Jake Maroc - Shan Part 13

The sea lapped at the hull of the junk as it always had; the stars, hidden behind the rain clouds, continued to wink down, cold enigmatic signals. The universe continued, uncaring, used to human suffering.

Jake s.h.i.+vered. He was cold, sitting in the darkness. The rain beat against him, drumming along the deck, and though he was aboard his uncle's junk in Aberdeen Harbor he knew that he was on that legendary mountainside that Zilin had spoken of.

Father! Oh, Father! There had been so little time!

He was weeping now, his tears mingling with the chill rain. He bent over Bliss's insensate form, rocking her, but also rocking himself.

Shan, he thought. It rose black and forbidding in the symbolic geography of his mind.

The mountain.

Summer 1945-Winter 1949 Chunking/Yenan/Peking There was a time when all things were possible.

Like a fable come to lifean eerily twisted Far East Arthurian mythosthere was an era in China when great dragons roamed the mountainsides, when thunder cracked the sky, when rivers ran red with blood. It was a time for heroes and villains.

And it was the time when Zilin returned to lifeand also where the seeds of his death were sown. And all because of a girl.

On the face of it, it seems impossible. And yet, though it occurred in modern times, this was a period in which not only heroes but an ancient form of magic manifested itselfperhaps at the behest of the celestial guardians of China.

Nowadays Chongqing, sitting at the confluence of the Yangtze and Jialing rivers, is a modern, bustling town of wide streets, indifferent architecture, the rocky promontory on which it was built angling steeply into the waters filled with sampans and produce-bearing junks.

In those days of dragons and lightning, when the town was still known as Chungking, it was built on stilts, and composed of tiny, cream-colored houses with slate-gray tiled roofs. Bowed-backed women in straw hats carried f.a.ggots of wood or open baskets filled with raw tea up narrow lanes.

Then as now the summers in Chungking were stifling, and people not used to such weather sought the sanctuary of the lower reaches of the shade-shrouded Jinyun Shanthe Red Silk Mountain.

On a day late in August 1945, Mao Zedong and his circle were settled at Number 50 Zengjiayan. They had made the journeyMao's first by planeto meet with Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek and the amba.s.sador from President Roosevelt, Major General Patrick J. Hurley. They were meeting to hammer out a compromise between the two Chinese factions.

Roosevelt had been outspoken against a resumption of the civil war that had been put on hold only by the larger global struggle. But privately, Roosevelt feared Mao and the ideology he espoused.

Mao, too, was inclined toward a compromise with Chiang. He was well aware of how war had depleted China of its natural resources. His own fear was for the future of his country. He knew that China desperately needed to industrialize if it was to compete in the postwar international arena. To do this, he knew, China would require foreign capital.

But the wily Chiang was already ahead of Mao on this score. Only days before, he had signed the Sino-Soviet Treaty of Friends.h.i.+p and Alliance. In addition, playing upon the well-diagnosed American phobia against Communism, Chiang had made alliances with the United States as well.

In Zilin's mind, at least, Chiang had made a grave error. "His feet straddle two divergent paths," Zilin had told Mao on the flight south, "and this could prove disastrous for China, should he continue to represent the country."

"In a coalition such as the one I have in mind," Mao said, "he could at least be controlled."

"I seriously doubt that, Mao tong zhi. He who controls the army, Chiang has often said, rules the nation. As long as he believes that, he will be intractable.

"American military advisers have been at Chiang's elbow, whispering their expertise into his ear. At the other elbow stand Stalin and Molotov. The Russians are already sweeping through Manchuria. They destroy our common foe, the j.a.panese, yes, but do they not also have another, more sinister reason for invading Manchuria? They covet that territory, Mao tong zhi,"

Mao had been silent for a long time. Ever since the incident in the mountains of Yunnan two years ago, when Zilin's military strategy had defeated the arm of the Nationalist army Chiang had sent to destroy the then rebel leader and his upstart peasant army, Mao had kept his eye on Zilin, a most remarkable man.

It was Mao who gave the orders; thus, it became Mao's strategy, the victory his, and because of it, Mao's renown had spread through the southern provinces like wildfire. Even Mao could not say how many men had been recruited into the army because of that one victory. He only knew that in 1936, his forces were hovering around the eighty-thousand mark. Now the regular army numbered almost one million, and the militia was over double that figure.

Zilin had never asked to be known as the decision-maker; he had never even asked for recompense of any sort. In fact, when Mao wanted to elevate him in ministerial rank Zilin had refused.

"I thank you, Mao tong zhi," Zilin had said, "but the humility of a lowly station is useful. It serves to remind me of our place in the world." He bowed his head. "If, on occasion, you and I speak and the product of our thoughts is constructive then that is sufficient." He smiled and Mao was to get one of his few glimpses into the workings of the inner man. "Besides, I think you will agree that you have enough public advisers as it is. I believe that I can be more useful to you and to the cause if I remain hidden in the shadows, unknown and unnamed."

Mao sighed now, gazing down at the landscape of his beloved China.

"We are in an untenable position," he said to Zilin. "We need outside help. The Soviets fear us. As you know, both Stalin and Molotov have called us *margarine' Communists because I have not strictly followed Moscow's directives. Besides, they argue, a true Communist revolution comes about through the proletariat, not the peasants."

He grunted. "Our only hope is America. They are already here; they love to stick their noses into the internal affairs of other countries. I believe that our postwar industrialization should come about through free enterprise. They'll like that. They have money, far more than the Soviets a if we maneuver them properly I think we can get our capital from them. Toward that end I want you to spend time with this amba.s.sador's aide of theirs, Ross Davies. He was a major once and, from what I hear, a good one. Speak to him of Sun Tzu. Maybe, though he is a foreign devil, he will recognize a kindred spirit through the Art of War.

"I understand Amba.s.sador Hurley tells him everything. I want to know what President Roosevelt is thinking. I want to know whether he will back us."

Zilin held out no such hope for American aid. He knew that the Americans were very cleverly using Chiang as their cat's-paw in China simply because they could control him. They had no such illusions about Mao. "And what," Zilin said with this in mind, "will he do if a fire starts in China?"

"Let us set our minds," Mao said, "that there will be no fire."

But even if Mao had not had a specific mission for Zilin to accomplish he would not have wanted him at the bargaining table when he met with Chiang. Zilin's first wife, Mai, had been a.s.sistant to Sun ZhongshanDr. Sun Yat-sen. When, in 1925, Generalissimo Chiang broke with Sun's Guomindang, his strongarm men had returned to Shanghai, then the Guomindang's main base, and had destroyed them all.

Chiang's men had come for Mai in the night and had taken her away. Fearing for her safety, Zilin and Hu Hanmin had run after her and, confronting her abductors, Zilin had shot them down. But not before Mai herself had been killed.

Perhaps after all this time Chiang had forgotten the incident and the manhunt that had ensued. Mao did not know. But he was certain that he could not take the chance of the two coming face to face. He had, in fact, debated whether to take Zilin along with him at all. But in the end his need for the younger man outweighed the possible danger.

Zilin's first encounter with Ross Davies occurred early one morning. Zilin was in the midst of tai chi chuan. The air was very still. Although the sun had not yet crept above the rooftops, the air was already heavy with the day's moisture. Below, the river shone blue-white. Already sampans plied its currents. Somewhere down the narrow lane a c.o.c.k crowed.

Davies had awoken in a cold sweat. Sitting up in bed he had tried to get oxygen into his lungs. He looked around. It was dawn but it was not cool. He had been in China for some time but he had been unable to grow accustomed to the climate. Summer was the worst for him; he sweated through his clothes even at night.

He rose and, dressing hurriedly, went outdoors. His tiny room seemed to be closing in on him. Wiping the sweat from his face, he heard the c.o.c.k crowing and, in a moment, he became aware of Zilin at his exercises.

Davies had taken the book on Roman war tactics with him, intending to calm himself by reading beneath the shade of a tree. Now he stood in the dappled sunlight watching Zilin at his morning rituals.

It could not have been the first time that Davies had seen tai chi demonstrated but it was certainly the first time that he had seen it performed with such liquid, weightless grace.

This man was the only one of Mao's retinue on whom Hurley had not been able to get a military dossier. In fact, almost nothing was known about the man. Even his function within the Communist hierarchy and his relations.h.i.+p to Mao were unclear.

In the relative cool of the shade, Davies was sweating. He was a large man with an athlete's body that had not run to middle-age fat as many of his contemporaries' had, simply because Davies worked at it. He did forty-five minutes of strenuous calisthenics twice daily. Except during the summer in China when he found it too hot to do much of anything.

As he watched Zilin, he marveled. It was as if he had never seen the slow ritualized movements before. The man had no trouble breathing though he was in direct sunlight; Davies could discern not a bead of sweat anywhere on his exposed flesh.

At length, Zilin was done. He held the last position for what seemed to Davies an eternity. In the courtyard a breeze caught an eddy of dust, lifting it in a tiny devil at Zilin's feet. It was the only movement in the vicinity.

A dog barked and Zilin came out of what might have been a trance. He saw Davies standing on the doorstep, book in hand, and smiled.

"Good morning," Zilin said.

Davies nodded, somewhat embarra.s.sed. He wondered whether he had transgressed. Two-and-a-half years in China and he was still unsure about customs. "I was struck by your early morning exercises. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all." Zilin came across the courtyard to where Davies stood. "I don't mind company." He smiled as he had learned the foreign devil did. It put them at ease somehow, like animal signals. Zilin had read an account of the habits of the mountain gorillas of Africa. One approached them with eyes downcast and a neutral expression, to show that no aggressive intent was meant. Baring one's teeth on the other hand would surely bring instant attack.

Faan gwai loh, Zilin thought, foreign devilthey were much like gorillas: powerful and dangerous and primitive, and in dealing with them one had to make certain of their motivation if one were to make use of them.

"You speak English very well," Davies said, unaware of the condescension in his tone.

It is he who thinks of me as the monkey, Zilin thought. Ah, well, the civilized man must put up with all manner of boorishness in order to gain his ends with barbarian devils.

"I learned many years ago in Shanghai," Zilin said, as if nothing were amiss. "A friend from Virginia was good enough to be my patient teacher." A white lie but an excusable one under the circ.u.mstances. Davies's eyes lit up. "I'm from Virginia," he said. Which Zilin knew very well. "My family has a farm outside Roanoke. My father raises horses. Race horses. What is your friend's name?"

"Sawyer," Zilin said. "Barton Sawyer. His family, too, were farmers, though I don't believe they had anything to do with horses."

"I don't know the name," Davies said, obviously disappointed. "But Virginia's a big state and I haven't been home in some time. Since I was a young boy, actually."

Zilin, watching the expression softening Davies's features, thought, Well, at least some things remain universal. "You must miss Virginia as much as I miss Suzhou."

Davies gave a rueful smile and his face turned boyish. He had a wide, mobile mouth, clear blue eyes and the kind of straight patrician nose unheard of in Asia. His shock of curly reddish-blond hair covered the back of his neck in thoroughly unmilitary style. "I suppose I do." He took out a chased silver case, plucked out a cigarette. He offered one to Zilin, who politely refused. Davies struck a match. "I was once quite a fine equestrianhorseback rider."

Zilin suppressed the urge to grunt and hoot like an ape. Since he believes that I have a limited English vocabulary, he thought, I will not disabuse him of the notion. I may be able to make use of his ignorance in the future.

"Horses are something of an oddity in China," Zilin said. "I don't suppose there's been much chance to ride."

Davies laughed, blew out smoke. "Not a one."

"Well, perhaps there's a farm near here where we can find you" he bit back the word equis"a n.o.ble steed to ride."

"Really!" Davies came down off the steps, relinquis.h.i.+ng his added height advantage. *That would be most welcome. Quite fantastic, really." He thought a moment, tapping ash off his cigarette. "Look here, s.h.i.+ tong zhi, how would you like to learn how to ride?"

Not on your life, Zilin thought. With an inward shudder he imagined himself atop the gigantic creature. "That would be most interesting, Mr. Davies. I would like that."

Davies's blue eyes got shrewdor, Zilin thought, in his case, as close as they could come to shrewd. "Look here, would you consider teaching me tai chi chuan in exchange for equestrian lessons?"

A decade of plagues on your horses, Zilin thought. "A most splendid idea, Mr. Davies. I would be most pleased to a.s.sist you on such a worthy journey. Shall we say tomorrow at five thirty?"

Davies swallowed. "In the morning?"

Zilin gave a little bow. "You learn quickly, sir."

Davies thrust out his huge hand. "You've got a deal." Grinning just like a gorilla.

In fact, Ross Davies proved an exceptionally quick study. While there was nothing fast about tai chi, the American was swift to pick up on the mental aspects of the discipline. This surprised Zilin somewhat since it had been his experience that most foreign devils failed completely to understand the philosophic nature of tai chi, relegating it to the province of old men and those too infirm to apply themselves to a "real" discipline involving speed, strength and stamina.

The fact was that tai chi required great strength and stamina, since to perform exercises slowly took far more control and agility than to run through positions by rote. As for speed, one had to have it in order to keep it in check, as one did in tai chi. Besides, the mind was at work here, which made it a far cry from army calisthenics.

Davies brought up this point to Zilin at the beginning of their second week of morning meetings. "I start to do my jumping jacks," he said, "and in this weather I'm overheated within a minute or two. With tai chi, we can work at it for over an hour and I'm still comfortable. Yet my body feels as if it has gotten as complete a workout as if I'd done my full complement of calisthenics."

"I don't know much about what you call calisthenics," Zilin said. "But I do know that the body and the mind must be made one. Exercising the one without the other makes little sense."

They were sitting on a bench in the courtyard, sipping tea.

"I sleep better since I've started tai chi. I smoke less," Davies said. "And here, look"he drank back his tea"I can put away hot tea in the summertime and not break out in a sweat. What do you make of that, s.h.i.+ tong zhi?"

Zilin laughed. "That you're becoming Chinese."

He had made inquiries and had found them a farm. It was up near the slopes of Jinyun Shan, the Red Silk Mountain, where they harvested the area's fine Jinyun tea. Zilin supposed that was why the horse hadn't been killed and eaten. Here, because of the tonnage of the harvest, he was more valuable to the peasant family alive. Indeed, he was an excellent specimen, Davies a.s.sured Zilin on their first visit. He ate as well, if not better, than the family itself.

All the young menthere were five brotherswere off at war, leaving the father, who was close to Zilin's age, the mother and three daughters. Yes, indeed, that horse was important, their lone means of survival through the bleak years of the war. Up here on the fertile slopes of the shan, where mult.i.tudinous subtropical plants grew in riotous profusion, there were no mean seasons. The carefully cultivated tea grew strong and full, and in China there were always empty teacups to fill.

On their first visit, Zilin brought presents of fish and egg noodles, staples to a faan gwai loh such as Davies, but manna from heaven for the Pu family.

"Why don't you just give them some money?" Davies said. Prompting Zilin to think that, no matter how tempting, it is unproductive to believe that apes will ever be able to think.

To Davies's way of thinking there was an awful lot of bowing and palaver, considering these people were just a bunch of peasants. But he did what Zilin bade of him. These people may be peasants, he rationalized while on his knees, bowing, but they have a horse.

*This is some animal," he said sometime later, in the ramshackle structure that served as barn. He ran the flat of his hand across the animal's fetlock, feeling the long ropy muscles ripple beneath his palm. "I'm amazed they take such good care of him."

"Did you ever try to take a half ton of tea leaves down a mountainside on your back, Mr. Davies?"

Davies, continuing his a.s.sessment of the stallion, said, "I see what you mean."

"Accordingly, we must be extremely careful with this animal." Zilin made sure that he stood well away from the monster. He had no desire to be kicked in the head by this unthinking creature. "Without him, the Pus would most a.s.suredly starve or work themselves to death first."

"No problem," Davies said, and with a startlingly swift motion, he vaulted onto the stallion's back. There was a soft whinnying and a certain amount of nervous stamping which, had Davies been more observant, he would have seen panicked the other man. Zilin clung to a beam as if it were a spar off a broken s.h.i.+p, clutched in a storm.

Davies was bent over the stallion's arched neck. His hands gentled the creature while he spoke directly into its ear in a soft, singsong whisper.

In a moment, the horse was still, save for the odd reflexive s.h.i.+ver running down one leg or another. Davies urged it forward by a method unclear to Zilin.

He followed Davies and the horse cautiously out. It was near midday, the time when the family traditionally rested from its labors and the intense heat. It was no accident that Zilin had picked this time to take Davies here. He never would have thought to interrupt the family's daily routine with such an idiotic request as to borrow their precious animal, for sport.

The girls had come out of the house to watch the hideously tall faan gwai loh. They giggled and stared and one of them asked Zilin why if the barbarian's hair was on fire he didn't burn up.

Zilin watched in fascination as Davies bent forward and the horse leapt ahead, galloping along the steepening slopes, racing in and out of the singing trees. Birds called, scattering away from the pair's progress. Zilin saw the white tail of a rabbit bounding out of their way in a terrified zigzag.

He heard an odd sound. The Pu girls heard it, too, for they had fallen silent. And then Zilin knew. Buddha protect me, he thought, the barbarian is laughing. For a long time after that, Ross Davies's cries of sheer delight echoed down the slopes of Jinyun Shan where no such sound had ever been heard before.

In time, Davies returned. He came back at a slower pace which, he informed Zilin later, was important, since the animal needed to walk off the sweat of his galloping pace.

Davies, red-cheeked and grinning from ear to ear, swung off the stallion and said, "Now it's your turn."

Zilin's bowels turned to water. "What?"

Davies c.o.c.ked his head. "You don't think I've forgotten, do you, s.h.i.+ tong zhi? If you taught me tai chi, I promised to teach you how to ride."

Is this my reward for living an honorable life? Zilin thought. "It is getting rather late," he said. "Perhaps another day."

"Nonsense!" Davies patted the horse's back. "It's easy. Here, you're not as tall as I am so I'll give you a hand up." He laced his fingers tightly together and bent over. "Step right into there," he said. "Come on. You won't believe how much fun it can be."

"I don't know, Mr. Davies. The prospect seemed somehow more appealing back at Chungking."

"I understand," Davies said, his emotions so transparent Zilin could almost see the light bulb going on over his head. He swung back up on the stallion's back and leaned over. Before Zilin knew what was happening, he felt himself being pulled up behind the American.

"Just put your arms around my waist, s.h.i.+ tong zhi" Davies said and dug his boot heels into the horse's flanks.

Oh, Buddha, this will never work! Zilin thought. Such physical contact in public was for himas it was for all Chinesesomething one did not even contemplate.

But as they lurched forward, he was almost thrown off, sliding backward along the creature's sweat-slick back, and he reached desperately out, seeing how far below him the ground was. Terrified of falling, he wrapped his arms tightly around the barbarian, closing his eyes and praying that none of his ancestors were awake and watching this humiliation.