The Concubine's Daughter (47 page)

S
iu-Sing could tread the
marsh as silently as a blue heron, so that she sometimes saw that which she was not meant to see. She was deep in the reeds late on a hot afternoon, finished with her studies and catching shrimp for the pot, when she heard the pleasant lilt of a girl’s soft laughter close by. She traced it quietly, suddenly wondering if she would find the owner of the voice wearing a plain jade bangle on her wrist. Through the curtain of reeds, a young Hakka girl, stripped of her clothes, stood in the center of a small clearing. Her naked body, always well protected from the sun in the custom of her people, shone white as a lily.

A tall stack of reeds tied into bundles served as a makeshift bed, the girl’s rough work clothes tossed on top of them. The air was sweet with the scent of rising sap from freshly severed stalks, lending an air of magical secrecy to this place so hidden from the world. The girl bent to wash her arms and neck with clean cold water, tossing wet hair over her strong shoulders.

She seemed to be speaking to someone Sing could not yet see. Her long pigtail starkly black against her pale back, she stood with her face tilted to the sky, beads of water glistening on her breasts. The laughing voice that carried softly, with words that Sing could not quite hear, was answered by the voice of a man. The girl turned toward it, showing a face that was still young, tossing the hair from her eyes and playfully shielding her breasts with her hands.

A man stepped into view, taller and older, his upper body uncovered and browned by the sun. He stepped close to her, her arms eager to
reach for him. Siu-Sing found herself unable to look away. What unfolded was not entirely a mystery; she had seen similar things among goats, one mounting the other in just such a way. She watched in silence, strangely affected by the sounds of their pleasure.

In her bed that night, it was hard to forget what she had seen, and it was not something she would wish to speak of with Master To. He had said that a warrior was neither male nor female, and that upon the rock they were the same, but she would not always be upon the rock. She wondered if one day something like this would happen to her, and could not deny a keen curiosity. Would she have breasts like those someday? She cupped her own, barely formed but clearly growing. Would she grow hair like the Hakka girl? It did not seem likely as she felt the sprouting tuft, as soft as thistledown, between her legs. She heard the steady breathing of Master To in his corner of the hut, and tried to contain this new wonder without making a sound.

Hours later, after falling into a deep sleep, Sing awakened to discover spots of blood on her hands and in her bed. Only then did she feel fear at what she had done. She should have known such secret pleasure was not possible without punishment. She had wounded herself, and should it heal, she would never again think of the man’s brown body so dark against white skin, or listen to the sounds of pleasure.

That Master To knew all things past, present, and future was made clear that morning. When meditation and practice were over and they sat beneath the pear tree to eat the morning congee, he spoke in the voice of her
si-fu
. “You were not as strong or as fast on the rock today. Has something happened to tire you so?”

Sing could find no ready answer. How could she tell him of the injury that cramped her stomach and bled like an open wound? He reached across to cover her hand with his, patting it as he had done when she had hardly left the peach-wood crib.

“I believe last night you became a young woman… . I saw the signs. You must not hide such things from me; I am your
si-fu
, but I am also father and mother, brother and sister to you now, and we need hide no
secrets. On the rock you are the disciple Red Lotus, but here you are the Little Star, a pretty girl like any other.”

“Thank you,
si-fu
, but is this thing a punishment? Have I offended the gods?”

“No, it is their blessing, to prepare you for the pain when you have children of your own.” He spoke patiently, unruffled by her curiosity. “The blood you shed may one day create a child, and you may know the pleasures that make it so. These feelings are natural, but you must control them if you are to achieve everything you have worked for.”

Relieved to know she would not die of her wounds, Siu-Sing was almost tempted to speak of what she had seen in the reed beds—to ask if it was wrong to be so curious at the sight of a man without his clothes. She decided that as this had been witnessed in concealment and secrecy, it should remain so, and the answer to such questions must be found within her own heart and mind if such a moment ever came.

Sing’s faith in Master To’s teachings was so complete that she seldom felt the need to question him. When she did, he would answer only if he considered the question worthy of a reply. If not, he would tell her to seek the answer for herself. Sing found her own questions and sought her own answers in all that she could. But one day she found herself asking, “
Si-fu
, I have practiced on the rock for many seasons and begin to understand the Way of the Empty Hand. But when I go from here and we no longer greet the sun together, how will I practice my skills?”

“Life will not always allow you the time or the place.” He tapped his forehead with a fingertip and placed the other over his heart. “You must practice in here, and in here; no one can take this from you. No matter where you are, there will always be a new day dawning, always a stillness before the sunrise. In the hour before daylight, the world is yours alone. In your heart and mind you will return to the rock … you will see the crane on the sandbar and the tiger in the reed bed. You will watch them in mortal combat and see why the crane is triumphant. You are the crane and you will never fall. It is called spiritual boxing.”

Master To took an amulet from around his neck, placing it in the palm of her hand. It was a circle of jade carved with the crane and the tiger, its chain minutely woven in links of black, bronze, and silver, as light and glinting as a cord of silk. It felt hot in Sing’s hand as she studied it.

“Jade is known by the wise as tears of heaven … by the warrior as blood of the dragon. They say its contact with the skin adds to its luster, that it holds the life-force of its wearer, and that the strength of those who have gone before us can be called upon in combat.

“This has been worn by many masters. See how it has become green as moss on a sacred tree through the greatness of their chi. The chain is woven from their hair—eight strands from each master handed down to his disciple. It is protected by the power of their spirits. When I leave you, I will add eight hairs from my own head, and the amulet will be passed to you.”

“I would not wish to see the sun rise without you by my side.” Sing could not contain her feeling, although she knew she must try.

“The sun will rise just as surely and splendidly when I am not beside you. I do not teach you to become dependent upon me or any other, but to stand alone and follow your own path without fear or hesitation.” His words were not spoken angrily but with a hint of warning.

At the entrance to the rock, shaded by mimosa, a fallen log acted as a seat when the time came to rest. Master To sat upon it now, inviting Sing to sit beside him. He filled two cups from a crock of ginseng tea, handing one to her. “In two more years your training as my disciple will be complete, and it will be time for our departure to the world beyond the mountains. I will be beside you if I can, but if this is not to be, then you must travel without me. You must find within yourself the faith to face the world. But you will never be alone; the spirit of the White Crane will always travel with you no matter where you go or whatever lies ahead.” He sipped the tea, his eyes intent upon her face.

His smile is gone
, thought Sing. His steady blue eyes searched hers for a moment before he spoke. “It is the way of
wu-shu
to prepare the last disciple for all things. The master must decide if that disciple is worthy to learn the deepest of advanced secrets before he passes on.

“It is called
di-muk
—the touch of death.” His voice was low and level, his eyes unwavering. “There are nine points of the human body that, when struck by an adept, can cause the instant death or permanent immobilization of your adversary.” He waited for Sing to absorb the power of his words, his eyes probing her slightest response. “This can only be taught to the most trusted and skilled disciples. This is why I could no longer teach Ah-Keung. The death touch must never be placed in uncertain hands, or the master must answer to Kuan-Kung, the god of war.

“You have earned my trust and my respect, and for this I will teach you
di-muk
. For two years this will be included in our daily practice … one single blow that must be used only if your life is threatened.” He paused. “To take another’s life is to invite the ghost of the defeated to take revenge. Only you can make this decision in such a circumstance.

“I can tell you, however, that the last disciple of Master To will never lack for help.” He reached into his robe, taking from some hidden pocket a slim canister of bamboo. “This contains eight scrolls. It is only eight inches long and eight inches in circumference, yet it contains the answers to all that I and the masters gone before me have asked of the universe. Eight hundred years of wisdom reside in this small space. It is called Pa-Tuan-Tsin—the Precious Set of Eight—which the immortals say holds the secret of longevity.” He unscrewed the lid and held it up for her to see. “This was carved by a distant forefather in the Temple of Shoalin from the sacred tree that once shaded the Lord Buddha.”

He removed a tightly rolled scroll of parchment, unfolding an inch or two to show that it was covered by the tiniest of calligraphy. “When I was young my eyes were clear as a hawk’s, so sharp I could write my name on a grain of rice. I was a novice in the monastery, and time was my closest companion.”

He replaced the scroll and the wooden lid, screwing it tightly. “It also contains a letter sealed with my chop. If I am no longer with you and you are in need of guidance, you will take this to Master Xoom-Sai, abbot of Po-Lin, the Temple of the Precious Lotus on Lantau Island, close to the Golden Hill. You will give him your temple name. If the time comes, you must seek his help, and it will be freely given.”

“How will I know if the time has come to go to him?”

“You will know, Red Lotus. You will know. Sooner or later, the tiger always comes to the crane.”

Crisp breezes played across the slopes as Siu-Sing climbed to the Place of Clear Water with an armful of peach blossoms. She stood for a moment to look back across the lake. The air was clear and sharp; the mountains seemed much closer and there was snow on the peaks. Wood smoke rose from the reed-cutters’ fires, driven this way and that by sudden gusts.

She was thirteen years old today, and her training was complete. The time had come at last; in two days they would leave the lake for the Golden Hill, Hong Kong. Master To had given her a bundle of joss sticks and a red candle to take to Paw-Paw’s grave. “I traded a rare mushroom for the joss sticks and healed a bunion for the candles. You may go alone to pay your last respects… . I have already spoken with my cousin. She is happy in the company of her clan and will watch over you as she watched over your mother.”