The Hidden School

by Dan Millman

PART TWO

  * * *

  The Master of Taishan Forest

  All human beings should try to learn, before they die, what they are running from, and to, and why.

  JAMES THURBER

  To be blessed in death, one must learn to live.

  To be blessed in life, one must learn to die.

  MEDIEVAL PROVERB

  FOURTEEN

  * * *

  Unable to sleep due to a mix of excitement and jet lag, I walked through the thick air of darkening streets, now empty except for a few vendors hosing or sweeping the sidewalks, by clothing-shop windows featuring SALE signs in English and Chinese characters, and past jewelers, banks, and a movie house whose marquee featured a new Shaw Brothers film, The Spiritual Boxer. This time of night the city felt like a large jewel box slowly shutting.

  Near dawn I found myself on a wharf overlooking Victoria Harbor and saw the ferry pushing through black water, distorting the reflected lights of the modern city beyond. I stood there waiting for a sign. Something small, I thought, so I’ll know I made the right decision.

  A paper cup floated by, then a cigarette butt. Not much by way of omens.

  As the sun rose, I returned to my tiny room, intent on studying Soc’s journal notes, but I fell asleep with my hand on the cover and slept through most of the day.

  When I awoke in the early afternoon, I bought and mailed another postcard for my daughter at a tourist kiosk. I would have made the expensive phone call to her, but I wasn’t sure whether she and her mom were still in Texas or on their way back to Ohio. So postcards would have to do for now. I still wanted to call Ama; it seemed I owed her that for her help. But the time difference made it more difficult.

  I found a few random Chinese martial arts schools advertising Shaolin Temple Boxing, Top Kung Fu, T’ai Chi Chuan, and Qigong for Health. I sensed little of the “mysterious East” except that the few students I saw were all Chinese. I was able to speak with one instructor during a smoking break to ask (feeling like an idiot) about any “hidden school” he might have heard of; in reply, he told me some myth about an ancient school in his tradition.

  None of the other schools I found held more than passing interest. I wrote some notes about the martial arts I’d observed for my report to the grant committee, in between walking down side streets and alleyways, inhaling the exotic aromas of unfamiliar foods. I would turn right or left on instinct or impulse.

  During these token searches, without much hope of finding anything out of the ordinary, I remained preoccupied with the task that had fallen to me. When will I begin writing? Meanwhile, Socrates had directed me to find a hidden school in Asia. Which I believed might be in Japan. So what am I doing here? Different voices in my head, none of which felt quite like my own.

  Eventually I circled around to Kowloon Bay, which geographically separated Hong Kong from the People’s Republic of China—Mao’s China. I had no wish to visit a place where I’d be viewed as “an imperialist running dog,” barking and wagging my tail much like the Disney dog Pluto, which reminded me of Plato, which reminded me of the journal awaiting my attention.

  I spent another day crisscrossing the downtown and the city outskirts, passing places I’d been before. I’d clung to a hope that this search might bear fruit as had another search in Hawaii four weeks earlier. But those tropical isles seemed far away and long ago, and Japan remained a hope, an idea, a point on the map. My only reality was here and now, and I had to face that it wasn’t so promising.

  That night I spied a cockroach ambling across the wrinkled bedsheet. I flicked it off the bed; it landed, righted itself, and continued on unperturbed. Will it outlive me? I wondered. I’d already met a variety of marching insects and their cousins, all of which demonstrated a better sense of where they were going than I had. If only I were an imperial running dog, I mused. I might be able to sniff out some possibilities.

  I stared up at the cracks in the ceiling. A window fan went ticka-ticka-ticka as it blew thick, warm, malodorous air down at me—the window looked out on garbage piled in the alley. The city of Hong Kong, like most, changed faces for different visitors. Mine was the Hong Kong of a budget traveler, a professor-vagabond who’d lucked into a great job in a small college town far, far away as the ticka-ticka-ticka fan of my life spun crookedly onward.

  The next day just before dawn, I decided to take one last walk through a local park before heading to the airport. In the distance, I saw a handful of people practicing the slow-motion movements of t’ai chi. The thought occurred: What if the hidden school is really outside? I didn’t give it much credence, but there was no harm in getting a closer look. I chose a good vantage point, squatted down, and observed.

  It wasn’t unusual to see early-morning practitioners of t’ai chi in a public park. I would soon have moved on, but one woman caught my eye. She moved with a grace and precision unusual for a woman in her middle years. Or for anyone. She had a catlike quality that reminded me of Socrates. Could she be a master hiding in plain sight? Briefly our eyes met as she continued the effortless-looking movements I recognized as the traditional Yang form. But she amplified and refined it. I’d practiced sufficient t’ai chi to grasp the basic form, and to discern expertise when I saw it.

  As the last star melted away with the sunrise, she began the form again, this time on the opposite side—a mirror reflection that I could follow. So, on impulse, I approached and began to mimic her movements. Soon I was immersed in the relaxed yin-yang flow, shifting weight from one leg to the other, turning from the core, releasing tension as it arose. For the moment, past and future receded. . . .

  I was completing an element called Single Whip when I felt the lightest touch between my shoulder blades. The next thing I knew I was hurtling forward and rolling on the sparse grass. I leapt up and spun around. My eyes turned first to my knapsack, still secure, then darted around in search of the assailant who had sent me flying. Picking up my pack, I moved through the group, asking anyone nearby, “Who pushed me?” Most of them, immersed in their moving meditation, ignored me. Then I heard a giggle.

  When I turned, I saw the woman I’d been watching. A head shorter than I, with short, dark hair streaked with white, she mimicked the stance of an American teenager, one hand on the cocked hip of her tracksuit pants. “Why, I pushed you, of course,” she said in British-accented English. “What’re you going to do about it?”

  “What—? How—? You pushed me? Uh, why?”

  “You sound like a journalist,” she quipped, both hands now on her hips, “but you’ve left out where and when. As to why? To provide a basis for conversation.”

  “How do you know I want to have a conversation with you?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Well, maybe,” I said. Of course I do! I thought. “So how did you send me flying? I barely felt a tap.”

  “Isn’t there an American joke . . . ?” she said. “A young musician visiting Manhattan asks a local how to get to Carnegie Hall—”

  “Practice, practice, practice,” I said.

  “Ah, you’ve heard it,” she said, a little disappointed. “Then you know the answer to your own question. I’ve practiced sincerely for many years, just as you’ve practiced acrobatics.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “A trained eye. Anyway, it’s pretty obvious, don’t you think? You roll better than you stand. And you seem more connected to the clouds than rooted to the earth.”

  “Fair enough. Let’s start over.” I introduced myself and told her my official purpose for being here.

  She shrugged, unimpressed. “I’m called Hua Chi. And since you’re here to observe”—she pointed to a young woman who also showed superb skill—“why don’t you take a closer look at my student Chiang Wei’s movement?”

  “Your student?”

  “Yes. As your American pundit Yogi Berra once said, ‘You can observe a lot just by watching.’ ”

  I squatted down again next to my knapsack and watched
Chiang Wei demonstrate paradox in motion: soft yet powerful, rooted yet weightless, as she leapt and spun with circular blocks and kicks. I listened for the sounds of her feet touching the earth but heard none.

  When she and her companions finished the form, they bowed toward Hua Chi in the traditional manner, covering a fist with the palm of the other hand, and hurried off. I had the impulse to follow Chiang Wei and her friends, but instead I went to stand by Hua Chi—at a respectful distance.

  “Please join me at my home,” she said. “We’ll have tea and conversation. I want to know what Americans are watching on television these days.” An unexpected comment. She’s full of surprises, I thought. I had no idea how true that was.

  Just like that, I had somewhere to go, someplace to be. A contact. I could always catch an afternoon flight.

  The swarms of people walking and bicycling in every direction reminded me of a movie set—I half-expected a director to shout “Cut!” at any moment as I did my best to follow Hua Chi’s tiny figure through the crowds. In a variation on t’ai chi practice, we navigated our way through the crowds, sidestepping garbage here, passing a noodle stand there, and sliding through a flood of people entering and exiting a government office.

  Farther from the city park on a smaller street, several workers were building a wall with hard-packed loess, a common kind of yellow sediment, which covered the workers’ hair and turned to grime on their bare backs. I barely managed to stay a few steps behind Hua Chi as nearby shops opened with a clatter of locks. The city’s jewel-box lid opened once again.

  Finally catching up, I asked: “Excuse me, Hua Chi, but isn’t it unusual to invite a foreigner over for tea?”

  “I suppose. But you’re the first foreigner I’ve seen practicing t’ai chi in the park so early in the morning.”

  We rounded a corner, then stopped. “Home,” she said, pointing to a green thicket across the narrow street. An array of white and purple flowers lined a leafy wall. Only when we had crossed and stood directly in front of it did the entrance appear: an angled archway set so low I had to stoop to follow her. I duckwalked down a tunnel fragrant with bright red chrysanthemums. The perfumed archway twisted and turned like a maze until we stood in front of a small three-room house.

  Removing my shoes as Hua Chi did, I entered and sat on the floor in front of a low table while she set a teapot on a small stove. I waited in silence, marveling at her decorative scheme of organized chaos: everywhere I looked I saw international artifacts—newspapers in multiple languages; colorful tchotchkes, including a miniature plastic Yogi Berra; cassette tapes; rolled-up movie posters; and piles of T-shirts with bizarre slogans in English and French. I heard the water boil. Soon after, she poured the steaming water over green herbs taken from a small disco ball, the two halves of which squeaked as she screwed them back together.

  “I work in the travel industry,” she said, following my gaze. “I collect this and that.”

  After we’d taken a few sips of aromatic tea, Hua Chi spoke again. “Tell me about your favorite television shows.”

  “Really? Well, I . . . don’t really watch much TV at home. But there’s one show I never miss. It’s called Kung Fu—”

  Her eyes lit up with the enthusiasm of a three-year-old. “Really? It’s also my favorite! In fact, I have something of a crush on Kwai Chang Caine.”

  “But he’s not even Chinese!” I said. “You know, Bruce Lee wanted to play that role—”

  “Lee was a talented martial artist. I greatly admired him and I mourn his death,” she said. She was silent for a moment, then added, “David Carradine is the man, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, a peaceful warrior—when he’s not kicking ass,” I noted, before blurting my thoughts aloud. “I can’t believe I’m sharing a fan moment with a t’ai chi master in Hong Kong!”

  Hua Chi shifted gears so abruptly she seemed an entirely different person, now calm and serious. “On rare occasions, I meet someone who may be ready to learn, and who may also have experience to share.”

  “You mean me? Why would you think I have something to share?”

  “Something in your eyes and your posture,” she said, “an uprightness. I’d say you’ve studied with a master teacher.”

  “I did—I do—have a mentor. But I’ve trained in gymnastics more than in the martial arts.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” she said, unable to suppress a smile. “Your path, your tao, is that of the acrobat. As it should be. After all, does the flame aspire to become fallen snow? Does the rose grimace like a raccoon?” She raised a hand, her finger pointing to the heavens, and said, “The wise master their own path in their own way.”

  “Is that from Confucius?”

  She smiled. “Nope. Master Po—Kung Fu.” Hua Chi rose and, pushing aside various paraphernalia, she seized one of the poster tubes, which she unrolled to show David Carradine’s face in extreme close-up. She stroked the actor’s cheek.

  I thought back to Papa Joe’s similar reference only a few weeks before. Hua Chi tossed the poster aside and a moment later sat opposite me again, looking serious once more.

  “My mentor, whom I call Socrates after the Greek sage, once told me that while I practice gymnastics, he practices everything.”

  Hua Chi nodded approvingly. “Indeed! Each path can become a way of life. The small tao merges with the Great Tao as many streams merge with a great river.”

  “Kung Fu again?”

  “No, that’s a Hua Chi original.”

  “There’s something else,” I said. “I’m here on a personal quest. Socrates sent me to find a journal containing his insights. I’ve found it. I have it with me.”

  Seemingly ignoring my comments, Hua Chi shifted toward the existential: “Isn’t it intriguing that when we rose this morning, neither you nor I had any knowledge of our meeting? Yet here we are. Who knows why you came to Hong Kong Park on this particular morning at that particular time? Who knows why I was moved to give you a push . . . in the right direction?”

  My memory leapt to the odd circumstances surrounding my first meeting with Socrates, late one night in that old service station. Following my impulse to enter his office had not only changed the course of my life, but also made me a lifelong believer in trusting my “inner knower”—even if intuitive impulses sometimes led me on a winding path. Might my meeting with Hua Chi be another such moment? I almost missed what she said next: “. . . willing to apply yourself, I may be able to arrange some training in line with your interests.”

  Considering her offer, I thought: A few weeks of training with Hua Chi before catching my next flight. Why not?

  “That’s very generous,” I said. “Would we train here or in the park?”

  She laughed. “No, Dan. Not here, and not with me. There’s another master who can better serve your needs. You’ll need to make a journey to my brother Ch’an’s farm. The young farmworkers there—nearly all are orphans—also practice t’ai chi under the watchful eye of— Well, you’ll learn that soon enough. I can’t speak for the master, but if you’re willing to work the land with the other students, the master may be willing to instruct you as well. For reasons of peace and politics, it’s hidden deep in a forest.”

  A hidden school? I thought, not certain I’d heard correctly. “My mentor encouraged me to find such a school. . . .”

  Hua Chi refilled my cup, “So you were looking for a school, and now you’ve met me. What an interesting coincidence,” she said. “If you believe in such things.”

  “Coincidence or not,” I said, cradling my cup carefully, “I’m ready to visit this Master Ch’an anytime you are.”

  Hua Chi rose to her feet—or rather, floated upward—and moved across the room to another low table, where she pushed aside a pair of bell-bottom jeans and opened a drawer. “One doesn’t just drop in at this particular place. It’s a long journey to the Taishan Forest. It’s located in northeast China—”

  “China?” I thought I must have misunderstood. �
�Mao’s China? But I couldn’t . . . I don’t have—”

  “I’ll need to write letters of introduction and arrange for your passage.” She reached into the drawer and brandished a small pot of ink, a calligraphy brush, and some rice paper.

  “How will I clear border security?”

  “There will be no security where you’re going. Come back in two days, right after dawn. I’ll have made the necessary preparations. You’ll need to travel light—”

  I pointed to my knapsack.

  “Good,” she said, sitting down to write. The Chinese characters flowed from her brush as if her hand were ice-skating on the parchment.

  “I really appreciate—”

  “You’ll earn your keep,” she murmured. Without looking up, she batted away a Mickey Mouse balloon as it floated near her head. “Meet me back here in two days. Same time.”

  FIFTEEN

  * * *

  As I bowed in farewell, Hua Chi was so focused on writing that she barely acknowledged me. But before I left, I said, “The journal I mentioned. There might be another man seeking it, for reasons of his own. He could be dangerous. It’s highly unlikely he’ll follow me or find me here. But just to be safe, I thought I’d mention it.”

  Hua Chi barely seemed to be listening but said absentmindedly as she wrote, “How dramatic. I wonder what Kwai Chang Caine would do?”

  With another bow, I took my leave through the low trellis of flowers, a tunnel between worlds. I liked Hua Chi for her skill and charming eccentricities. But could I trust her? As I found my way back the way we’d come, I wondered what I was getting myself into. Was I prepared to let her arrange my transit into the People’s Republic of China, where zealous cadres of the People’s Liberation Army might question any foreign traveler?

  The answer was yes. A door had opened. I would walk through it, into another world, and see what would unfold. In the meantime, I tried calling my little girl one last time, both at the number she had given me in Texas and back home in Ohio. No luck reaching her. Or Ama.