by Peter David
My mind racing, I decided the best thing to do would be to head for the wheat fields. The stalks were tall and concealing, the fields fairly vast, and the odds of them managing to locate me if I didn’t crash around in them too much were relatively slim. At least that’s what I told myself.
Granted, there was every possibility that—upon finding me gone—the brigands would take out their hostility upon the villagers. I felt badly about that, which was something of an accomplishment for me. It wasn’t all that long ago that I wouldn’t have given a flying damn. In this case, I took a moment to mourn the likely unpleasant fate of these peaceful farmers. It slowed down my packing for about a second, and then I doubled my efforts to make up for the lost time.
There were footsteps at my door and my shoulders tensed in anticipation of a sword blade winging toward me, but before I could yank my blade from its scabbard in a last-ditch attempt to save my life, I heard Double Chin say, “That was very brave of you.”
“Thanks,” I said.
He studied my actions coolly. “What are you doing?”
“Reorganizing.”
“Odd. To the dispassionate observer, it would appear that you are preparing to make a hasty departure.” He cocked his head slightly.
“Is that so?”
“I’m thinking a change of scenery might be in order.”
“That is not necessary, Po. All will be well.”
“With all respect,” I told him, shoving the last of my clothes into a burlap sack, “you’re not the one those butchers will be coming after.”
“If you were to depart, I very likely would be, yes,” he said mildly. I said nothing in response to that, since he was correct. “Do you see me looking concerned?”
“No,” I replied. “Then again, that could simply be because you don’t realize the gravity of the situation.”
“Or perhaps you do not realize the situation is under control.”
“Look,” I said, slinging the sack over my shoulder, “three criminal henchmen are out there who would just as soon kill me as look at me, and they’ll probably do both in short order. The only thing standing between me and a very imminent death is one fairly small old man, and somehow I’m seriously doubting—”
That was when I heard the scream.
I’d heard people scream before. I’d been present at some truly ghastly dealings of death. I’d heard and seen people go to their graves consumed by soul-sucking depression as they realized—instants before their demise—that no beatific afterlife awaited them, but rather only blackness and oblivion. That can be a most disheartening experience when you’ve been living your life in self-delusion as to what occurred at the end of it.
But those screams were nothing like this.
It was three voices I heard, and for an instant I thought the brigands had stormed out of Chinpan Ali’s hut and begun slaughtering random villagers just to show they were not to be trifled with. Just as quickly, I realized that it was in fact the voices of those selfsame brutes, filled with screeching horror such as I’d never encountered. And considering I’d seen people die at the hands of everything from male Harpies to evil shadow representations of myself, I had a fairly wide range of experience to choose from.
And Double Chin’s expression remained cool and inscrutable. The only change was the slightest twinge from the edges of his mouth. Otherwise… nothing.
Then the screams tapered off, and I could have sworn I heard a slight gurgling noise. Then… silence.
“What the hell was that?” I asked, and was surprised to realize my voice was barely above a hush.
Double Chin said nothing.
My consuming curiosity overwhelmed my normal sense of caution, and I hurried out of my hut. The villagers were standing about, and they bore that same, distant, faintly amused expression that Double Chin had. Even the children looked that way, and on Kit Chinette I can assure you it was a truly spooky sight. Whatever had just happened, it clearly came as no surprise to these people.
All eyes were upon Ali’s hut. Perhaps they were content to simply stand there, but I was not. I hurried toward the hut as fast as my weak leg would allow me. I got to the beaded curtain entrance and pushed it aside, not caring about the clatter it made. Honestly, I didn’t have the faintest idea what to expect.
The bodies of all three of the bravos who’d attempted to blackmail the village were strewn about the dirt floor. Their blood was seeping into the ground. Their torsos were in several neatly sliced sections. A butcher slaughtering oxen could not have done a more thorough job. Their heads were situated in various parts of the hut.
Chinpan Ali was squarely in the middle of the hut. He seemed to have more possessions than anyone else in the village, including a couple of trunks, some wicker furniture, some wall hangings. Nothing elaborate, but just an indicator that he’d been around long enough to accrue a few items. At that moment, he was sheathing a sword. I had never seen a sword quite like it. It was somewhat straighter than the swords wielded by the other men, back when they were in a condition to be a threat. But the handle was unique. Tinted light red, it was a carved representation of a bird, its head and beak forming the pommel while its wings and feathered body insinuated itself through the rest of the handle.
Eerily, it reminded me of the phoenix. I had once encountered one of those gloriously mythic creatures, and been subjected to a rather wild ride and the beginning of another unwanted adventure. Here it was again, looking at me like a silent, carved reminder of achievement—or sins—long past.
The sword clacked into the scabbard with the finality of a lid being slammed on a coffin. Ali didn’t appear to notice I was there at first. Instead he gently stroked the hilt, which I had to admit was a disturbing enough image in and of itself. Then, slowly, he turned and stared in my direction. He said nothing, merely tilted his head slightly.
I backed out of the hut, turned, and saw the villagers slowly moving toward the hut. Only the men. The women and children were hanging back. In the uncanny silence, it was like watching ghosts of people moving through the real world without realization that they were dead. Except they were very much alive, and they were carrying burlap bags in assorted sizes. A handful smiled at me, as if we were having a chance encounter at the local market.
“Do not dawdle,” Take On Chin told his people, and they hastened to do his bidding. One by one, the men filed into the hut, and when each emerged he would be carrying a sack that was bulging with what was obviously some body part of the former representatives of the Skang Kei crime family. On several of them, I saw large red patches forming from the pooling blood.
They carried the sections off in the direction of the wheat fields, which I quickly surmised would serve as their burial place. These were resourceful people, accustomed to making the most use of whatever they happened to have on hand. And decaying body parts would certainly provide as many nutrients to the soil as anything else they might choose to put down there.
I don’t remember going back to my hut. All I knew is that eventually I found myself there, seated on the ground, staring off into space. I could not believe what I had seen. It was like some bizarre horror tale.
There was a noise at the entrance and I looked up. Chinpan Ali was standing there, looking very unassuming and frail and not at all capable of carving three men into fertilizer. He nodded to me in greeting. I said nothing. What was there to say?
“You were brave,” he said. “Defending that girl. She might have died if not for you.”
I shrugged.
“What do you seek?” he asked.
I couldn’t believe he was asking this again. What did I seek? I sought normality in a world that had no stomach for it. I had thought I’d found a nice, simple village filled with nice, simple people. People who were incapable of inflicting harm upon anyone. People whom I had believed to be so innocent, so naïve, that they were in deadly danger simply because I was among them.
And yet here was a village elder who was quite po
ssibly the most deadly fighter I had ever encountered. Here was a populace who did not fear intruders, because they knew they’d wind up burying potential enemies out in the fields to make their crops grow. How many body parts were already there that I had trod upon without knowing? What else was there about these villagers, with whom I had lived all these many months, that I didn’t know?
My mind was whirling. Why was no one ever what I thought they were? Women whom I had loved betrayed me. Men would put forward public faces of chivalry while carrying out beastly deeds in the dark of night. And now these peaceful villagers, who calmly tidied up after a slaughter that would have made the most barbaric of barbarians envious for its efficiency and totality.
What did I seek? What was there to seek? Whatever I found, it would invariably, at some point, rebound to my detriment. I just didn’t see the point of it, or the point of anything really.
“Nothing,” I said with a heavy sigh. “I seek nothing. I’m empty.”
Chinpan Ali nodded once, and then said, “Good. Then you are ready to learn. Come to my hut tomorrow morning. You will learn the way of total destruction through inner peace.” And with that, he turned and walked out of the hut.
I stared after him for a good long time.
“Oookay,” I said to the empty hut.
Chapter 6
Zennihilation and the Art of Water Cycle Maintenance
When I entered Ali’s hut the next morning, he was seated in the middle in a cross-legged position. His eyes were closed. He said nothing to me. With a mental shrug, I walked across the hut, eased myself onto the ground, and sat opposite him.
“Why did you do that?” he abruptly asked.
“Sit down, you mean?” I blinked. “Well… because you were seated.”
“Do you imitate all others?”
“No.”
“Then why imitate me?”
“Because…” I cast about for an answer. “Because you were here. It’s your hut. You establish how one is to behave within it. So I… thought it was what you wanted.”
“And what did you want?”
“Truthfully?” I sighed. “I want to know what I’m doing here. I don’t understand it at all. I don’t understand my life at all.”
“You think I can provide you understanding?”
“No, I think only I can provide that. I’m hoping that maybe you can tell me what I’m looking for.”
“You are looking for that,” said Chinpan Ali, “which you are not looking for.”
I stared at him. “Thank you,” I said tonelessly. “That was very helpful.”
“No. It was not. Do you know why I said it?”
“No.”
“Would you like to?”
“Not especially, no.”
He nodded in approval. “You are a natural at this.”
“At what?”
“Ahhhh,” he said, raising a finger and pointing at the sky. Then he lowered it and folded his hands into his lap.
I was about ready to give up at that point, when suddenly he said, “What question would you most like the answer to.”
That actually had some promise to it. I leaned forward and said, “How did you dispatch those men yesterday? Three of them against the one of you. Bigger, stronger, two swords to your one. And the way in which you did it… no matter how sharp your blade, there still has to be strength behind the thrusts. You cut through muscle, through bone, as if it were cheese. Yet you look…”
“Unassuming?”
“Yes.”
“Helpless?”
“That’s right.”
He nodded, his eyelids half shut. “But looks can be deceiving. You appear to be a lame fool. Have you not used that to your benefit in the past?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “I’ve played to that. Put people off guard. But playacting is one thing. You… you killed those men. You… how? I mean… how? You reduced them to…”
“To nothing. They are now nothing.”
I bobbed my head. “Yes.”
“You walked here and made yourself as I was. Seated. Waiting. In order to reduce men to nothing, you must first be nothing yourself. When you have emptied yourself of all that you are, you can project that nothingness upon your opponent.”
“Well… won’t that just result in both of us being dead?”
“No,” said Chinpan Ali sagely, “because while you may be nothing, your opponent will be less than nothing. That is the essence of Zennihilation: creating the total absence of your enemy by creating a total absence of self. Do you understand?”
I nodded, then said, “No.”
“Excellent. Stand.”
I stood.
“Hop on one foot.”
I raised my right leg and proceeded to hop on the left one. Up and down, down and up, for what seemed an hour. He simply sat there and watched. I felt like a complete fool and was only glad that no one else was around to witness this absurdity.
“Stop,” he said. “Now switch.”
“Switch?” He nodded. “But… I can’t. My right leg… it’s lame. You see it.”
“The weakness,” and he tapped his skull, “is in your mind.”
“No,” I said patiently. “The weakness is in my leg. It has been since birth.”
“And you would let yourself be limited by your body? Do you think I am limited by the body that you perceive?”
“I… suppose not,” I said, feeling less certain of this by the minute. Then again, I supposed it was that lack of certainty I was supposed to be endeavoring to overcome. “No, obviously you’re not limited.”
“Then hop on your right leg.”
Taking a deep breath, holding on firmly to my staff, I switched in midhop from left leg to right, and was actually thrilled to discover that my lame leg supported my body weight… for perhaps two seconds. Then I collapsed like a puppet severed of its strings. My staff fell to the ground a moment after I did.
“What have you learned?” said Chinpan Ali.
“That you know nothing!” I snapped in mortification.
To my shock, he nodded approvingly. “Excellent. You are an even faster student than I first believed. Sit. Cross your legs.”
I wanted to knock his head off with my staff. Instead, still steaming, I did as he said while wondering whether there was any point to it at all.
“A riddle,” he said abruptly. “I never was, am always to be. No one ever saw me, nor ever will. And yet I am the confidence of all, to live and breathe on this terrestrial ball. What am I?”
I had always disliked riddles. They seemed a waste of time to me, providing the interrogator the chance to sit there and look smug while you struggled to come up with some sort of interpretation that fit all the clues.
“You are thinking too much,” Ali said abruptly as if he’d read my mind. “You must meditate. You must relax and ponder the riddle. That is the fundamental concept of Zennihilation.”
“I thought we were going to train. That you would teach me how you handled those men so easily. How—”
“Master.”
I stared at him. “Pardon?”
“You will address me as ‘master.’ That is the proper respect a student gives to his teacher.”
I didn’t like the sound of that at all. It was not a word that would come easily off my tongue.
But I was hooked, you see. Desperately consumed by curiosity and desire. Here was this frail old man, far more frail than I. Yet he obviously knew techniques, secrets that made him virtually invincible.
Once upon a time, I had been invincible. No one was able to defeat me in combat, and I was feared wherever I went. It was a good feeling. No. No, it was a great feeling. Granted, I did a lot of horrific and barbarous things during that time, and I regretted much of it. But I had spent my entire life up until that point feeling endlessly vulnerable to a world that was—for the most part—bigger and faster and stronger than I. I, Apropos, limping along while the rest of humanity sprinted past. It was galling to live
that way, and the exhilaration I felt during the time that I was the peacelord of Wuin was unequaled in my existence.
The problem was, it was puissance that came with too high a price, and I’d had to divest myself of it. In fact, I still carried scars on my chest from when I had done so. Since then I had gone back to my previous, and current, form. And if it was frustrating before when I’d had to deal with my assortment of fragilities, how much more so was it having tasted indestructibility only to have lost it once more?
But this man, this shriveled little man… he knew something. Something that could make me, if not omnipotent once more, capable of defending myself with far greater confidence than I had before. And if I wanted that knowledge, I was going to have to play along.
“Very well… master,” I grunted. “But…”
“And you will not question me. The student never questions the master.”
My patience was beyond wearing thin. It was becoming so threadbare as to let chill winds through without obstruction.
This was getting ridiculous. As much as I wanted to be able to dispatch opponents the way he had, I did still have my pride. It was a tattered and pathetic thing, my pride, and really not all that fit for human company. But I had it nonetheless. It was at that point I decided that this was simply not going to work. I was just going to give up, that was all. Give up, forget that I’d wasted my time in this worthless attempt to find mental balance and a means of self-defense. I would just go back to my hut, or perhaps out into the fields to work—trying not to step upon freshly dug graves—and at the end of the day, go to sleep and hope that some clearer answer revealed itself on the morrow…
And then I stopped. I blinked, my expression going slack.
“Tomorrow,” I said.
“Yes?” said Chinpan Ali calmly.
“Tomorrow,” I told him with growing excitement. ” ‘I never was, am always to be. No one ever saw me, nor ever will. And yet I am the confidence of all, to live and breathe on this terrestrial ball.’ The answer to the riddle is ‘tomorrow.’ “
“The answer to the riddle is tomorrow… what?” he prompted.
