The Emperor's Prey

by Jeremy Han

  Soon the trail ended and they entered another chamber. This chamber reverberated with the faint chanting of monks; there was a deeper chamber inside where the monks were gathered for their daily prayers. The faint smell of incense wafted passed them before it was lost in the cold biting wind. As they passed it, they caught a glimpse of a gigantic Milefo carved out of the rock face. The Buddha was painted in bright colours, from the deep red tunic and green sash to the huge toes where the rows of praying monks faced. There was a faint smile painted onto the face of the idol. On an old table with offerings stood two long, burning, thick incense sticks. The chamber, made from the natural cavern protected the monks from the cold, allowing them to continue praying and meditating for hours. Whoever made this place was brilliant.

  Then they entered a room that looked like an audience hall and was told to sit. There were roughly hewn wooden chairs put in two neat rows on each side of the room. At the centre was bigger chair and hanging on the wall above it was a faded painting of a deity. The tired group sat down. Their spirits were lifted when the same monk re-entered with steaming cups of tea. Zhao thanked the man who bowed but did not speak further. He tried to ask him about the emperor.

  “Shifu”...’Teacher’ He signalled to the departing monk, who disappeared silently through a door. He used the common term of respect for monks but he was ignored. The monk walked away as though he had not heard anything. They exchanged glances again, a little piqued. There was nothing to do but drink the tea. The warm liquid brought colour back to their cheeks as it coursed through their throats and into their bellies, warming them from the inside. During their climb they had nothing but cold water and now the hot, steaming tea felt like a drink from the gods. The tea was earthy and black. It was well-preserved, as it must be to be kept and used at such an inaccessible place. Anything the monks had must be stored over time for it was not possible that they venture out regularly for supplies. To do so would ultimately reveal the location of the temple and its entry point. Still they could not have survived for centuries without any contact with the outside world, so it must have been kept a secret; the movements minimal and only when absolutely necessary. Somehow, the Network found out and made contact with the monks of this temple. How they did it was beyond Zhao Qi. He would have loved to ask Xiaoju. But he knew the old man would not have told him. After he finished his tea hungrily, he waited without knowing what to expect.

  Somehow there was an air of reverence in the place. Despite the excitement at the meeting of the former emperor, nobody spoke. They waited for sometime before they heard soft footsteps approaching. Zhao Qi stood in anticipation and the rest followed. The foot falls were coming from the corridor that the servant monk had departed. They tensed. Some of them frowned. Yula did not know what to expect because she was not a Han and never served the emperor before. A shadow filled the doorway and it was the servant monk again. The monk bowed his head low and signalled for them to follow. The tension eased into a slight disappointment as they followed, not knowing where the novice would be taking them to. They stepped out onto the wooden platform again. Amazingly the wood planks did not creak; they were solidly planted and supported by the ‘chopsticks’ that seemed to lift them up into the air. This path was longer than the one previously and seemed to wind upwards. It ended with a small landing, and then a set of carved stairways started. The monk ascended and the rest followed. The stairway was carved onto the rock face so it had to follow its natural contours; it zigzagged upward. The team stepped over unevenly carved steps made slippery with a fine layering of snow. The boy leading them seemed to have no problems keeping his footing while the visitors had to slow down and mind their steps.

  Finally, the stairway ended with a pavilion. As they reached the top, they saw a solitary monk praying, his body facing the east. He seemed oblivious to the cold as he did not have an overcoat. There was something distantly familiar about the man. His profile triggered a memory although everything else, the shaved head where formerly he had long, thick and well-combed hair, the slim frame instead of a roundness that came from a life of good nutrition, the tattered monk habit instead of fine silk lined with gold threads; the austerity surrounding him looked alien. They stood there for awhile before the praying monk opened his eyes and turned full-faced toward the assembled group of people. As he got up and walked toward them, they fell onto their knees.

  Even Yula and Li Po who had never saw the emperor before followed their men. There was something regal in the man before them that poverty and suffering could not erase. He had an authority that did not come from the law or military power but an inner calmness. His voice was gentle. “Do not kneel before me. I am but a man: A sojourner passing through this land seeking enlightenment. Please, get up.”

  Zhao Qi, Fu Zhen, Long, and Li Jing cried with one voice,

  “Huang Shang!” ‘Emperor’!

  Tears flowed as they remembered the young man they escorted out of the city gate eighteen years ago. The palace in flames, soldiers giving their lives for a lost course to buy time for this man to escape. But they knew why they did it, why they sacrificed - Because this man had the Mandate of Heaven to rule. He would have brought goodness to the people and a reign of peace and civilisation. Now before them stood a middle-aged monk; weathered and poorly nourished. Although he had shed his outer glory, there was something that emanated from within that reminded them all that before them, stood a monarch. As they got up, Jian Wen spoke again,

  “Why did you come?”

  “Majesty, we came to take you away.”

  Zhao spoke, representing the group. Emotions filled his voice and he was inwardly afraid that the emperor would reject them and send them away after the hazardous journey here. Jian Wen nodded. It was obvious they came to take him away but the reason was not entirely known yet. He needed to confirm it.

  “Why do I need to leave this place of serenity?”

  “The Usurper Yong Le had ordered your death. He knows that you are alive and has sent the Eastern Depot after you. They are hot on your heels and we have fought them once already.” He paused then continued with a tinge of sadness.

  “There are several who have already given their lives to protect you. Wen Xuan is one of them.”

  The monk-emperor shook his head and dipped his head for a short prayer. A passing cloud of sadness passed his face as the memory of his teacher filled his mind. Then he spoke.

  “Do not call my uncle a usurper. Do not speak ill of another. Why the sudden interest in me?”

  “He had a dream: A nightmare of you coming back with an army that could not be defeated.” He recounted the dream the emperor had. It was supposed to be a secret but nothing could be hidden in a palace. Jian Wen shook his head and sighed, saying almost to himself. “Lust for power inevitably leads to fear. And ambition to disappointment.”

  “The Network has provided a way for you to escape.” Zhao added.

  “Escape? Where to? This is my uncle’s realm now. Sooner or later, he will find me. Let them find me alone. I do not wish to drag you down again.”

  Zhao insisted, “To a land away from here. Over the eastern seas and south. Far away from the empire. That is where we will take you. There Yong Le has no claim and the Eastern Depot will not find us.”

  Jian Wen nodded wisely, “And with me, you will get your ticket to freedom too.”

  He knew how his uncle thought. Even if he could not kill his nephew, he would not spare those who had helped him. Eighteen years could not erase the hatred and fear of someone who knew in his heart he had committed a great sin. The emperor looked at Long and Yula, Li Po and Li Jing, Fu Zhen and Zhao Qi. He could see the lost years. He could also see the hope of a new future; one without being pursued and hunted, that allowed them to live like normal people. Then he spoke,

  “Then let me do what I can. I will follow you.”

  The group broke out in laughter. Their smiles showed a sense of relief that the former emperor did not reject them. Their missio
n had been successful to this point. Jian Wen spoke again, “Tonight you will stay. Tomorrow we will leave at dawn to wherever you plan to take me to.” The novice indicated for them to follow and they entered the warm chambers again, out of the biting cold.

  That evening, Zhao Qi found the emperor sitting by the pavilion where they had spoken earlier. The setting sun painted the cliffs purple and above the lavender laid a layer of white, like icing on a berry cake. The distant roar of the river could be heard, gently humming along. Otherwise it was still and quiet. A lone eagle flew and cried into the wilderness. The commander of the bodyguard strode up the stairway that led to the pavilion and approached the emperor. The former ruler of the empire had summoned him. As he came near, Jian Wen spoke,

  “Tonight will be the last night I spend here. I will miss this pavilion.” He knew Zhao did not understand so he continued, “It was here that I shed my first drops of tears for my lost empire eighteen years ago. Every evening since then, I sat here to face my capital.”

  “Majesty, it must be hard on you.”

  “Suffering is a bridge. Now I have knowledge that makes suffering meaningful – I see the futility of material things. Of power, status, wealth, all these do not change a destiny if one is clear where one is headed.”

  He paused before continuing, knowing that Zhao would not dare to ask for clarification; that man was too much of a soldier to query his emperor, deposed or not.

  “When I was young, I wanted to use my status to improve my country. I could not accept my fate. Why would evil men triumph? Why can’t the heavens see that my intentions were good, that I would not abuse my throne? Then I realised that doing good is not dependant on what I have or do not have. Doing good is a state. A good heart would perform noble deeds with a warehouse of gold or with a single grain of rice. The monks here have nothing but they give mountain herbs to the people at the villages whenever they can. I learnt that charity does not depend on how much you have or what you are but what is inside your heart. Nothing has changed inside, only the circumstances which I will find myself. Monk or emperor, it no longer mattered in the grand scheme of things. If only my uncle can understand this, then he would not be so frightened.”

  When Zhao remained dutifully silent, he asked him again, “You still regard me as an emperor do you?”

  “Yes Majesty.”

  “My first request to you would be to stop doing so. Your mission from now on is to rescue a group of refugees who although did no wrong, faced persecution and death, not an emperor. Your duty is to make sure that the people who had put their trust in you escape and become free. That is your mission. I am just the means to an end.”

  “Yes Majesty.”

  Jian Wen laughed gently and shook his head. Zhao would always be his pet tiger; so valiant and heroic but so ignorant of the greater truths.

  “Do you truly understand? Then Let me ask you a question. If there were two groups of enemies, one surrounded me and the other surrounded those who came with you. Who will you rescue?”

  “You my Lord.”

  “You will rescue them. They are your priority. What good am I if my life cannot purchase theirs? Do you understand?

  “Yes Majesty.”

  Jian Wen laughed heartily. He was sure Zhao didn’t quite think so.

  “Now please go and rest. You have come a long way and I know it was not easy to reach the temple. Take your evening meal. We will meet the abbot tomorrow and say our farewells.”

  As Zhao’s footsteps faded, the deafening silence returned. Jian Wen looked across the peaks shrouded in purple mist, with an occasional tree breaking the gossamer veil and contemplated the meaning of his eighteen years here. He sighed. He knew he was not supposed to feel loss, as one who had severed ties with the material world. But he could not help but recall vividly the image of a young man who was half dead by the time he reached this place a lifetime ago. The monks carried him up; he was too tired to walk. Then he had to come to terms with the spartan lifestyle of a monk living in a cave. All his life, he had silk tunics for the summer, and furs for the winter. He slept on a cushioned bed with coal heaters in-built to ease the suffering of cold nights. His room was filled with antiques and works of art that took years of careful labour to create. He ate the best food farmed or caught from an empire that stretched from the eastern seas to the western deserts. The giant sharks in the eastern sea to the sweet desert melons from the west were common fare for an emperor. Initially, he vomited the tasteless gruel and hard bread the monks ate. He blanched at the boiled vegetables and cursed the lack of meat. He wept for many nights until the calendar dissolved into meaninglessness and he came to terms with his destiny. The routine became his life and the existence of an emperor faded like the blur memories of a past life. He became happier as he understood and learnt. As he sat before the teachings that reverberated through a thousand years, he saw the wisdom in it and the release it brought.

  Today he contemplated the past eighteen years and suddenly shivered at the thought of re-entering the world he was cast out violently from. But it would be different; he was not going back to challenge his uncle but to save the lives of these few. He had learnt that he could make an equally big impact by saving one life or a thousand. He shook his head as he reflected the futility of his past life. He saw clearly the discussion he had with two of his most trusted advisors, who were now dead, Qi Tai and Huang Zicheng. How they discussed the dilemma and catch-22 they were in over many sleepless nights. When Jian Wen ascended the throne, he was considered unworthy by his elders who had won their spurs fighting the Mongols and establishing the Ming with his father and grandfather. They were veterans who would never accept the sovereignty of a boy who was still wet behind the ears. Jian Wen did not wish to fight his uncles, but knew from history that he could not govern a country that was divided in the hands of powerful warlords. The year 1398 was rife with civil war as his imperial army brought down the Princes of Qi, Dai, Zhou and Xiang. Finally, he faced the Prince of Yan, his uncle Zhu Di, the commander of the Northern Army, the force that trampled the mighty Mongols. Jian Wen lost and through subterfuge and betrayal, Zhu Di entered the fortified city of Nanjing and ousted Jian Wen. Back then, the need to consolidate his power was overwhelming; almost a compulsion for a young man who needed to prove himself. War was not in his nature but he felt that as emperor, he had to do that. Fighting his uncles was against the teachings of Confucius but that was the predatory nature of power. It could sometimes be exciting, like a real-life game of chess but the consequences were so much more deadly.

  Politics. He shook his head as he remembered. He had been set free from all this; he had no wish to be involved again in the endless trap of power. The mental anguished of losing his throne and ending up at an unnamed temple with a rag on his back had driven him mad; the grief and hatred spinning in him like a top until the Buddha enlightened him. Then slowly, the top lost its power and the vortex in his soul ceased. Power and status made you afraid, and fear created enemies that do not exist. This led to hatred of your perceived enemy. And the hatred must be exorcised through violence, which unleashes another story of its own. The cycle continues and the person who holds on to power and status will forever remain in prison even though he gains victory after victory against his enemies, real or imagined. In the past, he either destroyed his uncles or be swallowed by them. Now he did not care. He felt sorry for the Emperor Yong Le, for all his power, his millions of men, he was afraid of an insignificant monk.

  “Pity”, he shook his head, “what a great pity”.

  He got up and walked back toward the living quarters. It was getting colder and he wrapped the threadbare monk’s coat around his shoulders tightly. He walked down the steps without looking, having done so for the last eighteen years and then he trailed the wooden path along the cliff. His hands reached out longingly to caress the stone on his left, feeling the rough texture and its familiar bumps and crevices. Each sensation brought a touch of nostalgia and when he reached
the door, he turned and looked one last time at the pavilion where he had sat every evening. He would miss this place. Instead of entering his quarters, he continued to walk ahead. He entered the empty chamber, the place he swept every morning before the gigantic Milefo. He would pray and meditate tonight. He would not sleep for he would be re-entering the world of mankind, a vortex of violence and wickedness, of guile and deceit. He must ready himself. He would pray throughout the night.

  FORTY THREE

  Before they left the cliff-hanging temple, Jian Wen went into the abbot’s chamber to bid his farewells. The old man sat in a lotus position and chanted silently, his lips moving and his eyes closed. He took no notice of his disciple, who entered the room, said his goodbyes, thanked him for eighteen years of protection and enlightenment and then bowed three times with his head touching the floor as a sign of respect. The abbot continued to chant without any acknowledgement of him or the group assembled outside the room. To him, what was the eighteen years harbouring the refugee emperor? It was just a speck in the endless cycle of karma. They were cogs in a giant wheel. What he did was great but at the same time insignificant. There was really nothing to be thanked for. After bowing three times, Jian Wen left quietly and the team departed at sunrise.