The neck strike caught Chung Jun as he began to raise his guarding forearm, and the force of the blow to his exposed nerve sent a shock wave down his spine that made him collapse to the ground. He pounded his fist on the hard dirt, ending the match.
Mao could not believe what had just transpired, and stood staring down at the Zhaojin master with a stunned expression on her face. Chung Jun slowly stood up rubbing his neck, bowed to her and walked toward the well as she returned the sign of respect.
Jai-tien arose from the ground and walked over to where Mao stood speechless. “Finally, an acceptable performance!”, he stated without any emotion.
Mao grinned at him and waited for some words of praise from her master, but he only stared back at her. She started to speak, but Jai-tien interrupted her. “We were wondering how long it would take you to realize that you had begun to blink your eyes rhythmically the day before. Your stress level had caused you to focus on the mechanics of your techniques and you ceased to pay attention to the minor details. Chung Jun and I made a wager this morning on how many times he would strike you today before you would recognize your mistake. He said at most 75 times, but I said at least 250.”
An expression of exasperation flashed across Mao’s face. “May I ask for the final count, Master?”
“Only 249!”, he replied. “I was pleasantly surprised.” Then he clasped his hands behind his back, and marched off to join his old friend at the well. Mao shook her head in disgust, shrugged her shoulders, and started off toward the well to wash the blood off of her face and arms.
The evening meal was served without a word passing between any of the three, and the table was cleared and the dishes were washed before the long trek up the hill for the tea ceremony. Still, there were no words spoken, and Mao wondered repeatedly why the two old friends never spoke to one another. On the way back down the hill, the two remained silent as well, and Mao’s curiosity began to overwhelm her.
Upon their return, Chung Jun stopped at the green pond and sat himself on the bank beneath a willow tree to meditate. Jai-tien continued toward the house, and Mao followed him. With this chance to talk privately to her master, Mao mustered her courage and asked, “Why do you and Master Chung Jun rarely speak to each other? You are old friends and you never visit one another. Do you not have many things to say to each other?”
Jai-tien turned and raised a questioning eyebrow at Mao, as if he had explained this too many times before. “There is no need of words. Everything that is worthy of being spoken between us has already been said a long time ago.” Then he walked away, leaving his pupil mumbling to herself about her master’s ever-puzzling statements.
The next day the sequence of events leading up to the contests between Master Chung Jun and Hei Mao were the same as the previous two. After the noon meal, the three approached the training ground and began a light routine of exercises, followed by the pronouncement by Jai-tien that another round of sparring would begin.
Throughout the afternoon, Mao’s prowess continued to improve, and she grew comfortable withstanding the ferocious attacks of the Zhaojin master, and turning them to her advantage. She used every feinting move she could imagine to distract him, and constantly thought of strategies to keep him guessing about her intentions and to provide herself with slight windows of opportunity to attack him mercilessly.
Another five times they fought one another, and each time the matches lasted for over forty minutes. At the end of the day, Mao had won three of them, and Chung Jun only two. She left the training ground battered and bloody, but with a sense of satisfaction for the first time. Jai-tien said nothing, but Mao noticed, perhaps, a slight smile on his wrinkled old face as he left the training ground.
Jai-tien and Chung Jun prepared a massive dinner that evening, not only of rice and vegetables, but with a fresh chicken from the hen house. The meal was as delightful as it was large, and all parties felt stuffed beyond measure when they finished. Mao cleared away the table, and the three set out along the pathway to the home of Lu-chin.
When the tea ceremony concluded, Jai-tien picked up the fourth chair that Chung Jun had filled for the past five nights and returned it to where he had found it. Then the small party departed the house, and Jai-tien slid the door shut behind them. “Please, proceed without me,” he directed the others. “I wish to stay behind for a few more minutes to bask in my mother’s embrace. I will catch up with you before you return to the house.” Then he walked over to the spot overlooking the valley where Lu-chin had spent many hours under the willow tree. He sat down cross-legged on the ground, and raised his head to the moon and stars.
Mao and Chung Jun proceeded down the long pathway in silence. Mao’s mind returned to the secrets of her master, and her curiosity was great to learn more about his history. She knew that this would probably be the only chance she would ever have to speak privately with the Zhaojin master, so she summoned up her courage and approached him. She stepped beside him as he walked and bowed to him.
Chung Jun stopped abruptly and looked into her face expectantly.
“Master Chung Jun,” she began sheepishly in a low voice, “may I ask you a question, Honorable Sir?”
Chung Jun cocked his head at this strange request, and then nodded it slightly.
“Honorable Sir,” she began, but hesitated for a moment. She had difficulty forcing the words from her mouth. “Is Master Jai-tien Black Dragon?”
Chung Jun let out a startled gasp, and looked deeply into Mao’s eyes. He started to reply, but then paused for a moment. “I have never before given this possibility any consideration,” he said at length, “but I cannot deny that such a thing is plausible in many ways.”
Since he had not chastised her directly for her audacity, Mao pressed him for more information. “Would he not have told you if he were Hei Lang, Master Chung Jun?”, she asked in a whisper. “You are his oldest friend and training partner.”
Chung Jun paused again, this time for many moments. “Jai-tien is such a humble man, perhaps he was too modest to tell me.” His eyes stared off into the distance of the valley for a brief moment. “Or perhaps he had another reason. Whatever the case may be, if he were Hei Lang, then it was his secret to divulge, and is none of my business.” This was said in a tone that implied that it was none of Mao’s business either, and that the conversation had ended. He turned away from her and resumed his walk down the hillside, leaving Mao staring out over the valley as confused by the mystery as ever. Presently, she heard the light footsteps of her master approaching from behind her, and she turned and hurried down the pathway.
Mao wrestled with her thoughts and suspicions for most of the night before falling asleep. She awoke the next morning well after sunrise, and mentally kicked herself for failing to arise with the sun. She threw on her clothes and looked around the house for the two elders, but they were not to be found within it. She heard voices from outside, and quietly slid the door open and joined the two men in front of the house. They bowed to her as she approached.
“She has been well trained in your art, Master Jai-tien,” Chung Jun said confidently. “She may even be more proficient than you. In fact, your style seems to suit her even more naturally than it does you. After a few more days, I would not be able to beat her at all. You have performed your task well.” With this statement, Chung Jun bowed to Jai-tien, and then to Mao. He set his walking stick firmly on the ground and then turned to begin the long journey back to his home.
Jai-tien watched silently for a few minutes until Chung Jun had disappeared over a rise in the hill. Then he turned to face his student, and said, “Have you swept the floor yet, Hei Mao?”
The road to find out
The westerly winter wind broke early that year, and the warm breeze from the east was felt for the first time. With it, came a restlessness that was not felt before. Both Hei Mao and Jai-tien could sense that the time was near: soon, she would leave to journey to the Grand Tournament in Xiaomei to compete with the greate
st kung fu masters of ancient China. Although the tournament would not begin until summer was in full blossom, it was necessary for her to leave early as the journey was very long and arduous.
Hei Mao and Jai-tien awoke before sunrise on an early spring morning. Without words, they passed through the morning meditation and chores. After a light noontime meal, it was time for Mao to set out on her journey. Jai-tien walked with her to the doorway of the house, and touched her shoulder before she passed through. “Are you sure that you want to go to the tournament?”, he said to her in his wispy voice. “I can assure you now with utter confidence that you are a great warrior, and that you have already accomplished your dreams. There is nothing left for you to achieve by competing there.”
“Master, I must go,” she replied. “This is what I have been preparing for my entire life. It is time for me to prove to the rest of the world that I, a woman, have the body and spirit of a warrior. How could I not go to the tournament? It is my destiny to go there and compete, and it is there that I will meet whatever fate has decreed for me.”
“If you must go,” Jai-tien responded as he bent over to pick up a package from beside the door, “then take this with you.” The master handed Hei Mao a bundle of black clothing, bound together with a thin black belt, which was sitting on the floor near to the door. “This is the costume that Black Dragon wore in the Grand Tournament for ten years. Take it with you, Maome. Perhaps it will further inspire you to achieve the glory that you seek. Go now, and fulfill your destiny.”
So it was true! Mao now knew that what she had suspected for many months was true: Master Jai-tien was indeed the legendary Hei Lang! In such a humble manner had he finally admitted to her the truth! Why he had hidden this for so many years, she did not understand. She felt inside her profound elation and humility at the thought that the greatest living master of kung fu had taken her in as a child and taught her everything he knew. She again felt the shame of all the times when she had let him down. She understood now how much she had been given, when she had nothing to return but appreciation, which she had not always demonstrated. All of these things and more flashed through her mind in an instant, and her face began to turn red with humiliation.
Fortunately, Mao had learned to master her emotions, and she betrayed no hint of what passed through her mind at that moment. She said nothing, but deferentially took the proffered bundle of black cloth and stowed it away in her pack with the greatest of care. Then she bowed to her master, turned away, and strode purposefully off down the pathway.
Mao did not take more than ten steps beyond the point where she was out of all possible sight of her master before tearing excitedly into the pack to pull out the costume of the great Black Dragon. She unrolled the coarse black cloth, reveling as she unwound the black belt and pantaloons, then the tunic, and lastly, rolled up tightly within, the sacred swath of black cloth that covered the face of the great kung fu master. She held up the scarf and tunic, marveling at the power she felt emanating from it. How grand her master must have looked while wearing it! Tears crept into her eyes for the first time since the death of Lu-chin as she was overcome with a joyous euphoria that she had never before experienced. Then silently and with great deference, she rolled the cloth back up and stored it in her pack before resuming her long journey to Xiaomei.
Thus began the journey of Hei Mao, she who had waited a lifetime to prove herself in the Grand Tournament of ancient China. To trek across the regions of the vast expanse of land was no easy task, and was filled with daunting challenges of its own. To reach the tournament in time, she began her journey in early spring. As she walked down the dirt roads and through the narrow mountain passages toward her destination, she spent long hours in contemplation of her life and relationship with the great Hei Lang. At night she would lay under the stars, and recall her early childhood dreams and frustrations, her hunger for love and yearning for fame and glory. She would unroll the costume of Hei Lang each night, holding it up to marvel at the beauty and power of the black cloth and draw inspiration from it. When her food ran low, she would stop in a small roadside village to work for a few days until she had enough provisions to continue her journey. She talked to no one any more than was necessary, and shared her secret mission with no one. To the people she passed along the way, she was nothing more than a poor peasant girl, and many wondered why a young woman would be traveling alone through the wild countryside.
Several weeks into her journey, Mao’s road wound through a small village at the foot of a great mountain, still topped in snow from the cold northern winter. Again she stopped for a few days to rest her feet and to work at odd jobs for the people who lived there in exchange for a few provisions to continue her journey. On the day she planned for her departure, she awoke well before sunrise and slipped out of the barn she had shared at night with the livestock. She shouldered her pack of provisions and started down the road leading off through the mountains to the south. She had not gone far when she heard a voice behind her.
“Miss, young miss, please,” the voice began, “could you spare some food for a passing stranger?” The stranger was a disheveled looking young man, of approximately Mao’s age; however, his demeanor was much older, as if his life had been very difficult and troubled. Mao felt a strange sensation; something about this man seemed oddly familiar. Was it possible that she had met him before? She did not see how this could be possible.
Mao turned with a start when she heard this unexpected plea, as she had been lost in her own thoughts and had not paid particular attention to the presence of another. She bowed to the stranger and replied, “Respected Sir, I have not much upon my person, but what I have I will share with you.”
She set down her pack upon the ground, and opened it to shuffle around inside for the bag of dried rice that she had bartered in the village yesterday. She shook out about half of the rice into a kerchief and proffered it to the man. As he took it from her, Mao could smell the stench of hard rice liquor on his breath and the reek from his body, which he must not have bathed for weeks. Mao could see through the surrounding predawn darkness deep into his eyes, and recognized the man as the boy from her childhood, Xieng-gui! How it was possible that she should encounter him so far away from the monastery, she did not know, but she was certain that it was true. Had he left the monastery when he reached adulthood? How could this disheveled stranger in the clothes of a peasant possibly be the proud young warrior of her childhood memories?
It is unlikely that Xieng-gui recognized the young girl that had bested him at the fountain in the village square ten years before. He took the proffered rice, and turned it over in his hands several times. As he did so, the expression on his face became increasingly sour, and anger rose as a red blush upon his cheeks. He threw the rice to the ground, and turned viciously to Mao, grabbing her by both wrists. “You worthless dog!” he shouted in her face, “Is that all you can spare? Out with it! Empty your pack! I will take it all!”
Mao opened her hands and twisted them inside and over Xieng-gui’s wrists, breaking his grasp. “Honorable Sir,” she said to him calmly, “I must go. I wish you peace.”
Xieng-gui became more irritated, and his demeanor more aggressive. He reached for Mao’s pack, but she stepped aside as he reached for it. “Honorable Sir,” she began again, “I must go. Please let me do so. I beg of you!”
This time Xieng-gui lunged at her, and wrapped his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides. But Mao had been put in such a position many times before by her master, Jai-tien. She pushed his hips backward with her hands, which gave her the space she needed to step forward placing her left foot behind the right ankle of her attacker. As she pushed forward, the drunken Xieng-gui tottered backward to fall heavily to the ground.
Mao bowed to him as he lay on the ground, and picking up her pack, turned to walk away. Xieng-gui became filled with a drunken rage. He rose from the ground and charged at Mao with all of his strength, but his charge possessed only the wild aba
ndon of an enraged drunkard rather than the measured and strategic attack of a warrior. Sensing his approach, Mao stepped to the side, rotating her body to let him hurtle by her. As he did so, she brought her outside hand around in a descending arch, which ended when the side of her hand contacted the ridge of Xieng-gui’s nose. Blood spurted from the broken feature, and he fell to his knees on the ground, screaming in pain, and trying to staunch the flow of blood that was flowing profusely from his shattered nose. Between his blood-soaked gasps for breath, he cursed Mao in the manner of a drunken and broken man.
Mao bowed to him once again as he knelt on the ground holding his broken nose with both hands, cursing her. “I am so sorry, Honorable Sir,” she said. “I truly wish that this had not happened.” With this statement, she bowed once again, and then set off quickly down the road, leaving the destitute Xieng-gui sobbing and cursing in the dirt.
For the remainder of her travel that day, Mao thought about her relationship with Xieng-gui in her early days at the monastery. She remembered how they had been good friends and shared the same dreams. Then after beginning his training in kung fu, Xieng-gui had quickly become the most promising Shailan pupil in a decade. How had this young man with such great potential been reduced to a beggar, drunkard, and thief? Then she recalled the day that she had beaten Xieng-gui by the fountain, and the master’s anger upon her return. Had her besting of the boy in front of his friends started a downward spiral of feelings of unworthiness and self-loathing that had led to his current condition? If she had instead walked away from that fight long ago, would his life have turned out differently? There was no way that she could know the answer to these questions, but Mao felt ashamed nonetheless. For the first time, she understood the full gravity of why Master Jai-tien was so disappointed in her on that day.
Black Dragon, Black Cat Page 18
