by B. L. Sauder
There was no use in begging Uncle Peter to change his mind. He’d only say, “When you’re a parent you can make decisions about your own family. Until you and Ryan are old enough to leave my house, you’ll live by my rules.”
Alex laughed a little now and loosened his seat belt. Uncle Peter was always saying things like that, but he was actually a real softy. He’d taken Ryan and him in, hadn’t he? Everyone told his brother and him how lucky they were to have such great “parents.” It was true, he guessed. He liked living with Uncle Peter and Aunt Grace.
Their house was in West Vancouver, at the foot of the mountains on the North Shore. When he wasn’t at school, Alex was at nearby Westwood Riding Academy working with Rubicon. Technically speaking, the ebony mare belonged to Aunt Grace. But after buying Ruby with the first of her inheritance, Aunt Grace had only taken a few lessons before she – as she said – “got busy with the boys.” That was just after he and Ryan had come to live with them.
He remembered Aunt Grace letting him sit on Rubicon as the instructor led the horse around the arena. Alex cried when he got off after a few laps. He must have known already that he and Ruby were meant for each other. Ever since then, Rubicon did exactly what he asked her to. Whether it was by using the reins or whispering in her ear, Alex and his mare were on the same wavelength. Someday, he hoped to race with her, but he’d have to wait until he was older for that.
Yeah. Life was good with Uncle Peter and Aunt Grace.
If he was to tell the truth, he never really thought about Mama and Papa. Unlike Ryan, he didn’t remember that much about them, or about the fire.
He glanced over at Ryan looking out of the plane window. As usual, he was in his own world. Alex felt a stab of shame. He wondered why he didn’t miss their parents as much as Ryan did.
“Hey, Alex,” he heard Aunt Grace say softly from across the aisle.
He grinned over at her. “How’d you sleep?”
“Horribly,” she yawned. “And you?”
“I didn’t.”
“Alex!” Aunt Grace said, watching her husband walking back toward them from the toilet. “Your uncle is going to kill you if you fall asleep during the reunion dinner.”
Uncle Peter reached his seat, sat down and immediately did the seat belt back up. He looked at them and then narrowed his eyes. “What? Did I miss something?”
“No. Nothing,” Alex and Aunt Grace said simultaneously.
Alex liked being on Aunt Grace’s side. Even when he was really young, he’d felt like they had something special. He thought back to when their adoption went through. That was also the day Uncle Peter had given Ryan and him their jade.
His uncle still wore glasses back then, and when he had held out the two pendants toward the boys and began to explain the legend behind them, his uncle’s eyes had looked sad, Alex thought.
Alex remembered, too, how he had snuggled up to Aunt Grace and asked what a legend was.
“It’s a very old folk tale,” she whispered.
The Wong family legend was that the jade pendants were two parts of a whole. With a third part, the jade formed one complete disc – but that piece had been lost long ago.
What had stuck in Alex’s young mind most from the tale was that the original, whole piece of jade once belonged to one of China’s first emperors. Nobody knew how the jade had ended up in their family. Uncle Peter said the boys’ father had a theory, but all the proof had been destroyed in the fire.
Alex would never forget how Ryan had glared at him then. Alex had immediately started crying while Uncle Peter explained, not for the first time, that the fire was an accident and that Alex had nothing to do with it.
Over the years, Uncle Peter added information to the legend – for example, that their father had gone back to their grandfather’s village in China where he was given an old scroll. The poem written on it was in a very old style, but he’d had it translated into both modern Chinese and English, especially for his sons. He had often recited the English version to them. Ryan loved it and had memorized the entire poem. At the time that Papa and Mama died, Alex knew only a few lines:
A man stood ashore, watching the sight
Of mighty Black Dragon in the moonlight.
The man was drawn by the pale green stone,
And vowed at once to make it his own.
After the fire, Ryan refused to recite any part of the poem, and wouldn’t even stay in the room if Uncle Peter mentioned it. Alex ended up learning it by himself from a copy Uncle Peter had.
Looking over at Ryan as he stared out the window, Alex hoped this trip would make his brother feel a bit better about losing their parents. Alex thought that if he could have just one wish, he would ask for that – something to make Ryan forgive him for something he’d never even done.
Chapter 5
The Poisoned Apple
Hong Mei stood on a sidewalk in Beijing, the capital city, where emperors and empresses once ruled. Instead of the rickshaws and sedan chairs of days gone by, there were cars, taxicabs and crammed buses clogging the busy road behind her.
There were also throngs of people riding bicycles, many of whom wore white surgical masks to protect their noses and lungs. It had been a dry winter with little snow, so the sands blowing down from the Gobi Desert had arrived early. The already polluted air was thicker than usual.
Hong Mei shivered and pulled her collar up. She’d be happy when spring arrived.
Squinting at the number plate on the drab building in front of her, she wondered why the Order of Monastic Studies, especially with its auspicious address, 188, didn’t have a more impressive entrance. The single door she stood before was in the centre of a narrow, windowless structure, wedged between two high-rises.
188. She was sure that had been the address in the email. They must not want too many people to notice it was there.
Hong Mei was about to start biting one of her ragged fingernails, but she caught herself. Instead, she reached into her pocket and felt the familiar grooves of her jade talisman. Just the feel of it made her feel better.
She climbed the few steps and looked for a doorbell or buzzer. Not seeing one, she was about to knock on the door when it swung open.
A man with a shiny skull and deeply wrinkled face peered out at her. “Yes? What do you want?”
“Is this the Order of Monastic Studies?”
Instead of answering her question he asked, “Who are you?”
“My name is Chen Hong Mei. I have an appointment –”
“Yes, yes. Come in.”
The stooped man waited for her to enter before shutting the daylight out. Hong Mei caught a glimpse of a corridor leading away from the tiny foyer where she stood. She saw a few closed doors along either side of the hallway, but heard no voices.
The sound of the man locking the door startled her and she turned around. He was already right behind Hong Mei, but he moved closer, peering intently at her.
Hong Mei backed away.
“Hmm,” he said. “Why is your hair so short?”
Before she could say anything, he pointed at her face. “What are those brown dots on your nose?”
Hong Mei felt herself blush. “Excuse me, sir, but they’re freckles. Many people have them.”
The man looked unconvinced. “Too much sun, if you ask me.”
Hong Mei wanted to say, “Who asked you?” but held her tongue.
“Follow me then,” the man said as he shuffled down the long, dark hallway.
The only sound Hong Mei heard were their footsteps on the wooden floorboards, muffled in the tunnel-like space. The air seemed just as dusty as outside and Hong Mei stifled a sneeze. Looking up, she noticed a sliver of light from a narrow skylight high above.
When they came to a door with a folding chair beside it, the man said, “Have a seat. I will tell them you are here.”
He opened the door and shut it softly behind him. Hong Mei sat on the edge of the hard metal seat.
Hong Mei s
quirmed on the uncomfortable chair as the minutes ticked by. She wondered how long this was going to take. Looking at her wrist, she remembered her watch was broken. Maybe she would use some of her hong bao money to get it fixed.
Hong Mei peered up at the slim band of sky through the skylight. It was already getting dark. She’d never been in Beijing alone at night.
The door beside her creaked open and Hong Mei leapt up. She remembered her manners, however, and waited for the old man to invite her in. He motioned for her to enter. Hong Mei felt his eyes studying her face as she walked past him.
The room was windowless and even darker than the corridor behind her. She could barely make out the outline of a long table. Hong Mei smelled something. Sandalwood?
She heard a click. A desk lamp was switched on, creating a tiny patch of light on the table. She could see the silhouette of a person sitting behind it, but not a face. Hong Mei focused and saw the outlines of two more people sitting on either side of the central figure. They also turned on lamps, illuminating pale circles on the hard surface of the table.
“May we have a light for Miss Chen, please?” she heard a deep, female voice ask from behind the middle light.
There was a very loud click before Hong Mei was suddenly blinded. She lifted both hands to her eyes, trying to shield them from the bright white light above.
“Dui-bu-qi, sorry,” said the same husky voice from the other side of the table. “We just want to get a good look at you.”
As Hong Mei stood in the spotlight, she thought about how she must look. Perhaps she should’ve worn a skirt instead of her New Year’s outfit. Would her father think it was strange her hair was so short? She hoped he remembered her freckles and wasn’t as disgusted by them as the old man obviously was.
“That’s enough. Please turn down the light.”
The room immediately dimmed and Hong Mei blinked to clear her vision. When she looked toward the table again, she saw the old, bald man sitting amongst the others. A woman in the centre stood up. Her face and upper torso were illuminated from below, giving her face unkind shadows. Still, it was obvious that the woman was beautiful.
She was tall and held herself so straight that she reminded Hong Mei of a statue. Her jet black hair had been pulled up high, coiled into an elaborate pretzel shape on the top of her head. She wore a shimmering teal robe, and when she moved even slightly, the material flashed green, then blue and gold. At her waist and around the wide cuffs of her billowing sleeves the cloth was scarlet, shiny and rich like a ruby. Like an empress.
As if to answer Hong Mei’s thoughts, the woman introduced herself. “I am Madam Ching.” Then she motioned vaguely to her left and right and said, “These are members of the Order.”
Members of the Order?
The woman smiled and continued in her smoky voice. “I suppose you are wondering why there are women amongst us. Surely your father told you of female warriors.”
Hong Mei nodded, trying not to frown.
“You see, Miss Chen, it was decided that not only would we would check your blood for verification of your lineage, but we would also interview you as well. You don’t mind answering a few questions, do you?”
The way Madam Ching said this made Hong Mei’s legs go rubbery. She forced herself not to raise a hand to her mouth. Instead, she reached into her pocket and clasped her jade. Its coolness steadied her.
“I am sure you are well aware that we will soon be entering the Year of the Dragon; the Year of the Golden Dragon, to be precise.”
Hong Mei could hear the other people shifting in their seats.
“Can you tell us what is so significant about this Dragon Year?” Madam Ching asked in a silky tone.
Hong Mei’s stomach lurched. Her forehead was suddenly damp, and she could feel the moisture forming under her arms. She wanted to take a deep breath, but it seemed like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room. She tried to remain calm by staying focused and drawing in tiny puffs of air through her nose.
When Hong Mei managed to find her voice, it came out as a whisper. “Well, the regular Year of the Dragon rotates every twelve years. But Golden Dragon years only come along once in a sixty-year cycle.”
“Yes, yes. Every Chinese knows that,” the elegant woman snapped. “Is there anything else?”
“I don’t think so,” Hong Mei said, trying to avoid the woman’s gaze.
“Tsk!” Madam Ching clicked her tongue sharply and sat down.
Hong Mei began to hear a buzzing in her ears. Her scalp felt hot under the light, and her back began to itch as a trail of sweat trickled down her spine.
Next to Madam Ching, a tiny woman grasped the edge of the table, pulling herself to a standing position. She seemed no taller than when she was seated. The knot at the top of her head held the last few strands of her snow-white hair and her earlobes seemed stretched, weighed down by the deep-yellow gold earrings she wore. She smiled a little.
“My dear child,” she croaked. “We only wish to see your family reunited once again. Although your father’s removal from your home was a last resort, please understand that it was necessary in the lead-up to the Year of the Golden Dragon. We are very nearly there and he is about to go home with you. You must, however, answer our questions honestly and sincerely. Now, please tell us about your martial arts training.”
“My father taught me when I was little,” Hong Mei mumbled. She felt as if she were burning up. The overhead light and strong smell of sandalwood were making her feel faint. She knew her face must be crimson.
“Your father told us that you have studied advanced fighting. That’s quite different than what a normal young person learns, particularly a young girl. Isn’t it?”
Hong Mei was silent, trying to steady her mind with the tiny puffs she was working in and out of her nose. Perhaps she shouldn’t have stopped practising all that qi-gong and other breathing exercises she used to do. Shrugging, the woman sat down and Madam Ching stood up again.
“Miss Chen,” she began evenly, “this is extremely important. I must break all protocol and not waste any more time with niceties. According to our information, we are quite confident that we know who you and your father are. Do you?”
Hong Mei swallowed. What did the woman mean?
Madam Ching snorted and said, “Let me get to the point. You must be familiar with the tale of Black Dragon.”
Black Dragon?
The woman reached into one of her wide sleeves and removed a scroll. As she unrolled it, Hong Mei could see that the yellowish paper looked very old and fragile. Some sections appeared to have been torn away, especially around the charred edges.
Madam Ching stopped to put on a pair of glasses, resting them near the end of her nose. Gazing over the tops of the lenses at Hong Mei, she began to recite:
Long before the universe was born,
Chaos rose from a celestial storm.
Alone for eons in an endless night,
The god awoke and created light.
Hong Mei thought of her father and closed her eyes. As soon as she did, she felt the familiar prickling along her hairline and tickle at the nape of her neck. Her mind’s eye was about to start working again. A vision was coming.
Standing now amongst strangers, the room and its occupants seemed to fade away. Hong Mei no longer heard Madam Ching’s voice.
Behind Hong Mei’s closed eyelids, she began to see the colour red. Not the lustrous New Year’s red that went with pretty gold writing. Neither was it like the lanterns that hung in the doorways of restaurants, nor the embroidered red of a bride’s silk wedding gown. No, this was black-red. Dark and thick, it flowed like a sluggish river.
As Hong Mei’s vision continued, she knew instinctively that what she saw was blood. The red current spread over cobbled streets and dirt roads. Then she saw people, dead or dying, moaning and crying for help.
Hong Mei felt as if she were going to collapse.
She began to hear Madam Ching’s voice again as the
woman recited other lines of the poem that Hong Mei knew so well:
Hail, Black Dragon. I’m Emperor of this land.
What? Dragon hissed, tail swishing in the sand.
Chaos made me ruler of land and beasts.
I did not see you at that happy feast.
True, said the Emperor, ’twas before my time.
The world has since changed, land and men are
now mine.
’Tis the first I’ve heard of this, Black Dragon said.
Deep within his heart he felt the fist of dread.
The horrible scenes that had rushed into Hong Mei’s head began to ebb, but they left in her mouth a taste of old metal and rust. She wanted to spit.
“Miss Chen?” asked Madam Ching. “Shall I continue?”
A chill raised goosebumps on Hong Mei’s arms. She hugged herself for warmth and shook her head.
Madam Ching leaned forward slightly and dropped her voice as if she were sharing a secret. “You know about Black Dragon’s jade, do you not?”
Baba’s story couldn’t be true, could it?
“We know who you are,” Madam Ching said. “It is going to be all right, for we are here to help you. You realize, of course, that you are one of the heirs chosen to return Black Dragon’s jade?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.”
Hong Mei was scared. “I want to see my father.”
“Oh, you will,” Madam Ching purred, looking nonchalantly at her extremely long, red nails, “as soon as you fulfill your obligation.” She smiled. “The scroll is proof that Black Dragon existed – and most likely still does, since dragons live for hundreds of years. He is probably close to the age when a dragon must, how shall we say, expire. According to the pact between Master Chen and Black Dragon, we know what the monks and your father have always known – you are the one chosen to give back the jade to Black Dragon before he dies.”
Hong Mei shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t know anything about any jade. My father only told me I would be meeting Black Dragon some day.”
