National Novel Writing Month: Entry #2

To the east of the golden mountains, at the edge of the Great Sea, it is said the azaleas are more pink, more royal, than anywhere else in the provinces. In the spring they flood the grasses of the coast, welcoming the breezes and rains that tickle rather than pelt, and upon seeing them one understands why emperors and poets were often to be seen here, sighing and smiling.

The villagers, following tradition, pluck these fresh flowers at the third moon, cuddling the petals in their hands as if they are they are the limbs of newborn babes. The flowers are gathered in the town square, and piled high atop each other, upon which time the town guardsmen – guardsmen in name only, for all the real guardsmen and their descendents died in battles long ago – march into the square, uneasy and mismatched in their workaday boots, raising swords in an effete salute to the bounty before them. Feasts of dumplings and baked fish are prepared, and the air is plump with the smell of fruit and rice wine. The boys screw up their eyes and rub their noses as they make shy offerings of flowers to the girls, while their parents watch over them, ready to pounce on any improprieties. The local minstrels sing their songs of heroism and honorable deeds, the same songs as years past, but their presence is a mere formality, for the townspeople could probably sing each song, in perfect pitch, by heart.

For two weeks the celebrations continue, and the flowers lie in the square, untouched and unsoiled, dying of their own accord, the pink giving way to a more substantial and final brown, the petals curling into deformities. At the end of the two weeks, bleary and heavy like the spirits that haunt their dreams, the villagers scoop up the dead flowers in their arms and scatter them back along the grasses of the valley, as the circling birds trumpet the arrival of another day. The spring festival and subsequent scattering of the flowers has not changed in eons, and if no one who now lives in the town knows of how these traditions arose, it has been universally agreed that origins are not so important as what is made of the here and now. Some might find sadness in the fact that the past, the why of something, is no longer considered worthy of attention, but sacrifices are made every day in the name of carving out an existence, and this is but a small one.

Stories are not as plentiful here as they were a few generations ago; the world moves on, and nations are ground to dust and decay. Sometimes a thought might enter a young villager’s head: I must ask my grandfather about what happened here at that time – someone must remember … But inevitably the youngsters are called upon to clean the tableware, or fetch a fresh supply of tea leaves from the local shop, and while these activities are performed, the tiny kernels of thought they might have entertained about the past slip from their minds, like an itch that disappears through inattention, only to return at sorrowful moments, as when a grandparent has been interred and placed in the family urn, laid on marble shelves amongst similarly-sized urns, and the youngsters stare at the shiny, inhuman objects before them and mourn: I never had the chance to ask him about that story …

And yet there are those occasions in which the question persists in a youngster’s mind, as when a boy finds himself alone with his grandfather one evening, the air crisp with the burning fires of autumn, the logs spitting sparks and seething smoke, and the grandfather will let out a long hmmmmm when asked to recall the particulars of a legend or tale. The boy sits awkwardly on a stool, a stump where his left leg should be, the result of an accident from years before – a spooked horse, a cart wheel that savaged him. He leans on the cane he uses to walk, both his hands grasped tightly around the crown of the stick, his chin resting on his hands, appearing wise beyond his years. This is a young man with nothing to his name but thoughts, and thus it is quite understandable that he remembers to ask his grandfather. Likewise, the grandfather feels a responsibility to tell him all he knows, for what does this crippled boy have besides stories to tell?

Yes, there is a reason why this place is known as the valley of emperors, the grandfather says, and for a moment that lasts as long as a flicker, he marshals the myriad thoughts in his head: Did it happen like this? I can’t remember. Should I embellish? No, I would perpetuate a lie, but if there is no truth to be had, where is the harm in a beautiful lie?

The youngster asks again: Can you tell me about the Eagle? Is it true The Eagle brought down the whole kingdom?

Yes, the grandfather says without hesitation. This much he knows. It is a tragic, beautiful story. Do you want to hear it? He does not wait for an answer, because the youngster’s desire is irrelevant compared to his urge to tell the tale. It was back in the days when the great Eastern and Western empires still existed, when they were at odds. For people like us, these were times of great misery, but I have heard that this did not matter much to those who lived then – they were simpler people, easily amused, easy to forget about hardship. There is something to be said for that. They lived for the telling and receiving of tales, the passage from town to town of the latest rumors, the newest legends. And the story of the Eagle’s journey is one legend that has survived.

The fire has died, but the boy and his grandfather do not mind – it gives them an excuse to bundle the blankets about themselves and feel the delicious chill as the cold brushes against the backs of their necks. Outside, evening rain has been superceded by crystalline stars. On a chill night such as this, the boy feels an impossible throb of pain where his left leg used to be, and it requires all his discipline to sit still. He plucks at his tunic with slender fingers, and the grandfather notes the movement, proud that this young man can remain calm despite the pain and unfairness that plagues him. His gift to the young man is this pronouncement:

You must promise me that once you hear this tale, you remember it. For this is a tale about the pain of forgetting.

***

It is the time of horses, when one can gallop from mountaintop to mountaintop without coming within sight of a town, a paved road, or even the thatched roof of a hut. The sky spreads out over the land in azure glory, and even when thunderclouds storm across the heavens, they seem fresh and new.

In Li province, perched between the golden mountains and the Great Sea, a small town sits astride three hills. It is known as the Village of the Three Canyons, and in the winters the wind howls through the hills like the cries of a lonely woman. Travelers unfamiliar with the area have been known to pull their coats up around their faces and seek refuge at these moments, while the townspeople, immune to superstitions and ghosts, laugh at this naivete. Singing happily, they climb the stone steps that wind up from the shore, the fresh catch of the day squirming in their nets, the ocean air singing in their lungs.

This story begins in the twenty-third year of the reigning Chang emperor, during the middle years of the East-West War, the conflict that decided the fates of two kingdoms. The land has been swarmed by great drought, and those lucky to live outside its shadow, such as those in the Village of the Three Canyons, have little inkling of the miseries that lay just beyond. The occasional military detachment or minister of state passes through the town, and they tell the villagers what they are obligated to tell them: The war proceeds well, great feats are being carried out every day, the glory of the Eastern Empire rings throughout the country, and soon the Western Empire will surrender, as it must. Now may I partake of the shellfish? I understand it’s renowned in these parts.

On this day, the fourth regiment is taking rest in the village, and the children, excited by the opportunity, mount a sloppy offensive with wooden swords and spears. The soldiers, too happy to be in this region of plenty after long days seeing nothing but dust and blood, do not even take notice of them. Like trees, they stand perfectly still, luxuriating in the afternoon sun as the children dodge in front of and behind their legs, swinging their swords, hearty thwacks and ughs issuing from their mouths. Tiring of the soldiers’ inattention, they alter their attack pattern and surround the cavalrymen’s horses, happy to see the animals’ nervous reaction to their presence, as they whinny and buck. One small boy comes particularly close to a stallion, and the rider, who happens to be the best in the detachment, pulls back on his reins as he says, Easy there to both horse and boy, but the boy is drowning in the moment and slides to his left, avoiding the thrust of an imaginary spear, his path taking him to where the horse is retreating, panicking the stallion even further, and before the rider can react, a hoof strikes the boy squarely in the chest, and he is sent head over heels into a patch of brambles. Some onlookers say the boy died and returned to life that day – his breath came in great wheezing gasps, as if crushed bits of metal were rattling about inside him, and then there were no breaths at all. The more level-headed among the villagers remark that the boy merely slipped into a stupor.
For two weeks afterwards the boy does not move, and last rites were carried out at his bedside. His face is moistened by herbs and crushed flowers from the nearby valley. The local minstrel sounds off on his flute with desolated tones, and the boys’ parents weep, hands clasped to foreheads, offering prayers, forgoing food, refusing to do anything that could be construed as self-interest.

Two weeks after the accident, the stallion and its rider fall in the battle by the Song River, drowned by an array of enemy arrows, mud, and water. They led the charge, absorbed the brunt of the enemy’s resistance, and sank as one, falling into the waves as gently as one falls into sleep. Neither horse nor man had family or friends to grieve their loss – all the better to have their achievements valorized, for there is nothing more dignified than a hero who is alone and unencumbered. But even as a stone shrine is erected at the stop where both had fallen (one day in the not-distant future the shrine would be ripped apart by local peasants who had little use for names or dates, but much need for millstones), the boy’s eyes open, his hands grasp feebly at the sheets that cover him, and the townspeople exhale.

When the news of the rider and his stallion reaches the village, the question becomes: which soul has found its way into the boy and rejuvenated him? Perhaps both, for the boy grows straight and tall, and he gains the steady gaze of a sentry who can see dozens of miles into the distance, even as his body refuses to sit still for more than moments at a time, and his legs became pliant, tireless. Only the scars of the horse’s hoof, which will mark his chest forever more, remind the townspeople of his encounter with death as a youth.

The boy’s name is Li, named after the province itself, and no doubt he has some vague connection with the Li emperor who currently rules the Eastern Empire. But then so did thousands of other young men and women named Li who had sorrier lots in life, and this young Li has no grand political ambitions. His young mind is not concerned with flesh or monetary gain – it burns clean, like a weapon freshly forged. In the afternoons he seeks solace in the deep forest, paying no heed to the mosquitoes that prick him, or the weeds that threaten to trip him with every step he takes. Moving like the wind, he decapitates imagined foes with a stick, gallops forward with hands curled around an invisible bridle, makes dares with the rain that it would not hit him. His parents, being simple folk, do not abide with such rampant daydreaming, but it would be too cruel to halt it – the boy has been granted the honor of a second life, after all, and he is at the bidding of a power different than the powers they can see.

The boy is eleven; five years have passed since the accident. It is a late spring afternoon, and lightning streaks across the sky in alarming intervals. His feet wet and sore, his clothes soaked and baggy like an old man’s skin, he ventures into the forest, content to luxuriate in the partial cover of leaves and branches. Every so often dollops of water fall from an overburdened branch or leaf, and he snaps at them like a fish would snap at bait, his mouth wide open, accepting the tangy liquid. He is enjoying himself, rapt with the sounds of the thunder ringing in his ears, the little tap-taps of his feet against the leafy forest floor, lost in his own pleasure for the moment, and it is not until he is but a short distance away from the creek that he hears the sound. At first, he believes it to be something from his own mind, an added dash of color to the fantasy he is concocting: The cries of the enemy swordsmen as they flee in despair …

No. It is not him, it is not coming from anywhere near him. It is a human sound, as yet unidentifiable. He wipes a muddy hand across his face, clearing water, leaving grime in its wake. He listens again. A low groan. Ahead is the creek, and a small clearing. His feet sloshing in his boots – nothing he can do about that now – he walks gingerly towards the creek. Once he became lost while traveling in this direction, and came across a path that seemed to lead back to the village. It was not until darkness had completely shrouded the trail that he realized that he had gone in the opposite direction, towards the mountains, out of the valley. More angry than embarrassed, he turned and ran, all the way back to the village, covering the many miles within a few hours, his pants gashed, his bare arms lacerated, the sweat pouring into his eyes, down his neck. When his parents saw him, they weeped, for they thought they had lost him for a second time, and all the time he grumbled: I’m fine Mother, why are you so upset? You should be angry. Your son doesn’t even have a good sense of direction. Why aren’t you harsh? Why aren’t you insisting I be perfect?

He is now in the clearing, the sky above a billowing mass of gray. Here rain falls freely, in sheets. He listens again, but the sound seems to have vanished. I did imagine it, he thinks.
The creek runs by him, full and deep, nourished by the spring rains, carrying bits of dead grass, its surface bubbling and popping with every drop that falls in. But even in the failing light, he can see that there is something wrong with the water – it has grown black, opaque, and the stones and pebbles at the bottom that would normally be visible in shards of reflection are hidden from the world.

He crouches and scoops up some water in his hand. It is the color of rust. He touches his tongue to the liquid. Salty, unforgiving. Rubbing his eyes with his free hand, he takes a closer look. The water looks like stained ink.

Half-wanting this to be an adventure, half-believing that there is a boring explanation behind it, he rises and walks upstream, following the current of the black water. In the near distance, at the other end of the clearing, the ground has a peculiar tint of yellow. So close to the golden mountains already? Impossible. It is not gold, it is a yellow tunic, spread across the field as if to dry. Other fabrics of similar taste and refinement lie nearby, scattered in confusing patterns. He lifts the gold tunic, and rainwater drops in a single heavy splash on his feet. The creek continues on into the woods, and he walks a bit further, wringing the fabric with his hands, stretching it out of its effete proportions.

Kill, something mutters.

The boy halts, the courage draining from him in an instant. His left foot is already behind him, pivoting, ready for the retreat. A snake is in the grass, with skin sheathed in cloth rather than leather, bent in half, like a broken bone. Where its head should be is the shape of an anvil, with a snout that peters out in a point. Now something is grabbing at the edge of the fabric he holds in his hands, pulling him down, and he lets it happen, as if he is in the grip of a dream. He is on the ground, the wet grass pushing hard at his face, and his neck is gripped by powerful claws that squeeze. What he thought was a snake is actually a human leg, the snout a boot. The leg is not attached to a body. Blood flows freely from the fresh wound where it was severed, and follows the contours of the forest, finding its way to the creek, where it flows in with the blood from the other bodies that are on the ground. The hands around the boy’s throat tighten even further. Kill, the man says. It is a man after all, lying on his side, facing the boy, blood running in rivulets down his face, his brown teeth frozen in a snarl. The leg belongs to him. Kill kill kill kill kill.

The boy locks his fingers around the man’s arms, but to no avail – the man could be dead, but somehow in his final paroxysm he has fixated on this single action, this single word. The boy’s vision swirls into white – he is losing his breath. Stop it, he tries to say, but his throat can only speak in gurgled non-words. The hands are relentless, digging into his neck, the nails hard like pins. The boy gathers up the wet fabric, thrusts it into the man’s face, covering his nose, his mouth, pressing hard and hard. Kill kill kill the man continues, but now the words are deadened by the fabric. The boy feels a few of the man’s teeth give way under the pressure. Still the man’s hands are tight round his neck, but he continues to push at the man’s face, pushing until he believes the veins in his own arms are ready to burst through his skin, water flooding from his eyes down his cheeks.

It takes a few moments to register the fact that the grip around his neck has loosened, and still he pushes and pushes at the fabric. In his haze, he believes he is holding back the onslaught of a broken dam, and to relent for even an instant means death to all. It is not until the man’s lifeless hands fall away that his strength deserts him and he topples onto his back, looking straight up at the madrone trees and their sensuous, curving branches.

After a time, he takes a deep breath, and the act sends a painful jolt down his throat. He turns to look at the man. In death, he is an old man, his face scratchy with tiny white hairs, his eyes wide and hard. His side is a great mass of red and black, where wounds are already festering. It is clear that he has been in pain for days, and somehow he ended up here, at this extremity. Nearby is a traveling pack, stinking of rotten food. The boy frowns: Maybe the rotting smell is the leg there.

He stands, all senses alert, because another thought has occurred to him: He may not be alone. And that is when he hears the sound again, the sound that he heard the first time. It is indeed a moan. It comes from the thickets near the madrone trees, and he sees them tremble. His head too dizzy to think of consequences, he scrambles over to the thickets on hands and knees, the fabric still clutched uselessly in his hands, and tears at them, ripping them at the roots, clearing them away until he sees a face that stares at him petrified with fear, delicate fingers clutching at soil, long hair that drops to the ground, eyes no older than his own.