A Heart Divided

by Jin Yong

  Unless … Guo Jing began to sprint at his fastest pace. If he could get to the cliffs, he could gain some time to try to devise an escape plan, for no one in the army knew lightness qinggong and none would be able to scale the sheer rock face. Suddenly, he heard soldiers chanting ahead of him, then a huge warhorse charged in his direction, carrying a ruddy-faced, white-bearded general. It was Tchila’un. Guo Jing swerved away from the warrior’s swinging saber and ran full pelt into the waiting troops.

  Surprised by Guo Jing’s charge, the soldiers shouted in alarm, but the young man took no notice of them. Once he was among them, he grabbed the shin of the warrior closest to him, and, with a tap of his foot against the ground, flipped onto the man’s horse. He then hurled the soldier from the saddle, snatched up his spear and laid his mother’s body over the horse’s back, in one fluid motion.

  Leveling the spear, Guo Jing galloped away from Tchila’un’s men, though in a direction that took him farther from the cliffs. With General Boroqul’s men joining in the pursuit, he was not allowed a moment to think about his route, for he was quickly encircled again, with several thousand soldiers to the south closing off his escape options.

  By the time Guo Jing had successfully charged through Boroqul’s riders, he was covered in blood. He knew he was able to face down so many men by himself in part because the soldiers were unwilling to fight one of their own, but what he did not realize was that Genghis Khan had forbidden the use of arrows, insisting that he be taken alive.

  Guo Jing pushed on, fighting back fresh tears brought on by the stiff, cold reality in his arms. He was at last making headway toward the South, but he was still in the heartlands of Mongolia, tens of thousands of li from the Central Plains, with just one spear and a standard warhorse for the journey. He could not see how he could shake off the pursuing troops and return to his homeland, especially as he would soon be robbed of the cloak of darkness.

  As dawn broke, a plume of dust appeared in the distance and Guo Jing picked up the sound of horses thundering his way. He pulled at the reins and turned his mount east, but the creature, having battled and galloped through the night, buckled and went down on its forelegs, unable to stand up again. Guo Jing slipped out of the saddle and leveled the spear at the incoming soldiers, still clinging to his mother’s body.

  As the riders drew near, a hum penetrated the dust cloud and, the next thing Guo Jing knew, an arrow buried itself in the shaft of his spear, sending a numbing tremor up his arm. The spearhead fell to the ground as a second arrow sang through the air, aimed for his chest. He flung the spear shaft away and grabbed the bolt with both hands. Then he noticed that the arrowhead had been snapped off. He looked up to see a lone general riding over, the riders under his command hanging back. It was his old archery teacher Jebe.

  “Shifu, have you come to take me back?”

  “Yes.”

  Guo Jing knew he had little hope of getting away and he found some comfort in the thought that someone important to him would earn the reward for his capture.

  “Allow me to bury my mother.” He looked around and saw an earthen mound to his left. He carried her body over to it, dug a pit with the broken spearhead and laid her down tenderly. The dagger was still lodged deep in her chest and he could not bring himself to pull it out. He kowtowed several times, then scooped up earth with both hands and scattered it over her body. Even now, he was struggling to believe that his mother, who had sacrificed so much to bring him up, would be laid to rest in this wilderness, far, far away from her home … He crumpled to the ground and broke down in tears.

  Jebe dismounted and knelt beside Guo Jing, bowing four times before the grave. Once he had paid his respects, he handed his bow, arrows and spear to the grieving young man, then went to fetch his horse and put the reins into his hands.

  “Go! We will likely never meet again.”

  “Shifu!”

  “You risked your life to save mine when you were just a child. Shouldn’t I do the same? Am I not a man of honor?”

  “But, Shifu, it’s a grave offense to defy the Great Khan’s command.”

  “I’ve won enough battles to keep my head on my neck—I’ll just get a taste of the punishment staffs. Now hurry and go!”

  Still Guo Jing hesitated.

  Jebe gestured at the warriors behind him. “These men served under you on our campaign to Khwarazm. I didn’t bring my own troops in case they had other ideas. Go and ask them—ask them if they’d exchange you for riches and glory.”

  The soldiers dismounted when they saw Guo Jing approach. Prostrating themselves before him, they spoke in one voice: “We wish the Noyan a safe journey south.”

  Guo Jing cast his eye around and recognized each and every face. These men had rushed headlong into death beside him on the battlefield, charging fearlessly through enemy lines without a second thought. “When the Great Khan learns that you have let me go, he will show no mercy.”

  “We will always be the General’s men,” a soldier shouted, to a chorus of agreement.

  Sighing, Guo Jing waved them farewell and climbed into the saddle. Just as he was about to urge the horse forward, he noticed a cloud of dust moving furiously toward them.

  All those present were alarmed by the new arrivals, Jebe in particular. He was already facing serious repercussions for letting Guo Jing go, and, if anything flared up between his men and those approaching, he would be responsible for causing a fight between brothers-in-arms.

  “Guo Jing! Go!” Jebe urged.

  “Do not hurt the Prince!” The cry from the incoming rider surprised everybody. They were now close enough for Guo Jing to make out the Fourth Prince’s banner.

  Tolui emerged from the swirling dust and made straight for Guo Jing. His mount was lathered in red sweat. It was Ulaan.

  “Anda, they didn’t hurt you, did they?” he asked as he jumped to the ground.

  “No, Shifu was going to bring me in.” The lie was for Jebe’s sake.

  Tolui shot the General a glare. “Take Ulaan and go, anda!” He pointed to the saddlebag. “In here are two thousand taels of gold. We shall meet again, Brother.”

  Guo Jing leaped onto Ulaan. “Please ask Khojin to take care of herself—I hope she’ll find a suitable husband. She shouldn’t to tie herself to me.”

  “She will never agree to marry anyone else.” Tolui heaved a deep sigh. “I know she’ll head south to look for you. I’ll make sure she’s safe on the journey—”

  “No, she shouldn’t search for me. How do you find one person under this vast sky? It will only bring sorrow if we meet again.”

  The sworn brothers regarded each other in silence. Eventually, Tolui said, “You should go, but let me ride with you for a while.”

  They turned their horses toward the south and traveled side by side for more than thirty li.

  “Anda, you should turn back now,” Guo Jing said, looking back over his shoulder. “‘A send-off spanning a thousand li still ends in a parting.’”

  “Just a little farther.”

  Ten li later, they dismounted and said their goodbyes with a tearful hug.

  Tolui watched as Guo Jing rode away, until he was no more than a speck on the horizon, and continued to stare after him as he disappeared into the boundless desert. Haunted by sorrow and a sense of loss, the Mongol Prince could not tear his eyes away from the southern skies.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  GOOD AND EVIL, RIGHT AND WRONG

  1

  For days, Ulaan galloped south with Guo Jing on his back, barely stopping to rest. They only eased off when they had covered enough distance that no pursuing force could hope to catch them. As they approached the Central Plains, the days grew warmer and the grass greener and more lush. But each city they passed was scarred by war, with corpses and bones piled high by the roadside. Guo Jing was shocked by the horrific sights and sounds along the way.

  Resting at a dilapidated pavilion, he found himself studying the scrawls left by travelers on the walls,
and one message in particular caught his eye.

  A Tang dynasty poet wrote:

  Running water murmurs in the slanting sun,

  No sign of dogs or livestock, just croaking crows.

  Thousands of villages but not one cooking fire,

  No sign of habitation, just flowers wild.

  Once glorious like the finest brocade, the mountains and rivers of our Central Plains are now ruined by fierce battles waged by foreign brutes. The people suffer greatly, their misery far beyond the weight carried by these words.

  Sorrow welled up in Guo Jing as he stared at the characters. He began to weep.

  He had been riding without a destination, without a purpose. In one year, he had lost his mother, Lotus and his shifus—the people dearest to him in this world. They had been snatched away from him, one by one. Viper Ouyang killed his shifus and Lotus. He ought to take revenge, but, at the thought of retribution, the horrors of the Khwarazmian massacres flooded his mind. In his quest to avenge his father, he had caused the death of tens of thousands of innocents who had no connection to his personal feud. How could he ever make peace with that in his heart? Maybe it was wrong to seek redress?

  Overwhelmed by the bereavements he had suffered, Guo Jing began to question and doubt all that he had known, believed and lived for.

  I’ve spent my life working on my kung fu, but what was the point of all that training? he asked himself. I couldn’t protect my mother. I couldn’t protect Lotus. What purpose has my martial knowledge served? I tried so hard to be a good person, but did that make anybody happy? Mother died because of me. Lotus died because of me. Khojin will be miserable for the rest of her life because of me. So many people have suffered—all because of me.

  No one could dispute the villainy of Wanyan Honglie and Shah Muhammad of Khwarazm, but what about Genghis Khan? He killed Wanyan Honglie, which should make him a good man, and yet he ordered me to conquer the Song Empire. He gave my mother and I refuge for twenty years, then drove her to take her own life.

  Yang Kang and I made our pledge of brotherhood, agreeing to share our blessings and to bear each other’s troubles, but we never lived by it—we were never of one heart. Sister Mercy Mu is a good person, so why is she so steadfast in her love for Yang Kang? Tolui and I are anda, we have been sworn brothers in the truest sense, and yet, if he leads his troops south, are we to face one another on the battlefield? Are we to fight to the death? No! No! We all have a mother, and they risked everything to carry us in their bellies for nine moons. Our mothers sacrificed everything to raise us. How can I kill a mother’s son and break her heart? I can’t bear the thought of killing Tolui, and neither could he bring himself to take my life. But how can I stand by and let him slaughter my people—the people of the Song Empire?

  What’s the point of learning kung fu? To fight, to kill. Everything I’ve done over the past twenty years is wrong. I’ve worked hard and strived to learn, to train. And the result? I bring harm to the people around me. If I’d known, I would have refused to learn even the simplest move. But, if I hadn’t trained in the martial arts, what would I have done? What is the point of me living in this world? How should I spend the next decades before I die? Is it better to go on living or to die young? I’m already plagued by so many troubles and worries, and they’re only going to grow. But what would be the point of Ma bringing me into this world if I die young? What would be the point of her putting in so much effort to raise me?

  These questions whirled round and round in Guo Jing’s head, and the more he tried to find answers, the more confused he became. For days now, he had found no appetite at mealtimes, and sleep had not come to him at night. He wandered the wilderness, grappling with these matters at all hours.

  Ma and each and every one of my shifus taught me to honor my word and to always keep faith, he said to himself. And so, even though I loved Lotus with all my heart, I did not turn my back on my troth-plight to the Great Khan’s daughter. But what did that lead to? Death. The unjust and untimely deaths of Lotus and my mother. And did my stubbornness make anyone happy? Not Genghis Khan, not Tolui, not Khojin.

  The Seven Heroes of the South lived by the principles of righteous loyalty, but none of them came to a good end. Shifu Hong is generous to all, and yet he is saddled with injuries that are slow to heal. Viper Ouyang and Qiu Qianren have done many terrible things, but they still roam free and unburdened. Does the Way of the Heavens exist? Is the Lord of the Heavens blind? Does He care about justice? Does He care about good and evil?

  Was I right to plead for the Samarkandians? Should I have let the Khan have his way?

  Guo Jing brooded over these issues as he roamed through the wastelands, drifting without purpose. Ulaan trailed after him, stopping every so often for a mouthful of fresh grass.

  I traded Lotus’s life to save theirs. I didn’t know a single soul in that city of several hundred thousand—I shared no ties, no bonds, no kinship with any of them, men or women, old or young. For Lotus, I’d happily give my life. It’s a choice I would never rue. And yet, I asked the Great Khan to spare those wretched Samarkandians and almost lost my head in the process. My brothers-in-arms begrudged me for it too. They risked their lives to take the city, but a few words from me snatched away their chance to plunder it.

  My desire to help those strangers cost Lotus her life, and I nearly paid with mine too. For their sake, I offended the Great Khan, my soldiers and my good friends. Was I an idiot? Yes, what I did was stupid—but was it something I had to do?

  My six shifus, Master Hong and my mother all taught me to act with righteousness, to uphold justice, to help those in need. They taught me to put others first, so I’d never stand by and refuse to offer a helping hand to those in danger just because it was not to my benefit. They taught me to be prepared to give my life to stop those who would inflict harm on the defenseless.

  The Jurchens invaded my homeland and butchered my people. It’s my duty to resist them—whether I live or die as a result, whether my actions get me into more trouble or not, should never be my concern. If the Great Khan sacks Lin’an, he’ll be killing the Song people. I’d give up Lotus, I’d give up my life to save as many as I could. That would be the right thing to do.

  A great man’s heart should be bounteous and compassionate. As Shifu Count Seven Hong has said to me many times: “Death is no hindrance to an act righteous and just.” Of course, that’s how it should be, but Khwarazm has nothing to do with the Song Empire, the people of Samarkand aren’t Han Chinese like me. They speak a different language. They write in a different script. Even their facial features and the color of their eyes and hair are different from mine. What have they got to do with me? Why could I not stomach the sight of them being slaughtered by Mongolian soldiers? Why did I feel like that? Was I utterly, utterly in the wrong? Am I only to give my life to save those dear to me—my parents, my shifus, my friends and my beloved Lotus? Should I not bother with those who bear no relation to me?

  When Viper Ouyang and his nephew’s raft fell apart at sea, Shifu chose to help those scoundrels, without a second thought. He simply did what he felt he should do, not caring whether his actions would serve him well. Unlike the Venom. Shifu saved his life, but that heartless ingrate did not hesitate to deal his rescuer a death blow. Shifu nearly died from his injuries, but he never once regretted pulling them from the water and from the clutches of death.

  I remember when he told us: “When we see someone in trouble, we should always help them, regardless of the consequences for ourselves. When we talk about acting with righteousness and upholding justice, we’re talking about what’s good and evil, what’s right and wrong, and that is key to the moral code of xia—doing what’s just, doing what’s true, doing what’s right, doing what’s humane, doing what brings peace to our hearts. If we weigh whatever we do in terms of success and failure, gains and losses, benefits and costs—that’s just business, it’s not altruism or being charitable, or doing good deeds. When we do good, it may no
t be in our best interests, but that doesn’t matter, because the point of our existence is to act ‘righteous and just.’”

  Yes, that’s it! I see now what Shifu was trying to tell me. I should help my own people. I should help those of different tribes. I should do what I feel needs to be done, help anyone in need—it doesn’t matter who they are or whether my actions are to my advantage or not.

  If I were dying of thirst in the desert and a shepherd from Samarkand rode by on his camel, would he give me water from the plentiful supply he had? I think he would overlook the fact that we were total strangers and offer me a drink, because it would be an act “righteous and just.”

  I saved the people of Samarkand, but my choice condemned Lotus. Should I have acted otherwise? No! I didn’t kill Lotus. It was Viper Ouyang. He chased her into the swamp. I risked my life searching for her, but I couldn’t find her—I couldn’t save her. I’d give my life so she could live again, but she didn’t know that when she died. Now that her spirit is in the heavens, she knows. She knows that I only failed to ask Genghis Khan to cancel my betrothal to Khojin because I was begging him to spare hundreds of thousands of Samarkandians who were about to be exterminated. She knows she’s the one I want to marry. She knows! She knows!

  The thought that Lotus’s spirit, whether in the heavens above or in the netherworld below, knew what was in his heart and that he had always been true to her, offered some solace to Guo Jing, for it meant that they had at last resolved the misunderstanding that had torn them apart. Of course, he would have much preferred that she were still alive.