Path of the Eclipse

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  It is my lamentable duty to inform the Elevated Officials that they were tragically mistaken. The Mongol attacks which we have sustained since more than a year ago have not, as certain of your numbers so confidently predicted, decreased, but have grown steadily in frequency and savagery. This most unworthy Magistrate sent you word when the fortress of the Warlord Kung fell to these invaders, and was given no response.

  Now there has been another attack. The Mao-T’ou stronghold, with all its militiamen and its Warlord, T’en Chin-Yü, has fallen, and with it the two valleys, So-Dui and Oa-Du. Nothing is left there. The Shui-Lo fortress of the Warlord Tan Mung-Fa has been destroyed, and with it every farmstead and field for six li around. The Tsi-Gai pass stronghold and its Warlord, Shao Ching-Po, has been razed by a force of more than four hundred Mongols. The holdings of the Warlords Hua Djo-Tung and Suh Son-Tai are in Mongol hands even as this most unfortunate person sets his brush to the ink cake. Since the Elevated Officials have shown so little regard for the Shu-Rh District, this unworthy Magistrate seeks to remind them that the forces of these Warlords at this time constituted our entire district defenses. With the fortresses and strongholds gone, we are without the means to resist these foreign devils.

  This unworthy person is unable to describe adequately to the Elevated Officials the devastation that has been visited upon this District. Everywhere there are smoldering villages and pyramids of severed heads. The sky is dark from the burning, as though heaven itself wishes to hide its face from the wreckage. The people of the District are without food, without shelter, without aid of any kind, and as such, are filled with horror and apathy, so that they will do nothing now to prevent the Mongols from killing them.

  This unworthy Magistrate has a messenger standing by, and as the walls of Bei-Wah are afire, it would not be wise to delay him any longer. The records of this District have been hidden in a dry well on the south side of the walls, and may survive what the people will not.

  Since this most wretched person has failed so signally in his tasks, since he has shown himself to be unworthy of the name he bears and his illustrious ancestors, and since he is without hope even of the compassion of Heaven, he will end his life as soon as the messenger has departed. He desires that his name and functions be stricken from the records of the family Wu and that no distinction of any kind mark his passing.

  From the brush and hand of the despicable person who was the Magistrate Wu Sing-I, in Bei-Wah.

  his chop

  PART II

  Shih Ghieh-Man

  A letter from Mei Sa-Fong to Nai Yung-Ya and the Nestorian Christian congregation of Lan-Chow.

  On the Festival of the Wine God, in the Year of the Ox, the Fourteenth Year of the Sixty-fifth Cycle, the one thousand two hundred seventeenth year of Our Lord, to our beloved Pope Nai Yung-Ya and the faithful congregation in Lan-Chow.

  This brings the greetings and good wishes of Mei Sa-Fong, his sister Mei Hsu-Mo, and our dear companion Chung La:

  We have reached the port of Tu-Ma-Sik, far to the south of our country. The ship we sail on, a merchant vessel, very large and bustling with activity, stopped at Vi-Ja-Ya before coming to this place at the end of a long, narrow peninsula. Here we must transfer to another vessel, for this one has accepted a commission that will not take them toward Tien-Du for several months, and we are anxious to be on with our task. The captain of the ship has introduced us to a man from Pe-Gu, who is returning through the straits here to his home port, and then will cross the sea westward to a city called Dra-Ksa-Ra-Ma, which is near the mouth of a river with the impossible name of Go-Da-Va-Ri. This place is well inside the boundaries of Tien-Du, and there is a city farther up the Go-Da-Va-Ri called Han-Am-Kon-Da, where we are told there are other Christians. We have been warned that there are various warring groups in this region and that there are those who prey upon travelers, offering their demon goddess the lives of those they take.

  This is a great delusion, of course, and we will be prudent but not fearful. It is not suitable that those of us who have learned to trust in the Master would turn away from His work because there are men abroad who are most dangerous. We know that there is danger in Lan-Chow. There is danger in a safe bed at night. If the Master does not wish to protect His servants, then it is at our peril that we live at all, let alone travel so far from the hearths of those we love and who share our faith. But how timorous a faith that would be!

  Chung La has suffered greatly from the wave illness. Luckily the motion of a ship does not often distress either my sister or myself, though we had one day of tempest when I was certain that every ill in creation had visited itself upon me. You may imagine my relief when I learned that half the crew had shared my feelings and had not been able to handle the ship.

  The captain has said that he will take this message and see that it is delivered to you when he returns to Hang-Chow. The congregation there has promised to send any message to you as quickly as may be possible.

  All through our travels we have heard rumors about the Mongols and their impossible feats. One sailor on this ship was in Pei-King not a year ago, and said that it will be less than twenty years before K’ai-Feng is in the hands of Jenghiz Khan, by which he means the man Temujin.

  I must not keep the captain waiting. Be assured that when we reach this city of Dra-Ksa-Ra-Ma, we will make every endeavor to get word back to you. I have been warned that it will take time, but that does not perturb me unduly. Certainly if we have come this far, we will be able to finish the voyage we have undertaken.

  From my own hand, to all of you in the congregation, in the city of Tu-Ma-Sik.

  Mei-Sa-Fong

  1

  In a long, steep river canyon, the village of Huei-Zho straddled the rushing water in eight places. Of necessity, the progress of shops and houses strung out for a considerable distance along the canyon walls. Huei-Zho owed its existence and its small measure of prosperity to those eight bridges, for this was the only safe crossing for more than a dozen li in either direction. The village boasted a large number of inns and taverns and other hostelries, all catering to the various travelers using the bridges.

  It had taken some determined persuading on Saint-Germain’s part to be given a room at the Inn of the Stately Pine Trees. The manager, taking one look at the bedraggled men with only four chests on a goat cart, had tried to explain in his unfamiliar dialect that this was not an accommodation for poor men. He also intimated strongly that he did not like catering to foreigners.

  Saint-Germain had answered him politely and told him the truth: that he and his servant had fled from Mongol attack—the manager clicked his tongue when he heard this—and that most of their more substantial goods had been left behind. To show his good faith, Saint-Germain produced five strings of cash, two of copper and brass, three of silver, and presented them to the manager with the assurance that these could be applied to his reckoning when he left.

  At that the manager had softened visibly and expressed himself very contrite to have discommoded so distinguished a traveler. A quick discussion on the various merits of the rooms of the Inn of the Stately Pine Trees led to Saint-Germain being assigned the room farthest from the river, much to the manager’s amazement.

  “I am certain the view is magnificent, good man,” Saint-Germain had said grandly, “but it is my misfortune to be a light sleeper and I fear that the running water would disturb me.”

  The manager bowed respectfully and kept his opinions of foreigners to himself as he led the way to the room Saint-Germain had chosen.

  A few hours later, Saint-Germain sent Rogerio out with a handful of cash string to learn what he could of traveling conditions. He himself asked for directions to the nearest bathhouse where he could wash away the grime of nine days’ walking.

  “I talked to a number of traders,” Rogerio reported when he returned at dusk. “Their news is grave.”

  Saint-Germain nodded. “I overheard three men at the bathhouse talking about their travels. I gat
her that it is true that the Silk Road has been cut?”

  “Apparently,” Rogerio said quietly. “There is also fighting along the river.”

  “Naturally,” Saint-Germain said dryly. The numbness he had felt at Chih-Yü’s death had not left him, and he found it difficult to be annoyed with the information Rogerio brought him. “River travel is not my favorite mode, in any case.”

  “There may be traders who have dealt with the Mongols who would be willing, for a price, to take us with them.” Rogerio did not seriously believe that this was possible. “One man claimed to have been as far as Samarkand. He may—”

  “Traders who have dealt with the Mongols are rarely honorable men. I have no desire to find myself in Karakorum with a collar around my neck. My previous years of slavery have given me a distaste of it.” He surveyed the room. “It’s pleasant enough here. We will wait, if we must.” The chests had been brought up from the goat cart and stood in the center of the room. “I’ll need one of those to sleep on,” he remarked inconsequently.

  Rogerio had seen these odd, distant moods come over his master before, and knew that they tokened great suffering. He had learned, in their long years together, not to question him at such times, yet now he felt an urgency. “Do you wish to remain in China?”

  Saint-Germain turned away abruptly to look out an open window. “No,” he said after a moment. “I have no reason to stay here.”

  “Then we must find other means of travel.” He said it calmly, and though it was obvious, it evoked a gesture of agreement from Saint-Germain. More cautiously, Rogerio went on. “I took the liberties of finding out where the most discreet pleasure houses are.”

  “Oh, gods,” Saint-Germain said miserably, closing his eyes.

  “You have lived on the blood of rabbits and dogs for more than a week,” Rogerio pointed out. “You need … release.”

  “Rabbits and dogs,” Saint-Germain repeated with unpleasant laughter. “Well, it was economical. I had their blood, and you their flesh. A vampire and ghoul. What refugees this Mongol war has spawned.” He sank onto one of the large chests. “I could lock myself in this and have it buried. It would be years before I would have to emerge.”

  “Could you do that?” Rogerio asked sharply.

  “I have before,” Saint-Germain said quietly. “But not … The last time was considerably before you met me.” He swung his legs onto the chest and leaned back, so that he lay atop it. “No, Rogerio, I won’t do that. I’ve let myself become too much a part of … humanity for that.” He rubbed his eyes. “How discreet is this discreet pleasure house?” he asked after a short silence.

  “They are used to foreigners or so they assured me. Even foreigners who are very, very odd.” He took a chance, and went on. “You told me once, when we were in the Polish marches in the winter, that living on dogs and rabbits was like living on bread and water. It would keep you alive, but exacted a price. Of course a pleasure house, discreet or otherwise, is not a perfect solution, but given the circumstances, isn’t it wiser…”

  “Oh, this damned appetite of mine!” Saint-Germain murmured. “One day, Rogerio, one day there will be a woman who knows me for what I am, for all that I am, and will accept it without reservation, or condition, not because I am a refuge or an escape or an amusement, but because I am myself, and I am her choice.” He sighed. “I feel I’m being faithless. There was a time when this would not have troubled me.”

  Rogerio drew one of the chairs in the room forward and seated himself. The past days were at once vivid and blurred in his mind. He felt as if he had spent years leading that goat cart, following Saint-Germain through hills increasingly rugged. Saint-Germain had kept a brisk pace, apparently unaware of the grueling effort he was demanding of himself and his servant. Now that it was over, he felt the toll it had taken on him and knew that it would require several days of rest before his strength was renewed. Looking at Saint-Germain’s too composed features, he knew that his master was carrying more than exhaustion within him.

  “I’m not asleep,” Saint-Germain said in a quiet, clear voice.

  “Why not?” Rogerio countered.

  “I’m thinking over what you told me.” There was a slight frown on his brow.

  “About the pleasure house?”

  “No. About how we should travel. Whatever route we take in the end, we will need a guide. I think it would be wise to begin there,” he said, very calm outwardly, but with a tension in him. “A guide is essential.” He laced his fingers together at the back of his neck. “It would not be wise to travel eastward. Foreigners are not being well-received in the central part of the country, I have heard. The rivers are not … practical. The Silk Road is too dangerous. I suppose it must be the mountains. T’u-Bo-T’e. I’ve never been there.”

  “Then, as you say, we must have a guide.” Rogerio leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “You wish a guide—”

  “A circumspect one,” Saint-Germain interpolated.

  “Yes. Who can take us into T’u-Bo-T’e. Shall I make inquiries for a party of merchants, or would you prefer to have more private arrangements?” Rogerio had realized during the many years he had lived in China that it was considered socially incorrect for a man to negotiate with guides and other such inferior persons if he had a servant to do it.

  “It might be wiser to travel with a merchant train, but that would make it necessary that we accommodate the requirements of others. It’s true that there is nowhere we have to be, but…” He stopped. The pull of his native earth, even through the lid of the chest, had begun to revive him. Slowly he let himself be drawn into the force of it.

  Rogerio saw the slight alteration in his master’s face, and, as always, it perplexed him. “But?” he prompted.

  Saint-Germain’s voice was at once stronger and more lethargic. “It might be advisable to find a man who will not mind leading a party of two. Given the times, I think we would do well to be most cautious. As foreigners, in a merchants’ train, we might become quite expendable.”

  “The road to Baghdad!” Rogerio said, remembering the treachery they had encountered there.

  “It’s not an experience I should care to repeat,” Saint-Germain remarked.

  “A single guide, then, and we travel alone.” He said it with conviction, unable to shut out the recollection of the heat and the rocks and barbarity of their captors. “You did not need to return for me then,” Rogerio reminded his master.

  Saint-Germain only looked at him, and Rogerio wished he had not spoken. “Be that as it may,” Saint-Germain continued, “I hope you will keep that in mind when you search for a guide.”

  “What shall I offer this guide?” Rogerio asked, glad to be discussing more practical matters.

  “Strings of cash, first. Gold and silver coins, not brass and copper. Don’t paint too glowing a picture, or we will have every criminal in the district offering to lead us. You have an eye for legitimacy. Exercise your good judgment, as you have so often in the past. But I think it would be wise for us not to linger here any longer than necessary.” The restoring influence of the earth in the chest brought back a curious homesickness in Saint-Germain. He could see the long ridge of mountains, so unlike these, curving around the enormous fertile plain. How long ago that had been, and yet it tugged at him with undiminished potency.

  Rogerio agreed with this. “Very well, then, I will find a guide. A circumspect man.” He rose wearily, prepared to go out again. “And about the pleasure house?” he inquired hopefully as he reached the door.

  “Not tonight, I think,” Saint-Germain replied as he stared at the ceiling.

  Though he was tempted to argue, Rogerio closed the door and went out into the bustling street and made his way to the Tavern of the Excellent Delicacies, where he had been told the most gossip was to be had.

  That day, and the next, Rogerio made the rounds of no less than nine taverns, never staying in any one place long enough for it to be noticed that he did not eat or drink. E
ach day he took the precaution of purchasing a duck or a hare from one of the butcher stalls, so that he always gave the appearance of a man who was getting ready for a meal.

  “Which is true,” Rogerio observed to Saint-Germain toward the evening of the third day. “I do make a meal of what I’ve bought.”

  Saint-Germain turned away from the window. “Yes. And it is of little moment that you, unlike so many others, do not cook it first.” He had purchased a calf-length robe of heavy quilted black wool. His Frankish clothing had been somewhat repaired, though the leather garments he had worn on the long march from So-Dui valley were too far gone to be saved. He had pulled on his only remaining pair of Persian leggings and his high boots. Though his eyes were still shadowed and haggard, a degree of his imposing presence had returned.

  Rogerio shrugged philosophically. “Luckily, foreigners are thought to be sufficiently peculiar that no one takes any notice of the fact that we do not wish to join the others at table.”

  “You mean that they have not taken notice yet,” Saint-Germain corrected him.

  “No,” Rogerio said curtly, touched by apprehension.

  What Saint-Germain was about to say was halted by a quiet knock at the door.