Binu and the Great Wall of China (13 page)
Seeing a permanent scowl on the face of Lord Hengming, the Hundred Springs Terrace retainers embarked upon a new and vigorous campaign of exploration and invention. One of them discovered in the Bluegrass Ravine People Market a skinny, undernourished boy who ran around while other boys up in trees threw woven darts at him. The darts had the boy running and skipping, just like a deer.
The retainer’s eyes flashed at first sight, and he bought the boy on the spot. On the way back to Hundred Springs Terrace, the boy followed along behind, timidly asking what lay ahead for him. ‘Your Lordship, have you bought me to make me a horse-man? Would you like to climb up on my back and try me out?’
The retainer replied frankly, ‘You, a horse-man? Why, you haven’t even grown hair down between your legs. You will not be a horse-man, you’ll be a deer-boy.’
Down came the drawbridge, and there sat Lord Hengming, perched on top of his favourite Snow Mountain horse, River-and-Mountains. The horse raised its massive head and sent an intimidating whinny in the direction of the horse-men. Treasure and Beauty, the other two horses saved by the dispensation, were being led by grooms, their manes waving proudly in the wind, their shoes glistening; their big, beautiful eyes, fixed on the horse-men, were filled with the contemptuous look of the genuine article eyeing up an imposter.
The horse-men were immediately made aware of their debased status. They had been looking forward to running riderless like wild horses but, as soon as the drawbridge came down, they discovered that, with no riders on their backs, and no daylight to guide them, they could no longer run like regular horses, let alone
wild ones. They were disconcerted by the absence of weight; and though they ran at an acceptable speed and whinnied like real horses, even the greatest among them ran awkwardly and with no confidence.
A retainer shouted to them, ‘Wild horses, is that what you think you are? You are nothing but brainless creatures running blindly!’
Lord Hengming armed his bow, but the fake running style of the horse-men, neither like men nor like horses, stopped him from firing an arrow. He shouted angrily, ‘What contemptible creatures! They have forgotten how to run without riders on their backs. Bring on the deer-boys. Instead of horses, I’ll hunt deer!’
The deer-boys, waiting quietly in the forest, whooped with delight. For what was probably the first time, they could stand with pride in the presence of horse-men. They fixed their horns on their heads, attached their deer tails, and began leaping past the horse-men, basking in new-found glory.
Figures flashed in the torch-lit forest. The poor deer-boys, enjoying the sense of pride in having a master for once, romped happily in their forest, frolicked like creatures swept up in a life-changing euphoria, gambolled as gratitude overflowed in their hearts. Some bounded like grey deer, some like whitetails, and some like sikas.
Two courageous brothers actually sprang right in front of Lord Hengming, taunting him to chase after them. This intense provocation elicited an excited cry from Lord Hengming – ‘Excellent!’ – as his cypress arrows whizzed among the trees of the forest, his quiver quickly emptied. River-and-Mountains was soon tired out from the maniacal running about, as Lord Hengming immediately realized when his hand touched the horse’s sweaty back. ‘River-and-Mountains is worn out. Change horses!’
The horse-men, who were sitting dispiritedly on the ground, jumped to their feet. One of their number, fleet-footed, kind-hearted Moon Rider, invigorated by the shout, galloped up to Lord Hengming, bent down, and said, ‘It has been many days since you last rode me, Your Lordship. Please, up onto my back.’
‘Are you a Snow Mountain thoroughbred? No, you are only a horse-man.’ Lord Hengming drove the hapless Moon Rider away with his whip. ‘Didn’t I say that I will not ride you horse-men tonight?’
A groom led Treasure up and gave Lord Hengming a hoist up. To fill time while someone went back to fetch more arrows, the retainers scoured the forest with their torches to measure how the night hunt had gone so far, taking a red seal with them. They picked up each deer-boy who had been hit by an arrow and examined him,
starting from his hindquarters. They stamped a panther insignia next to each arrow that had found its mark. Most of the boys had been hit in the rump, to the boisterous delight of the retainers. Knowing the merciful nature of their master, how he hated to take the lives of his subjects, he had catered for the boys’ safety by using only cypress arrows and honing his archery skills to perfection. He considered the rump to be the only appropriate target; all others were misses. When the retainers were affixing insignias, disagreements often arose. ‘That’s not his thigh. His rump is just too small. This counts as part of his rump, so it’s a hit!’
The retainers who had run back to fetch more arrows returned with disturbing news: there were no more cypress arrows, only metal ones. They held up several quivers, which clinked as the arrows inside shifted. ‘Why are you bringing those to me?’ Lord Hengming demanded. ‘Do you expect me to shoot metal arrows at children?’
‘We thought you were enjoying yourself, Your Lordship, and did not want your pleasure to come to an end. It was just a precaution.’
‘My pleasure has not come to an end,’ Lord Hengming barked. ‘I have only ridden one of my Snow Mountain horses. How could I already be out of arrows? Who
ordered the arrows for me? Why are there so few made of cypress? Stop treating me like a child.’
None of the retainers dared offer a response, provoking their master further. ‘What are you gawking at? Why are you all standing around looking stupid? Go and bring back all the arrows that were shot.’
By this time, the deer-boys were beginning to get restless, wanting to display both gratitude for Lord Hengming’s show of mercy and their willingness to do his bidding, and also to show the failed horse-men that they were the stars tonight. Without warning, they begged Lord Hengming in disorderly but moving voices, ‘Use real arrows, we’re not afraid. Only cowards are afraid of real arrows. Good Master, we deer-boys are here to serve you!’
Lord Hengming, deeply touched by the deer-boys’ expression of loyalty, reached out for the new quiver and raised it as an expression of kindness. Struggling to control his emotions, he said, ‘Good! Wonderful! Marvellous! Inscribe these children’s brave words on your bamboo tallies.’
Quickly ordering someone to open a bamboo tablet, the retainer replied, ‘Yes, Your Lordship. I will put it all down: Your Lordship’s loving kindness towards the people, and their gratitude and loyalty towards Your
Lordship. I will record it all in a volume and place it in a chest in the Eastern Pavilion, for someday it will come in handy.’
A silence fell over the forest, abruptly broken by a fearful shout from another of the retainers: ‘They’re fighting! The horse-men and deer-boys are fighting!’
Lord Hengming was shocked by the horse-men’s appalling behaviour. The tauntings of the deer-boys had led to a collective loss of control. Older and stronger, and shielded by the darkness of the night, the horsemen began by attacking the deer-boys’ leaders, though they quickly moved on to tracking down the other deer-boys, angrily beating and kicking them when they caught them. In all the years Lord Hengming had held his hunts, the horse-men and deer-boys had always been on their best behaviour, walking the paths they were given, and he was traumatized by the breakdown in discipline that he was witnessing. But rage soon replaced trauma.
‘Shoot them!’ he ordered, his face scarlet with anger. He commanded his retainers to raise their bows and shoot metal arrows. ‘If you kill them, I’ll take the blame!’
A storm of arrows flew into the forest, from which emerged terrified shrieks and the sound of panicky running. The rhythm of death played out by the rainstorm of arrows spurred the targeted creatures into a
cadence of madness as they ran for their lives. In the torchlight, the herd of deer-boys looked like fleeing deer; the horse-men were transformed into galloping wild horses. One by one, the torches in the forest were extinguished, and the sound of the hunt dropped mysteriously into the river and sank to the bottom.
There was a sound of intermittent creaks of carriage wheels on the road, and a hearse pulled by a pair of oxen appeared on the road. Binu spotted someone familiar among all the moving figures: it was Wuzhang again, sitting in the driver’s seat, bent over at the waist and holding the reins with his feet; standing behind him was the boy, her gravedigger, returned from the hunt and looking triumphant. He waved to Binu, an arrow in his hand, announcing nightmarish news:
‘Don’t die now,’ he said. ‘Get up out of that hole. I sold you. You are now the widow of a thief named Qinsu!’
At first, Binu could not understand what he was saying. She approached him. ‘Who sold whom?’ But as she drew near to the oxcart and saw the black coffin, the realization hit her: no one would bring her a coffin out of the goodness of his heart. This was someone else’s coffin! She stepped back to get a good look at the boy,
suddenly noticing his new attire: a white funeral robe. Before she could ask where he had got it from, several ferocious men jumped down off the cart and rushed at her like wild beasts. Now she understood: someone else had died and she had been sold. The boy had sold her to a dead man!
Like hawks swooping down on small birds, the Hundred Springs Terrace retainers easily caught Binu and carried her over to the cart, where she was tied up with ropes again. At first she struggled, but not for long, as water spilled from her body. They watched her look up into the sky, murmuring a single phrase over and over again: ‘I should have gone down, I should have gone down.’
‘What is she muttering?’ the retainers asked the boy. ‘Gone down where?’
The boy pointed to the hole by the river bend. ‘Into the ground. She regrets not going into the ground when she had the chance.’
‘If she had,’ one of the retainers said, ‘we’d just have had to dig her up. Dead, she goes into a coffin. Living, she accompanies the coffin of the retainer Qinsu with her wails. She can’t get away, dead or alive.’
One of the other retainers was puzzled by all the water splashing on his robe. ‘This woman must have been in the water,’ he shouted. ‘She’s drenched.’
‘Be careful,’ the boy said, ‘that isn’t water, those are her tears. She is a weeper!’
The retainers laughed. ‘A weeper, you say? Then she is well-chosen. What could be better than a weeper wailing for a dead man?’
As they flicked the strange water from their hands, they hurriedly dressed her in a white funeral robe and placed a white three-sided cap on her unruly hair, finishing off with a white sash around her waist. Then they stood back to admire her in her fitted funeral clothes. The look of sorrow on her face was just right for a new widow. When they had finished with her, one of them nailed an iron ring into the side of the coffin, while another fastened a chain around Binu’s ankle, which was then attached to the ring. With a clang, Binu was chained to the coffin, and the oxcart set off along the road.
The nearer they came to Pingyang Prefecture, the farther they were from the mountains, which rolled on into the distance like waves until they dissolved into a hazy skyline. The seemingly boundless plain was a blanket of green and yellow, the colours of abundance. After passing fields of oats, there were increasing numbers of small communities of thatched huts, with village dogs and chickens running around in the open, but few people. Clusters of purple knotweed grew at the side of ditches, looking like flower beds from a distance. The plain was flat and open, under a sky that seemed to go on forever, while the sun seemed lower, like a fireball baking the farmhouses in the middle of the golden yellow oat fields.
The boundless plain made Binu lightheaded, and she lost all sense of direction. But what did that matter, since she was still chained to Qinsu’s coffin? They told her that Seven-Li Cave, the birthplace of Qinsu, was to the north, on the way to Great Swallow Mountain.
‘After we cross this plain,’ the driver said, ‘we’ll see
mountains. Those are the northern mountains. When you see them, Great Swallow Mountain will be in sight and when you see Great Swallow Mountain, you’ll be able to see your man. You hitched a ride on the right cart this time, so no more suicide attempts. Be content with your lot.’
Binu watched the boy’s filthy face swaying on top of the coffin. He was no longer her gravedigger, no longer in the service of the Angel of Death. Instead he had taken on the loathsome mission of chaining her to a coffin and keeping her alive. He now had a firm grasp on the tail that was her life. She’d lost even the right to die when Hundred Springs Terrace married her off to a corpse. Hundred Springs Terrace was heaven on earth for so many people, but had become hell on earth for Binu. They had stolen her bundle, stolen her body, and finally stolen even her sorrow, her tears, and her right to die.
Binu looked down at the iron ring attached to the coffin, a great big hand that held her tightly and never loosened its grip. It was the man’s hand, the hand of a corpse, holding on to her, repeating a sorrowful command, filled with vanity, ‘Cry, oh cry, cry for me, cry louder!’
Binu related her tearful complaint to every person she met along the way, even to roadside chickens, ducks, pigs
and sheep. ‘I am from Peach Village, the wife of Wan Qiliang.’ Her laments were interpreted by people as mourning for the dead. Throughout the trip, she wailed, crying for herself and for Qiliang. No sounds emerged, only tears, which flowed drop by drop in a stream in her wake, dampening the roadside. All the bright-eyed people who passed by the hearse regarded her as a grieving widow, not noticing the chain that was visible only beneath her white robe, choosing instead to comment animatedly on the panther flag and the cypress coffin, with its subtle fragrance. How they envied the man lying inside.
‘How splendid to be a retainer in Hundred Springs Terrace,’ they said, ‘even when you’re dead. They sleep in fine coffins and are accompanied by virtuous wives and filial sons. Ah, such good fortune!’