Five Odd Honors (15 page)

With the
blessings of the Nine Yellow Springs, the First Gate carried Albert Yu and his small entourage directly to the underworld.

Their initial step had carried them over the threshold of the pine door from which the gate had been made and deep into the heart of a cloud of fine particles. Pearl had felt the sting of the swirling dust against the skin of her face and hands—the only part of her skin her elaborate ceremonial shenyi left exposed.

As suddenly as it had arisen, the dust cloud dropped, momentarily fragmenting frozen sunlight, before vanishing entirely.

Pearl gripped the hilt of her sword, Treaty, and looked about her. There had been arguments—there were always arguments and debates when the Thirteen Orphans made a plan—about the rightness of carrying weapons before Yen-lo Wang.

“But I am the Tiger,” Pearl had said, thrusting the sword into its sheath as if daring anyone to remove it, “and a Tiger is never without her fangs and claws.”

No one had taken her challenge, and Pearl noted with a quiet smile that Shen carried at his belt the iron pen case that, like the Lama in Kipling’s
Kim,
he could use to do more than merely hold his pens, brushes, and ink. She wouldn’t be in the least surprised to learn that Albert and Deborah also carried weapons.

“Seems,” Deborah said, looking around as she smoothed down the skirts of her shimmering black shenyi with a restless gesture that showed she didn’t wear long skirts very often, “that someone is waiting for us over there. Several someones . . . I recognize Loyal Wind from our trip to find the Nine Yellow Springs, so I’d guess the others must be our remaining ghosts.”

Honey Dream, who had accompanied them after a series of intricate auguries had shown her presence could possibly be beneficial, said, “You’re right. The old woman standing next to Loyal Wind is Nine Ducks. She looks much happier than she did the last time I saw her.”

Honey Dream raised her voice slightly and called, “Greetings, Grandmother Ox. As a representative of three barred from their homelands without even the polite formality of an exile, I thank you and your associates for your assistance in our journey home.”

Nine Ducks smiled as she came forward, hands outstretched in familial greeting. As with all their company, the Ox was attired in a shenyi, the color of the fabric—in her case yellow—appropriate for her Earthly Branch affiliation. The embroidered designs showed not only the Ox in various poses—reclining, grazing, charging—but also various emblems invoking long life, good luck, happiness, and prosperity.

Behind Nine Ducks, in the order of their zodiac signs on the wheel, came the ghosts of three people. Two of them—the Snake and the Monkey—had died shortly before Pearl’s birth. The third, the Ram, had been one of the grand old ladies who ruled over various gatherings.

First came Gentle Smoke, the original Snake of the Thirteen Orphans. Gentle Smoke had been in her late seventies when she had died, but now she chose to appear much as she had at the time of the Exile—as a woman in her late forties.

How odd,
Pearl thought.
She looks so young, yet all the stories I heard about her when I was growing up stressed her advanced age at the time of the Exile—how fearing that menopause would rob her of her ability to bear an heir Gentle Smoke had seduced a local lord and made him father of her children.

Gentle Smoke was no va-va-voom beauty like her counterpart, Honey Dream. Small and very slim, she moved with almost boneless grace. Her features were elegant. The fashion in which she wore her glossy dark hair—pulled back from her face and gathered in an elaborate double-bun style—emphasized perfect cheekbones and a full-lipped mouth the damask hue of a newly opened rosebud.

Yes. No great beauty,
Pearl thought,
but a woman to make a man look twice and dream disquieting dreams. Combine this with a Snake’s supple tongue and no man, no matter how happily married, could long resist. And marital fidelity was not considered a necessity for a man.

Gentle Smoke bowed before Albert as would a highly ranked counselor before the emperor. The rest of them she offered a bewitching smile.

“Thank you for remembering me on all the feast days, especially when my granddaughter was forced by age to fail in her duties. I will gladly join in this venture—especially since an almost accidental side effect has been the awakening of my great granddaughter to her heritage.”

And so assuring that you and your family will not lack for offerings in the future,
Pearl thought.

When Gentle Smoke stepped back, Loyal Wind stepped forward and bowed before Albert. Pearl noticed that Loyal Wind’s bow was noticeably deeper than the carefully measured courtesy Gentle Smoke had offered. His greeting to the rest was also more humble.

He is still hurting. Aware of his failures more than where he has succeeded,
Pearl thought.
Good in some ways, but dangerous in others.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Loyal Wind said to Albert, “we have met after a fashion, when you summoned me into your presence.”

Albert inclined his head and graciously bowed in return. “I remember you, Loyal Wind, and thank you for the many times in these past few days you have come to our aid.”

Loyal Wind looked pleased. He gestured to one side. “May I present my partner on the Wheel? This is Copper Gong, the Ram.”

He motioned forward a very resolute looking woman clad in a sunflower yellow shenyi. Copper Gong was apparently in her mid thirties, although Pearl knew she had been almost eighty when she died. Apparently, like Gentle Smoke, Copper Gong was tightly focused on that time in her life when the Exile was new, and return home her greatest desire. Unlike Gentle Smoke, Copper Gong wore her hair simply, in a tight twist, eschewing any sense of feminine delicacy.

Copper Gong offered Albert a stiff bow.

“At last our descendants are set upon reopening our way into the Lands. I must apologize that my own lineage has fallen short of expectations, and offer my own services in their place.”

“Thank you,” Albert said.

Bent Bamboo, the Monkey, was the last to step forward and offer his bow before the emperor. There was no trace of the counterman at the ice cream parlor now, nor did Bent Bamboo seem to be dwelling on lost youth. He presented himself as a man of mature years, some silver in his hair, but not in the least decrepit.

His bearing was very formal, but laugh lines around his mouth and eyes showed his more playful side. Pearl felt a pang of sorrow at the thought of Waking Lizard, the Monkey from the Lands, and wondered where in the journey of transition from Life into Death that brave, merry, and curiously wise old Monkey was. All their auguries had been able to tell them was that on this journey, at least, they were not likely to meet Waking Lizard.

The judges of the underworld had better be kind to you, Waking Lizard,
Pearl thought fiercely.
Or I for one will be back to speak very sternly to them.

“Now that our company is assembled,” Albert said, “does anyone have any idea where we will find Yen-lo Wang?”

Gentle Smoke raised her arm and pointed with a perfectly manicured fingernail before letting her sleeve fall modestly over her hand. “I see the gates of the palace of the Fifth Hell where Yen-lo keeps his court.”

Pearl turned and looked in the direction Gentle Smoke had indicated. A rounded gateway was there, solid and yet somehow inviting passage through a thick, gently undulating wall of white masonry.

“How odd,” Pearl muttered. “I could have sworn there was no gate there a moment ago, not even the wall.”

Shen grinned at her. “I could have sworn that one step back—two at the most—I was standing in front of a completely average unfinished pine door set up in the middle of that little ware house of yours. Forget it, Ming-Ming. The rules we’re used to don’t apply here.”

Albert had been listening. Now he nodded, shifted his shoulders to settle the fall of his shenyi, and made a little shooing motion with his hands to direct each member of the company—living or ghost—to their appropriate position in his entourage.

“Aunt Pearl, you take point. Uncle Shen and Deborah, you flank me about a pace behind. Petitioners, arrange yourselves as you see fit. Let’s not keep Yen -lo Wang waiting.”

As Pearl led the way toward the arching gateway, its shape almost perfectly round except for the flat area at the open bottom, she considered what she knew about Yen-lo Wang.

There were many judges in the afterlife, a heritage of the varied and often contradictory tradition that the Taoists had adapted from their competitors—if not precisely rivals—the comparatively latecomer Buddhists.

This Yen-lo Wang whom they were seeking was thought by many scholars to be one and the same as Yama of the Hindus. Indeed, the judges of the various hells were often referred to jointly as the Yama Kings.

The Orphans had chosen to make their appeal to Yen-lo Wang, rather than to one of his numerous associates, because of a tradition that held that at one time Yen-lo Wang had been the highest ranking of all the judges, until the gods had noticed that Yen-lo Wang too often took pity on his human subjects, granting the guilty lighter penalties and elevating some of the more extraordinary to posts as demi-deities within his administration.

The three from the Lands also had been familiar with this tradition regarding Yen-lo Wang, a fact which seemed promising, for sometimes the traditions of the Lands Born from Smoke and Sacrifice and those of the Land of the Burning did not overlap—a thing that had frequently distracted Shen and Righteous Drum in the course of their research. Discrepancies occurred most often regarding those strange beasts and stranger spirits who were classified under the general term “hsien” in Chinese.

Hsien.
Pearl thought.
Spirits or fairies or demons or immortals, and sometimes all of these, depending on the translator and his or her cultural bias. Sometimes, from the way the Landers speak of them, I’ve had the impression that hsien are as common in the Lands as bathing suits on a summer beach. I wonder if they are more like fairies or demons?

Pearl had reached the rounded doorway. The gates stood invitingly open, swung inward as if to point them in the right direction. Try as she might, Pearl couldn’t recall if this had been the case when Gentle Smoke had first directed their attention to the gateway.

Carefully, without trying to look too suspicious of this good fortune, Pearl checked for guards or porters.

None were evident.

“That’s strange,” Shen said softly. “Most traditions hold that Yen-lo Wang’s court will be guarded and at the very least bribes must be offered in order to gain entry.”

“Maybe,” Deborah said in an equally soft voice, “we’ll run into the guards further in. Maybe this is just some sort of general entrance.”

“Maybe,” Albert agreed, but he sounded as if he expected trouble any minute.

They passed through the gate into the type of garden the Chinese loved beyond all others: a representation of Nature so stylized that it seemed more natural than the genuine article. Shrubs, trees, flowers, statuary, rocks, and even walls were all arranged to give the impression of vast space, verdant greenery, and potential surprises around every bend. Pearl’s own garden was designed in asimilar fashion. As she led the way along what was clearly the main walkway, she admired the artistry.

She itched to turn down this inviting path to see what lay at the end or to pause to read the short poem elegantly calligraphied on a piece of painted wood. However, Pearl was not the Tiger for nothing. She knew that the unmoving goat in the middle of a forest glade might be, in reality, the tethered bait of a trap.

So although tempted, Pearl didn’t pause, didn’t stray. With every measured pace, she kept alert to the possible wandering of those she led.

Everyone stayed close, however, perhaps goaded into wariness by the element that was markedly missing from the scene.

“I’ve seen fish,” Deborah said at last. “I’ve seen more types of birds than I can name. There are butterflies everywhere, dragonflies, too. I heard small dogs yapping a while back. I’m sure I saw a golden-brown monkey climbing a fruit tree, but where are the people?”

“There should be gardeners at least,” Shen agreed. “The human element is as natural to a Chinese garden as are flowers and decorative statuary.”

They had passed through yet another undefended passageway as he spoke, and now Honey Dream, who walked a few paces behind Deborah, cried out.

“There! Over there, among the azaleas. I saw a man.”

Pearl glanced in the direction Honey Dream indicated, years of training the only thing that kept her from scowling that a girl Snake might see more than a mature Tiger. Then Pearl relaxed.

The man Honey Dream had seen was indeed standing near a thicket of magnificent pink azaleas, but he was in the act of emerging from a small building neatly framed by the shrub, closing the doorway behind him.

The man was dressed as a minor court functionary, wearing a drab olive robe whose only adornments were deep borders at the sleeves. His long beard was liberally streaked with white. His headdress was black fabric shaped in a fashion that Pearl knew would tell the knowledgeable—of which she was not one—his precise place in the bureaucracy.