The Gaze of Caprice (The Caprice Trilogy Book 1)

by Cole Reid

  The organization of the warehouse was enough to make its impression on an eight year-old. Despite the size or—perhaps—because of it, the warehouse was immaculately clean. There was no trash disturbing the pristine polished floor. The boxes were stacked in near-perfect rows. The space smelled of only floor wax and cardboard. The warehouse played with Xiaoyu’s imagination as he looked up at the ceiling. It seemed to him that the warehouse existed outside the normal world or was free from the constraints of it. Xiaoyu guessed nothing would rot under this roof. The warehouse was a testament to Uncle Woo’s efficacy at establishing a culture in pursuit of perfection. The stocky man walked steadily toward the back row of the warehouse. The space was big enough for another row of steel frames but had been left empty. Spare wood pallets were stacked in three columns so neatly they formed an exact grid. Xiaoyu paused briefly to admire the pallets; the stocky man kept walking. Xiaoyu’s attention was broken by the sound of a conversation starting. There were greetings and the sound of two forceful hands shaking. Xiaoyu was unaware of the presence of anyone else in the warehouse. The ensuing conversation caught his attention enough for him to forget the perfection around him. Xiaoyu looked forward toward the conversation and saw the stocky man talking to a man much shorter. Xiaoyu didn’t notice himself moving closer to the two men. The stocky man and the shorter man seemed to know each other well. As Xiaoyu approached, the shorter man made eye contact. Noticing the shorter man’s lack of interest, the stocky man stopped talking and turned toward Xiaoyu.

  “Is this him?” asked the shorter man.

  “Yes,” said the stocky man. Xiaoyu was close enough to tell the shorter man was only a half head taller than him. Realizing he was destined to outgrow the shorter man made him think more about the time ahead of him. The shorter man approached Xiaoyu with his right hand extended. The man was wearing white loose-fitting cotton pants. A drawstring was tied in a neat but forgettable knot around his waist. He had a vest-shaped sleeveless white shirt. The bones in his chest were visible through his mocha-flavored skin. His torso was inappropriately thin but his arms were wrapped with toned muscle. Xiaoyu shook the man’s hand with a sense of pride.

  “I am Master Song, as they call me,” said the man.

  “I am Li Xiaoyu,” said Xiaoyu. The stocky man and Master Song smiled with amusement at the boy’s sense of purpose.

  “I have been asked to train you,” said Master Song, “Do you know why?”

  “To be a Jade Soldier,” said Xiaoyu.

  “To be a candidate for a Jade Soldier,” said Master Song.

  “To be a candidate for a Jade Soldier,” Xiaoyu repeated.

  “I like the quick adaptation, a misunderstood idea about jade. People systematically think of jade as something hard, able to scratch glass. But look at it. Jade comes in many colors and is suitable for a variety of things: jewelry; carvings; decorations. The same must be true of you to become a jade soldier. You must be hard,” said Master Song, making a shadow punch so fast it seemed to appear without movement.

  “You must also adapt. And once you learn to adapt, tell yourself you have learned nothing and start learning how to adapt all over again,” said Master Song. The stocky man looked as if he was glad he had not been asked to be a candidate for a Jade Soldier, although it was clear he had been asked to do other things. The stocky man caught Master Song eye-to-eye and gave a nod. Master Song tilted his head in the direction that brought Xiaoyu. The stocky man immediately started walking in that direction. Xiaoyu didn’t seem to mind the stocky man’s exist. His fascination with the space he was in and the man who would train him overwhelmed him. Xiaoyu didn’t even hear the steel doors open and close as the stocky man made his exit. A readiness came over him leaving residue of added maturity. He was almost nine years old and increasingly able to do something most would spend a lifetime learning, to control his thoughts.

  “Let’s start with what is and what isn’t,” said Master Song. Xiaoyu looked at Master Song with an intense gaze.

  “First, this place isn’t what you think it is. This isn’t a warehouse, it’s now your home,” said Master Song. Xiaoyu ignored the temptation to look around. He had gotten a good look at the warehouse before he knew he would be living in it. He told himself looking again would be irrelevant.

  “Everything you need is here,” said Master Song, “This is your opponent. All of your opponents, every last one of them.” Master Song walked over to a sturdy looking wood frame. The base of the wood frame had supports to carry the weight of a wood dummy. The dummy looked like a man-made species of tree. It had one wooden leg that crept out of its trunk like a giant ant leg. Three branches, made of arms, jutted out of the body of the dummy. The dummy stood majestically like a tree while threatening like a beast. Being both a species of plant and animal, the dummy reaffirmed that Xiaoyu was in a different world.

  “This is your status,” said Master Song tapping on a gray canvas bag hanging by chains from the ceiling.

  “It’s filled with sand, making it harder at the bottom than the top,” said Master Song, “You’ll have to kick and punch a bit higher until your limbs are strong. When you can kick the bottom of the bag without breaking your foot, you’ll be jade. But it will take longer for you to become the soldier. The soldier can break the bag open and make it spew its guts. That has nothing to do with how strong you are physically. That’s has to do with something altogether different.” Master Song walked over to the back corner of the facility and pointed to something that most people would have missed. A small gray-colored PVC pipe ran 25cm out from the wall. At the end of the pipe, was a water valve hanging one meter directly above a small drain.

  “If any blood or sweat, you’ll wash them away here. Tears, you wash those away internally. You’ll have to bend or lie down to wash yourself. The water is not heated. It won’t be so cold or so hot. That, like so many other things, you will be required to get used to,” said Master Song, “And that’s where you will sleep.” Master Song pointed to a long polyester bag resting on the frame of the wood dummy. Master Song walked over to the bag and pulled out its contents for Xiaoyu to see. It was a cot, the pieces of one.

  “You’ll have to build your bed each night and disassemble it each day,” said Master Song, “I will meet you here each morning at 8:00am. And we will train for eight hours each day. I will give you one day break per week but you will not know which day until I tell you. You must learn to adapt. You do not have a calendar but you do have a clock. You’ll know what time it is but you won’t know what day it is. It will be that way for eight months. I will bring your food for the day. No matter what you think it will always be enough, understand?” Xiaoyu nodded his head slowly as if still processing all he had been told.

  “Do not worry, you won’t have your first fight for eight months when we’re finished training. When we’re done here, you’ll look at your training as the real fight and the fight as practice. That is the sole point,” said Master Song. Master Song pointed to the canvas bag.

  “We will start first with this,” said Master Song, making a relaxed stance in front of the bag as if riding horseback. He roundhouse kicked the bag with his back leg sending the bag into a sideways swing. As the bag oscillated back in front of him he side kicked the bag with his opposite leg sending it swinging backward as it came back toward him he stopped the motion of the bag with his fist.

  “Your turn,” said Master Song. He went toward a small cotton sack left unnoticed on the ground by the steel-framed shelf. Reaching into the bag, Master Song pulled out two white fabric tennis balls.

  “Come here,” said Master Song. Xiaoyu walked toward Master Song. Master Song began to unravel the balls of fabric. After unraveling, he dangled two fabric hand wraps in each hand. As Xiaoyu came forward, Master Song presented Xiaoyu with the hand wraps and let them pour into Xiaoyu’s hands. Without words, Master Song slowly wrapped Xiaoyu’s right hand then his left.

  “Tomorrow you’ll do it for yourself,” said Master
Song. Stepping back from Xiaoyu he pointed to the canvas bag and told Xiaoyu to repeat the same combination fifty times before switching legs and repeating for another fifty. Xiaoyu approached the bag and kicked it with his front leg. Realizing that somehow he wasn’t able to transfer his weight as smoothly as Master Song, he knew he was doing the combination wrong.

  “Kick with the back leg. And use your hips to produce more power,” said Master Song. Xiaoyu stood in a horseback stance similar to how he remembered Master Song’s stance. Master Song came behind Xiaoyu and pushed down on his shoulders, forcing him to deepen his stance.

  “Now, kick using the back leg,” said Master Song. Xiaoyu used his back leg to roundhouse kick the bag and the same leg to kick it again.

  “No, no, no,” said Master Song, motioning for Xiaoyu to move over. Master Song repeated the combination more slowly emphasizing each movement. Xiaoyu witnessed how Master Song kicked the bag with his back leg then his front leg then transitioned back to the deep horseback stance. As the bag came back toward him, he used his hips to propel his torso. The bag came to rest on the face of his fist with a clap. Master Song did not seem affected by the bag flailing his bare fist with the consistency of concrete. He didn’t even break a sweat.

  “Ok?” asked Master Song, giving Xiaoyu a stern look. Xiaoyu nodded his head and took his place in front of the bag. Xiaoyu executed the combination in the correct order but slow. His knuckles popped as the bag smashed his wrapped fist. Xiaoyu winced but forced himself to muffle the sound. He repeated the same combination as Master Song circumscribed his position making sure his knees stayed bent and arm stayed straight when he punched. For the next hour Master Song uttered three words: good; no; again. After repeating the combination fifty times with his right leg and fifty times with his left, Master Song urged Xiaoyu to take a break. Xiaoyu insisted he didn’t need one. Master Song said watching Xiaoyu made him tire and he needed a break himself. He told Xiaoyu he could run over to the water valve and get a drink. As Xiaoyu walked toward the water valve, he realized his legs were stinging. It felt like he had been injected with vinegar—not on top—in the tissue. The backs of his legs hurt even when he wasn’t moving. He bent down like a crippled man and turned on the water valve. He reversed his head and let the water drown his tongue, half the water falling on the floor. He took a moment to let the water wash away the vinegar, before returning to his post in front of the canvas bag.

  “Drinking so much water means you’ll have to go pee,” said Master Song, “Which brings us to another question. Your roommates are bags of rice. They’ll be fine, but where do you pee?” Xiaoyu had honestly never considered the question until Master Song asked. He looked at Master Song and read his eyes. Only one place to pee. Xiaoyu turned and pointed toward the drain. Master Song nodded with a brief smile on his face.

  “This arrangement is to make you think less about effort and more about efficiency. A candidate has always lived and trained in the same space since the earliest days. You wash there and your toilet is there. That is all you will need,” said Master Song.

  “Master,” said Xiaoyu, “What is efficiency?” Master Song remembered he had to explain the concept once before.

  “Efficiency is for what’s required,” said Master Song, “When there is something that must be done, you do it. Then it’s done. If you do too much, it’s a waste. If you don’t do enough, you don’t get it done. So you have to wash and you have to use the toilet. Why have two places for washing away unwanted things? Two places to do essentially the same thing; it’s not needed. It’s too much, a waste. Against an opponent, it is not always the case to throw the most punches or most kicks wins. In fact, it is most often the loser who throws so many punches and kicks because it’s too much. He uses too much energy to do the same thing. You punch, punch, punch, kick, kick, kick and how many of those kicks meant anything at all. You throw so many kicks and your opponent knows just how fast and how hard you can kick. After the first kick, the other kicks begin to become redundant—overused. If the kick will harm your opponent then it is efficient, but you must be sure it will harm your opponent. If you kick and miss, your kick is redundant—a repeat attempt. You must never be redundant. Like wind and water you must adapt, be always changing.”

  Master Song finished his sentenced with his back turned to Xiaoyu, walking toward the wood dummy. He placed his right and left hands against the dummy’s arms as if he were about to embrace an old friend. He quickly alternated his arms slapping against the body of the dummy with considerable force. He continued effortlessly alternating his hands up and down, each time hitting the dummy’s hard exterior. Master Song began to alternate his hands with such speed Xiaoyu could only see his movements because he could anticipate them. Master Song alternated hands again and again as if he could not feel the impact of the dummy. He stopped. Without looking at Xiaoyu, he backed away from the dummy and made a sweeping motion with his left hand. Xiaoyu understood. He hoisted his acid legs one in front of the other trying to move at a natural pace. As he stood in front of the dummy, Xiaoyu imagined his opponents—past and future. He began slowly mimicking Master Song’s movements with decent accuracy. Faster. Xiaoyu started to alternate strikes against the dummy more quickly and harder. His range of mind and motion distracted him from the pain he would have otherwise felt. The motion being repetitive allowed his mind to focus on other things. He heeded Master Song’s words about not being redundant. He landed hit after hit on the dummy but saw different faces. He saw the boy who dropped the rock on his face and the boys who held him down. He saw the boy who flicked his ears and the men who attacked his mother. Baba’s face was there as well. Other faces were there, but he couldn’t place them. He knew he didn’t have to place the unknown faces. His time for that would come later. Stop.

  At day’s end, Xiaoyu’s body felt like leather—processed and worn. He had eaten a small meal tucked into a foam box by Master Song. Master Song left him two plastic packets of dried fish for dinner, assuring him the protein would help his body rebuild. Xiaoyu trusted Master Song only after one meeting but knew his body would not be rebuilt before the next day’s training. Xiaoyu was imprisoned in the warehouse after Master Song left. He spent his nights aching and thinking of his sister. The first week lasted seven days before he was given a day off. Xiaoyu’s body told him he needed the day off but his mind didn’t tell him what to do with it. Xiaoyu knew Master Song wouldn’t come on the eighth day. He also didn’t know what to do with himself. Alone in the warehouse, he got bored and his mind wandered. He slept half the day away. His legs began to feel hollow and he felt pens stabbing his legs while the acid burned. Although he had ignored Master Song’s advice not to sleep too long, the urge to walk came over him like the urge to survive. Lying on the cot made him feel like dead weight, so he got on his feet to test his legs. His mind gave him the task of disproving the idea that the warehouse was perfect. Xiaoyu walked up and down the rows of the warehouse looking for lack of organization. He proceeded for an hour before giving up. Empty-handed, Xiaoyu returned to his cot with a newfound respect for the Moons. His one victory was a moral one. Walking around the warehouse, he realized how small it really was and how little it contained. He told himself a high-level of organization could be easily achieved with such limited quantities. He ate another pack of dried fish left by Master Song then slept till the early night.

  Xiaoyu woke up sometime in the late night. The warehouse was only black. Daylight could break the bay door seams but not during the night. At night, the darkness had the place to itself. Xiaoyu knew his way to the light switch but felt more comfortable lying open-minded on the cot. The large lamps overhead were wasp nests, humming with the sounds of photons. The same wasp-like creatures would sting his eyes and his mind if he turned the lamps on. Light was loud. Xiaoyu preferred the quiet, so it stayed dark. It took time for him to get used to it but he felt cleaner bathing in darkness than under the water valve in the corner. He began to see so much in the dark. What he
saw most was his sister. He imagined her hair tied in a top-pinned ponytail. He imagined her hard at work. She had said their mother was a hard-worker and she had inherited it. Xiaoyu could remember so much in the darkness. His thoughts turned to himself. He never thought of himself as a hard-worker. His days with Master Song didn’t change his opinion of himself. He had always done what was necessary. No one was there to tell him but he was more like his mother than his sister. Xiaofeng worked hard because she was her mother’s daughter and her mother worked hard because she had a daughter. No one was prepared to help Qiu raise Xiaofeng, not even Xiaofeng’s father. Xiaoyu had to work hard to defend himself because no one else would do it. Xiaofeng was like her mother because she chose to be. Xiaoyu was like his mother without having a choice. Qiu was strong during her life for her daughter but gave her life and her strength to her son. Master Song had instructed Xiaoyu to be adaptable and he was. He could adapt like his mother.