The full moon sailed across our cottage window, pouring bluish silver on the leaves and on Jade Bell, whose head nestled on my shoulder, her arm across my chest. Her face was smooth and childlike in her deep slumber. Just where our bodies touched our cat had insinuated herself, almost like a black liquid. In the moonlight she was a small panther.

      In the morning a well-dressed man of middle age, obviously the senior servant of a man of property, introduced himself, after a fashion.

      “My name hardly matters,” he said, placing on the table a colorful cloth bundle.

      He undid the knot and spread out the cloth. Silver ingots sparkled in the mountain sunlight. The amount was respectable, but considerably less than his emotion.

      “I was told you are the man to see. Our master, Wei, of the Crane in Autumn School, has been most foully murdered by his rival, Cao.”

      He glanced at Jade Bell, who was carrying toward our table a tray with a tea pot, cups and peeled slices of peach. I nodded slightly and he continued.

      “We are not in a position to right this wrong ourselves. Cao enjoys the protection of corrupt officials. Our hands must appear to be clean, yet the motive for his elimination must be eminently clear. Furthermore, the method of his demise should inspire terror among his supporters. I think their loyalty does not exceed that which can be bought. However it is done it should give his students second thoughts. At the same time, we will open our arms to any students who wish to join our school.”

      “I shall leave tomorrow. Before evening everything will be taken care of.”

      He finished his tea, bowed to Jade Bell and me, and took his leave.

      Before he reached the gate in the woven bamboo that served as a fence, Jade Bell ran to him.

      “Please accept this to sustain you on your return journey.”

      It was a clay pot, still warm, of chicken cooked in millet wine. She handed it to him wrapped in the same cloth he had used to carry the silver.

      He bowed once more, but more deeply, holding the bundle even with his forehead. He turned and passed through the gate of our rustic home and headed down the path that led through the pine forest. He had obviously come alone.

      For the remainder of that day I worked in our garden, weeding and watering our neat rows of vegetables. In another month, during the nights we would be hearing pears dropping on the grass.

      The air smelled strongly of pine resin. Below us clouds drifted along the mountainside, obscuring here and there the road scratched into the rockface. The sun had burnt me dark, yet the shadows were cool, almost cold. From far off thunder echoed, then all was silent again, as another storm appeared and quickly vanished.

      In the evening I gathered everything I would need the next day. Jade Bell sewed by lamplight and I busied myself with writing.

      At dawn, when the forest is more dark than light and the trees are loud with birdsong and fluttering, I began my descent.

      By midmorning I had reached a small teahouse with rails that separated it from the precipice. The tables were made of rough hewn logs and the seats were simple trestles. Overhead, ancient pine trees gnarled into fantastic shapes provided shade. A pretty young woman wearing an apron set down a small dish of pickled vegetables and a bowl of steaming rice. She returned with a pot of tea and a cup. Her face was smiling but tense. She did not speak and hurried off to a covered area that served as a kitchen.

      I saw the source of her unease. Two ruffians, their long greasy hair tied up in red cloth, were eying her and whispering to each other. They punctuated their comments with sidelong glances and hoarse laughter.

      “What are you looking at, old man?” one yelled, pointing at me with his chin.

      Emboldened, his companion shouted, “Do you drink ink, too?”

      To them I was an itinerant letter-writer. The banner atop a bamboo pole, resting against the rail, announced my trade to the world. In a cloth sling, leaning now against the table, were rolls of rice paper and an assortment of brushes. The teahouse was otherwise empty. I looked down quickly at my rice.

      This seemed to count as a victory in their eyes, and their attention returned to the young woman in the open-air kitchen. After a while, seeing that no other men were about, they strode toward the kitchen. I heard the clatter of dishes and screams which were silenced almost immediately by slaps.

      I walked over as one ruffian was tearing some shelves apart looking for money, while the other pinned the woman down on the table. Her shirt had been torn off and her breasts were exposed.

      The one holding her down had turned his head to tell his friend that he would have his turn soon.

      He saw my shadow and became wary for an instant, then started to laugh. But his sneer turned to shock and disbelief as I drove a chopstick into his forehead. He never made a sound, just fell to his knees, then forward onto the floor. His accomplice was quick to flee, but stumbled and hit the ground, his hand trying to reach the chopstick I had thrown into his calf. I reached down with one hand on his jaw and the other on the side of his head. I twisted my hands and his neck snapped.

      I went through their clothing and found a pouch filled with small coins, evidently their takings from any number of petty robberies. I tossed the pouch onto the table and picked up first one of them and then the other of the bodies under the arms and dragged them to the edge of the precipice. The cliff was steep. Far below a stream occasionally glinted in the sun. I dropped them over the rail and they fell like rocks through the brush clinging to the mountainside.

      The woman had retreated to a corner and was vainly trying to cover her nakedness with her torn shirt. I found a jacket in a wicker chest and brought it over to her. She was just beginning to control her breathing.

      I tidied up the kitchen as best I could, righted the table and swept up the broken crockery with a straw broom. I threw the fragments down the precipice. The table was wobbly, one leg almost torn away.

      “When does your husband return?”

      She stared uncomprehending and I began to wonder if she were Chinese, but eventually she answered.

      “Two weeks. They — he and his brothers — are away felling timber.”

      I shook my head, but then reminded myself of how poor they were. At best this scenic teahouse could only bring in some extra money.

      “Your husband will disown you if he thinks another man has defiled you.”

      I looked at the bruise on the left side of her face. It would probably heal before the men returned.

      “Burn your torn clothes. Take this money and repair the damage here. A bear came at night looking for food. You heard the commotion but were too afraid to leave your home. In the morning you saw the smashed crockery, the broken table.

      “You never saw me or those thieves. Do you understand?”

      She nodded. Her eyes were enormous. I left her as she busied herself, her mind far from the habitual movements of her hands. I felt sorry for her shame. The men who visited the teahouse would assume the bruise was the result of her husband’s beating her. She could never say anything to anyone.

      As the road took me ever lower, I began to feel the increased moisture in the air, and before long I saw the city spread along both banks of the river. Ferries of all sizes, many of them guided by ropes, transported passengers and animals across the swift current.

      By now it was early afternoon and I had established myself across the street from the Cao School. On the wall at my back I had pasted an enormous sample of my calligraphy, done with a brush as big as a broom. It contained the lone character “martial” in a bold script, its slight imbalances here and there giving it a vibrating quality, like a lute string. At the edges of the strokes trickles of ink had run down the paper, making the spontaneous energy of the calligraphy evident. Few calligraphers would have the concentration and physical strength to write on such a huge scale. My plan wholly depended on someone with enough connoisseurship to recognize these qualities.

      My banner fluttered in the breeze. From time to time a customer summarized what he or she wished to say to a relative in some village or to a woman. I wrote in a style easy to understand and courteous, and in the case of love letters, hinting at a meaning beyond the literal, since, after all, a third party would most likely be required to read it aloud to the recipient, if not the entire village. My characters were clear but lifeless.

      Delivery men and vendors of every description, beggars and loafers, would-be students and urchins stopped at the gates of the school and gawked at the men practicing their forms, some with fists and kicks, others with sword and spear.

      From a vendor I bought a bowl of porridge with preserved eggs and pork and never left my post. The sun would soon sink behind the school. Finally, a young man, bare-chested and wearing a broad black sash tied tightly around his waist, trotted across the street to me and bowed.

      “The Master wishes to confer with you.”

      I left my meager belongings, but another lad from the school gathered them up and took them inside the compound with us. I was shown into a hall with two chairs flanking a tea table. The furniture was in heavy black wood and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Nothing adorned the walls, save for the obligatory scrolls on either side of the entrance praising hospitality. The vast room was cool, almost murky, and the only sound was the muted shouts of the instructors.

      When the Master entered I bowed deeply, but he rushed over to me and taking my sleeves in his hands raised me,

      “It is I who should bow before you, sir. I am but an untutored ignoramus, whereas you are a scholar. Let me express my admiration for your huge calligraphy, and what more appropriate a character than ‘martial’!”

      Before I could voice the usual denials, he continued, “Our humble establishment due to…recent events, shall we say, is in a most favorable position to expand. Therefore, we are in a celebratory mood, one might even say festive.”

      “Congrat…” I ventured, but was cut short by another burst of enthusiasm. He tugged at my sleeve and led me away from the untasted tea, down a corridor open on one side. About fifty young men formed into pairs were striking and parrying blows and kicks in a highly stylized manner. They struck and parried all together in military unison. The air was musky and in the late afternoon light sprays of sweat flashed across sunbeams.

      We arrived at a hall with a gleaming floor of wide maple planks. At the opposite end of the hall was a dais with a long table.

      “Right there,” the Master said, pointing to the blank wall above the dais, “is where I want your masterful calligraphy. You will be paid liberally.”

      I bowed and asked for a new pail, one that does not leak, and the biggest brush he owned. These were brought, as were my ink stones and ink sticks. I knelt on the floor and rolled up my sleeves and secured them with strips of cloth. I began grinding the ink as quickly as I could, explaining that the daylight would soon wane. I told the Master about the superior quality of the ink, how it was made, about consistency and degree of blackness. I remarked that his well water was exceptionally pure.

      “May I stay to watch you?” he asked.

      “I am honored, and indeed I need your assistance to hold the paper steady. If the paper slips, even for an instant, the ink will soak through the paper and make a hole. But I would request that no one else be present — it’s too distracting.”

      The servants left and closed the door. We heard men grunting and the clash of weapons.

      I took a deep breath, turned suddenly and punched the Master full on the side of his neck. He dropped to his knees, unable to move or shout. I reached in my brush case, pulled out a long-bladed knife, held it at his throat as my other hand grasped his hair.

      “Master Wei is avenged,” I said and cut off his head.

      I dumped the ink and placed his bleeding torso over the pail, then dipped his long hair in the blood, and holding his head wrote the character “martial” in brilliant red.

      I was drenched in blood. I pulled a clean set of clothes from my sack of paper rolls and changed. The stench of blood was overpowering. I was now a dull but respectable retired gentleman with a scholar’s cap. I left by another door that gave out on to the street. Darkness was falling and I merged with the crowds heading home or for the markets and restaurants.

      My route home avoided the teahouse of this morning’s incident, and I passed through our gate as night fell.

      Jade Bell welcomed me, but had not prepared dinner. She watched me collect my brushes, ink stones, ink sticks, my hundreds of rolls of calligraphy, my rubbings of calligraphy carved into rock by famous masters of the past.

      I built up a bonfire. We knelt on either side of the fire and slowly fed into it a lifetime of grace, beauty, even ecstasy. Wolf-hair brushes crackled in the flames. Delicate paper curled and flew up into the night as sparks and cinders.

I looked at the barely discernable outlines of the mountains around us. We wept. I traced in the air:

 

The poet says the peach blossoms

Fallen in the stream

Flow into another world,

But I say, in the face of death

The only answer is to burn our words.

 

 

©Robert L. Fisher, 2008