The White Mirror (7 page)

Kalden was looking up at the ceiling of the cabin as if he were seeing through it to the sky. He took the bowl. “We are all eager to move on. But it is not winter yet. In a few days the temperature will rise, and the snow will melt.”

Norbu poured butter tea into his own bowl and set the blackened pot near the embers to keep warm. “We should have taken our chances on the pass yesterday. I don't like being trapped near the spirit of a man who would paint a mirror on his body and slit his own belly. It isn't safe.”

The smoke from the fire, illuminated by thin daylight filtering through the roof beams, swirled restlessly. Kalden glared at Norbu. “We would be safer if you kept your attention on our food supplies.”

Norbu ignored him. “Something was chasing him through the forest,” he said.

“Why do you think so?” The question came from Hamza.

Norbu leaned forward and extended his arm slowly. His bony wrist and gnarled hand protruded from the greasy cuff of his sleeve. He opened his hand flat, his palm inches from Hamza's face. “I know because of the mirror,” he said. “Hold a mirror to a demon, and it is frightened by its own reflection.”

Hamza looked slightly startled, and Norbu lowered his arm. “I will tell you what happened,” said Norbu. “The man on the bridge was the victim of a demon who followed him into this world. He was a painter, so he turned to his paints for protection. He painted a mirror on his body to frighten the demon away. But it did not work. The demon gripped his hand between its own and thrust the knife into him.” Norbu paused. “And now the demon searches for another—”

“Peace, Norbu.” Concern vied with exasperation in Kalden's expression. He put a hand on Norbu's shoulder. “This is why we should travel with a monk in our company,” he said. “To prevent baseless speculation.”

Kalden's words did nothing to dispel the sense of unease that had filled the hut. Norbu's dog, a long-legged hound with a golden coat who was curled in the corner, growled softly. The fire was burning low and starting to smoke. The three hearthstones at its center hunched like plotters amid the embers.

Hamza broke the silence. “I will not argue that there are no monsters in the forest,” he said. “But I know a tale of a mirror that is not so ominous.” He straightened his back and flexed his fingers. “It is the story of a man who went fishing for the moon in a pond one night.”

Hamza drew in his breath to continue, but was interrupted by a creak at the the door. A woman stepped over the threshold onto the dirt floor. It was the traveler from the manor. Hamza, his hands still lifted like those of a conjurer, stopped talking.

“Are you telling the story of the fish who kept the moon's secret, even though it separated him forever from his love? That is a sad tale.”

“That is not the ending I tell,” replied Hamza, affronted.

“Oh? I did not know that it had any other ending. Please continue.”

Hamza opened his mouth to speak, but the others were now paying attention to the woman. “I will tell it another time,” he said.

She turned to Kalden. “Pardon me for intruding on you,” she said. “But I hope you will sell me some tea leaves. I hear that you have the spring flush from the Pu'er groves. I know that it is expensive, but my sister whom I am going to visit has a particular fondness for it. Would you sell me a small portion? I am Sera-tsering,” she added, “a guest at the manor.”

“We did not intend to trade here,” Kalden replied. “That leaf sells for a high price in Lhasa.”

“I would not offer for it before I have seen it,” she said.

Kalden hesitated. Then he rose, removed a round slab of tea from a bamboo sheaf, and handed it to her. She lifted it to her nose, then squinted at the compacted leaves. “It is not the finest quality,” she said.

Li Du saw Kalden's eyes brighten. “If you think so,” he said, “then I assume you do not want to buy it.” He held out a hand, but she did not return the tea.

“I am considering it,” she said. “But I won't pay Lhasa prices.”

They haggled good-naturedly for several minutes. As she spoke, Li Du noticed that Sera's eyes traveled lightly over every sack and box and bag in the hut. The appraisal was conducted so subtly that he doubted anyone else noticed it, except, perhaps, for Hamza, who was watching her through narrowed eyes.

An agreement reached, Sera dropped the silver taels into Kalden's hand. “Thank you,” she said. “My sister will be pleased.”

“One less brick to be taxed,” muttered Norbu.

Kalden silenced Norbu with a look, then bowed to Sera. “May you find your sister in good health,” he said.

After she had gone, Li Du stood up and moved toward the door. “I wonder,” he said, hesitantly because he had never questioned Kalden before, “how you knew that the manor would be here when you sent Hamza ahead to find it.”

Kalden shrugged. “It was described to me by some villagers. They said we could rely on the manor lord to be hospitable.”

Li Du considered this. “You said when we were staying at the Gyalthang inn that you intended to explore a new route, one less accessible than the road through Dajianlu, in order to establish new trade relationships. But we have passed at least ten villages since Gyalthang, and you have not traded at any of them.”

“My brother taught me that the man who explores new paths is the man who becomes rich,” said Kalden.

There was a loud clatter, followed by a hiss. Norbu had lost his grip on the pot of tea and dropped it into the fire. “Go on,” he said, gesturing toward the door. “You are blocking the way, and if we don't add kindling to the fire it will smoke us all out into the snow.”

Li Du stepped outside. Norbu called after him from within. “Never question the leader of your caravan. It's in Lhasa that the tea is worth the most, and it's in Lhasa that we'll sell it.”

 

Chapter 6

A fine, quiet snow dusted the air as Li Du made his way to the place Rinzen had described. Behind the manor, not far from a towering woodpile, he found a trickling stream and followed it until he came to stairs set into the mountain, their shapes barely discernible under the snow. Li Du raised his eyes and traced the steep ascent up through firs studded with blue-black cones. With a sigh he bent down, knotted his long coat above his boots, and began to climb.

He stopped to catch his breath beside a bulbous hollow tree. When he reached out a hand to lean on it, a layer of old, rotting wood crumbled away under his fingers. The snow had stopped, but the hush it had imposed on the forest remained. Li Du thought of Dhamo descending these same stairs the day before in his crimson robes.

Resuming his climb, Li Du found that his memory from the night before had invited others, which now competed for his attention. The higher he climbed into the thinning mountain air, the less able he was to ignore them.

His mind began to paint the black and white forest with greens: the dark green of bamboo in the shade, the shining yellow green of leaves with sun passing through them, green moss on the stones by the pond, green water reflecting the moss and leaves, and a green glazed bottle full of wine.

With a sigh, he gave up and stepped once again into the past. It was fifteen years ago, and it was springtime in Beijing.

*   *   *

“The Emperor is right,” said Shu, pouring the clear wine into their cups and leaning back in his chair. A dragonfly skipped across the surface of the pond, disturbing the reflection of the trees.

“He is right,” Shu went on, “because he is the Emperor and what he says cannot, by definition, be wrong.” He lifted a finger, as he tended to do when he made a point. “But also, he is right.”

They were discussing the exhibition that had occurred the day before in the Garden of Perfect Brightness at the palace. The Emperor had granted a foreign painter, a Jesuit residing at court, the opportunity to demonstrate a technique that he claimed would advance the art of painting beyond what had yet been accomplished in China. This technique, he said, involved manipulation of lines informed by new understandings of the human eye.

The result—a sketch of an open courtyard crowded with columns—earned polite murmurs of appreciation from the small audience of invited courtiers and officials. The Emperor examined it closely, and at a distance. “It is of some technical interest,” he said finally, “but it is not artistic in any way.”

The dismissive comment was softened in translation for the foreigner, but it was agreed afterward that the Emperor's indifferent reaction was yet another in a series of indications that the foreigners were falling out of favor. There was a rumor that he intended to banish them from China entirely.

Li Du picked up his cup, watching the wake of a dragonfly spread across the surface of the water. Golden light caught on the ripples. The sky was filled with changing color around the falling, ponderous curve of the setting sun. “I may speak plainly?” he said. It was only half a question. He always spoke plainly to Shu, who had been his teacher ever since Li Du began his formal education.

“You may,” Shu replied, “and it is correct of you to ask. But no matter what someone says to you, you should never speak plainly unless you are very sure of your audience.”

Li Du nodded, acknowledging the warning in a general way, then setting it aside. “In my opinion, it would be wrong of the Emperor to send the Jesuits away. I think that we should pay close attention to what they can teach us.”

“About the Christian god?” Shu's white eyebrow quirked.

“No,” said Li Du. “That is not what I mean. I am speaking of all they can teach us about science, about the movement of planets and the properties of time, and yes, even how they achieve illusions of depth in painted canvases. The Emperor treats their knowledge like a collection of curiosities. He sees a clock and tells his craftsmen to replicate it, but he does not ask
why
it was made. The foreigners do not simply know things that we do not know. They think differently. Why would we banish them when they have so much to teach?”

Shu raised a hand to shade his eyes against the setting sun. “Yes,” he said. “They are intelligent. They express themselves well. They offer intriguing explanations for the world's secrets. That is all true.”

“But you agree that they should be banished?”

Shu raised a finger and tapped his own ear. “I think you should listen more carefully. You were so eager to say what you wanted to say that you replied thoughtlessly to my question.”

Li Du was abashed. “What question?”

“I asked about the Christian god.”

Li Du's brows drew together. “Their faith does not seem relevant. They do not force it on their students. When I converse with Jesuits in the library, we rarely address religion.”

“And so you forget that they were sent here on a mission of conversion. You are distracted by their science. But the Emperor has not forgotten.”

Li Du considered this, then shook his head, unconvinced. “But the Emperor cannot see their religion as a threat. They have almost no converts. No one is interested.”

“Not yet. The Jesuits have not discovered a way to make a convincing case. When they wax philosophical, they embarrass themselves because they are ignorant of our literature and prone to basic mistakes. It is difficult to imagine anyone being persuaded by their paintings of men with wings.” Shu paused to sip his wine. “But they traveled a very long way and endured great hardship to come here. I think that there is power behind them that we have not seen. And now that power—the ruler they call the pope—sends them letters chastising them for their failure to convert the Emperor of China.”

“That is arrogant,” Li Du admitted.

“Yes. And to produce such arrogant people, this faith must be very powerful in the West. And so the Emperor is cautious. He is wise to be cautious.”

“But to banish them? Or even to kill them, as he has threatened to do before?”

“I do not think he will banish them. In my opinion, he will keep them here and learn from them, as you want him to do. But he will make sure they know that he is not some credulous scholar who is easily manipulated by these ‘tricks of the eye.' Their faith may not seem likely to win converts, but the Kangxi knows never to discount religion. After all, think of Tibet. Even the Mongols, who are never at peace with anyone, will follow the command of the Fifth Dalai Lama.”

Li Du sighed, unable to dispute this.

Shu smiled. “But perhaps you think I am a just an old scholar set in my ways who does not want foreigners coming in and offending my ear with their incorrect pronunciations.”

Li Du raised his glass and bowed his head in a gesture of deep respect. “If you were like the other old scholars, I'd be imprisoned, dead, or exiled by now.”

“It is true,” Shu said. “I am very patient with your irreverence.” Shu's expression became sad. “I do not like to think that we would never again sit and watch the sun fall into the bamboo grove.”

They were silent for a moment. The wind carried the soft voices of their wives exchanging opinions on other matters as the loose threads of their embroidery floated like spiderwebs through the air.

Li Du looked across the pond at the sunset. “It is so pleasant at this house outside the city. When I am here, I never want to leave. And then I return to the library and I say, ‘Now I am here, and I never want to leave.'”

Never want to leave.
Li Du was pulled from the memory back into the snowy forest by the shadow and flutter of an unseen bird, a raven, perhaps, or an owl. He thought of Rinzen's question that morning.
Why are you leaving China?

With a determined frown Li Du adjusted his worn hat, as if by doing so he could control the thoughts in his head. He resumed his climb, and was relieved when the next turn in the stone stairs brought him to an open mountain meadow.