The Three Leaps of Wang Lun (53 page)

Then two elderly guildsmen slipped in, barred the door, gasped that Li had been taken; police had been accompanied by soldiers who had Li’s head in a cage suspended from their lances. His clansmen had been carried off to prison. The young man nodded blubbing. The confusion of whispers ceased, confusion of fear, fury and menace: everyone wanted to go home.

Li had heard of Wang’s imminent arrival from the southwest and had set off to meet him with two long knives and a concealed dagger. Passing a troop of soldiers in his beggar’s garb not far from the town, his calmness attracted attention. They stopped him; he stated name, address. The affair ended as it had done for Chu and countless others. Asked if he belonged to the Truly Powerless he replied that he was a beggar, going about his business; seized for searching he defended himself, quickly lost his life; his head returned northeastwards.

The troop of soldiers was billeted in an ancient yamen inside the town walls. Night watchmen beat the first night watch. Guildsmen squatted in the long hall of the clubhouse by curtained windows. When one of them opened the door at a prearranged knock, a lone lean unknown man came in, was quickly seized. A light shone on his face, which was darkened with soot. It was Ngo. Several hissed: what did he want there. His stirring among little groups
of acquaintances was well-known. Politely he asked for protection. He was afraid for himself, having been warned by the Controller; now he was warning them. Word was about that the authorities were waiting for large numbers of soldiers so they could pounce on suspect guilds. Nervous men, coming around the low tables with their teacups, shouted: they didn’t need his warnings. What was he trying to stir up?

Ngo freed his right arm, showed three large starshaped bum scars inflicted on him at his own wish by Ma No. “My arms aren’t a pretty Sight. At first I took these scars for a sign of my liberation. Now for a sign that I’m fettered. If you curse me and tarry you’ll wear other fetters, gentlemen. pheasants are calling, leopards, lions roar. You know well enough what golden pheasants I mean, the panthers of Chao Hui’s army, the literati-lions. But curse away!”

“You were a panther yourself! Look at your hands. No working man has such soft fingers.”

“Why’ve you broken out of your cage, Ngo?”

“He thinks he’s better than the soldiers out there.”

“Curse away. I shan’t sully these scars by letting you gape at them. If I’m a panther, then you are cats and dogs. I’m sorry I disturbed you. Rather, dogs is too good. Rabbits, woodworms, maggots.”

“Rabble-rouser!”

“It appears that only those with loud mouths and no livers are coming forward.”

The smith pulled Ngo’s sleeve up. “Hold your tongues! I’ll get me marks like these. Three burns, one under the other. You loudmouths won’t need any marks on your arms. You’ll be branded on the forehead soon enough and have your heads cut off.”

“What’s the good of scolding, smith? How can we help it? We’re not going to set on the troops and be crushed like flies. Hypocrite, rabble-rouser!”

“He’s a fool, a fo-priest!”

“He led Li astray, now he comes here with his nose in the air.”

“Let me be what I will. You are not my brothers.”

A man sprang possessed around a table and clapped his hands: “We don’t want to be your brothers. We don’t want to be your brothers. Don’t listen to him, throw him out, he’s dangerous, he’ll bring disaster on us all. I have a father and three small children!”

“Let Ngo say what he has to say. Ngo, speak up.”

“Brothers, I’m staying here. I shan’t leave this room, shan’t bring disaster on you. Douse the light, they’ll see shadows from outside.”

Into the dark animated room two little square windows of paper, illuminated by the moon, gazed like terrified eyes. Scraping, grumbling along the walls. “He’ll bring disaster on us!”

“I ignore your insults because I feel sorry for you. In a couple of weeks, months it will all be over. Wang Lun is on his way. The White Waterlily, your league, has sent word to you from Shantung of what’s going to happen. They haven’t yet put a cangue around your necks; your houses are still standing. Soldiers have already entered the town. I’m not ranting like an agitator. We Truly Powerless can find our own path without any help; we can’t miss it.”

“Stop dreaming, Ngo. Go on!”

“I’m not going to tell you anything about our Western Paradise. The Truly Powerless don’t yearn for the black river; they shouldn’t cut us down like weeds. I can’t speak of an enemy; but if there is one, then he’s yours as well. And that’s why I’m speaking to you, and that’s why you must listen to me. Your lives, parents, children depend on it.”

The smith hissed, “There’s no justice for us little folk, no justice. No Gods hear us, only the spies of the God of Death. Everyone’s against us: the Emperor’s the Son of Heaven, every spirit of
the towns and walls, rivers, fields is at his command. Rejoice that violence shall be visited on the traitors to the land. See, I rejoice!”

Ngo’s teeth chattered. “We’ve been thrown from our course. We can’t let our brothers and sisters be slaughtered. All of us moan and wail, as I do. I’m no rabble-rouser; I am grieved that you should take me for one. Oh, what are you thinking of to drive us away? How can I look on the bloodbath they’ll unleash on us and on your numerous kin? Have you ever heard of Ma No? Don’t stand there dumb; listen to the smith. Wasn’t Li dear to you, whose ghost is hovering around this door? I’m not bringing you disaster. I’ve cast myself off from parents, ancestors, honours. Do you think I did it for nothing and for nothing? You’re pitiless, blind. I’m no different. I fling open doors, rip paper from the windows and cry into the street: I am Ngo, once a captain of the Imperial Guard, on whom the Emperor bestowed a little bag of peppermint; I’m a friend of Wang Lun, of dead Ma No, of murdered Li, sit here in the guildhouse deserted by the guilds who ought to stand with me, are too cowardly to stand with me. I cry it into the streets so that the ghosts, evil, restless souls in the mud of the street, in the branches hear it. Like us Truly Powerless they have no place on earth, no salvation, no kind looks, no incense; they’ll hear me. Help me, help me, dear wicked ghosts!”

And already he was spouting the names of wicked demons, the mere naming of which can bring death. Rhythmically the old necromancer swayed his head back and forth, called out the unholy names. Fearfully guildsmen crowded together in the corners, thrust fingers in their ears, wrung their hands. The smith called to them: he’d better tie Ngo up, lock him in a room. The smith and Ngo whispered together. Suddenly they all gathered round the two men, squatted down, whispered, pupils and nostrils wide with excitement at the spirit masters. Ngo, breathing calmly again, stared
straight before him, bowed his head.

In the marketplace stood the most imposing building in the entire quarter: the Town God’s temple. It rose from among shops and stalls; behind it a broad park with lovely flowerbeds and a conservatory. Without a thought, market hawkers threw their rubbish and their sweepings in front of the redpainted wooden porch. Sometimes acrobats jumped high enough to touch the green tassels of the hanging lanterns. Beggars and blind musicians loafed in droves between two stone Pekinese at the sides of the entrance. These grey beasts, eyes bulging like eggs, had ruffled tails: one like a fan, the other like a spread peacock’s tail. High double roofs swept up like ships’ prows; on their black ribs armoured horsemen, halberds, dangling swords and daggers glinted. On the highest roofrib a silver warrior strode between two archers bearing shields, who took aim at those below. People shoved through the porch, thronged to theatricals in the temple courtyard. Barbers shaved in the aisles, lily hawkers yelled; street sweepers, public and private, went up and down, collected filth with rakes and shovels. Dusty urchins played at tiles.

In front of the prayer hall in the centre of the huge courtyard a stage stood open on all sides. The erectors had heaped every splendour above it, the flamboyance garish against the restrained magnificence of the temple. It rose from the ground like a dancing girl whose round gaze makes the world disappear. Eight smooth pillars of wood thrust up a high roof, whose four violently upswung prows ended over the eaves, as if the movement rolling silently down the temple roof was meant to rebound back on high. Red and blue tassels, pennants, bells from the eaves. Above the black roofribs white horses clattered; the wild warriors’ metal ornaments, weapons tinkled. High under the roof an animal crept outwards from the pillars, snuggled stretched on its belly, high under the roof unfurled iridescent wings, buried its white beak in the
wood, red-gold glittering back: birdbeast, the Phoenix.

From behind the stage, so lofty that nothing of its roofridge could be seen from the yard, rose the temple. Not broad in the leg; like a peasant, but (this was its secret) it resembled the hunchback: cicada-catcher in Lieh-tzu: he balanced little balls of earth on a lime rod; when he could keep five balls there one behind the other, he was ready and could catch cicadas just so, holding his: arm out like a dry branch, his body like a tree trunk. His will had; condensed without cracking. Mighty the temple stood there, heard nothing of the players’ music; it concealed the bustle of conceit, let through mockingly little light onto the collection of spirits, gods that it protected. Misfortune lay on it. The wooden statue of the town god, a month ago still richly clad, adorned with a seal, lay violated in the gloom. An unworthy idol had been elevated to town god. When the disturbances, attacks, outbreaks of arson came, the magistrate had him stripped naked and, to aggravate his punishment, dragged to the porch and chains hung around his neck. When peace returned he was taken back to his place, dressed in a cheap shirt and gown; blackened by sunlight and indignities he stood silent in the dead stillness of the room. None of the many brightly coloured assistants who stood around him, secretaries, spies, executioner, snoops, policemen, had any doubt that the goaded, strongwilled god would soon dare his all. The town had brought forth a demon.

Close by the temple entrance lay a secret entrance to the great pawnshop that served the guilds, secret societies for a meeting place. The rebels felt safest in this place next to the dwelling of the protector of the walls and moats. The long low storeroom was closely packed with household objects, bundles of clothing, theatrical costumes, ornaments, sedan chairs. An oily smell rose from bundles and chests. On most days rats and mice were all that moved. On the third day after Ngo’s discussion in the guildhouse
more than three hundred people squatted here—it was after the market had closed—silent and waiting. They sat everywhere, mostly everyday clothes. Greetings, nods, the strangest postures. Most knew each other, leaders of the principal societies, brothers, sisters of the Wu-wei sect, silent Ngo. The smith called softly to a white bearded man, “Won’t the old teacher tell the guests what they would like to hear?”

The resonant voice of the teacher: “Most respectful greetings. This ignorant slave would not presume to instruct you. His doddering head knows nothing any more. This moribund gives thanks that he is able to be with you all!”

Many sat down around him. A small pair of steps was pushed towards him. Ngo made a profound bow: “Would the old gentleman please instruct us.” Others called out the same. The teacher smiled to all sides, chewed his toothless mouth; he clambered up two rungs.

“I come from the village in Shantung where the sage Lo Huai was born. He is our great teacher. He did well to find this warehouse, with its clothes and bundles, for a sober pious gathering place. Great powers and forces there are; but whether you follow Wang Lun or are just friendly to him, you know that we don’t pray to a thousand Buddhas like the bonzes and fo-priests. We leave the Tashi-lama and the Dalai-lama to Emperor Ch’ien-lung. Our Buddha looks on us from Heaven, from hills and streams; thunderclaps are a better greeting for him than trumpets and gongs. His incense is the clouds and winds; he drinks his tea from the five lakes and the four seas and hearkens to the rustling of the leaves and branches, the rustling of his own waving banners. We have no other Buddha than the warm wind and rain, no Buddha, oh woe, than the typhoons that sweep along the coast. No one is with us, southward, westward or here at home. We blackhaired sons of Han are
alone. We are yellow like the soil, like water. Those who live in the soft south are bloated, frisk in gay clothes. On the river of the Black Dragon the land is as hard as the people. And so they all survive. Our houses rise unremarkable like firmrooted cress from the earth, heeding the spiritual pulses and the currents of the air. Thus we make ourselves like the Tao, the way of the world, deny it nothing. We who have been taken up by Wang Lun are not shackled to fate by cangue and legirons. As the ancient words say: to be weak in the face of fate is a man’s only triumph. We must come to consciousness before the Tao, embrace it; then it follows like a child. This old dribbler makes no sense, oh, he is ashamed of his feeble mind.”

The old man moved down one rung, crouched, a white monkey, and closed his eyes. Deep in thought many of the rawboned men sat in the gangways; groups crouched on huge bundles and looked across, pressed the bundles flat.

A well-dressed young man, opening his fan, stood on a rickety Eight Immortals table across from the old man’s ladder. People turned to look as the table creaked. He spoke in a rapid voice.

“The old gentleman and my worthy comrades won’t take it amiss if I speak up. I shan’t try to emulate the old gentleman. We have no splendid temples, no monasteries decorated by the Dragon Son and showered with gold ingots. No silk-clad bonzes pray for us, leading sons and daughters of the East astray. Foreign altars evoke in us just laughter, shoulder-shrugging. I too take the pure path and seek the chi. We and our descendants want to approach the pinnacle of Imperial power. But however you others who don’t hold with us friends of Wu-wei think of us: we are of the East, and not yellow bonzes; we are children of the hundred families, and not holy men and dignitaries from the Mountain of Mercy, received by the Emperor in triumphal procession. He came down here from Tibet, died in the Huang-szu, was sent home in a golden stupa.
The foreigners all stick together, the Manchus and lamas. The lamaseries devour the soft warm tripes of our land; that’s permitted; but we, we have our heads cut off though we demand nothing, disturb no one. We in our thousands-but you know us, dear respected brothers, you coolie gentlemen from the junks and the others. We were born of the yellow earth, and peaceable as we are don’t want to be driven out by foreign priests and emperors. We should have control over the Eighteen Provinces, from Liaotung to the lands of the Miao. What have we done? Rampaging scoundrels in soldiers’ uniforms strut with their halberds through our market places. Who’ll be shackled today, whose tongue will be cut out, who’ll be flogged tomorrow? We were born in this province and should be allowed to fare peaceably in it.”