A Single Petal Read online

  Jinjin found a dark, narrow alley within sight of the monastery, where he scoffed Wenling’s remaining buns and drank cold tea, checking on the tools he would need: a knife, ink and cloth ‘borrowed’ from the room where innkeeper Wong would puzzle over his accounts.

  ***

  Feng opened his eyes. He blinked a few times as he tried to make out what it was he was looking at. When last conscious, having just dismounted, he’d been asking a distressed young man at the roadside what the problem was. He tried to raise his head to get a better view then cried out in pain. It seemed as if the back of his head and neck were held fast in the jaws of a tiger, the beast’s teeth piercing holes the size of copper coins. He flopped back and felt for Minsheng’s money strings. Gone! The magistrate’s sword too! How naive and stupid he’d been!

  The light was dim. He fixed on a grey patch above him. Slowly it came into focus, together with the dark object in its centre: a spider clinging to its web, inches from his face. Disturbed by the teacher’s attempt to raise his head, the spider crawled to one side and now descended on an invisible thread, legs outstretched, to the floor. Feng twisted his neck as far as the tiger jaw grip would allow, enough to see the little creature hurry off into the darkness.

  A spider descending on silk surely signified good fortune sent from Heaven. He was alive. Good fortune enough, until his memory kicked reality into the frame. Feier was back at the Miao village. The unwritten deal with Yueloong had been amicable, but things could change so easily. Should he fail to return with Xiaopeng, his own daughter might become Miao property to be played with and debased, forcing her into a fate worse than anything the mean-minded marriage maker had in store for the girl.

  Clutching the back of his aching head, Feng rolled sideways so as to preserve the spider’s silken home and found that he was staring down from a straw-strewn stone bed at a filthy stone floor. Where he was, and how he’d got there, was a mystery, but lying on his side he became aware of a new pain, something tearing at his belly.

  As his eyes grew accustomed to the low light, he noticed he was wearing a monk’s robe.

  For a brief period, he wondered whether he’d died, returned to Earth and had already lived half a life as a monk before recalling his former existence, but all became clear after he lowered his legs to the ground, crying in pain. His hands didn’t seem to know whether they should reach up to the back of his aching head or journey down to the searing agony across his belly.

  An elderly monk appeared at the open doorway of the cell, alarmed by the noise.

  “Teacher Feng? At long last! Several times we gave you up for dead, but my brothers and I turned the prayer wheel eight times a day for luck, and I see from your samsara time for rebirth hasn’t yet arrived.”

  “How...?” began Feng, before emitting an anguished howl as the pain from his belly ratcheted up several notches when he attempted to stand. “Aaargh!”

  “Wait, friend!” warned the monk. “Not too hasty. Lie back. We must tend to your wounds!”

  Feng eased himself back onto the bed of straw. The belly pain reminded him of Merchant Chang impaled with a bamboo stake. It was how the whole thing had started, with young Feier rushing into the school room, alerting him of the gruesome crime. Had he also been skewered by a pole? Would ‘tending’ his wounds mean trying to keep his guts from spilling out?

  The monk returned with two others, younger than himself. One held a burning lamp that threw grotesque, moving monk shadows onto stark walls. His companion carried a bowl, with a folded cloth draped over his forearm.

  “We must keep it clean, Teacher Feng. You can bite on your robe as we wash the wound.”

  The senior monk lifted Feng’s robe, exposing his belly. The teacher’s head jerked back when the man tried to stuff the rough robe cloth into his mouth.

  “Just tell me why I’m here,” he demanded after spitting out the taste of the cloth.

  “Why? I told you. Your destiny gives you another chance! Your attack-ers must have assumed you were dead.” “Where am I?” “Xiangjisi Temple.”

  “Xiangjisi? Near Chang’an?” “Do I have to say everything twice?” “But... Ouch!”

  The monk, stooped over Feng’s bared belly, dabbed away with a wet

  cloth.

  “How... what...?”

  “Your name? Easy! We were expecting you.”

  “But... “

  “Your new magistrate, Minsheng, sent word to me as the sun wu kong. He should have given you a sword as well as a horse.”

  “He did... but... Ow!”

  “The characters bai hu [15]. On your belly. That’s why it’s so sore. Carved with the sharpened bamboo we found beside you, probably. So many strokes, huh? Should have asked them to carve ‘nu’ instead. Only three strokes!”

  “White Tiger? I remember stopping to help that young beggar man... But do you mean he...?”

  “I mean nothing. Only it’s a miracle you’re alive. The White Tiger League always carve bai hu characters on victims’ bellies. As a warning to others - and to annoy the imperial officials.”

  “But I was many li from Chang’an when I stopped. Xiangjisi is less than an hour from the city, right?”

  “They’ve taken to leaving the bodies outside the temples. And we know why.”

  “Why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Feng screwed up his eyes from pain when the monk playfully patted the smarting cuts decorating his belly before pulling the robe back down.

  “They reward you teachers too well, huh? Hope you pay your dues to the local monastery!”

  “So that’s it. The White Tiger League has infiltrated the monasteries. They try to frighten you.”

  “Try, but don’t succeed. You’re the first body that’s come back from the dead, though. Can you stand?”

  Feng eased himself forwards then stepped down from his bed. Holding on to the younger two men, he took a few stiff steps. “Brilliant! The gui holds on to his corpse! Hungry?” “Yes. Thirsty too.”

  “We eat in the refectory. Then you can tell me why the White Tigers wanted you dead.”

  “Stop!” Feng spotted the murder weapon leaning against the wall. “The bamboo pole... “ he began.

  “Your attackers’ calligraphy brush.”

  “And the pole they used to kill my friend. I was taking it to Chang’an. To warn the emperor. Why leave it with me and take everything else? And it’s all to do with the missing Miao girls. I’m certain.”

  “Missing Miao girls indeed? Come! No more of your nonsense.”

  Feng stayed silent as he was helped along a covered corridor lined by small cells then out into a wide courtyard in the centre of which wafted smoke from a stone incense burner before an expressionless, kneeling monk. The man looked up and stared at Feng. For a moment the teacher felt like a pig being dragged half-dead to a slaughter house, the gazing monk trying to work out whether his karma would return him as pig again or human.

  “Over there,” said the sun wu kong. “The refectory. Our food is simple but wholesome.”

  With great gentleness, the younger monks led him up a short flight of steps, through a wide doorway into a bright, spacious hall packed with shaven-headed monks seated around circular tables. Several lowered their chopsticks and gazed as Feng was eased onto a drum stool. The elderly monk positioned himself beside the teacher whilst one of the other men fetched a bowl and chopsticks for their guest. In the centre was a deep platter of thick, wide noodles, another of vegetables and a wooden board heaped with mantou buns.

  “Afraid you’ll miss your rice here, I see?” remarked the monk. “And your pork!”

  Feng had read about the diet of the north, the noodles and the buns. The smell of the food before him was almost too good to be true.

  “What are you waiting for? Fill
the teacher’s bowl!” commanded the old man before one of his underlings hurriedly snatched the bowl from under Feng’s nose and filled it with slippery noodles and a mound of steaming vegetables.

  “When you’ve food in your scarred belly you might think up something better than ‘disappearing Miao girls’. Seems there are others out looking for you. Like the young White Tiger who passed by yesterday. That’s how we know who you are.”

  Feng was only half paying attention and more focused on his stomach crying out for noodles and vegetables. When his bowl was empty, he reached for a Mantou bun, but the monk grabbed his wrist with strength surprising for one so old.

  “’Has he not passed by?’ asked the boy,” the monk said. “’An overfed teacher called Feng? Carries a murderous bamboo pole. Full of crazy stories about missing Miao girls.’ I saved your life by keeping you hidden, but he just wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Talked non-stop, too. Accompanied by a silent rough-looking youth with murder in his eyes. We had to forcibly evict them when the one who talked at a gallop refused to tell me what his true purpose was. So, come now, teacher! Your life has been preserved once. We need to know what’s going on.”

  Feng withdrew his hand. So Jinjin had betrayed him! He thought about Merchant Chang ending up dead after paying a visit to the local Buddhist Temple - assuming he had gone there - and of Magistrate Minsheng playing mole in the monastery - if that had been his true purpose for pretending to be a monk. He pictured the bodies of White Tiger League victims placed gruesomely on display outside Chang’an temples, his included. Never before had he felt so utterly detached from what he’d always regarded as his karma on the path to enlightenment: simply to bring knowledge to the poor and the humble, girls included, who made up the real China. Why not admit defeat and concoct some elaborate story like the poets of old, beg for a horse to take him back to Houzicheng and the Miao village and to Feier?

  He knew why. Until recently, his chief purpose in life had been to find a worthy match for his daughter. Now this could only be achieved by solving the accursed business of the disappearing Miao girls and gaining favour with the emperor.

  ***

  The thing she’d so dreaded happened.

  The brightening sky in the east heralded the approach of dawn as she stood early one morning at the door of the farmer’s home, aglow with anticipation of another daily walk to the Han village and back with Angwan. All was well with her life. She enjoyed both teaching and working in the fields for farmer Li; the villagers were gracious towards her, respectful of her learning for one so young... and she was in love. Angwan, too, it seemed.

  He’d almost told her as much. So why was it not him leading the troupe of gabbling boys that emerged from beyond the bamboo grove that day? The sound of their excited voices growing from the silence always gave her a curious thrill, a reassurance, for it reminded her of their burgeoning love. Ugly maybe to others, the children’s shrill voices had seemed like music serenading the twelve li dawdle to the Han village side by side with Angwan. When she saw it wasn’t Angwan who led the boys that morning, but Old Xiang, Xiaopeng’s crabby uncle who’d not yet learnt how to smile during his long and miserable life, her heart dropped like a falling temple bell. By way of explanation, he merely grunted at her in Miao.

  No further words were exchanged as they trailed behind the unruly caterpillar of chattering children, past the rice fields, over the humpy hill and beyond the lotus lake and the monastery to Feier’s village. Old Xiang left her and the children in the schoolroom of her father’s house, and Feier struggled to concentrate during the lessons. The children, Han and Miao, sensed this and took advantage, with a whispering that crescendoed to shouting and giggling. They started to throw things about. A mix of relief and trepidation gripped the girl when Old Xiang returned with village elder, Hu.

  Hu took her to one side whilst Old Xiang instilled fear into the children. The grumpy uncle told them he’d been listening to their racket in the courtyard and several would feel the full force of his bamboo rod on their backs when they got home. Tears of shame trickled from Feier’s pretty eyes even before Hu explained the reason for his presence.

  This had nothing to do with her lack of control during class. She learned that the mean-faced marriage maker had found a match for her and she was to pin up her hair. In her father’s absence, he, the most senior village elder, had the authority to see her married off. Unless the teacher returned within three moons, she would be wedded to Zhang Tsiense, a miserable old cripple whose wife, it was rumoured, died from overwork and beatings. The man wanted to produce a son before joining his ancestors.

  When they got back to the Miao village the girl knew that Angwan’s absence, Old Xiang’s presence and the arranged shock-betrothal to the cripple were linked: retribution for failing to hide her passion for the young Miao priest. How could her beloved father ever forgive her?

  ***

  The sun had already risen when Kong returned the following morning with a bundle of food and a jug of water. The water was not for drinking but for something Jinjin had planned, although he’d have preferred a sharper knife than the blunt implement ‘borrowed’ from Wenling. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, his tools - knife, shallow dish and ink block - spread out on a cloth in front of him, he carved out a wedge of ink and worked it into a paste with dribbles of water. The other boy, transfixed, stared as Jinjin began painstakingly to cut an image onto the back of his right hand, working the ink paste into the red lines. Being left-handed gave him an advantage. First the head with its open jaws, the teeth, the eyes, then the curves of the crouched body and those powerful limbs preparing for the death leap. Finally, the curled-up tail, that instrument of balance and of warning.

  “A tiger?” Kong sounded puzzled.

  “Not just a tiger. A white tiger!” Jinjin announced, proudly taking in the beauty and power of his creation. With his keen memory, he knew every detail to be exact. The copy was perfect.

  “But why?”

  “Why? Have you no pretty young girls in your town here? Has your jade stem never once been stirred?”

  “Yeah, all the time,” replied Kong. “But a girl for me. an orphaned urchin? Any that get thrown into the street are snapped up more quickly than a snake could strike a rat. Best I can ever hope for will be some worn out old hag. Keep my eyes closed then, I shall, and imagine what she might have looked like in another life.”

  Jinjin grinned.

  “Well, this tiger will get me the most beautiful girl in our province. No! I’ll be bold. In the whole of China. Her father’s a teacher.”

  “Wow! Can I have one too? Er... one of those tiger things, I mean.”

  Jinjin looked the lad up and down. At long last someone who respected him. Kong had large hands, seemed strongly built and eager to please.

  “Could be a death warrant,” Jinjin replied.

  “A girl? Can you die having sex?”

  Jinjin chuckled. What a great and tragic poem that would make, his life drained from him with his jade stem thrust deep inside Teacher Feng’s legendary daughter!

  “I think not. You can only get a greater qi force by being with a girl,” he answered. “See, there are those who might wish to see all White Tigers dead as there are others who would kow-tow to us. If you join me you could die - or you might gain riches way beyond a night with a pretty little street girl.”

  The other boy’s eyes betrayed uncertainty as he pulled up his sleeve and offered Jinjin the back of his right hand.

  “Of course, there’s a third possibility,” Jinjin teased whilst carefully fashioning an identical tiger on the back of Kong’s hand. Kong, wincing, looked up anxiously. “The White Tigers might kill you.”

  “But.?”

  “A fox disguised as a chicken invading a farmer’s yard is one thing, but two chickens disguised as foxes creeping into their den.?” “I d
on’t understand.”

  “You don’t have to. The less you know the better. Just bundle our provisions and wait outside the monastery gate. Let me know when two men and a cart set off.”

  “What’s in the cart?”

  “Petals.” “Petals?”

  “Yeah! Petals! Now go!”

  Kong left. When he returned he was carrying a pole loaded with provisions across his shoulders.

  “They just came out. Heading in the direction of Chang’an,” he announced excitedly.

  Jinjin and his newly acquired ‘servant’ soon caught up with the cart. They followed from a safe distance, though the trader and Chen Jiabiao were far too engrossed in animated conversation to notice a pair of urchins trailing them. A cover in the back of the cart rose up like a gui as one of the ‘petals’ struggled to find a more comfortable position, and Jinjin explained his plan to Kong: they would masquerade as White Tigers after arriving at their destination, find out where the girl Xiaopeng was being held, make their way to Chang’an and seek out Teacher Feng.

  It seemed so easy. The boys followed the cart for several days, scrounging water, begging for or stealing food, finding shelter wherever they could. Jinjin treated his servant as would any mandarin, bossing, teasing and criticising.

  “Shhhh!” he warned when they emerged from a dense wood to behold a vast camp of tents spread out on the plain below.