, but she certainly knows our plans now.”
“Oh.”
Chen had to suppress a laugh at the embarrassment in Fan Tong’s voice.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Now I shall have to take her with me over the mountains. I cannot risk leaving her here with you, and she cannot tell the emperor what you blabbed.”
“Sir, am I not coming over the mountains with you?”
“No, Fan Tong. You must stay here to look after things while I’m away. Can I trust you to do that?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Excellent. Now bring her and the dog along—that is, if you aren’t too scared of a girl and a hairy rat.”
“No, sir…I mean, yes, sir.”
Chen heard scuffling and a yap of pain from Fu. He almost burst out the door, but Ting was right—someone had to get the news to Emperor Kun. As soon as the sounds of movement had died away, he snuck out of the storeroom and ran through the bustling kitchen. Cooks jumped out of his way, and Zhifang yelled something and waved a ladle at him, but Chen ignored them all and dashed into the palace. He tore down the corridors past startled guards, skidded around a corner and almost collided with Jingshen.
“I see practicing calmness is not going as well as it could,” she said as she dodged the flying boy.
“I have to speak to the emperor,” Chen gasped. “We were hiding in a storeroom and Fu bit Fan Tong and Ting was kidnapped and the city’s going to be attacked over the mountains and—”
Jingshen held up a hand. “Breathe. We will go and see the emperor together, but I suggest that you organize your thoughts before you open your mouth in his presence.”
Chen followed her along the corridor, desperately trying to get his breathing under control and put all that had happened into a coherent story.
“Ah, Chen,” the emperor said when the young man and Jingshen had been admitted into his presence. “Have you come to show me more wushu moves?”
Chen bowed deeply. “I am afraid not. I have come to tell you of an evil plot.”
Now that he had calmed down, Chen found that the story flowed seamlessly. The emperor and Jingshen listened in silence as the tale unfolded.
When Chen had finished, the emperor turned to Jingshen and said, “And so it begins. How can Shenxian know when the mountains will fall?”
Jingshen shook her head. “I cannot imagine. But however he knows, we do not have as much time as we had hoped.”
“We must try to discover the timing of Shenxian’s plan.”
“And we must rescue Ting!” Chen blurted out.
“Indeed,” the emperor agreed, “although I doubt she’s in any danger. Shenxian gains nothing by harming her. He simply wishes to keep her out of the way.”
“I don’t care. I’m going to rescue her.” Chen turned and headed for the door.
“Perhaps there is a way you can do even more than that,” Jingshen said.
Chen stopped in midstride and turned back. “How?”
“You want to keep an eye on Ting to make sure she’s okay, and Kun wishes to have a spy who can find out Shenxian’s plans.”
“You want me to be a spy?” Chen asked.
“An informer,” Kun said. “Shenxian’s party will be small, going over the mountains, but it will still be large enough that you should have no difficulty tracking it. He will wait there until he knows the mountains are close to falling. That is the timing we need to know.” He regarded Chen seriously. “Coming back, Shenxian will be leading an army. He will move slowly. If you keep watch and race back over the mountains as soon as he leaves the Ma Zhang lands, we will have time to take our own army out and ambush Shenxian and his men as they come through the narrow valleys that lead down from the mountains.”
“I’ll d
o it,” Chen said without a moment’s hesitation. What he didn’t say was that while Jingshen and Kun were talking, he had been making his own plans. He would get the information to the emperor, but he would also rescue Ting and Fu from Shenxian’s clutches.
AYLFORD
A FIRST DATE?
Howard and Cate walked in companionable silence past the mock gothic buildings of Aylford College, on to Arcton Street and up the gentle incline from downtown. Heimao took a less direct route, wandering under hedges and into people’s yards, but never going far from her owner.
The Aylford Institute for Psychiatric Care lay on the other side of French Hill, and the route would take them past Howard’s house. French Hill was not as prestigious as Hangman’s Hill, but it was a step up from the rundown areas along the river.
“You live around here?” Cate asked as they strolled by the brightly painted clapboard houses that gave the town old-world charm and character.
“Aylford’s small,” Howard replied, feeling confident enough to try a joke. “Everyone lives around here.”
Cate peered at him through her black fringe, and he suddenly didn’t think his comment was so clever.
“I live a couple of blocks ahead along Arcton Street,” he added quickly. “And you?”
“I’m renting a room in Crowninshield House on Old Ashton Road.”
“You and your parents in one room?” Howard asked.
“No, just me.”
“Your parents have another room?”
“No,” Cate replied. “My parents aren’t here.”
“I’m sorry,” Howard stammered when it became obvious that Cate wasn’t going to add anything.
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why are you sorry that my parents aren’t here? You don’t know them, and we barely know each other.”
Howard’s newfound confidence vanished. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I guess I’m sorry that you’re alone.”
“Then you should have said so. Words are important, and people should think before they use them. But thank you.” Cate looked down at Heimao, who had emerged from some bushes, before asking, “How long has your dad been in the AIPC?”
“About eight months.”
“That must be hard for you. You must miss him a lot.”
Cate’s matter-of-fact response made him feel better than the uncomfortable or sentimental things most people said when Howard told them where his dad was.
“I do. He used to walk me to school down this street every day.” Howard felt a lump form in his throat as the memories flooded back.
Normally, Howard’s conversations about his dad petered out into embarrassed silence at this point, but talking to Cate was different.
“What happened to him?” She asked this in such a casual way that Howard had no difficulty answering.
“He was an archaeologist and taught at the college. He was a great storyteller. As a little kid, I never wanted a book at bedtime—I just wanted Dad to make up a story. They were always stories from the past, but he could make them come alive. I’d close my eyes and be an ancient hunter listening to saber-toothed tigers roaming nearby, or I’d be a Roman legionary cowering in the dark German forests, or an alchemist in a medieval workshop, convinced he was about to turn lead into gold. I used to have such wonderful, vivid dreams. No book could compete with my dad, and I hated when he had to go off to a conference for a few days.
“As I got older, the bedtime stories stopped, but I could always persuade Dad to tell me a new one when we had some spare time on weekends or on holiday. The stories got more complicated too, and I began to see history less as a series of exciting adventures and more as a real world where people struggled with the same issues and problems that I could see around me. The long-dead characters in Dad’s stories inhabited a world just as complex, confusing and scary as mine.”
Howard was walking slowly as he talked, but Cate didn’t mind and simply adjusted her steps to stay beside him. When he paused, she waited in silence for him to continue.
“About fourteen months ago,” Howard went on, “the stories began to get stranger. At first I didn’t mind—they were still great stories—but there was less history to them, and fantasy elements started to appear. When Dad began going on about worlds before ours and hideous beasts that lived underground or deep in the oceans, I got worried. I asked him where these new stories came from, and he looked at me oddly and said they weren’t new but very, very old.”
Howard glanced at Cate to see how she was reacting. She looked deep in thought.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I must be boring you.”
“Not at all.” Cate looked up and smiled.
Howard didn’t know why it seemed so easy to tell this person he barely knew such intimate details, but it was. He took a deep breath and continued. “One night shortly after Dad had come back from a trip to China, I woke up to the sound of thumping and Mom screaming. My first thought was that a burglar had broken in and was attacking my parents. I rushed to their bedroom. Dad was stumbling around the room like he was blind, waving his arms about, banging into walls and knocking over furniture. He was talking loudly to himself—sometimes calling my name or Mom’s, sometimes babbling gibberish. Mom was hanging on to his arm, screaming in his ear to try to get him to stop, but he ignored her completely.”
“That must have been terrible.”
Cate slipped her hand into Howard’s and squeezed. It was such a natural, comforting gesture that he squeezed back without thinking before going on.
“The rest of that night’s a blur. It seemed to go on forever, but eventually Mom and I managed to get Dad to calm down. He couldn’t remember wandering around or shouting. He tried to pass it off as just a bad dream, but he insisted he couldn’t recall what it was about. He made light of the whole thing, but when it happened again the following week, Mom made him go and see a doctor.”
“Did that help?”
“Nothing helped. Soon he was having these turns almost every night. I would lie awake in bed, waiting for the thumping or the shouting to begin. The later attacks were never as violent as the one that first night, but then he started having them during the day. He’d be sitting at the dinner table, telling us about his day, and suddenly he would get this glazed look in his eyes and start talking nonsense. One time, the dean of archaeology at the college phoned to say that Dad had started talking gibberish in the middle of a lecture to fifty students. He suggested a leave of absence.
“Having Dad home all the time didn’t help. When he was having one of his turns, he had no sense of the physical world around him. He seemed to think he was somewhere else, where everything around him was totally different. He would walk into things—once he walked through our living room window and cut himself so bad he almost bled to death. He needed constant care, and looking after him almost drove Mom crazy.”
“No one could work out what was wrong?” Cate asked.
Howard cleared his throat to hide how close he was to breaking down. Wisps of darkness teased the edges of his vision.
“We took Dad to every specialist we could think of, from psychiatrists to faith healers. There were lots of theories: A genetic disorder, but there was no history of insanity in his family. A tumor, but nothing ever showed up on any scans. A chemical imbalance in the blood, but all his tests were normal.” Howard took a moment to blink back the tears and darkness. “We tried every drug and procedure suggested, from antidepressants to acupuncture. Nothing made any difference. Dad’s body was still with us, but his mind was moving into some different world that we couldn’t understand. Eventually, we had to take him to the AIPC for his own protection. At least he’s calmed down there. He doesn’t seem to have violent fits anymore, but he’s nowhere near back to normal. He just sits and stares. It’s as if there’s a wall between him and the world, and there’s no way through to connect with him.”
Cate was silent for so long, Howard worried he had told her too much. He
had been so wrapped up in telling the story that he had missed pointing out his house as they passed it. Maybe she thought he was a loser with a really strange family, and she would never want to talk to him again.
But then she broke the silence with an odd question. “The gibberish he spoke. Did anyone ever work out if it was a language?”
“No, the doctors said it was made-up nonsense.” Howard paused, remembering something. “But at first I thought it was a language. It sounded a bit like Chinese to me, but a Chinese doctor we consulted said it wasn’t like any dialect he had ever heard. There was a rhythm, though, to the way Dad spoke. His voice rose and fell as if he was explaining something or asking a question.”
“Do you remember any of it?” Cate stopped and looked at Howard. They had reached the AIPC gates.
Howard shook his head. “The sounds came from the back of his throat. It was almost as if he was choking. Just nonsense.”
“I’m not so sure.”
Cate spoke so quietly that Howard wasn’t certain he’d heard her right.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For opening up the way you did. It can’t be easy talking about this stuff. I feel privileged that you trusted me enough to tell me as much as you did.”
Howard had no idea what to say. He wasn’t good at emotional stuff, and he was already feeling self-conscious about everything he’d told her. He was saved by the embarrassing realization that he was still holding her hand. He let go as if it were on fire.
Cate didn’t seem to mind. “We’re here,” she said, turning to the gates. “I’m looking forward to meeting your dad.”
AYLFORD
THE READING ROOM
The AIPC was an impressive building surrounded by extensive grounds where the patients tended vegetables and flowers or simply strolled in the open air. With dark clouds looming, thunder rumbling and the first heavy drops of rain from the second storm of the day splattering on the ground, no one was out taking the air. Heimao ran forward, settled under the porch at the front of the building and began carefully grooming.
