The Saffron Falcon (Transition Magic)

by Hopkins, J. E.

  “The emperor’s generosity is a great and rare honor.” The look on his father’s face was at odds with his words, but Lún understood. The emperor was divine. To question him or his words meant death.

  “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

  “I’ve told the chancellor that I wish to leave the court. I’m still a young man. I have time to find a trade and to raise many sons who can support the family after my death.”

  Lún nodded. He wanted to ask if anyone had done anything like this before but thought he knew the answer. The trades were as carefully regulated as the court. The trade masters were unlikely to allow someone outside the trade families to join them. His father was risking everything to follow his heart.

  If I’m a scholar on the court and use Guòdù to secure my success, our name could still be honored and my wealth could protect our family.

  “Ba Ba, may I still join the court as an apprentice scholar?”

  His father looked surprised. He hesitated a moment, then nodded. “I leave the court in two days. If you wish to be an apprentice, you must be accepted before my departure, which means you must submit to castration this day or the next.”

  “Then I would like to use my Guòdù magic this day and become a eunuch tomorrow.”

  “Lún, are you certain? If you do this thing, you will never marry. You’ll never have children. Castration is dangerous and causes great pain.”

  “I’ll give up one pleasure for many. I know it’ll hurt, but others have done it and the pain will pass.”

  • • • • •

  Lún sat alone in the small room that served as the family shrine, trying to clear his mind before beginning the Guòdù ritual. Shadows from the bamboo lanterns danced across the carved reliefs on the walls. Shadows drawn by his imagination plagued his thoughts. Earlier in the day, he and his father had visited the hut outside the walls of the Forbidden City where castrations were performed. A man’s piteous screams had filled the air as they approached the small wood building.

  It was mid-afternoon and the sun’s heat radiated from the dirt path. The air was still and heavy with moisture. Lún slowed, as if the screams were physical blows. His brave words from the day before haunted him.

  If the screams don’t stop, I’m going to piss myself.

  His face reddened with shame.

  I am a coward.

  His father looked over at him with a transparent question written on his face.

  Lún took a deep breath, resumed his pace and whispered, “Yes, father, I want to go on.”

  But I still may vomit.

  “We’re not permitted to observe,” his father said. He paused until the screams dropped away. “But I’ve arranged for the master surgeon to talk with you.”

  They stopped twenty paces away from the hut and waited. The ground around them was barren, packed to a polished clay surface by countless feet. Lún heard a murmur of voices from inside the hut but couldn’t grasp the meaning. A few moments later, an unconscious man was carried out on a litter, his waist and groin wrapped in blood-stained cloths.

  He looked dead.

  The small procession was followed a by a grinning man so tall that he had to bend his head to clear the top of the door.

  What evil makes this man smile?

  The tall man marched over and exchanged bows, looking at Lún’s father. “You are Cài Bang?”

  “Yes. Thank you for seeing us.”

  “I’m honored to visit with members of the emperor’s court. Although I’ve been awash with visitors since the emperor’s decree.” He looked down at Lún. “Your father says you wish to be a eunuch, Boy. Is that so?”

  “If I must,” Lún said.

  The master laughed. “An honest answer, and a good one. You’re here to learn the details of my craft, is that correct?”

  Lún forced a nod.

  “Would you like to step inside and see my workplace?”

  “With respect, I’ll wait until it’s my turn to face your knife.”

  Lún’s father put a hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps if you would just tell my son what he can expect, then we’ll leave you to your work.”

  The master kept his gaze on Lún. The grin fell from his face. “It’s good to be scared.” He pointed back at the hut. “Grown men are too proud to admit fear. That makes healing more difficult.”

  “I have enough fear for all men,” Lún said. “If what you say is true, my healing should be very fast.”

  “I can’t promise that. But I can promise that it will be a quick cut and, if your ancestors are merciful, you’ll remember little a year from now. And rest assured, I’m good at what I do. Of those I cut, fewer than one in ten die.”

  “How is it done?” Lún asked.

  “Drink nothing this evening or tomorrow before you come to me. Once you’re here, you’ll strip and lie down on the stretcher. I’ll paint your groin with hot chili paste to lessen the pain. The two servants who come with you will hold you down.”

  Lún’s father interrupted. “I’ll be with him. And will bring a servant to assist me.”

  The surgeon shrugged. “As you wish. I’ll make one, quick slice. Then I’ll plug the wound, bind you, and give you a bag that holds your penis and testicles. You’ll remove the plug three days later and piss like a young mare. All will be well. When you die of old age, your bag will be buried with you to restore your manhood in the afterlife.”

  “What happens if I don’t piss?”

  The master brushed away the question. “Don’t worry. I’ll make a good clean cut. You’ll be fine.”

  Lún heard someone shuffling along the path behind them. He turned and saw an old man, leaning on a cane, walking slowly toward them. He was accompanied by two young servants.

  The master nodded at the old man and called, “I’ll be finished here in a moment. Wait inside.”

  “When should we come to you?” Lún’s father asked.

  “At first light. We’ll do this early and shorten the time the boy has to become anxious.” His grin came back. “That’s not all I’ll shorten, eh? And don’t forget to bring six pieces of silver. No man works for free.” He bowed and returned to the hut.

  Lún and his father had walked home in silence, and Lún’s day had been a waking nightmare of knives, blood, and piss that wouldn’t flow. His resolve had never wavered, but he feared that he wouldn’t be able to clear his mind sufficiently to perform the Guòdù ritual. Elder Chu had seemed to understand his distress and had only chided him once, when Lún had made a mistake using an abacus for a calculation.

  At twilight, Lún watched with pride as his father released a red silk lantern into the sky to honor Lún’s passage. Lún bowed, thanked him, and entered the shrine. He knelt and gazed around, trying to find calm in the serene space.

  Three silk lanterns hung low from the ceiling; shadows danced in the flickering light. The floor was covered by a scarlet carpet bearing an intricate royal blue pattern of swirls and loops. Three carved stone tablets, each so large that Lún’s arms wouldn’t reach from one side to the other, hung on the walls. To his left was a representation of a society in harmony with the teaching of Confucius and led by a just emperor. The one on the right showed a room where the son of heaven and his guests had gathered. All his subjects faced the emperor, all in their proper place, and all showing proper devotion. The largest tablet hung on the wall opposite the door and showed a phoenix, symbolizing the emperor receiving his mandate to rule from Heaven.

  Lún faced the phoenix, bent to touch his head to the floor, and sat back on his heels. He inhaled the sandalwood smoke that curled though the nostrils of a bronze dragon crouched on the floor below the center carving.

  Lún’s breathing slowed, and his mind cleared. He began the ritual.

  “I invoke my birthright to the Power granted by Transition. I beseech this Power to grant my request. I honor the requirements of Transition and affirm…”

  An iridescent lavender glow filled the
small room. Lún felt chilled, as if winter had settled on their home.

  “That I make my request with respect and humility…

  “That my heart is pure…”

  The aura deepened and seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Lún was colder than the ice of the coldest winter.

  “That my request is worthy…

  “That no request like mine has been uttered since time began…

  “That this is my own true wish…

  “That I willingly surrender my life if I am found unworthy or my request is found wanting…”

  He shivered, his words accompanied by puffs of white fog in the lavender pool of light.

  “Hear me: I ask nothing for now, but for later, when I’m a man grown, and wiser. Grant me the inspiration for an invention so wondrous that it honors my emperor and my family and brings great benefit to the world.”

  • • • • •

  Modern History of Adolescent Transition. (2010)

  United States Department of Transition Security.

  Retrieved from http://www.dts.org/PWChecked/topic/78590/cailun

  Cài Lún - Summary Extract

  ca 50 CE—121 CE

  Chinese eunuch and inventor of paper and the papermaking process, in forms recognizable today as paper. Modern papermaking still employs Cài Lún’s ancient technique of fiber suspended in water, draining of the water, and then drying into a thin, matted sheet. Revered during his life and achieved global renown after his death. Ranked as the seventh most influential person in history by Michael H. Hart in The 100—A Ranking of the Most Influential Persons in History.

  Born in Guiyang (modern day Leiyang, Hunan) during the Eastern Han Dynasty. Served as a court eunuch from AD 75 and promoted several times under the rule of Emperor He. Promoted in AD 89 to Shang Fang Si, responsible for manufacturing instruments and weapons; also named Regular Palace Attendant. Named a marquess in 114. In 121, became involved in court intrigue after Empress Deng’s death and was ordered to prison. Committed suicide by drinking poison after bathing and dressing in fine silk robes.

  Multiple third-century Chinese texts cite sources, contemporaneous with Cài Lún, who claimed that Transition magic, or Guòdù, was the source of his inspiration. This is a point of ongoing debate among scholars, given the lack of direct corroboration and the forty-year gap (est.) between Cài Lún’s adolescence and the first records of his invention.

  2015 CE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  New Delhi

  Republic of India

  John Benoit was walking under a wisteria-covered pergola that separated two sections of the cemetery when his DTS cell phone vibrated. The phone had been silent since his conversation with Stony. The DTS staff handling John’s forced retirement had neglected to ask for their phone back. He’d checked it every couple of days and was always surprised to find that it was still working.

  Maybe this is the call to tell me to send it back.

  He smiled, pulled the phone from his pocket, and was surprised to see the DNI’s name pop up on the screen.

  Why the hell is the director of National Intelligence calling me?

  John’s former boss and acting director of the DTS, Wyatt Nebelhorner, reported to the DNI.

  Did I piss Nebelhorner off so much that he refuses to even talk to me?

  An image of a brilliant mid-day sun glancing off Stony’s hair and ruby nose stud popped into this mind. His heart kicked into overdrive. John stopped and tapped the “Accept” button. “Benoit.”

  “John, this is Martin Lewis.”

  Like I’ve forgotten your name. Hasn’t been that damn long and I’m not that damn old.

  “I can’t tell you what a relief it is to have finally tracked you down. I’d tried every number in your file until Akina suggested that I try your old DTS cell number. Apparently she’s been making sure that it’s still active.”

  Where is Nebelhorner?

  John grunted. “Why the call, Martin?”

  I don’t work for you any more, so that makes us equals in the eyes of the U.S. Constitution. Come to think of it, we were equals even when I worked for you.

  If the familiarity bothered the DNI, he didn’t let it show, and John liked him better for it.

  “John, Agent Hill was attacked inside Iran by a combination of ISI agents and the Iranian military.”

  John slammed his cane off the concrete pathway, the brass tip echoing like a shot. “Ah, fuck. Is she—”

  “She’s okay. She’s back in Pakistan, and we’ve dispatched a chopper from the nearest U.S. installation to bring her to safety. They should be picking her up at any time.”

  “And Agent—”

  “Agent Kain is dead. Killed in the attack. I don’t have any more than that.”

  Christ. I’ve got to get reinstated. How the hell do I do that?

  “I need you back on the job, John. I want you to report to DTS Headquarters first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll see you there at 0700.”

  John’s world fell into sharp focus for the first time since he’d been sent home. “I’m sorry, Mr. Director, but that’s not possible.” He realized what he’d said and hurried to add, “Excuse me. Let me be clear. I’d be delighted to rejoin the DTS but I can’t meet with you in Washington. I’m in New Delhi.”

  The line was quiet for a couple of seconds. “India? What the hell are you doing in India?”

  “Nebelhorner told me to take a vacation. So I did. In New Delhi. I’ve been photographing the Delhi War Cemetery.”

  His cell phone crackled with the DNI’s laughter. “Decided you’d get a little closer to Islamabad just in case, did you? That will make things easier.” He paused. “Shit, goddamned time zones always confuse me. What time is it there?”

  “Seven-thirty in the evening.”

  “Hold on for a minute.” The phone line went quiet for more like five minutes, then snapped back to life. “It’s too late to get you into Pakistan tonight. So, you need to be at the Islamabad Airport at five a.m. tomorrow morning.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “I’ll have a jet waiting. Akina will get you the details.”

  “Not that I really give a shit,” John said, “but have you talked about all this with Acting Director—”

  “Nebelhorner has resigned, with immediate effect. The president has appointed a new acting director, also with immediate effect. You.”

  John swallowed a laugh. “Shit, Martin, you guys are a piece of work. You and the president have lost your minds. I’m an agent, not a goddamned manager. And the Nebelhorner fiasco has made me wonder if I’m the kind of agent you want for the DTS.”

  “John, I understand that you’re—”

  “Not open for discussion. I’ll be at the airport at five tomorrow morning. Get me into Pakistan so Stony and I can do our jobs.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Islamabad

  Islamic Republic of Pakistan

  “Where’re we going?” Rahman asked. It was the day after he’d told General Pasha about Tareef’s escape.

  Rahman had been taken from his cell at the Abpara jail by a single guard and stuffed into the back seat of a worn-out Toyota Camry. The guard’s shirt was half out of his pants and spotted with food stains. He stank of burned garlic and onions. That same guard was now darting in and out of morning rush-hour traffic like it was fun to see how many accidents he could trigger.

  “A high and mighty ISI general wants to see you. What an asshole. Demanded that we drop everything. My sergeant picked me to play cab driver. He’s another asshole. The world is full of assholes.”

  Rahman’s hands were free. When he’d held them out to the guard as he left his cell, the man had sneered arrogantly and said, “You’re a pussy college professor. Try anything and I’ll cut you to death with a piece of paper.”

  A scarred Plexiglass partition separated the front and back seats; the car doors were locked, and the back windows were covered by a metal mesh.

  Han
dcuffs would have been redundant.

  The guard’s stink added to the stench of puke and piss that filled the car.

  Free hands or not, I’m screwed. Pasha will kill me as soon as he thinks he doesn’t need me.

  Rahman leaned forward to the small grid of holes drilled in the Plexiglass. “I can pay you if you let me go. Thousands. You can tell all the assholes to take a flying leap.”

  The guard slammed on the accelerator and stormed around a car that had slowed in front of them. He looked in the rear mirror. “Only a fool would fuck with the ISI.”

  “If you won’t let me go, then take me to my house so I can make a call. I’ll pay you all I have hidden away, and then you can take me to General Pasha. Thousands. No risk.”

  The guard was silent, considering.

  “Where’s your hou—”

  A hulking SUV slammed into the side of the Camry, spinning it 360 degrees and slamming it into a street light. The guard’s head pierced the windshield like a blunt spear, blood and brains spattering the Plexiglass barrier between the seats with red and grey.

  The doors opposite the SUV were popped open by the force of the collision and Rahman was thrown onto the pavement. He landed on his left side and screamed at the pain that lanced up his arm and into his shoulder. The scream was cut short when he vomited, fouling his clothes.

  He rolled to his right side, pushed himself to his knees, and stood. His left arm was worse than useless. It seemed paralyzed, but the pain threatened to drive him back to the ground.

  The pain dropped away. He felt like he was no longer part of the living world.

  Shock.

  He wobbled and turned to look around. A growing crowd surrounded him and the car, but they stood back, as if they were afraid. A couple of men yelled at him to lie down until an ambulance arrived. Someone else said the police were on their way.

  I just need a few minutes alone. Then I don’t care.

  He stumbled to the driver’s side front door and leaned in over the guard. His stomach heaved, and he puked again, spraying the dead man’s back. He wiped his mouth with his right hand, then rummaged through the guard’s pockets and grabbed his cell phone. Almost as an afterthought, he stuffed the phone in his waistband and pulled the guard’s revolver from its holster.