by Justin Hill
His eyes widened as she threw her cloak aside and put her hand to the pommel of her sword. “I am no beggar!” she said, and he ran in terror from the room. Jiaolong looked for one who would meet her gaze. The others all kept their heads down. “My name is the Wronged One,” Jiaolong said. “The Mother-with-no-Child. Once when a swordsman saw injustice, he would draw his weapon to assist,” she said, and glared about the room looking for an antagonist. None offered to take up the fight. She picked the crying baby and its basket up from the table, slung it back over her shoulder and turned on her heel.
Jiaolong strode out of town as a crowd of children gathered behind her, jeering and calling.
She cursed the baby. When she was out of sight of the town gates she set the child on the ground, next to a mile marker.
“You are not my child,” she told it. “I cannot take you if you keep on crying. You are her child and she is a thief. I cannot take you.” The baby was silent as she explained why she had to leave it. In the end Jiaolong turned and marched away, alone.
The setting sun was in her eyes. After dark there would be tigers and snow leopards. She felt like a cuckoo had come and left her with its child, whilst stealing her own. Why should she raise this child? It was not hers. It was the daughter of a thief. Dragons begat dragons, the saying went, snakes begat snakes. She stood still as the arguments went back and forth. The baby started to cry, and Jiaolong could feel her milk rising. She is a girl, she told herself. How can you abandon her to a cruel fate?
Jiaolong turned and started walking, her long embroidered red silk gown fretting with the breeze. Ten steps away from the girl she stopped, took in a deep breath. I will feed her one last time, she thought, and crouched down to let the child feed. She pressed the girl to her chest, and rocked back and forth.
The baby had a fierce nature. She sucked so hard it hurt. Jiaolong understood that she was a mother to this baby, even if not by blood. What else could she do but raise this child as her own?
She put out a hand to touch the baby’s cheek. Jiaolong, for the first time in many years, had been defeated. She could not do what she had intended to do. But defeat did not feel bitter. She lifted the child to her shoulder and held it there, and inhaled its scent deep.
After a long time she sniffed away the tears and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “You shall be my child now,” she said. “And being my child you should have a name.” Jiaolong took a deep breath.
“I will call you Snow Vase,” Jiaolong said. “I will teach you all that I have been taught. You shall be a daughter to me.”
Jiaolong was good to her word.
Snow Vase’s early years were spent wandering from border town to fortress. But when she was five her mother settled in the oasis town of Dunhuang. Golden sand surrounded them, and north and west stretched the endless tracts of the Gobi Desert, but along the southern horizon reared the snow-bright mountains of Tibet.
Her mother was still young and beautiful. She had many admirers and benefactors, and the spice and silk merchants gave her many gifts, for she spent her days keeping the caravan routes clear of bandits.
Jiaolong set up a great household in Dunhuang, and men said she was their little Empress. She lived up to the gossip, dressed in the finest gowns of dyed Suzhou silk, elaborate sleeveless jackets richly embroidered with dragons, chrysanthemums and wind-blown willow trees. In the autumn she held late-night parties where men drank wine and watched the moon rise through the branches of the apricot trees.
She had a dazzling collection of fine hairpins, all gold and silver, jade and turquoise. Some had the shape of butterflies and dragonflies, one was a carved jade comb, and her favorite was a cricket of silver wire and lapis lazuli. After combing her hair she would lay them all out, set her silver mirror before her, and position each hairpin with care.
Snow Vase could not resist them.
“Don’t touch!” her mother said sharply and slapped the girl’s hand, but otherwise Jiaolong treated her adopted daughter as her own: raised her, trained her, and in her own way, loved and cared for her. Snow Vase grew wild and determined: not a dragon like her mother, more a phoenix, Jiaolong thought as she saw her daughter bloom.
3
As the blazing hot summer faded far too slowly into the cool clear days of autumn, Snow Vase was counting the weeks until her seventeenth birthday. Late in the afternoon she sat on her horse on the high crags above the oasis and looked down to her home. Fields of rattling maize and golden wheat stretched toward the town, and along the lines of irrigation ditches the green-striped watermelons sat waiting for the mule carts to take them to market. She loved this time of year, loved the smell of evening bonfires, the sadness of change, the end of summer and the quiet thoughtfulness of autumn.
The desert was a dangerous place. There were tigers and thieves and worse. Snow Vase was calm, but no girl should be out here after dark.
“We should return home,” she said, and her horse picked a safe way down the cupped curves of the great dunes. Warm golden sand tumbled down around White Swallow’s hooves, slipping and sliding ahead of them. Through the snorts of her horse Snow Vase could hear the gentle drumming of the sand. On nights like these, as the sun—a red ball of fire—slid low to the west and the full moon rose and the evening breeze blew over them, the dunes would hum to themselves.
The words were hard to make out, but Snow Vase was sure that one day she would be the first to listen to the earth singing and understand.
When the song was over, and the sands’ golden hues faded to many shades of gray, then the wind was almost chill.
White Swallow galloped through the city gates as they were closing for evening.
“Hoi!” the guards called out. They liked Snow Vase, liked it more when she stopped to talk, or even when she turned their way and smiled at them. But now she was lost to the joy of riding. She crouched in her stirrups, one hand raised for balance, the other loosely holding the plaited leather reins, her unbound black hair streaming behind her like a silk banner.
“Hoi!” they shouted, as the gates banged shut behind her. “Careful next time!”
Snow Vase laughed as she clattered down the streets, weaving through the peasants and rickshaw pullers, the night tradesmen with kebab stalls of hot coals and noodles.
Lao Bai, their steward, was waiting on the steps with his hands tucked into his sleeves.
His eyes were not as good as they had once been, but he had a sense regarding Snow Vase. He could always find her when others thought her lost. He was like an uncle to her, and even as she returned his eager wave, she felt a little sadness seeing him old and shrunken as she grew tall.
He is in the autumn of his years, a voice said to her. Time to change. Winter will come soon enough.
“I knew that was your horse!” he called out, and waved her in. “Hurry. Your mother is back. She wanted to see you. I said that you were studying.”
Snow Vase swung her leg over the head of White Swallow and dropped into the yard. “What was I studying?” she said.
“I believe it was Ban Zhao’s Admonitions for Women.”
Snow Vase stopped. She looked imploring. “Oh no. You didn’t, did you?”
Steward Bai winced as he half bowed. His old tanned face was expressive with apology.
Snow Vase took in a deep breath and sighed. “Remind me,” she said.
“The girl and the pot shard,” he said.
Snow Vase drew a long breath in through her nose. “Right,” she said. “Pot shards . . .”
He smiled and nodded and gave her the thumbs up. Pride radiated from him. She wished sometimes she knew exactly why. “Dinner is in the second courtyard,” he said.
Snow Vase threw off her riding clothes. There was just time to splash the dust from her face and loosely pin her hair before the gong for dinner sounded.
Her mother hated to be kept wai
ting by anyone, and Snow Vase saw with relief that her maid had left out the gown she had been wearing that morning: the light blue one with the white collar. The echoes of the gong had barely faded by the time she was hurrying through the fourth and third courtyard. At the moment she reached the round moon gate into the second courtyard she paused, breathed a long slow breath, and entered demurely, bowing toward her mother.
“You are back,” she said. “I was just reading . . .”
Jiaolong looked up. “Admonitions for Women,” she said.
“Ah, Steward Bai told you.”
“Yes. What did you learn?”
“Well, you must know the story.”
“Of course,” her mother said. “When a girl is born she should be taught that she is lowly and weak, and if she asks for a toy to play with she should be given a pot shard so that she might understand the meaning of household items and hard work.”
Snow Vase nodded. “I learned nothing,” she said, “except that when fighting a man, he will come at me thinking that I am weak and feeble and lowly, and that will be his last mistake.”
Jiaolong nodded. “Good,” she said. “I fought a man named Li Mubai once . . .”
“You fought Li Mubai!” Snow Vase said.
Jiaolong nodded. “I was willful in my youth,” she said. Snow Vase thought her mother willful still. “I wanted a great treasure that he held. The finest of blades. The Green Destiny. I stole it, and we fought.”
“And who won?”
“He did.”
Snow Vase didn’t know which question to ask first. “Was he as good as men say?”
“Yes,” her mother said.
“How did he beat you?”
“I was young. He was faster than me. He was as calm as a deep pool, but when he moved he was faster than lightning. He took Green Destiny from me.”
“The Green Destiny!”
Jiaolong was like a closed door sometimes. She nodded and picked out a piece of lotus root, dabbed off the slivers of ginger, and placed it into her mouth.
“You fought with the Green Destiny?”
Her mother crunched the lotus root but gave no other reaction. The cricket hairpin moved slightly as she chewed. She folded her silk sleeves back. Her arm had once been pale as jade, but the long desert rides had tanned it to the color of yellow clay. “I fought with it and against it.”
“How?” Snow Vase said. “When?”
Her eyes widened and her mother clearly decided it would be easier to tell all rather than have it dragged out of her, like a criminal whose guts are drawn, foot by foot, out of his belly. She paused. “When my father was made Governor of Beijing, he arranged a marriage for me to the Emperor’s favorite minister. He was fat and dull and ugly. I could not bear it. The wife of my tutor helped me escape. Her name was Jade Fox. I loved her at first. She spoke kindly to me. She cared for me, and when I swore that I would die rather than marry this man she promised to help me. I thought she loved me, but I was mistaken. She only wanted to use me.
“My family were guests of Duke Te. The duke was also patron to Shulien and her father. On the morning of my wedding I heard that there was a lady named Shulien who had arrived. ‘The great warrior Shulien?’ I asked.
“Jade Fox nodded. ‘And she has brought Green Destiny.’
“‘What is Green Destiny?’ I asked her.
“‘Not just Green Destiny. The Green Destiny. A mighty sword,’ she told me. She pursed her lips. She wooed me with soft words. Bewitched me. She told me that I should have that sword. ‘The Green Destiny is the finest sword ever forged. It can cut through steel as if it were pine.’ Jade Fox filled me with longing. ‘Why does Shulien bring this sword here? She has common blood. You are a noblewoman. If anyone should bear this sword it should be you.’
“‘You’re right,’ I told her, and on the night of my wedding I stole the sword from Duke Te’s study. I took it and fought Yu Shulien. I beat her!”
It was like saying, “I kissed the Buddha.”
Snow Vase spoke in a whisper. “You beat her. Then why didn’t you keep it?”
Her mother paused. “I escaped, but Mubai came after me. He saw talent in me. He saw that I had been led badly, by an evil teacher. He had a good heart. He promised he would be my master. I resisted but he disarmed me and promised to be my teacher. But eventually Jade Fox caught up with us,” she said. Jiaolong’s face had opened for a moment but now it was closed again. “And they fought over me. Mubai ran her through, but he was stuck by a poison dart, and there was no cure for the evil Jade Fox had put into his blood. Both of them died. I was flattered then. Such are the vanities of youth. Now I think, what a loss. Mubai. I don’t think I’ve met his like since. He was the finest of all the warriors of the House of Te.” She paused and shook her head, and fell silent for a moment. “Now tell me what you were really doing today.”
Snow Vase paused and tried to read her mother’s expression. It was like looking into the depths of black pearls. “I went riding,” she said.
“How far did you go?”
“To the Singing Sands.”
“And?”
“Nothing,” Snow Vase said.
Her mother’s eyes narrowed, but at that moment servants came in bringing their dishes and Snow Vase preempted her.
“What was it like?”
“What?”
“Green Destiny.”
Her mother’s face softened. She had a distant look in her eye. She so rarely looked like this that Snow Vase could not help but drink the moment in: the lanterns, the painting of willows on the wall, and her mother, chopsticks in hand, smiling fondly on her past.
“Green Destiny,” she said, and savored the name, as if it were the name of a cherished lover. “The sword that Guanyu wore in the time of the Three Kingdoms. The finest sword ever forged. Light, harder than steel, too perfect a blade for any common man to wield. You have not held a sword until you have handled Green Destiny. There is no finer sword. And whoever masters that sword, they shall rule the martial kingdom.”
“Did Mubai master it?”
Her mother thought for a moment. “Yes, I think he did.”
“Then why didn’t he keep it?”
“He gave the sword to Duke Te. He had mastered all the arts of fighting, but he had lost joy in his ability. He was tired of killing. I don’t think he wanted mastery.”
“What did he want?”
Jiaolong gave a short laugh. “He wanted Yu Shulien,” she said. “But she had been betrothed to a warrior called Silent Wolf. He and Mubai were oath brothers, but Silent Wolf was killed in a fight on Vulture Peak. She wanted to marry Mubai, but he was filled with grief for his friend and did not want to dishonor his memory by marrying his betrothed. So she went away full of grief. Slowly he changed his mind, but by the time he went to find Shulien again, she had grown distant from him. Both of them were filled with longing. Neither of them could find satisfaction.”
Snow Vase shook her head. “So Mubai died . . . but whatever happened to Shulien?”
Her mother drew in a long breath. There was much she didn’t tell her daughter. “She left the sword with Duke Te as Mubai had wished, and determined to go into the mountains and meditate. She had loved Mubai. She had lost the man she loved. The Iron Way is paved with grief. I never heard of her again. Nothing certain, anyway. Maybe she has passed on. Maybe she and Mubai are united at last.”
Snow Vase bit her lip. Mubai. Shulien. She envied her mother for the people she had met, was irritated by the walls she put up about her past.
As she ate she thought of the Green Destiny. Such tales she had heard! Even in the marketplace tonight there would be men telling the tale of Guanyu and his sworn brothers, and their battle against Cao Cao. The finest sword ever forged.
If her mother had handled it, then Snow Vase made a resolution that she wou
ld master it.
That night before she went to sleep she squeezed her eyes shut and imagined the sword, lying on the table before her, and she reached out and touched it.
There! she thought, as she lay listening to the last cicadas calling out in the warm darkness. I have seen it. It shall come true.
Snow Vase had lived all her life here in Dunhuang. The warrior-mistress Jiaolong was mother and father and teacher: a strange and solitary woman; half beauty, half dragon, an unlikely parent to any child.
“I follow the Iron Way,” her mother told her once, when Snow Vase had asked why she trained each day with spear and sword and fist. She had taken in a slow breath. “The Iron Way. It is the world of wushu. Of martial arts. In this world men are not masters by birth or rank or patronage; they are masters because they have great skill and power. The wushu warrior steps outside society. Their lord is their teacher, their master. Their brothers are those they fight beside. Some of them group themselves into Houses, each with their own laws and customs. Others wander alone, fighting injustice wherever they find it. Their law is not the Emperor’s or the administrator’s, but their own code of justice. The best of them keep to the narrow path. They right wrongs, challenge unjust rulers, remove oppressors, bring retribution to the corrupt. The worst of them are seduced by power. It corrupts them; they rot from within like the old tree that is slowly hollowed out. You must not be like them. You must be loyal, fearless, just, benevolent. And you must forgo wealth and glory. And often much more . . .”
Her mother trailed off.
“What else?”
“Enough questions,” her mother said.
Snow Vase had gleaned fragments of her mother’s history by listening to what men said, and most importantly to the gaps where they did not speak. Her mother could not disguise her clipped aristocratic accent, nor her skill at all the arts a young lady was supposed to know. She had taught Snow Vase all of these, and Snow Vase combined this Confucian education with a wild border spirit. But there was a sadness within her mother that she could not place.
