Southern Swallow
The Life and Career of Li K’ai-men
Book I
The Academician
Edward C. Patterson
Dancaster Creative Writing
Smashwords Edition March 2009
Copyright 2009 by Edward C. Patterson
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part (beyond that copying permitted by U.S. Copyright Law, Section 107, “fair use” in teaching or research. Section 108, certain library copying, or in published media by reviewers in limited excerpt), without written permission from the publisher.
For Professor Hyman Kublin,
An old China Hand and
My portal to the East
Acknowledgements
The Academician is the first book in the four part series Southern Swallow, a fictional account of a twelfth Century Chinese scholar-official, who readers of The Jade Owl Legacy first encounter in The Third Peregrination. Although this series serves as an historical adjunct to The Jade Owl, it has been in development longer than any work from my pen. The character of Li K’ai-men first came to light over three decades ago in my first China-themed work Vagrant Hollow, a work which, unlike Li, will never come to light. Still, my great desire to novelize a seminal epoch in Chinese History, the founding of the Southern Sung Dynasty, sprang to life even earlier in my Masters’ thesis, The Restoration of the Southern Sung Dynasty: The Reign of the Emperor Kao-tsung: 1127 – 1167. While I was entrenched in this period’s amazing details, I visualized the tug and tussle of events that every Chinese schoolchild knows, but few in the West even fathom. After 25 years, I managed a workable draft, which lay dormant until now — until that paranormal relic The Jade Owl spread its wings and decided to take Li K’ai-men and, above all, his servant K’u Ko-ling along the path to the ultimate goal. Through the thin veil of time, the twelfth and the twenty-first century spy each other, Li K’ai-men and K’u Ko-ling winking at Rowden Gray and Nick Battle through a lavender haze. At last, the full universe of this tale can be told with a push from a pesky hoot-bird, an out of work professor and a driven twelfth century scholar-official. Between them, I am caught, and with luck, I shall never escape their hold.
Special thanks are given to my editor, Margaret DeRonde, who managed to keep me honest while swimming through a sea of Chinese names and terms. I am also grateful for my many readers of The Jade Owl Series. Without their dedication, the Southern Swallow series may have been just a private laziness, never more than a quarter of a century’s exercise in penmanship.
This work is dedicated to memory of all those China Hands who trod the digs in those pre-Mao days and held the candle to us less visionary, enticing us to the work at hand, like moths craving the light and piercing the darkness. Particular homage is paid to Professor Hyman Kublin, who led me through hours of China and Japan via the Silk Road and the Jewish enclave at K’ai-feng. Who would have thought? With his help, history came alive — enough to blossom into fiction. I also owe an infinite debt to the Chinese novelists of the Ming and Yuan dynasties — Lo Kuang-chung, Wu Ch’eng-an and Tsao Xue-chin, whose Outlaws of the Marsh, The Romance of the Three Kingdoms, Journey to the West and Dream of the Red Chamber influenced the style and structure of all three books in the Southern Swallow series.
Edward C. Patterson
Southern Swallow is set in 12th Century China between 1124 – 1172 CE
Contents
Preface
Part I: Fishing With Birds
Chapter One: The Corpse of Pao Chin
Chapter Two: A Letter from K’ang Yu-wei
Chapter Three: To Yang-chou
Chapter Four: Processional
Chapter Five: No Passage
Chapter Six: The Other
Chapter Seven: The Walls of Su-chou
Chapter Eight: The Willow Pavilion
Chapter Nine: Stealing Honor
Chapter Ten: Busy Days
Chapter Eleven: The Ya-men Spider
Chapter Twelve: Trouble at the Gate
Chapter Thirteen: K’ang Yu-wei
Chapter Fourteen: Up From the Waters
Chapter Fifteen: The House of Pain
Chapter Sixteen: The Pearl Pavilion
Chapter Seventeen: Laughing at the Dog
Chapter Eighteen: The Good Wife
Part II: The Ninth Son
Chapter One: The Emperor Hui
Chapter Two: Exam and Envoy
Chapter Three: The Water Road
Chapter Four: The City of Minions
Chapter Five: The Wisteria Hall
Chapter Six: Yang Yu-yuan
Chapter Seven: Lakeside Tales
Chapter Eight: Crickets in the Mating Season
Chapter Nine: The Household Emissary
Chapter Ten: The Keepers
Chapter Eleven: Departure
Chapter Twelve: In Li Ch’eng’s Country
Chapter Thirteen: Lord Nien-ho
Part III: The Prince of Ch’i
Chapter One: Something Amiss
Chapter Two: Ch’ang Lu-fei’s Legacy
Chapter Three: The Emperor Ch’ing
Chapter Four: Han Tan
Chapter Five: At Nan-chang
Chapter Six: The Water Wheel
Chapter Seven: The Light Goes
Chapter Eight: In the Jade Emperor’s Shadow
Afterword
Part I:
Fishing With Birds
Chapter One
The Corpse of Pao Chin
1
A bigger fool the world has never known than I — a coarse fellow with no business to clutch a brush and scribble. I only know the scrawl, because my master took pleasure in teaching me between my chores. Not many men are so cursed by a scholar and saddled with the baggage of literary aspirations. Still, what I know, I know. What I have seen, I have seen; so what I scrawl is no more than a witness and a guess on how things grew along my path, which was his path after all. Now that he raises his spectral cup in the Dragon’s Pool with the Other, I can do little but sit on the riverbank, boiling the fish soft for my toothless repast and serve destiny with these recollections. Better men have managed it, so I am doomed to failure. So we begin with a flourish of the brush — with a big Nan and a giant Ya, my master’s pen name — Southern Swallow. Then, we commence with . . . an ending. In fact, without an ending, this story could not begin; and it began at Su-chou inside the Superintendent’s official residence.
2
A gadfly buzzed in the courtyard watching the Superintendent work. The place seemed deserted. While the city market hummed just over the Ya-men wall, the great official appeared engrossed in his industry — perusing memorials destined for his superior in Yang-chou, a critical eye, who examined every character for proper usage. Perusing every document, from petty requisition to execution warrants, served the Superintendent’s best interest, although the gadfly buzzed.
Xin Ch’u, the chief clerk of the Ya-men, took his ease in the doorway behind the sandalwood screen. It was stifling indoors, yet he knew that to make his presence known to the Superintendent would immediately enlist his aid on the papers at hand. It was better to stall here in semi-shade and watch the official toil. There would be plenty of tasks for Xin Ch’u’s staff, but why suffer the imposition now? Xin Ch’u’s several chins ran wet. His fan gave him scant relief. As he watched, he saw an inviting bowl of wine on the Superintendent’s desk. It would be tepid, and might even heat his blood, but Xin Ch’u longed for it. His own larder was far off, at least a quarter hour’s walk, so Xin Ch’u hoped that if he presented himself before his liege-lord that he could avert the tasks if not preempting some of the glorious wine. He fluttered his robes, airing his soaked vestment, and then prepared to enter the courtyard like a man lost in the summer heat.
Then, he heard the gadfly. So did the Superintendent, who gazed up from the scrolls. His brush outlined the fly’s trajectory as it buzzed about the desk, landing on the ink block. Xin Ch’u halted, still unseen by his lord. The Superintendent fluttered his hand across the block, his fingers flicking the air. He did this three times, and then rose slightly from his chair. He grasped his chest. He choked, and then sprawled across the desk. A slight man, he brought no harm to the desk.
Xin Ch’u observed these things calmly. He pressed forward slightly until he heard the gadfly’s buzz. It hovered over the Superintendent for a short spell before nestling in his ear, perhaps to sing a last song for His Excellency. A slight smile blossomed on Xin Ch’u’s lips. He walked around the desk, scanning the man and his workload. There was little doubt of the condition, but still if a mirror could be clouded, the guards must be summoned — the doctor would be fetched and the courtyard would fill with a plethora of assorted busybodies, all seeking news and . . . well, the spoils of death. That wouldn’t do, not for Xin Ch’u. He sneered at the Superintendent’s helpless form, and waited for a last ditched burble or fart. None came, so the chief clerk reached down for the glorious wine and drank the bowl dry.
“Dead,” Xin Ch’u said. “What a bother. Another one dead.” He looked about for more wine, but saw none. “At least this one has not left posterity to complicate things.”
Xin Ch’u was a hefty man— quite able to lift the Superintendent from the desk and carry him to a more dignified locale. However, the chief clerk’s instincts were focused on the importance of him being in charge. He poked around the table for various small riches — an ink plate, a fine brush and a lovely vermilion sealing pot. These quickly vanished beneath Xin Ch’u’s robes. He continued to probe, even to the Superintendent’s hair comb, when suddenly he spied something shiny. A silver ring on the dead man’s middle finger just beneath the gadfly that had rested on the knuckles and sucked on death. The ring was simply set with an emerald at its crest. It was a handsome reward for the clerk. A few twists and Xin Ch’u pulled the signet over the Superintendent’s long fingernails. It was heavy in the hand, much heavier than it appeared on the finger. The clerk slipped it on, and then quickly cast a glance about the courtyard assuring that no one watched. Safe. Xin Ch’u raised his hand to the fading light.
“Brilliant,” he said. He sneered, gazing down at the man who was his overlord. “More brilliant than you were, Pao Chin. This is my reward for diligence. I had forgotten that you had such a treasure.” He had spied it once at court, but mostly it hid under robe sleeves, or bent to the angle of the brush. Xin Ch’u raised it higher. “Now, as I look at it in a better light and on a better finger, I will not think much of you, Pao Chin.” I do not think anyone will ever think much of this man, he thought. The Superintendent had been grafted on the scene. Everyone knew that the clerks ran the Ya-men, and everyone recognized that Xin Ch’u ran the clerks.
Someone was coming. Xin Ch’u slipped the ring from his finger and into the larder hidden beneath his robes. He assumed a pose of alarm. Less so when he saw it was his lieutenant, Mao Fei. Mao squinted as the sun’s Western decline now cut across the courtyard. He shaded his eyes, sniffing like a dog. He walked like a scarecrow if a scarecrow could walk.
“Xin Ch’u, is there anything amiss?”
Xin Ch’u sighed. “Nothing is amiss, Mao Fei. Pao Chin is dead, that is all.”
“The superintendent is dead?”
“Dead,” said the chief clerk.
Mao Fei circled the body. He prodded it with his fan as if he were waking the man from a late afternoon snooze. When Pao Chin failed to arise and dance the harvest fling, Mao Fei smiled. He may have even given a chuckle, but it was hard to tell with the man. He was as creaky as a hinge. “This is most inconvenient,” Mao Fei said. “Most inconvenient, indeed. But are you sure he’s dead?” He prodded some more, but was really looking for loot. His pouty, thin lips showed disappointment. He probably knew that if he had come upon Pao Chin as he collapsed over the desk, he would be more the richer and Xin Ch’u as barren as Mao-tien’s old ox.
“Most assuredly,” Xin Ch’u confirmed. “Pao Chin is dead.”
Mao Fei blinked. “But how did it happen?” He peered under the table. “Did he perform the death ritual?”
“Do you see any blood?”
“None.”
“He was working, as he always has, and then there was a . . . gadfly.”
“Gadfly? He was killed by a gadfly?”
“I suppose so. I mean, he waved it away and must have strained his ch’i, because he just slumped across the desk.”
“And the fly?”
“Survived. I saw it on his . . . well, I saw it.”
“You let it live?”
Xin Ch’u shrugged. “I have done many things in service to this Ya-men. I shall not become the minister of fly swatting.”
He thought on this for a moment, and then began to chuckle, his chins shimmering in the golden light of sunset. Mao Fei cackled. It was a rare moment in the comraderie of these men. They had served in many capacities in this place — served many lords, but never considered being on insect patrol, until now. Alas, too late, because Pao Chin was dead.
3
Pao Chin is dead. Or I should say, was dead. Well, that would mean he is alive, but he is dead. I can most assuredly state that case. Pao Chin died and that is a good thing for this story, because without his death, my master would not have taken his place as the Superintendent of Su-chou. Timing is everything, or so I have been taught through this fateful existence I lead. With death comes vacancy. Vacancies must be filled — opportunities gained.
My master, the revered scholar Li K’ai-men, had just passed the regional examinations for office. He had attained the highest possible grade, a distinction aided with much vigilance by your humble servant, who filled his soup bowl and empty his piss pot during the interminable days he was pocketed in the examination cubby. But he did well. More than well. First place. He was marked to receive an immediate post, a position sufficiently grand for such an achievement. So Pao Chin’s end became . . . Li K’ai-men’s beginning.
I was a young pup then, attending my master’s every whim. What did I know? I, K’u Ko-ling, son of K’u Fei, a lowly son of the soil from Gui-lin. All I knew was what my master taught me. He showed me how to mix the ink, to prepare the brushes, to boil the soup, to pay the whoremistress, and . . . and I loved to spy on that. I could tell you much, and probably will, but everything in its time and place. Little did I know how much I would learn in service to a great scholar and a man of high governmental rank. I probably learned more than half of the piss-ant bumblefuck sons of scribblers that roam the land from town to town with petty services and warrants. I had warrants of my own. But all in time. Everything to its time and place.
My master, Li K’ai-men, was to be the Superintendent of Su-chou. What an honor that was. He would rule over an important district. First appointments are usually a shit-hole in An-hui or a cold, ball-chilling hut on the Yen border, but not for my master. He drew the bastard plum — Su-chou.
I think that Pao Chin’s death was for the best. The gods were good that day. I did not know the man, nor would he have known me. Yet, I feel so intimately grateful to him for passing on to his ancestors that I could swell with joy when I think of his life, long and healthy, fat and greasy, sated and mated until the end. Never was there such a well deserved or well timed
death as his.
Chapter Two
A Letter from K’ang Yu-wei
1
Everyone in our home prefecture of Gui-lin heard of my master’s great success. Soon, the lowliest merchant spoke of it. How could they not rejoice? The students and teachers hoop-la’d at the Academy, donning green and red, and dancing the “Drunken Oxen Dance.” They lit incense to Fu-xi. Tenants in the valley cheered my master’s health with their best concoctions. Even the swill water tasted like the sweetest wine. It was not every day that a Gui-lin son achieved first place in the exams. Some came in fifth or sixth, a great comfort that encouraged a dinner party at the very least, but not first. Such was the accomplishment of my master, Li K’ai-men.
The great Han Lin, academician of the Academy, was pleased best. He had fostered my master’s talents and had sent him off to the examinations. He had pushed him out of the academic coop, arranged a fine match for him — a tradition that every supplicant at the examinations should have a wife. Han Lin threw him a wedding party and gave him gifts — some of which I wished had never been given, but more on that later. I was a wedding gift also . . . not from Han Lin. No. My mistress, who knew her husband for no more than three days before separating from him — she to the household in Gui-lin — he to the examination pavilions at Ch’ang-sha, decided that the custom of having a servant should be observed by selecting a promising child from the tenantry. I may not have been promising, but my father had grown the largest cowcumber on Li Xien’s estates, so I was washed, dressed and trained to empty my master’s piss pot. I suffered little by it. It was far better than mucking about in the fields behind the water buffalo. I changed one dung heap for another, and kept my feet dry. We sailed up river to Ch’ang-sha, where the ordeal began and finished, and in that finish, everyone in Gui-lin rejoiced.
Now we were to travel to Chiang-nan province, to the city of Yang-chou, where my master would meet his overlord, the Governor-General of Chiang-nan. An important step. Soon, the citizens of Yang-chou also knew of Li K’ai-men’s achievements and toasted his health. However, in Su-chou, my master made no impression at all. The people of Su-chou did not even know his name. No one bothered to tell the people of Su-chou that Pao Chin was dead. Those clerks, who found his body, shipped the remains up river to his ancestral home. No solemn processions. No farewell eulogies. Not even a stele to mark his achievements. Pao Chin left no mark upon the city of Su-chou. Nor had the previous five superintendents. Superintendents come and go, like the tide on Lake T’ai, only without a ripple. Superintendents were not important. The clerks ran the world. It would take my master to make them see the light.
2
Xin Ch’u maintained a large office in the coolest spot in the Su-chou Ya-men, not far from the Willow Pavilion, a famous landmark that had been left in a state of disrepair under Pao Chin. The clerk never sought to maintain the gardens, the expense of which would be diverted from the general funds and thus from the general welfare of . . . the clerks. Xin Ch’u was diligent, his efficiency in service to the Ya-men renown, at least to the vast clerk empire that served him. Su-chou was no small task — a city of ninety thousand households with ten wards and high walls. Maintenance was a task — markets and canals, bridges and sluices, animal control and disease containment. Taxes levied were carefully accounted in the records and each ward elder was pressed for the usual tributes that the Ya-men demanded. Any superintendent worth his salt could manage these things as part of his training, but most found it tedious, preferring to ride on minimal duties, while some clerical figure, who usually had more local experience, held the reins. It was a convenient arrangement — for clerk and superior, at least. Xin Ch’u didn’t demand recognition or promotion to a better job. No, no. Who would want to drift from seat to seat across the Sung Empire’s vast territories? It was better to stay humble behind a familiar Ya-men wall than to brave heat and cold and dessert and forest and the ire of warlords and the sword of barbarian invaders. No, Xin Ch’u was diligent and content.
His office had an eastern exposure catching the morning sun. Wisteria branched through the lattice of his window. He sighed over the testimonial of Pao Chin, which was lean on distribution and lacked the usual donations to the local monastery. Thank the gods for that. There was little to sort out here, one of the easier transitions. He notified Pao Chin’s grandson at Ning-po and packed the remains in a finely wrought sandalwood coffin. Xin Ch’u was avaricious, but not heartless. Pao Chin was an official appointed by His Majesty, Hui-tsung, may he live ten-thousand years. The coffin was set in a fine riverboat in the dead of night and started upstream to the Grand Canal and thence to Ning-po on the coast. Although Su-chou was too intent on its own affairs to notice the passing of their overlord, Xin Ch’u burned some incense to Guan-yin, although how many of his prayers were for Pao Chin and how many were in thanks for new treasures, only Xin Ch’u could tell.
Xin Ch’u sipped wine and glanced through the window. It was a fine day. Perhaps he would lounge on the verandah. However, he heard the shuffling of feet and smelled business in the air. He could always sense business in advance — a keen attribute for any chief clerk. He spied the business — Mao Fei, striding along the path like an old broomstick. Xin Ch’u knew the business. His hand went to a scroll on the top of the stack. Mao Fei had heard that this had arrived and, since he also had a keen business sense, the second in command would not rest until all had been made known,
Xin Ch’u set the wine cup down, frowning at it. He would need to abandon it, because to imbibe before Mao Fei would preclude offering the man a cup. It’s too dear to waste. He grasped the scroll, and then trotted over the threshold onto the verandah.
“Xin Ch’u,” Mao Fei said, halting before him, his hands to his forehead. Slight bow. “There’s something in the air.”
“Yes,” Xin Ch’u said. “Less flesh burning today.”
“A good thing, but I thought perhaps you had some news of the disposition.”
“The disposition?”
Mao Fei sought a bench, looking to Xin Ch’u for permission to sit. Once given, he began to fan himself, more to scoot away the gadflies that buzzed about his forehead. “It has been a month. We have been exercising the seal for too long for comfort. The cases are mounting and detention is too full to keep feeding them at our expense.”
“Ah, Mao Fei,” Xin Ch’u said. He sat on his favorite chair, the square ebony seat that had belonged to a prefect and acquired by transference. He waved the scroll, and then pointed to the broken seal. “I have received a letter from K’ang Yu-wei.”
Mao Fei smiled, and then swatted the fly with his fan. “Yes. And what does the Governor-General say? What are the orders?”
Xin Ch’u smiled. “He is sending us a boy.”
“A boy? Not an old man this time, or a sleepy painter?” Mao Fei tapped his chin with the fan as if he had found the true gadfly. “Recall that boring fart they sent here . . . what was his name?”
“During the ching-t’ien year,” Xin said. “I recall him. That was T’ang Pu. He did paint well, not that I could care. Do you remember the scholar . . . Chao Pei-yen, who T’ang Pu engaged to clean the brushes and mix the ink? I could never understand with all the clerks worthy to assume such a role why T’ang Pu hired him.”
“That was a haughty pest,” Mao said. “I once told Chao Pei-yen that we were assembled to discuss the cases of the day — to tell T’ang Pu that we were in attendance. Chao dared to tell me that T’ang could not be disturbed until the bamboo was brushed and the plum blossoms stroked. When I told him to announce me, he said he would not. He threatened to paint my nose green.” Xin Ch’u chuckled. He thought Mao Fei’s nose could not be any greener. “And when I complained to T’ang Pu, he looked at me as if I were mad.”
Xin Ch’u shrugged. “At least Pao Chin just collected things.” He leaned forward and winked. “He was a lousy painter. He once stroked a cat and it looked like a mangy jackass. No. Just collected things.”
Mao Fei smiled. He tapped his fan in the palm of his hand. His face blossomed with inquisition. “Might I mention, as we are on the subject. Pao Chin’s possessions are inventoried for your inspection.” He produced a scroll of his own from his robe sleeve. He stood, held the inventory at its ends and bowed. Xin Ch’u set K’ang Yu-wei’s letter aside and grasped this new article with reverence. Mao Fei straightened. “I assumed that you wanted me to list all the items for the usual rewards to Pao Chin’s most faithful stewards and advisors.”
While not ignoring Mao Fei’s request, Xin Ch’u unfurled the list and read it deeply for some time. Suddenly, he stood. He looked toward the wall. The morning sun was rising higher. He noted the absence of the burning stench and the curious trump of wisteria and jasmine.
“It is curious,” he said. “These officials spend their entire lives striving for learning, preparing for the examinations, making long journeys to sit for days in cramped quarters to write essay after essay like slaves. For what? To achieve the smallest crumb from His Majesty’s larder.” He turned to Mao Fei. “We are the caretakers. We inherit the crumbs — and all that it is, is reading and writing “
“And good judgment and management,” Mao Fei complained. “I work hard for my modest gains, you know. You are unfair to suggest that what I do is easy and over-rewarded.”
“Calm yourself, Mao Fei. You are invaluable to me in the running of this Ya-men. You shall get your share. But now . . .” He looked to the wall again as if something was coming in a business sense. “Now, he sends us a boy.”
“A boy,” Mao Fei echoed. “We will need to work harder.”
“Not harder. A boy will need our guidance and advice; but he is inexperienced and only knows what he’s learned in the Academy and from the classics.” Xin Ch’u returned to his chair. “He is not quite a boy, but a first appointment. The letter says he won first place in the examination at Ch’ang-sha.”
“That only means he can read and write.”
“And paint, like the rest of them. However, he must do it extremely well.”
Both men cackled like two barnyard hens.
“Nevertheless,” Xin Ch’u continued. “We must accord the Imperial will some respect, may he live ten-thousand years.” Both men nodded their heads in homage. “His name is Li K’ai-men from Gui-lin.”
“Gui-lin?” Mao Fei chuckled. “Is any one ever from Gui-lin?”
“Save your humor for your wife. There is much to do. It is a good thing that we know how to do it. Inform the others of the new superintendent’s arrival. Have his name posted in the town.”
“All wards?”
“The major three will do . . . for now.”
“I shall do it.”
“Send the postern to the village elders, so they can tell the pao-t’ien. Let us give the gardens a sweep. K’ang Yu-wei says the boy shall have his wife here. The Willow Pavilion is a mess.”
“A wife?” Mao Fei said. “You said he was a boy. Some boy this — a married man.”
“You know how it is with these young scholars,” Xin reassured. “They marry quickly before they leave for the examinations. I am sure they have had a brief time of it and have been separated while he was taking the examination. He in Ch’ang-sha. She in Gui-lin. He shall be quite content to enjoy his married life, no doubt, and leave the business of government to us.”
Mao Fei bowed politely. He began to leave. There was much to do.
Xin Ch’u watched his lieutenant shuffle down the path. “Oh, Mao Fei,” he called. Mao turned, the sun behind him giving him an unnatural halo. “Empty Pao Chin’s wine cellar.” Mao Fei gazed at Xin Ch’u as if being accomplice to this request would compromise the heavens. “I will adjust the accounts,” Xin said. “I am sure a boy will have no need for wine. And as to the Willow Pavilion, do not do anything too extraordinary, mind you. It is just a pleasant token to our new superintendent that we care in the Su-chou Ya-men. I shall write to the Governor-General and tell him we have restored the famous garden to its former glory. That will please him well, I think. I shall include your name and your participation in these preparations.”
Mao Fei bowed deeply, and then scurried away. Xin Ch’u eased back to the letter, reviewing it again. That will please you well, K’ang Yu-wei, Xin Ch’u thought. Anything to do with the Willow Pavilion pleases the Governor-General. I know how this is done.
He tossed the letter aside. He snapped up the inventory once again, running his finger across the items with an incremental grin.
“Pao Chin certainly amassed a great number of things,” he mused. “I must say, there’s plenty here to go around.”
He felt a slight breeze from the garden. A whiff of jasmine made him sigh. He sauntered toward the wall.
So K’ang Yu-wei, send me this wet-nosed boy. Let’s see if he can paint as well as T’ang Pu or write essays as great as Mao T’ing-po or drink as hard as Chuang Tu-yin. I don’t think he could collect things as well as Pao Chin, but who can tell? He laughed, his chin rolls glistening in the shade. “They are all like guests here. We make them look good — make them comfortable, and do everything for them. Then . . . they leave us. It is like theater.” He grinned. I am their caretaker. So bring him on, K’ang Yu-wei. Bring him on.
3
Haughty clerk. You will be shaken by your own wit.
Chapter Three
In Yang-chou
1
Although the events at Su-chou could be thought of as disturbing, my master had other things on his mind. The scholar’s mind is a maze of mystery. Such affairs as the death of a superintendent were as expected as this year’s rain or next year’s drought. I recall those days well. We had traveled for thirty-five days, from Ch’ang-sha to the great regional capital at Yang-chou, where my master was to meet his superior, the Governor-General of Chiang-nan. That man, ordained and enfeoffed by the Son of Heaven himself, may he live ten-thousand years, would confirm my master in his post. Until the ritual was performed, the post was but a fart in the wind, as whimsical as Pao Chin’s death.
I had become a crafty person then — handling all manner of arrangement. Boats, trackers, food, clothing, local officials and elders — all crumbled under my superior management of my master’s establishment. I, a child of the fields and a veteran of the piss-pots, commanded them like a great lord. Born for this destiny — I, K’u Ko-ling, son of the cowcumber grower. I could, and still can, get a starving man to sell me a flea off his ass in a famine for something coppery that would be his death. I am that good at it.
From Ch’ang-sha to Yang-chou was the first of countless travels that I would arrange for my master. Such trivialities, as he called them, were not within the reach of lofty men such as him. Yet, he was only three years older than me, I but fifteen year and he near his manhood. Although young, I nevertheless sharpened my dick on the many opportunities afforded me by association. I soon learned that what my master referred to as “too lowly” for him in the world of tasks, were necessities that prestige could buy. In the presence of my lord, I knew my place. I was his shadow — his trace. However, as I did his bidding, everyone needed to bow to my authority. My parley, bargaining and footwork got us to the gates of Yang-chou in thirty-five days to see the great K’ang Yu-wei, Governor-General of all Chiang-nan.
Yang-chou, they said, was a wonderful place. I have been there many times, but fail to see the wonder. It smelled as bad, if not worse, than the bleakest crap-hole in the countryside. It was noisy and teamed with bothersome people who thought nothing of walking into you and passing you by as if they lacked any sort of reckoning beyond their nose. I have been to this place many times. Every time it was the same.
My master, on the other hand, was taken by the place. He is prone to ecstatic bursts. However, he had a sense of history and was enamored of places in general. If you wanted to get him babbling for hours, just ask him about K’ai-feng. But Yang-chou had a special significance to him as well. The day we came to her walls, our little caravan stopped before the gate, my master emerging from his sedan. He appeared so young and noble then. He had recovered from his examination ordeal and had eaten well since. He had caroused with a fellow scholar, he did, his fancy fully sated. Plenty of wine and howls and . . . Well, he was refreshed and wide-eyed. Who knew what brimmed under his noggin? I know there was a small chamber in that noggin that housed orders for me, but on that day, before the gate, he just stood silently bursting.
2
It was a grand city, the largest he had ever seen. Ch’ang-sha had been wide, sprawling above the Chang River wharves, but Yang-chou called Li K’ai-men to his destiny. Her turrets and gates held much promise. He grinned, his eyes panning the parapet so intently that he didn’t notice the mud on his crimson boots. That was K’u Ko-ling’s affair, not his. His was to inhale the place before him — the history of the Kings of Wu and the many who fought to hold Yang-chou against the tide.
“Master,” came a small voice beside him. It was the boy. He had been a good boy — efficient and better than he could imagine. Mei Lin chose well.
“Yes, Ko-ling.”
“We still have some distance to travel to the Ya-men, or so the cart man tells me.”
Li K’ai-men turned his attention to the lad. He was plain enough, two fists shorter than he was and slightly hunched from bowing — as it should be. Still, there was the air of a rascal about him, and although that might be construed as a fault in most servants, it pleased Li K’ai-men. Only a rascal could accomplish the mundane truck of journey and the foraging needed for table. However, the boy had disturbed Li’s thoughts and there was no recuperation. Li smacked his lips and returned to the sedan, snapping the curtain shut.
The porters moved him forward. They were gentle hands, he thought. They had kept him steady over the course of the trip. He was able to read and study without much stress, although the jostle was too much for writing. That was reserved for the evening camp or at the Inns that the boy managed well enough to secure. It was hot today; much hotter than in Gui-lin, where at least the morning mists kissed the forehead. Here, and especially behind the heavy green curtain, the air oppressed.
“Ko-ling,” Li said, knowing that the boy walked beside the sedan.
“Yes, my master.”
“Let me know when we pass into the city.”
“Yes, my master. Do you want for anything?”
“No. Just my appointment.”
“No water? A bit of melon?”
Li K’ai-men did not answer. His hand went to a satchel that never left his side. He stroked an object hidden inside, something that seemed better than water. Better than a bit of melon. He then raised his hands to the sedan’s ceiling. On his finger he wore a wondrous ring — a gift from his mentor, Han Lin. It was heavy, yet light — an opal of rare size and value. He watched it catch the seepage of light that filtered through the curtains. Flecks of turquoise and gold glinted about his finger as if the ring itself glowed. He smiled, and then dozed.
“Master, we are here,” said the boy.
No answer. Li K’ai-men slept through his entry into Yang-chou. Thirty-five days of travel is a harsh journey, even for a first place winner of the regional examinations.
3
The Yang-chou Ya-men was palatial, far exceeding the great houses of the south. It was no wonder that when His Majesty journeyed in this direction, it was his place of residence. Its audience hall rivaled the one at K’ai-feng. Both east and west of the river, the courtyards stretched beneath golden roofs. The government of Chiang-nan thrived here, steered well under the careful hand of K’ang Yu-wei, who arose early for business, settled city matters before breakfast and held his court before noon. Now, in the early afternoon, he held private audiences — the visitation of a pao-t’ien elder who had tax issues or a market warden seeking consultation on a shortfall in the weights and measures. K’ang would sometimes entertain a traveling scholar or a prolific painter as he always sought such talent, much like a fine palate stocking the larder with rare essence. When His Majesty would make his perennial visitations to Yang-chou — the grand peregrination, it was expected that K’ang Yu-wei would have ready entertainment of the highest sort for the Son of Heaven. Hui-tsung was demanding when it came to art. The city might be falling down about its archways — its bridges crashing into the canals, but the inner precincts of the Yang-chou Ya-men stood in readiness for His Majesty’s will, may it live ten-thousand years. K’ang Yu-wei was thus accountable.
It was the custom to provide the Governor-General with privacy during the seventh watch. The Ya-men guard kept to the thresholds, but the clerks disappeared to their cubbies to copy the measures, the petitions and the memorials. They would reappear during the ninth watch with stacks of evening work for his eminence and such was the diligence of the man, he managed to read each and approve or reject them in short order. But now, the Governor-General stood by his seat of authority, a square throne-like chair raised to the second level beside a higher chair — the seat of real power when occupied by His Majesty, may he live ten-thousand years.
K’ang Yu-wei was tall — a northerner, who often missed his T’ai-yuan homeland. His eyes penetrated a document, as they had since they first opened, and would before they closed. His wispy, graying beard trailed low nearly touching the scroll. He was encased in the Imperial black; the sleeves crimped back revealing his thin limbs and long fingernails. In his cap were three slender kingfisher feathers that cast a shadow to the woodwork in the afternoon sun.
K’ang studied the document — a letter of introduction written in a distinct style, one that he recognized and held in esteem. He remembered the author well — a student of Ou-yang Xiu, who rose to high office, and then departed to found the famous Academy at Gui-lin. K’ang never understood why Han Lin drifted so far away, but he had a notion that it had to do with some family warrant. He taught strange lessons toward the end, K’ang thought. Something about the comets returning. However, these mystics were alike. They spoke in conundrums, even when it was more for effect than practical application. K’ang sighed, and then shrugged. He heard the shuffling of feet — familiar feet, those of his clerical chief, Gao To. K’ang remained intent on the document. He also knew that there were others here, and they were waiting on his attention. To have your company announced and to demonstrate the niceties of a welcome was a weakness in Governor-Generals, or so K’ang Yu-wei thought, so he kept his eyes on the scroll.
“So you are Li K’ai-men?” the Governor said.
“Yes, my lord.”
K’ang gazed up. A boy of great beauty, he thought. Such grace and refinement. Li K’ai-men had bowed and remained bent awaiting the signal, but it did not come. Suddenly, the lad went to his knees — a grovel most becoming and excellently employed. Well taught, K’ang thought.
“Most impressive rank in the examination,” K’ang said. “Most impressive, indeed. Your teacher has taught you well, but I have learned that the mark of a true scholar is not what he parrots from his tutors, but how he parrots away from his tutors. Oddly enough, I think in this case, you are too demure to be one of Han Lin’s students. Stand, so I may see you better.”
Li K’ai-men at once complied, bowing again as he stood. K’ang circled him, the chief clerk bowing off. There was another in attendance — a boy — a servant perhaps. Appropriate.
“So young and refined,” K’ang said, tapping the scroll to his chin. Destiny exudes from his cheeks. Maybe he will stay the course. “Tell me, Li K’ai-men, are you ready to govern a city of thirty-five thousand households and ninety-five districts? Are you that resourceful?”
Li smiled, and then erased the smile suddenly. “I am, my lord.”
“How do you know?” K’ang said. “How has fortune lifted her hands and touched your noodle to say, this is the very man for the job? How? You have written pretty prose, and I am positive that you turn out fine poetry, but how will that help you cope?”
Li bowed deeply. As I thought. He has no ready answer.
“I am disciplined in the eight-legged essay,” Li said calmly. “The eight-legged essay is a form that attracts all moths to the light. It taps the wisdom of the classics, which teaches us to rule and govern well. It breathes free over the written word, each stroke drawing on precedent and, in turn, is a precedent. Thereby, we are never really beginning or ending, but part of the everlasting chain. And in the rituals . . .”
“Parrot of your tutor,” K’ang Yu-wei interrupted.
Li K’ai-men bowed again, this time abruptly. No smile now.
K’ang Yu-wei grinned, even chuckled. After a long morning of law cases and writs and petty disputes and requisitions, he was glad to have some diversion — a sharp-witted young pup raised by fortune and application to responsibility, standing before him with his servant rolled in a ball at his feet.
“I say to you, Li K’ai-men, when you arrive at Su-chou and the daily decisions and responsibilities belong to you and you alone, you must sharpen your beak on your own cuttle-fish.”
Li bowed. K’ang Yu-wei had made a point and it would be bad form to dispute it.
“Has your wife begun her journey?”
Li did not respond.
K’ang Yu-wei snapped the document. “Has she?”
“My lord, if she followed my bidding, she shall be in Su-chou by the time I arrive.”
“Good,” K’ang said. “It will be good to have a lady in the Ya-men at Su-chou once again. I so dislike not having a lady in the loveliest of our gardens. You know, a garden without a woman is a lotus shorn of petals. Pao Chin was a good man, but he should have taken another wife instead of closing the Willow Pavilion. I have been informed by the Chief Clerk, some minion named Xin Ch’u, that the Willow Pavilion has been reopened and restored.” K’ang Yu-wei gazed across to his chair. It was nearing the time for formalities. “Yes, it will be good to have a lady once again in Su-chou. And once you are settled in — in a year or two, I shall come around and visit you. What do you think of that?”
“As your lord pleases.”
“As your lord pleases? What’s this stiff formality? Do you know who I am?”
“You are K’ang Yu-wei,” Li said. “Governor-General of Chiang-nan, Master of the Imperial Antiquary and Superintendent-General of Yang-chou. Viceroy. Your teacher was Ou-yang Xiu.”
“You know me well,” K’ang said, “but know this.” He pushed his face into Li’s. He sensed some fear in the scholar’s twitch. “I have escaped the jaws of death and know the kindness of His Majesty, may he live ten thousand years.” He nodded, as did Li. “I have seen scholars come and go. Come and go.” He stepped back scanning Li from head to toe. He also noted the bright eyes of the servant boy, who gazed up peeking at his superiors without discipline. K’ang flashed him a look and the servant buried his head in his robes, as it should be. K’ang then pointed to Li. “If you are up to it, young pup, you will administer your assignment well, but remember who I am and what I can do. Have you any questions?”
“None.”
K’ang sensed sincerity. He also spied the large opal ring on the candidate’s finger. He knew that ring well and wondered what magic this lad possessed to have Han Lin part with such treasure.
“You know that I am a close friend to your teacher.”
“Yes, my lord,” Li said.
“How was your teacher when you last saw him?”
“Well, my lord,” Li said. “Very well . . . that is, in good health.”
“You certainly don’t display any of his pluck,” K’ang said. “Yet somehow you cannot survive Han Lin and come out first in the examinations and be devoid of pluck. I am glad you are showing the deference due to me, but when I come to visit you, I want to see some pluck.” He waved to Gao To, who displayed his own handiwork — another document, of disproportionate size — a golden sheet of silk unfurled on a table beside the Governor-General’s seal of authority. “And when I come, I want to hear better tales about my old friend Han Lin. None of this, very well . . . that is, in good health.”
The Governor-General shook his head, and then proceeded to stamp the warrant with his great chop. Two other clerks had quietly joined them, one holding an ivory box and the other a swath of cloth. K’ang Yu-wei opened the box, produced a gold cap with one kingfisher feather clipped at its crest, and then unceremoniously tossed it on Li K’ai-men’s head. He handed him the stamped papers.
“Now, you are confirmed in your post,” K’ang Yu-wei shouted. “Respect these words.”
Li K’ai-men bowed reverently, even though this ritual was perhaps unimpressive, not like the moment he had anticipated for many years.
“I trust that your man servant has made arrangements for your portage to Su-chou,” K’ang said.
“He has.”
“Good. And as a gift from the Chiang-nan viceroy, you shall have a procession of drummers to herald your approach to your sinecure.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“I am afraid the heat is terrific,” the Governor continued. “I have snow in my veins and the plateau winds in my old mane, but I am sure that your sacred mountains are humid at most times. Still, you will find the heat unbearable in the plains.” K’ang Yu-wei walked Li K’ai-men in a small circle. “Be careful what you drink and stay clear of uncooked meats. And upon my orders, do not directly enter Su-chou without escort. There shall be a pavilion outside the city walls. This Chief Clerk . . . Xin Ch’u, he will escort you to your sinecure.” They paused before the other clerk, the one with the swath of cloth. K’ang Yu-wei smiled. “I have another little token for you, from me as an honor to Han Lin.”
The clerk bowed and offered up the cloth. K’ang Yu-wei removed the cover revealing a vermilion robe. He held it aloft. It was brilliant, catching the light and playing it back across Li K’ai-men’s eyes. He sighed. It had a Phoenix embroidered on its back. K’ang Yu-wei enjoyed the moment. He was sure the lad had never owned such a garment. “This is a gift from your sponsor, which, of course, is me. I can see you are a gentleman of grace and decorum.”
Li K’ai-men gasped, and then went to his knees.
“Up, master Li,” K’ang said. “You will be fine in your post, especially when you wear the robe of the vermilion bird. More so, in that you return a woman to the Willow Pavilion and some youth to the ancient walls of Su-chou. Get those drummers going and be on your way.”
K’ang gazed again at Han Lin’s ring. He could see it shining beneath that glorious vermilion robe. He also noticed for the first time a satchel clipped to Li K’ai-men’s sash. He assumed it was a writing bag, for ink, brushes and seals, but it seemed to sing when the brilliant robe brushed its side. A distinct sound. A hoot.
I’m getting old and delusional, he thought as he watched the new Superintendent of Su-chou depart followed by the clerks and the shadow of a boy. You start out on a noble journey. He recalled his own first step — not as big and brave. Just a small district near K’ai-feng, but it was there that he had met his third wife. There was a teahouse mirrored on Lake Pien-fu, when the moon was full and the breeze was sweet with jasmine. I would court with the ladies there, I would. For a small district, it suited me fine. To be at the start of things instead of thinking about sunsets. Then, he thought about the clerks returning with the stacks of memorials and writs and petitions, and his evening would be set until the stars burned brightly over the Southern ramparts. He sighed.
“I will go to Su-chou and visit the Willow Pavilion. I shall watch over Han Lin’s chick.” It would be nice to be at the start again.
4
It is truly sad that K’ang Yu-wei would be swept up in the events of the times. I guess it is the way with those in authority. Prominence makes one prone to fortune. Now, I am just a piss ant, and fortune does not watch over me. If I am successful, it is by design. If I am lucky, it is the best dung pile swept from the road. Life grows and prospers in such manure.
Chapter Four
Processional
1
Many men denied the gods in those days. Many men of letters turned to logic and reason for answers to the turbulence. I was never opposed to a little prayer or burning some red paper at a roadside shrine. Couldn’t hurt, but my master had learned strange ways. He carried his religion in that little satchel. It would be many months before I saw the green idol that lay within. By then, I had become a believer, although I scarcely knew why. The man had separated me from his rituals at an early age. He may have taught me the proper consistency of ink, but he was remote when it came to the little light show he practiced behind the screen and in secret places. I mention this now, because the day before we set out for Su-chou, my master dismissed me for many hours. I had been constantly at his beck and call, ready at hand for many tasks, but now he retreated from me — his satchel at hand and that plump ring from his mentor. Now, I know that he was preparing for the journey in his own way — in some glorious Tao manner, which made him a master of a different kind. Of course, he was young then, just three years my senior. However, he had learned many things beside the eight-legged essays from Han Lin. I wish he had not sent me away that day. If I had seen his ceremonial, I would have run to the river and hid on an upstream boat back to Gui-lin.
The day we set out was hotter than the heart of Buddha. I knew hot days in the fields under a callous sun, bent back over the paddies in my father’s tenancy, but nothing had prepared me for the steam of the plains or the noise of the drums. At first, their beat was rousing — almost a dance rhythm that made me proud to accompany my master as he sat in his palanquin and waved like the dignitary that he was. A regular parade. People gathered to see our procession. Banner men held signal flags to the crowd that proclaimed, “here passes the new Superintendent of Su-chou.” All manner of stuff was thrown at us — for luck of course, but all those red paper bits in my hair and eyes. I was glad when we were out of the city and in the countryside. However, it was there the infernal heat melted me like fish on the boil. I have suffered much since, but little can be recalled of the heat of battle or the heat of the jungle when compared with the heat of Chiang-nan.
2
Li K’ai-men enjoyed the procession from the Inn through the streets of Yang-chou. He knew that the folk could care less for his passage but for the grace of his authority — the authority of K’ang Yu-wei. Li even suspected that his overlord paid for the streamers, the incense and the confetti that showered him. Li preened from his palanquin. The porters were outfitted in green silk with cuckoo birds embroidered on the sleeves — much too hot for their tasks, but these would be shucked once they passed through the city gates on their trudge toward the River. There were ten provision pallets following Li K’ai-men. He thought to hire carts and oxen, but was cautioned about the poor road conditions. He even considered a boat down the Grand Canal, but was reminded by Gao To that only the royal family, merchantmen and night soil barges made such a procession. Since Li was neither so lofty nor so low, he would proceed as a processional, as was the custom.
His servant had bartered in the market for provisions for a fifteen-day portage. That seemed advisable, and the lad was able to stretch cash beyond its value. Li was amazed by it. He made a note to some day watch this bartering — not that he would ever need to do it, but as a means to understand the world, as every gentleman should. K’u Ko-ling wore his attendant’s attire — a green and blue robe and pants, with leather boots and a squat cap. Mei Lin had overseen the design of it. If you go to the examinations with my husband, you will wear rich clothing, she had told the boy on that first day. Would you like to feel silk on your breast and leather on your feet? Li K’ai-men smiled. He had hidden behind the screen while Mei Lin instructed the boy on wearing such finery. He remembered the pleased expression on Ko-ling’s face. Now, as K’u Ko-ling trudged through the crowds on the streets of Yang-chou with the streamers and red paper flying, he wore no such grin. Li imagined that K’u Ko-ling would have preferred to be stark naked in this heat. Not a bad notion, Li thought.
The drums were bracing. There were twelve of them — a mighty luxury at K’ang Yu-wei’s behest — an honor, but also an expense. Extra provisions were needed for these men. They wore the black of the dynasty, with tall green headdresses. They kept a steady rhythm, except when the crowd pressed in and cheered. Then, they broke into dance and spun in a showy display, afterwards filling one of the tall caps with cash from the sidelines. It was expected that the new superintendent would grace his well-wishers with rose petals, therefore Li K’ai-men’s held a basket on his lap. When a cheer went up, he pressed his sculptured hands into the petals and flooded the air with red and pink. It was a fine beginning to a new career.
Li K’ai-men spotted the Southern Gate, its golden roof glaring beneath a sea blue sky. He also spotted the high turrets — a row of halberds guarding the walls from the surrounding fields.
“Ko-ling,” Li commanded. “Run ahead with the toll.”
“Yes, my master.”
The boy dashed ahead, purse in hand gaining on the first drum. Then, silence broke the air as the drums ceased on a single beat, the parade halting before the guardians of the gate. Li stood in his palanquin, a new force on the landscape. He bowed to the city gods. Suddenly, K’u Ko-ling had returned.
“Captain T’ao Lin of the Guard thanks my master for the toll and wishes him much success at Su-chou.”
Li K’ai-men gazed forward. A massive man in full leather armor had removed his helmet and stiffly bowed. He must be hotter than I am, Li thought. He nodded, and the drums recommenced.
3
Once the procession had passed under the city gates and had traveled some li to the walls of Chen-jiang, where the Chang River met the rice lands, Li halted for lunch. It was a cold feast of congee and minced garlic. However, it was too oppressive to eat much. There was a long journey before them and Li wanted to cross the river before nightfall. Therefore, he told Ko-ling to refrain from hoisting the tent, although the shade would have been welcomed. The palanquin had a bamboo and silk san-tze attached, but it did little to keep the sun’s blistering rays off the superintendent. Still, the porters needed rest. Therefore, Li K’ai-men ordered a round of rice wine for them, and then paced within the shadow of Chen-jiang’s city walls. A long train of travelers trudged to and from the market town. It would have been better manners to parade through the streets of Chen-jiang also. The drummers could profit. However, Li wanted less pomp now and more mission. He shaded his eyes and gazed across the River. Ferries lined the shore. He wondered.
“Ko-ling.”