Tong Lashing

by Peter David

  And in this case, it wasn’t just myself that I had concern for. The people of Hosbiyu were unstinting in their generosity, and total in their acceptance of me, despite my obviously different appearance. Wherever I go, disaster tends to dog my steps. Typically, I’m the only one who suffers… or, at most, a “loved one” who had the poor fortune to be in proximity to me at the time. But this was an entire village, filled with good people.

  All of whom seemed to be named “Chin.”

  At first I thought everyone was related in some manner. That was hardly a heartening notion: that all the villagers were siblings or cousins lying with each other and producing more spawn to engage in further incestuous relationships. I was assured, however, that it was merely coincidence. That “Chin” was just an exceedingly common name, with “Chen” a very close second, and “Wang” coming up in the rear.

  Over time, I learned their first names, even as I learned their language. It was a challenging tongue to master, particularly since they had many words that sounded the same, but had different meanings depending upon inflection. And their names could be stunningly similar as well. Yes, over a period of months, I could readily distinguish “Nobuharu” from “Nobuhisa” from “Nobuhito,” “Yoshitaka” from “Yositake” from “Yoshitoki,” because I had faces to associate with the names. You, the reader, might have far greater difficulties keeping everyone sorted out through the narrative. I don’t say this because I think you are somehow mentally deficient, or less clever than I. Although, to be candid, the very fact that you continue to exhibit such morbid interest in my life and waste precious time reading about it when you could be doing something of more importance, such as… well, anything, really… does indeed call your intelligence into question. For that matter, you very likely are less clever than I. Forgive the immodesty, but I like to think my having survived to old age is a testament to the fact that I’ve raised cleverness to the level of an art form.

  Nevertheless, in order to simplify your following of my humble narrative, I will spare you the sound-alike names of the villagers and instead refer to them in the way that I first thought of them. You see, for my own amusement, until I memorized their real names, I tended to refer to them by various appropriate nicknames that stemmed from the universal “Chin” surname. I would even occasionally address them as such, and naturally they never comprehended the shadings of meanings.

  For instance, my host, to whom I’ve referred before, was somewhat jowly. So I dubbed him “Double Chin.” His wife, who seemed to enjoy the noontime meal the most, I called “Lun Chin.”

  Lun Chin’s sister was the woman who had tried to control her daughter during my first encounter with them, to little avail. She was even more obsessed with the details of food preparation than her sister. She became Kit Chin. Her daughter, the one whose boat I had found, I naturally called Kit Chinette.

  The town’s nominal leader, a belligerent gentleman with graying hair and a perpetually suspicious air, I called Take On Chin. His undersized, constantly complaining wife? As you can surmise: Bit Chin.

  Then there were other villagers such as Fet Chin, In Chin, Cleft Chin… you get the idea. What can I say? It amused me, it didn’t appear to bother them in the slightest, and it helped me feel at home.

  And I came to like them.

  You have to understand what a major development that was for me. I tended to dislike people. Intensely. All people. I would look upon them and try to imagine the darkness in their souls, and conceive of the ways they would turn upon me given the slightest opportunity.

  The people of Hosbiyu defied such preconceptions. Their openness of manner was indisputable, and left no room for shadings or negative interpretations. I was not known in this land, so it wasn’t as if I was concerned there was some sort of bounty upon my head and they were trying to keep me there so they could collect upon it. They were simple people of the land, extending their hospitality and making me one of them.

  And if something happened to me, the chances were it would happen to them.

  Which put me in a unique position: that of worrying about someone other than myself. As can happen with any new concept, it became overwhelming. I could think of nothing else.

  Weeks passed into months, season rolling over into season. I would lie awake at night in the bamboo hut I had built with their aid. I would envision flames consuming their village, some horrific attack being brought down upon them by me. It would be inadvertent, to be sure. Who could possibly know from what direction it might come? I might offend some great warlord. Or perhaps the gods would take an interest in my relative peace and feel that some new tumult must be unleashed upon me. Perhaps the disaster would come from below, in the form of fearsome, supernatural beasts, or even destructive quakes. Anything was possible when it came to my unerring ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

  And during those sleepless nights, I would tell myself the same thing: Leave. Leave now. Don’t wait for daylight. Fade into the night with no explanation. Get out while there’s still time, while these people still have bamboo roofs above their heads. On a couple of occasions I even went so far as to pack a bag with the meager belongings the good farmers had provided me. Just go, just go, the voice would keep telling me.

  Yet the rising of the sun would see me still in residence in Hosbiyu.

  Because there was some small part of me—and I hang my cynical head in shame even to admit it—that held out hope for a happy ending. That I would live out my days in peace and contentment as a simple farmer. That this agricultural life of planting and tilling and cutting down the wheat would last. That I would find a young woman in the village to marry, and we would have little red-haired, narrow-eyed children. There was a chance that the gods had finally taken pity on me and brought me to this place to reside quietly and harmlessly, until I finally took the long sleep and perhaps my body would be laid in the fields to provide fertilizer for the next season’s crops.

  If that was the case, then sneaking away, fleeing the village, would be tossing a gift from the gods back in their faces. I could not imagine that doing such a thing could remotely be considered a prudent maneuver. Considering what vindictive bastards gods could be, I could easily see them venting their ire upon the village after I’d gone. Which would mean that the very act of running away to spare the people of Hosbiyu would guarantee their complete and utter doom.

  Not a pretty picture.

  And so I stayed, the time continuing apace. Every so often strangers would pass through, either on foot or on horseback.

  Whenever they did so, I would hide in my hut and worry that this was it. This was the disaster that was going to cost these poor bastards their livelihoods and homes, all because they had shown me kindness. But that was never the case. Sometimes the strangers were merchants. Other times they were just weary travelers, seeking a respite before going on their way. The people of Hosbiyu never failed, in such cases, to provide what accommodation they could.

  Inevitably, they would depart, leaving the village unharmed. When they did, I would let out a great sigh and relax, feeling as if the people and I had narrowly escaped a killing blow.

  There was one night… well, a day and a night, actually… that stirred up that feeling more than any other time. A day during which the sun never emerged, not once, from behind a solid blanket of black clouds. No work got done that day, as the farmers stood about and looked to the skies. There was much mumbling about the gods, and the end of times, and the sense of the unnatural in the air.

  There was a steady rumbling of thunder so relentless I thought it was going to drive me mad. Lightning flashed across the skies at random intervals, throughout the day and all through the night. But it was pale blue lightning, giving it an even more ensorcelled and otherworldly feel.

  I, along with many of the farmers, was up much of the night, staring at the night skies, which looked much as they had during the day. I felt as if I was one of those people who had been severely struck upon t
he head and was endeavoring to stay awake, since to go to sleep could well mean death. It was the same sensation here: the feeling that if I went to sleep, there would be no world for me to wake up to.

  Toward the wee morning hours, however, I did doze, and the next thing I knew, it was approaching noon. The sky had cleared, the clouds had dissolved, and it was a glorious day. Everything smelled new, and the feelings of gloom and disaster that had pervaded the previous day were already distant memories.

  Oddly, I couldn’t help but feel that I—that all of us—had gotten some sort of reprieve.

  It was a sensation that began to haunt me. The feeling that there was more going on than what I knew about. This was most disconcerting to me, for that which I did not know about and did not understand would be the most likely source of trouble in the future. Expect nothing, anticipate everything. That was my motto. If there were things occurring that I could not anticipate, it left me vulnerable. Worse, it left me discouraged.

  Double Chin sensed my mood. “What troubles you, Po?” he asked me one night, “Po” being much easier for him to say than “Apropos.” I was dining with them, and Lun Chin was busy cleaning up after our meal.

  I spoke slowly and cautiously in those days, determined not to make a muddle of their language. “I feel… worry,” I told him.

  “About what?” inquired Double Chin.

  I shrugged. “About… what will come. About the life I lead. About many things, my friend.”

  He and Lun Chin exchanged looks. Lun Chin initially had disliked me, but she had come to, at the very least, willingly tolerate me. So if Double Chin was concerned about me, his spouse felt likewise. “You lack balance, Po,” said Double Chin after a time.

  “Perhaps.”

  He waggled his finger as he shook his head. “No ‘perhaps.’ You lack balance. You have no inner peace.”

  I laughed bitterly. “Well, that much I’d have to concede. Inner peace and I are not ideal companions. Believe me, I would like nothing better.”

  “You can find it,” Lun Chin told me. Double Chin nodded in confirmation.

  “All right,” I said gamely. “Where, exactly, would I find it?”

  “Chinpan Ali,” they said together, then looked at each other and smiled gently. The people of Hosbiyu rarely laughed, I’d noticed. If they found something humorous, they tended to laugh “inwardly.” In this instance, the middle-aged couple clearly thought it amusing that they’d spoken simultaneously.

  As for me, I didn’t think it all that funny simply because I didn’t know to what they were referring. I stared at them blankly.

  They saw my bewilderment, and they once again exchanged glances, as if to mutely decide who was going to explain what they were talking about. Clearly Double Chin was mutually elected. “Certainly you have seen the hut on the outskirts of the village?” he asked.

  I nodded. It was a decent-sized hut. But I never saw anyone go in or out, and had just figured it was some sort of storage facility. I told Double Chin and Lun Chin as much. Their response? More quiet-but-obvious amusement.

  Then Double Chin shook his head. “No. In that place dwells Chinpan Ali. The wisest of us all.”

  “He’s your village elder?”

  “Actually,” said Lun Chin, leaning forward and speaking in a confidential manner, “it is said he is older than the village. Older than everyone.”

  “And how has he achieved such extreme old age?” I asked.

  “Through his studies and discipline,” said Double Chin. “And most importantly—and I believe this will be the most pertinent aspect as far as you are concerned—through peace of mind. His calm is legendary. It is said it is impossible to cause anger within the breast of Chinpan Ali.”

  Lun Chin reached out and, rather sweetly, laid her hand upon mine. “All living creatures should have inner peace. They should understand the way of nature. The way of the water.”

  “The water?”

  “We are as the water, Po,” said Double Chin. “That which ripples our surface, sooner or later disappears without a trace. And we have but to wait and allow it to happen. If you can be as calm and still as the water, your worries would likewise vanish, never to be seen again.”

  “That would be nice,” I said sincerely.

  “Chinpan Ali can help you in this,” Double Chin assured me. “I cannot guarantee that he would teach you, for none can predict the actions of Chinpan Ali or the direction they will take. But…”

  “Truth to tell, my friends, I’m not looking for a teacher,” I told them. “I’m afraid that I’m a bit set in my ways.”

  They shook their heads vigorously, almost in synch. “The wise man knows his lack of wisdom, and will learn from whomever he can, wherever he can,” said Double Chin. “You are never too old, Po. Never. And learning is not confined to one’s youth. It’s the practice of a lifetime.”

  “I’ll consider it,” I said.

  That clearly wasn’t sufficient. “Do not consider,” Lun Chin told me firmly. “It is to be done.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, properly cowed.

  So it was that, the next morning, I found myself standing outside the hut of Chinpan Ali.

  My hand hovered over the exterior of the hut for a heartbeat or ten, and then I knocked. There was no answer. “Ali?” I called. “Chinpan Ali?”

  The door was not a typical door. Instead it was a series of beaded strings, hanging together so densely they provided privacy. I heard some stirring from within, and then the beads separated.

  An old man stared out at me, and he was the most elderly person I had ever encountered. He was a head shorter than I, and I wasn’t all that tall to begin with. His skin was incredibly wrinkled. It is said that in order to know the age of a tree, you cut it open and count the number of rings on the stump. This always seemed a pointless exercise to me, because in order to determine the tree’s age, you kill it and effectively render it moot. It doesn’t matter how old it was; it’s not going to be getting any older. But Chinpan Ali’s face had so many folds that I couldn’t help but think counting them would enable me to divine his age.

  He had no hair atop his head, and the thinnest sliver of white beard clinging to his chin. He also had thick white eyebrows that tailed upward, giving him a perpetually quizzical appearance.

  His eyes, however, were captivating. They were very dark, and intense, and when he stared at me it was as if he were boring a hole right through my head.

  He said nothing. Just gazed at me as if he simultaneously was expecting me and also had no desire to see me.

  “I’m…” I paused, licked my lips. “My name is Apropos.” The pronunciation of my name in Chinpanese was an unusual agglomeration of syllables for them, but I felt constrained to give my full name rather than the simple “Po” they’d been using to refer to me.

  “I was told I should come to you.”

  He said nothing. His brow furrowed slightly, and his eyes glittered, although I couldn’t tell if they did so in amusement or annoyance.

  The problem when one person doesn’t speak is that the other often feels the need to fill the air with words. “I… haven’t been sleeping well,” I told him. “I worry. All the time. About the people here. Which, if you knew me, you would know is somewhat unusual for me, and I… well… you see, it…”

  My greatest asset had always been my silver-tongued nature. I had thoroughly mastered Chinpanese, so I had no ready excuse as to why I couldn’t string syllables together. I felt like a right fool. What in the world was it about this wizened man that made it difficult for me to communicate?

  And before I could mangle this first meeting any further, Ali suddenly spoke. His lips hardly seemed to move, yet his voice was surprisingly firm, if a bit reedy.

  “What do you seek?” he asked.

  At last, something I could understand. “I seek peace of mind. Knowledge. I’m tired of feeling miserable all the time. Of being cynical. It’s exhausting, always expecting the worst of any given sit
uation. I’m tired of self-loathing, tired of being afraid to be happy. I seek a way of coping with the day-to-day stress of being me. I…”

  He put up a hand in a peremptory fashion. I ceased talking and waited.

  “Go away,” he said. And he turned and started to walk back into his hut.

  “Go away?” I couldn’t quite believe it. “Go away? You don’t understand. I was practically bullied into coming here. I was told that you could help make things better for me. It took a hell of a lot for me to come up to you and ask for your help, because I don’t generally seek out help from anybody. I…”

  He paused, halfway through the beaded curtains, and looked at me once more. “Go. Away.”

  I grabbed his shoulder. I could feel the bones beneath his simple clothing. “Now wait just one min—”

  He turned and his eyes opened wide and fixed upon me with such a fearsome gaze that I felt as if someone had just put the evil eye upon me. Then he looked at my hand, and I had the sudden distinct feeling that if he was so inclined, he could break it off at the wrist.

  I had no reason to fear him. None. And if there was ever an expert in fearing things, it was a fundamental coward such as myself. Nevertheless I immediately removed my hand from his shoulder.

  Slowly his eyes returned to their almost lazy look, and then he entered his hut, the curtains noisily swinging together and hiding him from view.

  And then the words floated from his hut: “Return when you know what you seek.”

  I stood there for a long moment, then became aware that someone was watching me. It was Lun Chin, standing next to Double Chin.

  Then Lun Chin nodded approvingly. “That went much better than I thought it would.”

  Astoundingly, Double Chin bobbed his head in agreement. “Clearly, he likes you. That went very well indeed.”

  Then they turned and made their slow way back to their hut.

  “Wonderful,” I muttered.