by Jin Yong
Once he entered the city, Guo Jing asked for the way to the Garden of the Eight Drunken Immortals. He had heard so much about the tavern from his shifus. They would recall with relish every detail of the fight against Qiu Chuji, giving him a blow-by-blow account of how they had tested each other’s wit and kung fu with a bronze censer full of wine, and he had always longed to see the legendary drinking house with his own eyes.
It was just as his seventh shifu Jade Han had described it. The ornate building stood on the shore of South Lake, its eaves curling up into the sky as if taking wing, and its supports intricately carved and painted. Overhead, hanging outside, above the top floor, was a horizontal plaque. Though the black lacquer background was peeling in places, the gilded characters reading Garden of the Eight Drunken Immortals still gleamed bright and untarnished. They were written in the hand of Su Dongbo, one of the Song Empire’s most admired poets, statesmen and calligraphers. Inside stood a large wooden sign that read Li Po’s Legacy.
Guo Jing’s heart throbbed to at last set foot in this fabled establishment, and he bounded up the stairs.
A waiter ran after him. “Sir, I’m afraid the upper floor has been reserved. Please take a seat downstairs.”
A voice boomed from above. “Guo Jing, you’re here!”
The young man looked up. A Taoist monk drinking alone. The lush beard reaching down to his chest could not mask the glow from his cheeks. Eternal Spring Qiu Chuji.
“Elder Qiu!” He sprinted over the final few steps and knelt before the Taoist, touching his forehead to the floor.
“How wonderful! You’re here early.” Qiu Chuji helped Guo Jing to his feet in good cheer, oblivious to the tearful croak in the young man’s voice. “I look forward to feasting with your shifus tonight, before we fight Tiger Peng and his horde tomorrow. Are they here yet? I have the banquet prepared already.” He gestured at the eight tables around him. Only one pair of chopsticks and one wine cup graced each large round surface, except for his, which had a place laid for every seat.
“Eighteen years ago, I first encountered your seven shifus here, and this was how they arranged the reception. Over here, vegetarian fare was served for Abbot Scorched Wood. It’s such a shame that neither the Reverend nor your fifth shifu will be able to join us today.”
Guo Jing turned away. He could not look Qiu Chuji in the eye.
“I’ve even brought the censer from Fahua Temple,” the unobservant Taoist continued merrily. “When your shifus arrive, we shall drink to our hearts’ delight!”
Guo Jing eyed the large bronze container looking rather out of place next to the painted screen. From where he was standing, he could see that, although the outside of the vessel had oxidized over the years into a mottle of greens and blacks, the inside had been scrubbed shiny and clean for this occasion. The aroma of a good vintage wafted through the air.
First Shifu is the only one who can take part in this reunion, Guo Jing thought darkly. I would give my life away—willingly and happily—this very moment, if I could see all seven of my teachers here, drinking, chatting, laughing—alive!
“As you know, your shifus and I pledged to meet here this year, on the twenty-fourth of the third month, for your duel with Yang Kang,” Qiu reminisced. “To be honest, I always hoped that you’d win, ever since I made the wager with your shifus eighteen years ago. I’ve always held their principled ways in the highest esteem, and your victory would have brought further glory to the reputation of the Seven Freaks of the South.
“I might have taught Yang Kang for years, but I must confess that I never put my whole heart into the matter; I was more interested in roaming the world and ridding it of evil. That young man, alas, did prove our ancient wisdom—‘Ink blackens all that is nigh’—with his upbringing in the Jurchen palace.
“His substandard kung fu is my fault, of course. I’m not ashamed to acknowledge my shortcomings as a teacher of the martial arts, but where I truly floundered was with his education. I have failed to instill in him the principles that shape a man of honor and virtue, and, in doing so, I have done your Uncle Yang a grievous wrong. I’ve heard that Yang Kang has changed his ways, but foul air can never be fully purged, and I deeply regret my oversight.”
Guo Jing wondered if he should share the deceitful deeds Yang Kang had committed since Qiu Chuji had last seen him, but there had been so many, he did not know where to start, even if he did manage to get a word in edgeways.
“To make one’s way in this world, one must always live by the principles of loyalty and righteousness. Achievements in literary or martial matters are trifling in comparison—they represent the very tips of branches, whereas our integrity is the trunk of a tree.
“Even if Yang Kang were a hundred times more skilled in kung fu, you would still have claimed victory for your shifus on the strength of your moral fiber. And Qiu Chuji admits his defeat not just with words, but from the depths of his heart.” The monk chuckled, recalling the misunderstandings and misjudgments that had led to a lasting friendship.
“What’s wrong, my boy?” He at last noticed that Guo Jing, instead of laughing along with him, was crying, and his question made the young man’s tears flow faster.
Guo Jing cast himself to the floor and sobbed, “F-f-five of my shifus … gone…”
“What do you mean? Gone?” Qiu Chuji prayed that his ears were deceiving him.
“Only First Shifu … is still with us,” Guo Jing choked out the words.
Qiu felt like he had been struck over the head by a crack of thunder. His powers of speech deserted him. He had been looking forward to a joyful reunion and he was expecting his friends to arrive at any moment. How could they have been snatched away so cruelly? He had spent only the briefest time with the Seven Freaks of the South over the past eighteen years, but the connection they shared was as close and inextricable as that between vital organs in his body. He had long considered them brothers, with whom he would stand shoulder to shoulder through life and unto death.
This unbidden news was a knife to the heart. He could not bear to sit at the feast he had prepared for his friends any longer, and he strode to the window. He leaned against the balustrade, the rippling expanse laid out before him, the faces and features of the Seven Freaks flitting through his mind. Tilting his head back, he yowled at the heavens.
“What’s the point of this hateful thing when they’re gone?” He wrapped his arms around the bronze censer and hurled it out over the lake with the full power of his inner strength. It crashed into the water with a mighty splash, sinking into the bottom in the blink of an eye.
“How did they die?” Qiu Chuji seized Guo Jing by the arms.
The young man was about to answer when he spotted a tall and lean man dressed in a green robe out of the corner of his eye. The man ascended the wooden staircase without making the slightest sound.
Am I seeing things? Guo Jing blinked. No … It’s him! Apothecary Huang!
He pulled away from Qiu Chuji and sent his palm flying across the banquet table in a ferocious attack. This Haughty Dragon Repents contained every last drop of his neigong. He was holding nothing back—he did not care if he died, so long as he could drag Apothecary Huang down to the underworld with him.
Thrown by this unexpected aggression, the Heretic twisted a fraction to one side and reached out with his left arm. An adroit deflection.
Since Guo Jing had no reserve energy in his body, he had nothing left to deal with the Heretic’s counter, and—craaaaack!—he hurtled through a wooden partition and plunged toward the ground floor.
* * *
THIS WAS not a lucky day for the Garden of the Eight Drunken Immortals. Guo Jing landed on its store of crockery.
Earlier, during the lunch trade, when the tavern’s elderly manager saw Qiu Chuji arrive with the bronze censer and heard his unusual requests about the table settings, his heart trembled at the memory of the fight that had almost destroyed this establishment eighteen years before. Now, with the crash of
cracking ceramics assaulting his ears, he entreated every deity for help. “O, Guanyin the Observer of Sound, deliver us from this ordeal … Jade Emperor, City God, help us…” But the hundreds of bowls and plates and saucers and cups that had broken Guo Jing’s fall ignored his prayers and shattered into thousands of pieces.
Guo Jing held his hands high, as far away from the shards as he could, and flexed from his core to flip onto his feet. He charged up the stairs, only to catch a blast of green shooting out of the window in the wake of a gust of gray.
I can’t subdue the Heretic barehanded, but I’ll risk any number of blows to stick this into him. With that thought, Guo Jing whipped out the golden dagger tucked in his belt and jumped after Qiu Chuji and Apothecary Huang.
The streets of Jiaxing were always bustling at this time of the day, and, the moment two martial men were seen leaping out of the windows of the Garden of the Eight Drunken Immortals, a crowd began to gather, hopeful of catching some action. They were thrilled to witness the spectacular feat of a fighter gliding down from the tavern’s first floor—until they saw the glinting knife in his hand. Screams broke out, and those closest to the armed warrior jostled to get out of his way, almost causing a stampede in their panic.
Apothecary Huang and Qiu Chuji were nowhere to be seen amid the crush of onlookers.
“Where did they go?” Guo Jing barked at an old man standing close to him.
The sight of the shiny blade had reduced the whitebeard to a trembling mess.
“Great sir, I know nothing! Let me live!”
Guo Jing repeated his question, but only the word “Mercy!” came forth from the aged man’s lips.
Extending his arms before him, Guo Jing parted the throng, but could find no sign of either man. He ran back into the drinking house, sprinting upstairs to gain a better vantage point, and saw a skiff speeding toward the Tower of Mist and Rain—Apothecary Huang was sitting under the canopy, while Qiu Chuji worked the scull.
Elder Qiu won’t stand a chance in single combat against the Heretic! he thought, and he hurried down to the waterfront, hopping on the first boat he came across. Seizing the oar, he threw the boatman ashore, keeping his eyes fixed on his shifus’ murderer as he stabbed the scull into the lake with all his strength. But, on water, frantic and fraught motion can only impede one’s progress. After one particularly violent twist of the blade, it snapped off and floated away. Groaning in frustration, Guo Jing peeled a plank from the deck and thrust that into the water, but his frenzied haste only resulted in him lagging farther and farther behind. When he had finally slogged his way to the quay beneath the Tower, the two men were long gone.
Calm down! You can’t lose your head before you’ve had your revenge, Guo Jing told himself, filling his lungs slowly. He then exhaled in the same controlled way and repeated the breathing exercise three times. His mind became clear and his senses sharpened. His ears could now pick out the faint clanks of clashing weapons, as well as the swishing of blades cutting through the air. He could even make out occasional faraway huffs and growls.
There are more than two fighters! he noted in surprise, and he looked around to get a good grasp of his surroundings before approaching the Tower as stealthily as he could. The ground floor was deserted, but a familiar figure was perched on the banister at the top of the vertiginous staircase leading to the first floor.
“Shifu!” Guo Jing ran up and bowed.
Chewing loudly, Count Seven Hong nodded at his disciple. He then jabbed the leg of mutton in his hand at the courtyard below, indicating that Guo Jing should take a look, before bringing the juicy meat to his lips for another bite.
Guo Jing joined his Master and saw, amid flashes of steel, Apothecary Huang surrounded by … he counted eight men. However, the flush of elation that came with seeing the vile beast so beleaguered fizzled out when he took a closer look at the besiegers.
His first shifu Ke Zhen’e was among them. Swinging his metal staff, he stood back to back with a young Taoist armed with a sword. The rest of the fighters were clothed in similar gray robes—the Six Immortals of the Quanzhen Sect. Guo Jing knew them all and he could not bear the thought of losing yet another person he cared about to Apothecary Huang’s cruel ways.
Guo Jing soon realized that they had assumed the Heavenly Northern Dipper formation, and Ke Zhen’e was at the Heavenly Jade position, the place once taken by Eternal Truth Tan Chuduan. The young monk paired with him was Harmony Yin, Qiu Chuji’s disciple.
Even with Yin’s help, it was obvious that his first shifu was un-familiar with the Taoists’ tactics and was struggling to keep up with them. Guo Jing could also see that his mentor was less skilled than the Quanzhen Masters, and that his sightlessness was hampering his ability to adapt to the ever-changing formation.
The monks’ swords danced as one, lunging forward, pulling back, drawing apart and gathering close.
It was as fierce a battle as Guo Jing had ever seen.
A month ago, in Ox Village, the Quanzhen Taoists had deployed two swords against Cyclone Mei and her shifu Apothecary Huang to extraordinary effect. Now, with seven blades and an iron staff, they were an awe-inspiring sight.
Meanwhile, the Heretic was armed only with his bare hands. He seemed to be on the back foot, for all he had done since Guo Jing’s arrival was dodge his opponents. He had not found a chance to raise a palm or aim a kick over the space of several dozen moves.
Justice is catching up with you today! Guo Jing observed with satisfaction.
But, just then, Apothecary Huang pivoted on his left leg and spun, swiping twice at each of his attackers with his right foot. All eight men were forced to take three steps back.
Guo Jing had to give the man credit for this flawless demonstration of the Swirling Leaf Kick.
At this point, Huang looked up at Count Seven Hong and gave him a wave and a nod.
He seems so relaxed! I thought he was hard pressed … Guo Jing shook away his bewilderment as the Heretic raised his left palm, cleaving it down at an angle toward Eternal Life Liu Chuxuan’s head.
He was indisputably on the offensive now.
An assault on Liu’s position, the Heavenly Pearl, should have been countered by the Taoist’s neighbors on either side, Qiu Chuji at the Heavenly Power and Ke Zhen’e at the Heavenly Jade. Qiu’s sword flickered instantly at their assailant’s right armpit, but Ke was a beat slower—he thrust his staff only at Harmony Yin’s prompting.
Under normal circumstances, the eldest of the Freaks was able to compensate for his loss of sight with his keen hearing, locating friend and foe alike from scratching footsteps, rustling clothes and other noises they made as they moved. Up against Apothecary Huang’s nimble feet and lightning strikes, which left no sonic trace and little stirring in the air, he was truly left in the dark.
The Heretic’s blow lashed down at Liu Chuxuan. The formation’s interlocking defensive system had failed. And yet, for reasons unbeknownst to the Taoist, the attacking hand hovered for a split second, a hair’s breadth from the crown of his head.
The monk grabbed his chance, flopping to the ground and rolling out of the way. At that same moment, Ma Yu and Wang Chuyi thrust their swords at the Heretic.
Liu Chuxuan might have escaped certain death, but the Heavenly Northern Dipper had lost a vital component.
Cackling, Apothecary Huang rammed into the Sage of Tranquility Sun Bu’er, shooting beyond the formation by three steps, then suddenly plowed backward into Infinite Peace Hao Datong.
Why is he running into me with his back exposed? Surprise at the Heretic’s unusual move slowed Hao’s blade by a beat.
The Heretic whizzed past, as agile as a darting hare. He stopped, twenty paces away from the Quanzhen monks.
He had broken through the formation.
Count Seven chuckled in approval. “What a handsome performance!”
“They need help!” Guo Jing cried, making for the stairs.
“Not so hasty!” the Beggar cried after him. “I
was concerned for your shifu at first, when your father-in-law wouldn’t fight back. You can never presume to know what the Heretic has up his sleeve. But now I can see that he’s not in the mood to hurt anyone today.”
“Really?” The young man halted, curious to learn how his Master had come to that conclusion.
“If he wanted bloodshed, do you think that skinny monkey of a monk would still be alive? These little Taoists are no match for him. Not at all.” He sunk his teeth into the mutton leg, tearing off a large piece, and explained through a mouthful of meat: “The Quanzhen lads were teaching your first shifu the Heavenly Northern Dipper before your father-in-law and Qiu Chuji arrived. Yet it’s not something you can pick up in just a few minutes. They tried hard to persuade Master Ke to stay out of the fight, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. I don’t know what could’ve happened to sow such enmity between him and the Heretic. Anyway, that’s why he’s now sharing the Heavenly Jade position with the young ’un, but, of course, they aren’t strong enough to block your father’s killer moves.”
“He’s not my father!”
“Eh? What do you mean?”
Guo Jing glowered, too angry to speak.
“Where’s Lotus? Did you lovebirds fall out?”
“Nothing to do with her,” he answered curtly. “That beast—he—he killed my shifus—”
“What? Are you sure?”
But Guo Jing’s attention was drawn away by the intensifying tussle below. Apothecary Huang had now turned to his signature kung fu, Splitting Sky Palm. The air shrieked with each slice of his hand. None of his opponents could get within a dozen paces of him.
