Bridge Of Birds (4 page)

“
Ku
poison!” the abbot exclaimed.

Now the bonzes checked every reference to ginseng, which meant almost every page because
at one time or another the plant had been prescribed for almost every ailment known to
man, but nowhere was there a reference to a Great Root of Power. We had reached a dead end.

Li Kao suddenly smacked the table and jumped to his feet.

“Back to Pawnbroker Fang's office at the warehouse!” he commanded, and he started up the
stairs at a trot, with the rest of us at his heels. “The Guild of Pawnbrokers represents
the world's second-oldest profession, and their records are older than the oracle bones of
An-yang. The Guild publishes lists of extremely rare and valuable items that might escape
the untutored eye, and a Great Root of Power, if such a thing exists, will probably be
worth ten times its weight in diamonds and will look like a dog turd,” he explained. “A
fellow like Fang would undoubtedly subscribe to the entire list, in hopes of swindling an
heir who does not know the value of his inheritance.”

He trotted rapidly down the path and through the door of the warehouse, and then he
trotted right over the spot where two bodies should have been lying.

“Those fellows?” he said in answer to our stunned expressions. “Oh, they got up and took
to their heels a long time ago.”

I grabbed the abbot and held him, but Big Hong and a number of others were closing in on
the ancient sage in a menacing manner.

“Do you mean that you knew all along that those murderers were faking their suicides?” the
abbot roared.

“Of course, but one should be careful about charging them with murder. So far as I know,
they haven't killed anyone yet, and they certainly never intended to,” Master Li said
calmly. “Reverend Sir, have you considered the plight of Pawnbroker Fang's children? His
daughter will probably die, but even if she recovers, what sort of a life could she look
forward to when she discovered that her father had been torn to pieces by the people of
her own village? Her little brother would be condemned to a life of shame at the age of
five, which seems a trifle unfair. Surely there is a family that will care for innocent
children, and explain that their father was only trying to improve the silk, but that he
made a mistake and ran away, and all is forgiven.”

I released the abbot, who bowed to the sage, and Big Hong cleared his throat.

“My wife and I will take Fang's Flea,” he said huskily. “Fawn, too, if she lives. They
will have a loving home.”

“Good man,” said Master Li. “As for Pawnbroker Fang and Ma the Grub, why not let them
punish themselves? Greed such as theirs gnaws at the vitals like packs of rats, day and
night, never ceasing, and when they arrive in Hell they will have already experienced
whatever torments the Yama Kings may decree. Now let's get to work.”

Fang's files were so extensive that they filled two large cabinets and a trunk, and the
abbot found the first reference to a Root of Power. We had no idea whether it was the same
as a Great Root of Power. The bonzes found three other references, but only one of them
was contemporary.

“Thirty years ago, at a price of three hundred talents, which I cannot possibly believe, a
Root of Power was sold to the Ancestress,” said the abbot, looking up from his lists.
“There is no further mention of it, and I assume that it is still in the dear lady's
possession.”

Li Kao looked as though he had bitten into a green persimmon.

“If that woman laid eyes on me, she'd have my head in two seconds,” he said sourly. Then
he had second thoughts. “Come to think of it, it would be a miracle if she recognized me.
She couldn't have been more than sixteen when I was summoned to the emperor's palace, and
that was a good fifty years ago.”

“Master Li, you were summoned by an emperor?” I asked with wide eyes.

“Several, but this particular one was old Wen,” he said. “In the carefree days of my youth
I once sold him some shares in a mustard mine.”

We stared at him.

“A mustard mine?” the abbot said weakly.

“I was trying to win a bet concerning the intelligence of emperors,” he explained. “When I
was summoned to court I assumed that I was going to be rewarded with the Death of Ten
Thousand Cuts, but Emperor Wen had something else in mind. Oddly enough, it was
sericulture. Some barbarians were trying to learn the secret of silk, and the emperor
thought that they might be getting close to the truth. 'Li Kao,' he commanded, 'sell these
dogs a mustard mine!' It was one of the most ghastly experiences of my life.”

Li Kao turned and trotted back out the door, and we followed like sheep as he started back
toward the monastery. I was learning that there were many sides to Master Li, and I
listened with fascination.

“I had to turn their brains to butter with strong wine, and every morning I pried my
eyelids open and glared at red-bearded barbarians who were snoring in puddles of vomit,”
he said. “They had the constitutions of billy goats, and it was a month and a half before
I was able to persuade them that silk is extracted from the semen of snow-white dragons
that breed only in caverns concealed in the mysterious Mongolian glaciers. Before sailing
away with the sad news, their leader came to see me. He was an oaf named Procopius, and
the wine had not improved his appearance. 'O great and mighty Master Li, pray impart to me
the Secret of Wisdom!' he bawled. A silly smile was sliding down the side of his face like
a dripping watercolor, and his eyeballs resembled a pair of pink pigeon eggs that were
gently bouncing in saucers of yellow wonton soup. To my great credit I never batted an
eyelash. Take a large bowl,' I said. 'Fill it with equal measures of fact, fantasy,
history, mythology, science, superstition, logic, and lunacy. Darken the mixture with
bitter tears, brighten it with howls of laughter, toss in three thousand years of
civilization, bellow
kan pei
- which means ”dry cup“ - and drink to the dregs.' Procopius stared at me. 'And I will be
wise?' he asked. 'Better,' I said. 'You will be Chinese.' ”

Li Kao led the way back to the infirmary and slowly walked up the long line of beds.
Weariness bowed his shoulders, and in the bright morning sunlight his wrinkled skin was
nearly transparent.

The children of Ku-fu looked like wax effigies. Fang's Fawn had always been pretty, but
now the bone structure was showing beneath her smooth skin. She was exquisite as a carving
in white jade is exquisite, without warmth or life. On the bed next to her was a
woodcutter's daughter named Bone Helmet, a thin, plain girl who had been gentle and
loving. Since she had been old enough to thread a needle, she had worked on her father's
burial garment, and he had proudly worn it at every festival, and now the heartbroken
father had dressed his daughter in his own garment. Bone Helmet looked incredibly small
and helpless in a blue silk robe that was five times too big for her, and the irony of
“longevity” that she had embroidered over it in gold thread was not very funny.

Favorite toys had been placed near each child's limp hands, and the parents sat silent and
helpless beside the beds. Mournful howls drifted up from the village, where lonesome dogs
were searching for their young masters.

Li Kao sighed and straightened his shoulders and beckoned for me to come closer. “Number
Ten Ox, I have no idea whether or not a Root of Power is the same as a Great Root of
Power, and for all I know the only use for such a thing is to mix it with glue and use it
to repair sandals,” he said quietly. “Two things I do know. Anyone who tries to steal a
valuable item from the Ancestress is begging for an unpleasant death, and I am now too old
to attempt it without having some muscle to back me up. I have accepted your five thousand
copper cash, and you are my client, and the decision is yours.”

“Master Li, when do we leave?” I asked eagerly.

I was ready to race out the door, but he looked at me wryly.

“Ox, if the children die suddenly there is nothing that we can do about it, and if the
textbook prognosis holds true, they should last for months. The worst thing that we could
do would be to arrive at our destination weary and unprepared,” he said patiently. “I'm
going to get some rest, and if you can't sleep, perhaps the abbot will be kind enough to
expand your education on the subject of the quest. Ginseng is the most interesting as well
as the most valuable plant in the whole world.”

He yawned and stretched.

“We'll have to go back through Peking to pick up some money, and we'll leave at the first
watch,” he said.

Li Kao lay down in the bonzes' bedchamber. I had never been so wide awake in my life. The
abbot took me into his study for instruction, and what I learned about ginseng was so
interesting that I was almost able to forget the children for an hour.

No medicinal plant is quite so controversial, the abbot explained. There are eminent
physicians who swear that it is no more effective than strong tea, and there are those who
swear that it is effective in treating anemia, cachexia, scrofula, gastrointestinal
catarrh, and malfunctions of the lungs, kidneys, liver, heart, and genital organs. Long
ago when the plant was plentiful, peasants would mix the ginseng root with owl brains and
turtle fat and smear the mixture over the heads of patients to cure insanity, or blend it
with the powdered horns of wapiti deer and sprinkle it over the patients' chests to cure
tuberculosis. Strangest of all is the viewpoint of the professional ginseng hunter,
because for him it is not a plant but a religion.

The legends are quite marvelous. Ginseng hunters refer to the plant as
chang-diang shen
, “the root of lightning,” because it is believed that it appears only on the spot where a
small mountain spring has been dried up by a lightning bolt. After a life of three hundred
years the green juice turns white and the plant acquires a soul. It is then able to take
on human form, but it never becomes truly human because ginseng does not know the meaning
of selfishness.

It is totally good, and will happily sacrifice itself to aid the pure in heart. In human
form it can appear as a man or as a beautiful woman, but more often it takes the form of a
child, plump and brown, with red cheeks and laughing eyes. Long ago, evil men discovered
that a ginseng child can be captured by tying it with a red ribbon, and that is why the
plant is now so hard to find, the hunters say. It has been forced to run away from evil
men, and it is for that reason that ginseng hunting has become one of the most hazardous
occupations upon the face of the earth.

The ginseng hunter must display the purity of his intentions right from the start, so he
carries no weapons. He wears a conical hat made from birch bark, and shoes of tarred
pigskin, and an oiled apron to protect him from dew, and a badger skin attached to his
belt, on which he sits when the ground is wet. He carries small spades made from bone and
two small pliable knives that are quite useless for defense. Along with a little food and
wine, that is all he has, and his quest takes him into the wildest mountains where no men
have dared to pass before. Tigers and bears are his companions, and the hunter fears
strange creatures that are even more dangerous than tigers - such as the tiny owls that
will call him by name and lead him into the Forest of Oblivion from which no man returns,
and the bandits that are more brutal than savage bears and who crouch beside the few paths
in order to murder an unarmed hunter and steal his roots.

Ginseng hunters, when they have thoroughly searched an area and found nothing, will mark
the barks of trees with
kao chu kua
, which are tiny secret signs that tell other hunters not to waste their time there.
Hunters would not dream of deceiving each other, because they are not competitors but
fellow worshippers. Where a find has been made a shrine is raised, and other hunters who
pass will leave offerings of stones, or scraps of cloth. If a hunter finds a plant that is
not mature enough he will put stakes around it with his mark on them. If other hunters
find the place they will pray and offer gifts, but they would rather cut their throats
than take the plant for themselves. The behavior of a man who makes a find is very strange.

A weatherworn, clawed, half-starved ginseng hunter will occasionally have the good fortune
to make his way through dense underbrush and come upon a small plant with four branches
that have violet flowers and a fifth branch in the center that rises higher than the
others and is crowned with red berries. The stalk is deep red, and the leaves are deep
green on the outside and pale green on the inside, He will drop to his knees, his eyes
streaming with tears, and spread his arms wide to show that he is unarmed. Then he will
kowtow and bang his head three times upon the ground, and he will pray,

“O Great Spirit, do not leave me! I have come with a pure heart and soul, after freeing
myself from sins and evil thoughts. Do not leave me.”

Then the hunter covers his eyes and lies still for many minutes. If the ginseng plant does
not trust him, and wishes to change into a beautiful woman or a plump brown child and run
away, the hunter does not want to see where it has gone. At length he opens his eyes, and
if the plant is still there his joy is not so much from the fact that he has found a
valuable root as it is from the fact that he has been judged and found to be pure in heart.

He takes the seeds and carefully replants them so that the ginseng can grow again. The
leaves and flowers are stripped and ceremoniously burned, with many prayers. The hunter's
bone spades are used to dig up the root, which is forked and has something of a human
shape - skeptics point to the shape as the basis of an ignorant folk religion - and the
small pliable knives are used to clean the tiny tendrils called beards, which are supposed
to be crucial to the curative powers. The root is wrapped in birch bark and sprinkled with
pepper to keep insects away, and the happy hunter begins the long, dangerous trek back
toward the safety of civilization.