The Remarkable Journey of Prince Jen

by Lloyd Alexander

  "You look as if you could stand a good meal," Chen-cho said as they walked along. "I'm staying at a reasonably acceptable inn. That is, the food won't poison you. The landlord will put you up for the night, if you want. He still owes me for the work I did for him."

  From this, Jen assumed that Chen-cho had bargained one of his pictures for food and lodging. The artist chuckled when Jen asked him if such was the case.

  "No, no, better than that," Chen-cho replied. "I painted his door. Not a picture of it. I mean that I painted it with red lacquer. Also, I wrote out a piece of calligraphy for him, a magical charm: 'Protect this dwelling from dragons. The fellow's quite happy with it, he's convinced it works. In fact, it does," Chen-cho added, with a wink. "There's not a single dragon anywhere in the neighborhood.

  "And you, Honorable Ragbag-your name's Jen, you said?" the painter went on. "What's your occupation? A prosperous merchant in disguise? No. A government official? Hardly. You look seedy enough to be an honest fellow."

  Jen laughed. "I have no occupation. No longer. I'm searching for someone. A flute girl. And my friends."

  "Search away, good luck to you," Chen-cho said. "I also search. In my case, for landscapes to paint. This one's interesting. Bleak, at first; but, if you look at it the right way, quite marvelous. Someday, I'd like to do the Lotus Bridge in Ch'angan, or the Happy Phoenix Gardens near the river. I've heard they're very fine."

  "Yes, so they are." Jen's heart turned suddenly heavy at the recollection. "I'd almost forgotten."

  "You've been there?" Chen-cho said, impressed. "You've seen them? You'll tell me more of them later. A merry dinner will jog your memory."

  Chen-cho rambled on, gossiping, telling tales and jokes. His contagious high spirits lifted Jen's own. The two travelers had become good companions by the time they reached Ping-erh.

  At the inn, however, they found no merry dinner, nor cheer of any kind. Villagers filled the little square, scurrying in all directions. Some had grimly begun loading household goods into carts and barrows.

  "Closed! Closed!" The landlord waved his arms as Jen and Chen-cho stepped into the eating room. "Out! Be off while you can!"

  • • • • •

  Jen has struck up a pleasant friendship with the good-natured Chen-cho, hut it seems both will have to go without their dinner. Why such alarm? To find out, read the next chapter.

  20

  • Pebble And Avalanche •

  • Meeting With An Old Enemy •

  • Parting From A New Friend •

  "BE OFF?" CRIED CHEN-CHO. "Off nowhere till we have our dinner."

  The landlord paid no further attention and went back to tearing his hair and yelling at his servants to pack up all they could carry. Some local men and women had come into the eating room, where they stood talking urgently among themselves. While Chencho still protested at missing his dinner, Jen hurried to ask them the cause of such alarm.

  "Where have you been all day? Living on the moon?" retorted a big-framed peasant whose name, Jen learned, was Chang. "My elder brother brought me word this morning. The Yellow Scarf King's riding with his advance guard, so the rest of his army isn't far behind. I'd reckon he'll be here in two day's time at most."

  Jen questioned Chang more closely, gathering from his account that Natha meant to take Ping-erh for a winter headquarters.

  "I say let him have it," put in one of the villagers. "Our officials didn't waste time scuttling off, so neither will I. That Yellow Scarf devil won't find me here."

  "I'm sure he wont, you turtle," one of the peasant women flung at him. "Turn tail, the lot of you. Don't stand up to him. No, don't give that a thought."

  "Here, now, he doesn't speak for all of us," Chang said. "I'd stand up to him, if any stand with me."

  "Against a natural man, I would," said a farmer. "He's no human being, he's all devil. That's what I've heard. And that sword of his! He got it from the king of devils himself."

  "He's a man, no more nor less than you are," Jen broke in. He turned to Chang. "Any to stand with you? I will."

  "Hear that?" exclaimed the woman. "This fellow's a stranger, but he puts our own men to shame."

  "You're only one," Chang said to Jen. "That's."

  "That's two, counting you," Jen said.

  "That's three," put in the woman, "counting me."

  "There's enough of you, Mourning Dove, to make three by yourself," a villager called out to her. "Best go back and tend your chickens. What do you know about any of this?"

  "I know enough to guard the henhouse door when the fox is on the prowl," said Mourning Dove.

  At this, a handful of locals began disputing among themselves. Chen-cho, giving up all hope of a meal, had been eavesdropping on the conversation. He drew Jen aside.

  "What are you up to?" he muttered. "You' re not a fool, you're an idiot. Natha Yellow Scarf? You don't know who you're dealing with."

  "I know," Jen said. "I bought my life from him. I think I might have paid too high a price."

  Leaving the artist to puzzle over that, Jen went to the villagers. Mourning Dove and Chang had already persuaded most of those present to stand against Natha.

  "The others?" Jen asked. "Will they stay, too?"

  "If they believe there's a chance of holding him off," Mourning Dove said.

  "It also works the other way round," Jen said. "There's no chance of holding him off if they don't stay. Go into the square. Tell them there's a way they might save the village."

  "Is there?" asked Chang. "There could be," Jen said, "if enough of them help."

  "I'll see they do," Mourning Dove declared. She strode out to the square, Chang and Jen following. They pressed through the crowd. Mourning Dove climbed atop an ox cart and tried to make herself heard above the commotion. At first, the villagers paid little heed, but as the peasant woman's voice rose, more and more paused to listen. Chen-cho had come out to observe, and the painter shook his head in surprised admiration.

  "You're the one who put her up to this, but she's doing well on her own." The artist chuckled. "Had I any taste for this kind of thing-which, luckily, I don't-I'd be tempted to lend her a hand."

  "You will," Jen said. "I have a thought, and I need you and your brush to put it on paper."

  Jen led the painter to the inn. Mourning Dove, Chang, and half a dozen others, who had formed a makeshift council of war, soon hurried back with news: Most of the villagers had chosen to stay. By this time, following Jen's instructions, Chen-cho had sketched out in workable details what had been only vague ideas in Jen's mind.

  "I had an old teacher once," Jen said, as the artist tucked his box of brushes and pigments back into his jacket. "He taught me the history of T'ang. I was a slow student, but I remember his tale of the warriors long ago who defended Ch'ang-an against invaders when the city was no more than a village like this. It could help us now. We'll need carpenters, woodcutters, rope-makers."

  "You'll have them," said Mourning Dove, examining the sketches and nodding approval. She sent Chang to rally as many artisans as he could find, then turned her attention to matters Jen had not considered.

  He listened to her, astonished. Mourning Dove, as she frankly admitted, could neither read nor write. At first glance, she would have been taken as no more than a farm wife who only knew to count eggs. But she had already calculated the strength of the villagers and planned out their positioning, how best they should be divided, and how the outlying forests and streams could be used to their advantage. She had guessed at the number of Natha's advance guard and the path they would most likely follow.

  "I know a general," Jen remarked to Chen-cho. "The best of warriors. I doubt that he'd have done better."

  "First, you say you know the Yellow Scarf King," replied Chen-cho. "Now, a general. Honorable Ragbag, allow me to ask: Who the devil are you?"

  "If I knew for certain," Jen said, "I'd tell you."

  Jen sat astride the horse he had asked for. Mourning Dove had given him the best i
n the village. In the first raw light of dawn, he huddled the quilt around his shoulders. He had asked for a weapon as well, and Chang had found a blade from the abandoned yamen. It would serve. He had put Yuan-ming's sword in Natha's hands. He would have it back again.

  The horse whickered and blew white smoke from its nostrils. Chen-cho and a party of villagers stamped their feet and beat their arms against the chill. All day and all night, the artisans of Ping-erh had worked to build wooden frameworks bristling with long, sharpened poles wrapped in oil-soaked straw. Dozens of such barriers had been hidden along the forest fringe, at every pathway leading toward the village. At other gaps, the folk of Ping-erh had hewed down trees, piling trunks and branches into dense barricades.

  Mourning Dove, in a heavy jacket, a cloth knotted around her head, had given a last sharp scrutiny to the frames. She stood, hands on hips, beside Jen.

  "We've done all as you showed us, young scholar," Mourning Dove said, having decided for herself that such was Jen's occupation. "I'm not rash enough to think we can battle Yellow Scarfs warriors hand to hand."

  "No, but you can turn them away," Jen said. "Make Natha see Ping-erh's too much trouble, not worth his effort."

  "Oh, we'll show him how troublesome we can be." Mourning Dove grinned, pushed up her sleeves, and went to talk quietly with each one of the grim-faced, restless villagers. Jen strained his ears for the sound of horsemen. A pebble may stop an avalanche, Master Hu once told him. The folk of Ping-erh were small pebbles, but here the avalanche must either halt or crush them. This portion of the forest was the last easy access to the village. Beyond, a line of rugged hills barred the way.

  Jen stiffened in the saddle. The notes of a bugle pierced the air. That would be from Chang, at the opposite end of the woodland, where Mourning Dove had expected Natha's first approach. Moments later, Jen heard distant shouting. Black trails of smoke rose above the treetops. Chang and his people had set their barrier ablaze. If the plan worked, each party of villagers, one after the other, would set their own frameworks alight. Each entry would be barred by a wall of fire whenever Natha and his warriors sought to turn and make their way through some other woodland path. They would find gate after flaming gate flung shut against them.

  Mourning Dove raised her arm. By now, Jen heard hoofbeats. The warriors would be galloping along the fringe of woods. Now, at Mourning Dove's signal, the villagers brought torches to their barricades. The wrappings, soaked with oil and pitch, burst into flames. Natha and his men were clearly in sight. Jen saw the leading horsemen rein up their mounts. The animals reared, heads tossing, eyes rolling in terror of the fire. The riders kicked vainly at their steeds' flanks; the horses shied away. He glimpsed Natha, his face scowling under his gleaming helmet of lacquered leather. He halted an instant, glaring at the barrier. Then he spat scornfully and signaled his warriors to fall back.

  The villagers roared in triumph. Mourning Dove, calling out joyfully, ran toward Jen. He did not wait. Another moment and Natha would be amid his retreating warriors. Jen galloped from the fringe of trees.

  "Natha! Natha Yellow Scarf!"

  Natha wheeled and pulled up his mount, staring curiously at the lone horseman bearing down on him. He grinned with amusement, as if observing the progress of some audacious bug, but gave not the faintest sign of recognition as Jen galloped closer.

  Gripping his blade, Jen pressed on. With a movement almost leisurely, Natha drew his sword. Jen plunged headlong, only at the last moment wheeling his horse broadside of Natha as he swung the blade with all his might.

  Natha's sword flashed quicker than Jen's eyes could follow. There was a grating clash of blade on blade. Jen cried out as the shock numbed his arm. His weapon had been cut in two. He stared at the useless hilt in his hand. Natha raised his sword again.

  Jen heard hoofbeats behind him and someone shouting at the top of his voice. A rider drew up beside him: Chen-cho.

  "Get back, Ragbag!" The painter snatched at Jen's bridle.

  Natha, surprised for an instant, hesitated, then swung up the sword again. Chen-cho's hand darted into his jacket. He snatched out his paint box and flung it straight at Natha's face. The Yellow Scarf King's head jerked back, his sword stroke wavered the fraction of a moment; then he slashed at this makeshift missile, his blade moving so swiftly the wooden container scattered in a blur of splinters.

  Chen-cho had by then kicked his own horse and Jen's into a gallop, and they sped for the safety of the woodlands. Without so much as a backward glance at this pair of annoying gnats, Natha turned his steed and cantered to rejoin his departing warriors.

  "Ragbag, you are a true simpleton," Chen-cho remarked as they gained the skirt of trees. "I take it you had a score to settle. It must have been a large one, but you're an idiot if you thought you'd take him on by yourself."

  "I did, once," Jen said. "And failed. Now, failed again." He flung away the shattered sword. "No matter, I should thank you for saving my life, whatever that may be worth."

  "There's enthusiastic gratitude," Chen-cho said. "All right, then: You're welcome."

  They rode back to Ping-erh with Mourning Dove and the villagers rejoicing that Natha had turned away to seek a less troublesome target. Jen paid little heed to the festive crowd in the square. He retrieved his bundle while Chen-cho gathered up his papers and umbrella. When he asked where the painter would go next, Chen-cho shrugged.

  "I'd have stayed here a while," said the artist. "There were a few more scenes I wanted to do. Your Yellow Scarf friend has more or less put me out of my occupation. That sword of his turned my brushes into matchwood. But, I'll find others."

  "You already have." Jen undid the bundle, which had grown small and light by now. Unhesitating, though with a half smile of sadness, he put the sandalwood box into the painter's hands.

  "Here, what's this?" Chen-cho exclaimed. "What's a fellow like you doing with such a thing? Are you also a painter and never let on?"

  Jen shook his head. "I had it for another purpose. I think you can make better use of it."

  Chen-cho had opened the box to examine the brush, ink stick, and ink stone. "Honorable Ragbag, I can tell you're no artist, or you'd never have parted with this. Wonderful! Look here, have you the least idea what these are?"

  By then, Jen had waved a farewell and was gone from the inn, setting off on his way again.

  • • • • •

  Leaving our hero to continue his search, with one gift fewer than before, we turn our attention to Chen-cho and the sandalwood box. What has the artist seen that so pleases him? To find out, read the next chapter.

  21

  • The Tale Of The Tiger's Paintbrush •

  CHEN-CHO THE PAINTER was a good-natured, easygoing sort. He liked his food and drink, though as often as not he did without either. Not because he suffered any lack of customers. He was; in fact, a most excellent artist, and many who saw his pictures wished eagerly to buy them. To Chen-cho, however, parting with one of his landscapes was like having a tooth pulled. Sometimes, of course, he was obliged to do so, when he needed a few strings of cash to keep body and soul together-although usually he spent the money on paper and paint. On the other hand, out of sudden impulse or foolish whim, he was just as likely to give away one of his pictures to a passerby who wistfully admired but could ill afford to purchase it.

  For the rest, he was a little absentminded, his head so filled with colors and shapes that he lost track of time, forgot to wash his face or change his clothes. With his collapsing umbrella, his felt cap, his bespattered trousers flapping around his ankles, he became a familiar sight in towns and villages where he stopped in the course of his wanderings. Children tagged after him, fascinated to peer over his shoulder as he worked. Local officials, however, felt more comfortable after he left.

  Now, with the sandalwood box on the table in front of him, paying no attention to the rejoicing villagers crowding the inn, Chen-cho gleefully scrutinized his gift. As an artist, he had immediately recognized
the excellence of the materials, but he studied them again to confirm his first opinion.

  He picked up the stick of black ink and rolled it around in his fingers. He sniffed at it, even tasted it, and licked his lips as if it were some delicious morsel.

  "Marvelous!" Chen-cho said to himself. "Perfect! No question, this ink's made from the ashes of pine trees on the south slope of Mount Lu, the very best."

  Next, he turned his attention to the ink stone, with its shallow little basin for water at one end and its flat surface for grinding the solid ink at the other. The stone was fine-grained, flawless; and, in color, an unusual reddish gray. Chen-cho rubbed his thumb over it lovingly and shook his head in amazement.

  "Here's a treasure in itself! I've heard of stones like this. They come only from one place: a grotto in Mount Wu-shan. I never believed they were more than legend. Yet, I have one right in my hand."

  Chuckling over his good fortune, blessing the stranger he had fondly nicknamed Honorable Ragbag, the painter picked up the last object in the box: a paintbrush with a long bamboo handle.

  "This is odd." Chen-cho squinted at the brush hairs, tested them on the palm of his hand and the tip of his nose. "Soft? Firm? Both at once? What's it made of? Not rabbit fur, not wolf hair, not mouse whiskers."

  The painter could not restrain himself another moment. He called the landlord for a cup of water, poured a little into the basin of the ink stone, then carefully rubbed the tip of the ink stick against the grinding surface. No matter how much he rubbed, the stick showed no trace of wear.

  "At this rate," he said to himself, "it will last forever. One stick, and ink enough for the rest of my life. There's frugality for you!"

  He pulled out a sheet of paper. Moistening the brush, rolling the tip in the ink he had ground, he made a couple of trial strokes. As he did, a thrill began at the tip of his toes, raced to his arm, his hand, his fingers. The sensation turned him giddy. He glanced at the paper. His jaw dropped. The brush strokes were not black. They were bright vermilion.