by null
Siu-Sing fell to her knees, gathering up the lifeless weight almost too heavy to lift clear of the water. The Fish’s mouth gaped open, a thin swath of hair plastered across her closed eyes. Water cascaded from her clothing as Sing half carried, pushed, and pulled her into the shallows. Beneath her hand the heart was still, her thin wrist lifeless. Shaken by sorrow such as she had never known, Siu-Sing willed the warmth of her own chi to enter the saturated body, begging the gods that had watched over this great lady for so long to bring her back, to help pull the boat from the water, and leave her footprints in the sand.
Siu-Sing did not call for help. She knew Master To was too far away to hear her, and any reed-cutter or boatman within earshot would not heed the cry of a jarp-jung. Siu-Sing could only hold the Fish tightly, whispering her good-byes. Pressing lifeless fingers to her lips, through the mist of tears she saw that the jade birth bracelet, so much a part of this brave soul that it was never to be removed even in death, was missing.
When Master To found them at dawn, Siu-Sing was sitting silently beside the body. She had straightened the old lady’s limbs and cleaned her face and hair of weed and silt, arranging her clothing and placing a garland of flowers in her hands. “I did not want the land crabs to find her,” she said simply, as he lifted the body of his cousin and carried it up the slope to the Place of Clear Water.
“She will rest here in eternal peace and happiness, and continue to watch over you,” he said. “All that you strive to learn she will share, as she has done since you were born.” They made a coffin of bamboo, and dug a grave facing the lake. Together he and Siu-Sing carried many large and heavy rocks to cover her resting place, piling them high as protection against wild things. Over these, the rich soil of the glade was planted with flowers that flourished in such shaded corners. Before it, Siu-Sing laid a garden of stones collected from the pond, each selected for its perfect shape and color.
They knelt before the finished tomb and Master To took Siu-Sing’s hand. “Your paw-paw’s age was great and her spirit even greater. She was not ill, but her heart had carried much … perhaps more than it should. Be happy that she is now at rest, yet forever with us.” They spoke no more of the Fish’s sudden death, and did not question the reed-cutters or the boatmen. Sing continued her studies in the Place of Clear Water, fetching fresh fruit and flowers each day and trying to forget the puzzle of the jade bracelet.
CHAPTER 23
The Last Disciple
Siu-Sing could tread the marsh as silently as a blue heron, so that she sometimes saw that which she was not meant to see. She was deep in the reeds late on a hot afternoon, finished with her studies and catching shrimp for the pot, when she heard the pleasant lilt of a girl’s soft laughter close by. She traced it quietly, suddenly wondering if she would find the owner of the voice wearing a plain jade bangle on her wrist. Through the curtain of reeds, a young Hakka girl, stripped of her clothes, stood in the center of a small clearing. Her naked body, always well protected from the sun in the custom of her people, shone white as a lily.
A tall stack of reeds tied into bundles served as a makeshift bed, the girl’s rough work clothes tossed on top of them. The air was sweet with the scent of rising sap from freshly severed stalks, lending an air of magical secrecy to this place so hidden from the world. The girl bent to wash her arms and neck with clean cold water, tossing wet hair over her strong shoulders.
She seemed to be speaking to someone Sing could not yet see. Her long pigtail starkly black against her pale back, she stood with her face tilted to the sky, beads of water glistening on her breasts. The laughing voice that carried softly, with words that Sing could not quite hear, was answered by the voice of a man. The girl turned toward it, showing a face that was still young, tossing the hair from her eyes and playfully shielding her breasts with her hands.
A man stepped into view, taller and older, his upper body uncovered and browned by the sun. He stepped close to her, her arms eager to reach for him. Siu-Sing found herself unable to look away. What unfolded was not entirely a mystery; she had seen similar things among goats, one mounting the other in just such a way. She watched in silence, strangely affected by the sounds of their pleasure.
In her bed that night, it was hard to forget what she had seen, and it was not something she would wish to speak of with Master To. He had said that a warrior was neither male nor female, and that upon the rock they were the same, but she would not always be upon the rock. She wondered if one day something like this would happen to her, and could not deny a keen curiosity. Would she have breasts like those someday? She cupped her own, barely formed but clearly growing. Would she grow hair like the Hakka girl? It did not seem likely as she felt the sprouting tuft, as soft as thistledown, between her legs. She heard the steady breathing of Master To in his corner of the hut, and tried to contain this new wonder without making a sound.
Hours later, after falling into a deep sleep, Sing awakened to discover spots of blood on her hands and in her bed. Only then did she feel fear at what she had done. She should have known such secret pleasure was not possible without punishment. She had wounded herself, and should it heal, she would never again think of the man’s brown body so dark against white skin, or listen to the sounds of pleasure.
That Master To knew all things past, present, and future was made clear that morning. When meditation and practice were over and they sat beneath the pear tree to eat the morning congee, he spoke in the voice of her si-fu. “You were not as strong or as fast on the rock today. Has something happened to tire you so?”
Sing could find no ready answer. How could she tell him of the injury that cramped her stomach and bled like an open wound? He reached across to cover her hand with his, patting it as he had done when she had hardly left the peach-wood crib.
“I believe last night you became a young woman… . I saw the signs. You must not hide such things from me; I am your si-fu, but I am also father and mother, brother and sister to you now, and we need hide no secrets. On the rock you are the disciple Red Lotus, but here you are the Little Star, a pretty girl like any other.”
“Thank you, si-fu, but is this thing a punishment? Have I offended the gods?”
“No, it is their blessing, to prepare you for the pain when you have children of your own.” He spoke patiently, unruffled by her curiosity. “The blood you shed may one day create a child, and you may know the pleasures that make it so. These feelings are natural, but you must control them if you are to achieve everything you have worked for.”
Relieved to know she would not die of her wounds, Siu-Sing was almost tempted to speak of what she had seen in the reed beds—to ask if it was wrong to be so curious at the sight of a man without his clothes. She decided that as this had been witnessed in concealment and secrecy, it should remain so, and the answer to such questions must be found within her own heart and mind if such a moment ever came.
Sing’s faith in Master To’s teachings was so complete that she seldom felt the need to question him. When she did, he would answer only if he considered the question worthy of a reply. If not, he would tell her to seek the answer for herself. Sing found her own questions and sought her own answers in all that she could. But one day she found herself asking, “Si-fu, I have practiced on the rock for many seasons and begin to understand the Way of the Empty Hand. But when I go from here and we no longer greet the sun together, how will I practice my skills?”
“Life will not always allow you the time or the place.” He tapped his forehead with a fingertip and placed the other over his heart. “You must practice in here, and in here; no one can take this from you. No matter where you are, there will always be a new day dawning, always a stillness before the sunrise. In the hour before daylight, the world is yours alone. In your heart and mind you will return to the rock … you will see the crane on the sandbar and the tiger in the reed bed. You will watch them in mortal combat and see why the crane is triumphant. You are the crane and you will never fall. It is
called spiritual boxing.”
Master To took an amulet from around his neck, placing it in the palm of her hand. It was a circle of jade carved with the crane and the tiger, its chain minutely woven in links of black, bronze, and silver, as light and glinting as a cord of silk. It felt hot in Sing’s hand as she studied it.
“Jade is known by the wise as tears of heaven … by the warrior as blood of the dragon. They say its contact with the skin adds to its luster, that it holds the life-force of its wearer, and that the strength of those who have gone before us can be called upon in combat.
“This has been worn by many masters. See how it has become green as moss on a sacred tree through the greatness of their chi. The chain is woven from their hair—eight strands from each master handed down to his disciple. It is protected by the power of their spirits. When I leave you, I will add eight hairs from my own head, and the amulet will be passed to you.”
“I would not wish to see the sun rise without you by my side.” Sing could not contain her feeling, although she knew she must try.
“The sun will rise just as surely and splendidly when I am not beside you. I do not teach you to become dependent upon me or any other, but to stand alone and follow your own path without fear or hesitation.” His words were not spoken angrily but with a hint of warning.
At the entrance to the rock, shaded by mimosa, a fallen log acted as a seat when the time came to rest. Master To sat upon it now, inviting Sing to sit beside him. He filled two cups from a crock of ginseng tea, handing one to her. “In two more years your training as my disciple will be complete, and it will be time for our departure to the world beyond the mountains. I will be beside you if I can, but if this is not to be, then you must travel without me. You must find within yourself the faith to face the world. But you will never be alone; the spirit of the White Crane will always travel with you no matter where you go or whatever lies ahead.” He sipped the tea, his eyes intent upon her face.
His smile is gone, thought Sing. His steady blue eyes searched hers for a moment before he spoke. “It is the way of wu-shu to prepare the last disciple for all things. The master must decide if that disciple is worthy to learn the deepest of advanced secrets before he passes on.
“It is called di-muk—the touch of death.” His voice was low and level, his eyes unwavering. “There are nine points of the human body that, when struck by an adept, can cause the instant death or permanent immobilization of your adversary.” He waited for Sing to absorb the power of his words, his eyes probing her slightest response. “This can only be taught to the most trusted and skilled disciples. This is why I could no longer teach Ah-Keung. The death touch must never be placed in uncertain hands, or the master must answer to Kuan-Kung, the god of war.
“You have earned my trust and my respect, and for this I will teach you di-muk. For two years this will be included in our daily practice … one single blow that must be used only if your life is threatened.” He paused. “To take another’s life is to invite the ghost of the defeated to take revenge. Only you can make this decision in such a circumstance.
“I can tell you, however, that the last disciple of Master To will never lack for help.” He reached into his robe, taking from some hidden pocket a slim canister of bamboo. “This contains eight scrolls. It is only eight inches long and eight inches in circumference, yet it contains the answers to all that I and the masters gone before me have asked of the universe. Eight hundred years of wisdom reside in this small space. It is called Pa-Tuan-Tsin—the Precious Set of Eight—which the immortals say holds the secret of longevity.” He unscrewed the lid and held it up for her to see. “This was carved by a distant forefather in the Temple of Shoalin from the sacred tree that once shaded the Lord Buddha.”
He removed a tightly rolled scroll of parchment, unfolding an inch or two to show that it was covered by the tiniest of calligraphy. “When I was young my eyes were clear as a hawk’s, so sharp I could write my name on a grain of rice. I was a novice in the monastery, and time was my closest companion.”
He replaced the scroll and the wooden lid, screwing it tightly. “It also contains a letter sealed with my chop. If I am no longer with you and you are in need of guidance, you will take this to Master Xoom-Sai, abbot of Po-Lin, the Temple of the Precious Lotus on Lantau Island, close to the Golden Hill. You will give him your temple name. If the time comes, you must seek his help, and it will be freely given.”
“How will I know if the time has come to go to him?”
“You will know, Red Lotus. You will know. Sooner or later, the tiger always comes to the crane.”
Crisp breezes played across the slopes as Siu-Sing climbed to the Place of Clear Water with an armful of peach blossoms. She stood for a moment to look back across the lake. The air was clear and sharp; the mountains seemed much closer and there was snow on the peaks. Wood smoke rose from the reed-cutters’ fires, driven this way and that by sudden gusts.
She was thirteen years old today, and her training was complete. The time had come at last; in two days they would leave the lake for the Golden Hill, Hong Kong. Master To had given her a bundle of joss sticks and a red candle to take to Paw-Paw’s grave. “I traded a rare mushroom for the joss sticks and healed a bunion for the candles. You may go alone to pay your last respects… . I have already spoken with my cousin. She is happy in the company of her clan and will watch over you as she watched over your mother.”
As she knelt before the grave of the Fish, arranging the blossoms like the fan of a peacock and lighting incense to rise in threads of perfumed smoke, there was a noise that Siu-Sing had heard before—a guttural hiss of warning and a dry slither of scales over loose stones. She raised her eyes warily, knowing she must not move quickly.
The forest cobra had been coiled in sleep, its colors and patterns of earth and stone unnoticed on the small garden of river pebbles in front of the little tomb. The hood was spread wide, the flat, shiny head poised like a blade. Suddenly, the years between were snatched away, and Siu-Sing saw again the eyes of the snake and the perfectly formed sections of its throat and neck, smooth as ivory. Was this the yan-jing-shi that the Fish had saved her from, grown now to twice its size? Could it have returned to live in the tomb of the one whose life it had sought?
She had heard the reed-cutters speak of such things. Yan-jing-shi was known to find tombs, empty houses, and deserted temples abundant hunting grounds, the perfect place to rear its young. She had seen the great snake coiled in sleep on warm rocks or winding through the cane grass, leaving telltale trails in the snow, and had seen its dead and discarded skin blown across the grasses.
Suddenly, there was a scything of the air above her head, so close it stirred her hair. A sweeping side kick arched over her, delivering a knife-edged foot to the snake’s head with such force that it fell. In that same fraction of time, Siu-Sing was thrown aside by Ah-Keung. He had stripped off his shirt, winding it around one hand as he faced the snake, crouching to its level, eye to eye.
He had the stance of the knife-fighters she had seen among the Hokklo fishermen drunk on homemade wine. Yan-jing-shi had risen again, swaying back against coils of bunched muscle, its hood strained fully open, its shoelace tongue vibrating like the reed in a bamboo flute. “Ah, yan-jing-shi,” he sneered, mimicking the sway of the cobra. “Let us dance. We shall see who is faster, you or I.” Savagely alert, the cobra struck again and again, its hiss compressed to a growl. Each time Ah-Keung easily evaded the wide yellow mouth, sticking out his tongue in defiance, his hands held wide and ready.
“I give you four chances, Yan-jing-shi. This hand? … That hand? … This foot? … That foot? Which is it to be?” He circled the snake, forcing it to move with him, their eyes locked. “See how I wear down my worthy opponent, how much he hates me, how careless and clumsy he becomes. So determined to kill me, he does not see that I am more dangerous than he could ever be; that I am faster than the tongue of a horned toad.”
From a boxer’s crouch, h
e snapped out his hand like the fall of a whip to grasp the cobra’s head above the spread of its hood, his thumb perfectly centered on its throat an inch below the hinge of its jaws; it dug deep, forcing the mouth wide. He held the thrashing coils at arm’s length, then rose fully, with the serpent flinging this way and that from his rigidly outstretched arm.
“You see who is faster?” He grinned. “Yet he is as tall as I am, and as thick as my arm. See how quickly the king of the forest becomes harmless in the hands of his master? There is nothing to fear—I have challenged his threat and defeated it.”
With his free hand, Ah-Keung produced a knife from his belt. He tossed it in the air with a juggler’s hand, catching it by the polished blade, then offered the bone handle to her. “Could this be the one that tried to kill you and the old one? Perhaps he has returned to try again. Take your vengeance—sever the head. If it was not this snake that hid in the basket, it was one of his clan.”
He waggled the gaping jaws before her eyes. “You see, Ah-Keung is back and watching over the Little Star … or is your name Red Lotus?” The fangs of the cobra were unsheathed, like the claws of a cat held inches from her face. He worked the thumb that controlled the snake’s jaw, until beads of clear venom dripped harmlessly as droplets of dew. When Siu-Sing made no move to take the knife, it was quickly gone, his hand so fast it defied the eye.
“No? Well then, I shall avenge your poor ah-paw for you.” With the slow precision of a marketplace showman, he turned the cobra’s head to face him, bringing it closer to his face, mimicking its open jaws and darting tongue, mocking its helplessness. His thumb shifted upward to close the mouth, clamping it shut.
