The Three Leaps of Wang Lun (38 page)

At that moment one of his regular customers stomped over the wooden boards, three others behind him. They clapped hands as they entered, beat them together over their shoulders; their fingers were numb from grasping halters. The host started to show them to seats; but Wang as the stranger stood up, introduced himself
and his companions, invited the water carriers to sit at his table; spoke of his friend, whom none of them recalled; only one of them remembered dimly having heard of someone of their trade who’d set up in Peking or near Peking as a boat hirer; but that must have been a long time ago. In the course of the conversation the two strangers, who had clearly been around, found out how the trade was organized here, whether earnings didn’t vary a great deal depending on the district. They found that this was of course the case; in certain quarters of the town and certain streets it was the devil’s own work to earn a penny. For example, the ten of them who served the Upper Town, where there were no wells, had to be on the go all day, their horses worn out in no time; and the income? Every two days that beat was handed over to another bunch of water carriers, because the people up there were so unbelievably poor. You couldn’t let them die of thirst, though actually the magistrate had let it be known that it might go ill with the water carriers later, on account of their charity.

Wang was pleased to learn that two of his table companions belonged to the party supplying water to the Mongolian town that day and the next. He and the string seller attached themselves to these men as they led their horses to the walled well from which they drew water in giant buckets. The other eight wagons, already full, were squealing down the street. Wang learned the names and lodging places of his new acquaintances; as he watched them scooping water explained that theirs seemed a fine peaceful trade compared to his wretched one, having to deal with all those barbers and stuck-up flower women who never had any cash handy when it was time to pay. He couldn’t get his friend out of his mind, the boat hirer in Peking. He wanted to see, he and his friend, if the trade suited them. He wanted to give it a try, just for a day; maybe it wasn’t as simple as he thought.

The two water carriers laughed out loud at this suggestion. And who would pay them the wages they’d forego for such a lesson?

That, said Wang Lun, was of course his responsibility; he’d see they weren’t out of pocket for their instruction and cooperation. Of course, if they agreed—and to accommodate a poor man like this was really something extraordinary—he’d pay them an average day’s takings, though they should realize he was a poor man himself and didn’t have much to spare. But their trade, after all, was more secure than his miserable one.

After much toing and froing Wang reached agreement with them. The simplest thing, it was decided, would be for them to join with the other eight carriers presently on the barely paying Mongolian town beat. They would instruct Wang and his companion on the work arrangements, feeding the animals, stabling; he would put down a deposit equivalent to an average day’s takings in the Lower Town—note, the Lower Town; and would take over deliveries to the Mongolian town for the whole of the next day. He would be responsible for any damage to wagon, harness or animals. And only, of course, if the other eight were agreeable.

Wang hummed and ha’ed about the price, couldn’t come to terms with them on the question of damage, since they might supply him with a brokendown wagon that he’d then have to pay for.

The others, already on their way, were adamant. So agreement was reached. As the wagon pulled round the corner Wang heard the carriers guffawing at those peasants and blockheads.

Agreement was quickly reached with the other eight; except that each of them felt obliged to pile on additional difficulties so the peasants wouldn’t realize they were being swindled. One elderly man would have nothing to do with the business. He said he wanted to work on as usual, it was his living; and he’d made friends with the poor people up there, and was glad when he made it to them
without arousing the suspicions of the police. Nonetheless Wang paid the agreed sums to the seven carriers when they met together in the soup kitchen that evening. He explained with a certain enthusiasm that he found water-carrying an enjoyable occupation already; there were all sorts of ways to make money at it, for example if the guild dug its own wells or leased private wells. Those idle fellows found him quite amusing.

He slipped out of town before curfew, alone, leaving his round chest of human hair in the kitchen. There was a full moon. The wide plain stretched out from the walls; low elevations cast deep black shadows over the bare white levels. A pine plantation drew away behind; the moonlight touched only the top branches.

At about the time when the night watchmen were beating out the second watch, the peasants who kept guard over the Mongolian town noticed a strange flashing out there; it moved along the edge of the pine wood. Then a man emerged into the bright moonlight. Three of the sentries recognized the broad hat and the dangling shining sword: Wang Lun.

They called to each other, pointed to him, so clearly recognizable in the dazzling light; were alert and gleeful. He was there; he’d caught up with them. You could depend on him. The White Waterlily was there. They ran into a watchtower. It was Wang Lun, sitting alone out there opposite the Mongolian town. After a long while his sword glinted again; he retreated into the dark of the wood, quickly, as if it had swallowed him.

After wandering sleepless through the deathly silent wood a few times Wang was turning towards the plain, driven by his restlessness, when through the thin trunks bordering the road he saw a rider, followed by two others. He ran through the darkness ahead of them, recognized the costume of a high officer in the provincial army and two servants. They were riding slowly past the Mongolian
town. Where the path turned for a while into the wood Wang stepped up to the gaunt officer, who wore a long beard and moustaches, and asked him for directions to a certain village.

The officer waved a hand to the southeast.

Wang walked calmly beside the bay. The officer reined in: did the stranger want something more?

Speaking at the ground Wang asked the officer to have his servants ride off a few paces for a moment, so he could ask something.

Quite coolly the officer waved the servants away and bent down towards Wang, to see his face better in the darkness.

What was the officer doing here. There was still a whole day and some hours left of the armistice between the Mongolian town and the army. Wearing the sapphire button he ought to know that.

The tall rider jumped from his horse, stared at the man under the enormous straw hat, in a thick straw coat that he held closed with one hand. What did he seek here; who had told him of an armistice. Was he a sentry for the besieged town.

Wang again bent his gaze to the ground, said “Yes” and opened his coat, revealing the sword. He was a friend of Ma No who led the besieged, a close friend.

The officer looked him in the face; he said very softly, “You’re no friend of Ma No. Ma’s friends don’t carry swords.”

“That was in the old days.”

“Since when has the unknown sentry been a close friend of Ma’s?”

“Since the destruction of the Isle of the Broken Melon. I joined them as they fled.”

“And Ma’s friends, Ma’s many friends now carry swords?”

“Ma doesn’t have many friends.”

The officer walked slowly back with Wang, handed his reins to a servant. They stood emerging from the darkness against two pine
trunks, stood silently facing one another. Wang’s yellow straw coat shimmered in the light. A curved golden ornamental sabre swung at the belt of the very slow, calm horseman.

“If you are a sentry and a friend of Ma No, then tell me, I pray you, about him and how things are in the Mongolian town, what Ma does and says, who his confidants are.”

“The man with a leopard on his breast is no enemy of the Broken Melon?”

“My name is Hai, colonel of a cavalry regiment. A few months ago I wore no leopard on my breast. I went like you, was a brother of those yonder. Because of my voice they called me Yellow Bell. Perhaps you have heard the name?”

“Not recently. Most of those who knew you are dead. Many have left us, like you.”

Yellow Bell smiled sadly, turned his great head to the walls on which the sentries moved like black dots.

“It was not danger that sent me away, frightened. But I don’t want to talk to you about it, since you are still a brother of the holy league even in such bad times. I should like to hear from you how it goes with Ma No, how the ghosts in the town are oriented.”

“Keep talking. You won’t sway me. We’re calm, immovably calm.”

Yellow Bell, pleased, laid a hand on Wang’s breast: “You’re calm, not fearful? Oh, that’s splendid, oh, I’m so grateful to the stranger for telling me this. That’s exactly why I came riding around here, to hear this from someone. Ma No is not oppressed with hate, doesn’t rage against anyone.”

“Since you were our brother, you should know that fate can’t touch us. Your troops and whoever else come can’t torment us.”

“You speak as in earlier days. So Ma No doesn’t rage! He doesn’t resist!”

“You’ve become a soldier again. You put no trust in our precious rules.”

“I trusted in the precious rules. And still trust. Don’t look like that. I wouldn’t have come riding here in the night if all were lost between Ma No and me. Ma No is the murderer of the Broken Melon, he knows that. I was around him in the days when he did it. He could have lived longer and better prepared with the brothers and sisters, if he hadn’t let those idiot salt boilers lead him astray. He was proud, he was vain, he carried arrows, bows and swords in his spirit; he was no Truly Powerless, no brother of the wonderful Broken Melon. That’s why I left him, I whose soul needed cleansing, and peace. But that’s of no consequence here.”

“The wild beast on your breastshield doesn’t look peaceable.”

“Nor does your sword. And yet here we stand, both looking out over this plain in the moonlight towards the Mongolian town—with no feelings of enmity. I haven’t changed. But Yellow Bell sings now in another tone.”

“So it seems. And sings a different song.”

“Yellow Bell witnessed the burning of the monastery. Sisters let themselves be roasted in the chapels; brothers had their heads and hands chopped off. You can’t prepare yourself one day for the next, one year for the next; you’d need a long life for that, I think. But the seed has been sown in vain; the fine, deep, strong brothers and sisters have given up the ghost, I think; I can’t get it out of my mind, how they were cut down. Cut down as I might be here, by you, since you carry your sword unsheathed while I must first let go the reins and free my blade. Their deaths gained nothing. But I now carry a sabre.”

“Why? Against whom? Your sabre’s a joke. You should have left your sabre lying in the box you keep it in at your family home. None of you will touch it as long as I exist. Don’t smile; I mean it. Who are
you carrying your sabre against?” Wang reached for the sabre.

“Not against Ma No, as you think. He’ll soon be dead anyway. And Liang-li. Oh woe, woe.”

“Who is the man with the leopard carrying a sabre against?”

Yellow Bell struggled with himself. He looked back at the wood. “Against the Manchus I now serve, and for those yonder that you are watching over, who in two or three days will be dumped into mass graves. But I’m glad you tell me such good things of those yonder. Why must it be, all of this.”

“Fate must always be, Yellow Bell my brother.”

“If you see Ma No, don’t tell him about me. Tell no one.”

“We’d better part. Your servants are coming. How are you going to get away from the Manchus?”

“We’re gathering men, troops, many weapons. The Western Paradise is not for us, not yet, dear brother. Then I shall seek out Wang Lun, who is said to carry a sword like yours. Only that can help, nothing else. It’s no use any more that you carry a sword. Don’t be angry because I think differently from you. Go back to the town, or run away like me.”

“Where are your troops? I shall remember your words.”

“Near Peking. Oh, what a glorious path our brothers and sisters are treading over yonder. My greatest desire is that they should find the Gates of Jasper and be received into the Heavenly Mother. The moon is so bright. May your path be easy. Easy.”

Yellow Bell stepped back from the trunk. They bowed to each other, touched one another on the shoulder.

Again Wang wandered, bereft of sleep, among the pines.

In the grey dawn Wang’s companions hauled the two-wheeled carts from the yards of their owners, harnessed horses, plodded to the well. After failing again to persuade the unwilling carrier
to hand over his equipage for the day, two of Wang’s accomplices grabbed the man as he stepped out of his house in the darkness, stopped his mouth with tow, gagged him, tied him in a cowhide and carried him in a stolen cart to a secluded tumbledown house where they threw him into a corner.

The water carriers accompanied their pupils on the first trip of the morning to the Mongolian town; later they went back home, loitered in the wine shops. No one remarked on the old man’s absence, since the eccentric fellow wasn’t a regular carrier.

The day was warm. In the late afternoon Wang’s accomplices could be seen bustling about the jars that stood opennecked on their carts. They went around the empty jars knocking, leaned deep down into them in order to pour out the contents of their flasks unobserved.

So the dreadful train of the Truly Powerless progressed for the last time through the Mongolian town with waterladen carts, Wang at the head, returned with empty jars to the Lower Town through the gate that closed behind them. Hastily they rinsed and scrubbed out the jars, handed the carts back. One of them ran to the house where the old man lay, cut a hole in the cowhide so he could free himself.

There was lively activity on the walls among the armed men until deep into evening. Rumour said Wang Lun was marching to their aid with a great army; they argued about the size of the relieving force, but it was at all events enormous, much larger than the provincial Tsungtu could raise from his own resources. At the base of the wall, inside the town, Ma No’s armed attendants had knocked together a row of flatroofed huts from the frames of nearby houses that had made them uneasy. Great piles of rubble lay here, bricks; deep ditches had been excavated for collecting what dribs of water they could, for wetting clay. Rushes and reeds were
piled high in the lanes. Great cartloads were dragged up, stuffed into gaps in the wall as a base for thick smears of clay. That night an extraordinary din rose from the toilers. A great hole in the wall, which for lack of time had been only superficially covered over with bricks, had to be repaired. It had been filled to the top with a loose mixture of rubble, sand, clay, stalks. The gate to the Lower Town was closed, barricaded with crossbeams. The townsfolk barricaded it from the other side, too, in order to contain within the Upper Town the fighting between provincial troops and the besieged.