The Blue Mountain (The Forbidden List Book 2) (5 page)

His own muscles contracted and released their stored energy. He sped towards them on a collision course. Hind legs drove forward, crossing over his front legs as they dug into the soft earth, gaining purchase and pushing him onwards. His spine flexed and bent, compressing his body as the rear legs touched down. All the power in those, his strongest muscles, bore down through the bones and tendons. Fore legs left the ground and, spine straightening, reached forward with outstretched paws. He flew over the ground, weightless and fast.

The horses were larger but less agile. As they came together, he gathered his strength and jumped as high as he could between two of the onrushing beasts. He let his front claws rake down their flanks, eliciting more high pitched whines from them.

Zhou hit the ground without faltering in his stride and saw that Xióngmāo was in trouble. Two beasts were flailing at her, their clawed hooves slicing at the flesh on her fore-arms as she batted them away. Her flanks were streaked with red and she was dragging her left rear leg. He barrelled into the horse on Xióngmāo’s right, claws raking and teeth flashing towards its neck. Bright red blood sprayed in an arc from the creature’s flesh. It fell to the ground kicking and screaming in pain. Zhou turned sharply and lunged for its neck, clamping his jaws around the horse’s windpipe and crushing it with all his strength.

The sound of clattering hooves forced him to retreat before the horse was dead, but at least it was out of the fight.

*Xióngmāo, we have to go, we can’t fight them all.* He directed the thought towards her and accompanied it with the image of their mountain home.

They fled. Slow progress at first, the red sapping their speed. As soon as they touched the pure blue of the spirit, their pace increased.

Haung walked along the pristine paths of the Holy City, past immaculately trimmed herbs and bushes, past elegantly shaped trees and flower beds of every colour. Compared to the bustling, crowded and scruffy city of his birth, the Holy City was a paradise. Outside the walls and in the city proper it was different. Close to the walls and certainly on the main thoroughfare from the gates the houses were large and well maintained, the businesses exclusive and the road well patrolled. But move away from those and the city revealed itself to be just like Yaart.

There were areas of rich housing and backstreets of crushing poverty. Inns, brothels and shops lined narrow streets. In the poor areas, these were advertised by hanging signs and crude pictures to indicate the pleasures within. In the richer areas, the same services were on offer, but no signs or pictures enticed the pleasure seeker to enter. You either knew they were there or you were too poor to buy their services. Discreet guards stood outside the doors of the more adventurous of establishments, filtering out those who were known and could afford to spend their time within, from those who could not. If you were lucky enough and had the money to spare, then a visit to the theatre district to see the Pear Garden’s, the most eminent of all the acting schools in the Empire, production of ‘The tale of the Pipa’ was a night that no one should miss. Haung smiled at the memory. He and Jiao had sat amongst the wealthy, enjoying the play. A gift from the Emperor himself.

His modest home, an officer’s house in the military area of the royal city, came into view as he rounded the last, neat corner. He returned the nod of a passing functionary and, after a few more steps was at his door. It swung open on silent hinges and he entered, heading straight for the bedroom where he slumped onto the soft mattress and let out a groan.

“What’s wrong?” Jiao’s voice came to him from the kitchen.

“He’s a monster.” Haung covered his eyes with both palms.

“Da.” The high pitch squeal was followed by the sound of fast moving feet.

“Now, wait a ... oof,” Haung grunted as the boy flung himself onto his tired father.

“Da.”

Haung folded his arms around his son and hugged him tight. “Hello, son. Have you been a good boy for mummy today?”

“Da,” the little boy said.

“Who is a monster?” Jiao asked.

“Shifu, he just doesn’t stop. Run over there, stop, now stand in horse stance for an hour then run again. Over and over.”

“Da,” his son said, pulling at his hand.

“Let your father have some food first.” Jiao pointed to the corner of the room where a multitude of scattered toys littered the floor. “Haung, you knew what you were signing up for when you agreed to be trained.”

Haung smiled at his son as the small boy sulked over to his toys, sat down and started to throw one after the other across the floor. “I know, but I didn’t expect it to be this intense. I mean, the training in Yaart was long and tiring. This is something else. Nothing is quite good enough. I get one stance right and he tells me I should have learned it weeks ago. And in sparring, I still can’t get near him. Not with sword, staff or unarmed. For an old man, he moves quickly.”

“That’s why the Emperor brought you here. To be trained by the best.” Jiao waggled a finger in admonishment at her son. “You might as well stop moaning and just get on with it.”

“Moaning?” Haung reached and hooked an arm around his wife’s small waist. “Give me a chance, I’ll show you moaning.”

* * *

“When you are ready,” Shifu said.

Haung took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He repeated the action twice more, then knelt on the hard slabs at the very bottom of a long staircase. Placing closed fists on the ground he stretched his legs out behind and raised his body. In this position, supported only by knuckles and toes, he began to climb the stairs. One hand on the stair, bare knuckles scraping on the rough stone, he shifted his opposing foot forward. Next hand on the following stair and the other foot moving.

At first, each stair was no challenge and his movements were smooth, one step to the next. However, after ten or so, the pain in his knuckles began and he noted little smudges of blood on the stair he had just left. At twenty, his arms began to tremble and the smooth movements became ragged. After thirty, the pain in his lower back changed from a dull aching warmth to red hot needles. Every few steps now, he had to stop and rest. Each time restarting became much harder. At forty steps, his legs trembled, his arms shook and the sweat dripped off his brow, onto the dry stone steps. At fifty, his arms gave way and he collapsed. The edges bit into his legs and abdomen, they scratched his face. He didn’t care. The hard stone felt as soft as his mattress at home. He drew in great gulps of air and closed his eyes.

“What have you stopped for?” Shifu’s voice called up from the bottom of the steps. “You are only halfway. Get a move on.”

Haung sucked more air into his lungs, rested on the steps for a few moments and let the fatigue wash out of his muscles. He lifted himself once again onto his knuckles, wincing at the stinging pain that shot up his arms, and began to move. Each shift of leg or arm was a torture for his body and mind.

“I know it hurts,” Shifu called. “Block it out. Breathe through it. Let your unconscious mind complete the movements. Your conscious mind can dwell on something else. The pain is nothing, just your body telling your brain that it does not like what you are doing to it. Ignore the pain and push beyond. There will be times in battle when you must push beyond the restrictions your body imposes. It must become second nature.”

Haung raised his right hand on to the next step, feeling another needle of pain. As his weight moved to rest upon that arm, he felt it tremble. He took a breath and focused his thoughts upon the chosen image. Each
Taiji
chose one image or object to be their focus. Something that did not change, was easy to recall and simple to imagine. An object that, even in the heat and confusion of battle, could be brought to mind without effort or thought. Haung had worried at choosing his. One night he had woken in a state of alarm, covered in sweat and his heart beating a rapid rhythm, the image fast in his mind. That image had been part of him for over a year, it was impossible to forget and all too easy to recall. Shifu had made for him, again as every
Taiji
had, a small medallion with the representation of an image upon it.

He focused upon it. Bringing each shape and contour to the forefront of his mind. Creating it in exact detail. The effort of concentration numbing the pain in his limbs and joints. Focused upon the task, his body took over, pushing him up the steep stair case.

He was still aware. The pain had not gone. The trembling was not forgotten. It was all still there in his mind, but the image took all of his concentration to maintain, his thoughts could not be distracted by the discomforts of the body. On and on he pushed and the shape in his mind never wavered. He moved it around in his mind, examining it from every angle. It was perfect and it hurt. It always did. A small price to pay for everything that had been done.

“Let it go.” Shifu’s voice penetrated his thoughts. He pushed it aside. Nothing could distract his focus.

“Haung,” the voice again and he let it drift from his conscious thought. The image demanded his full attention.

There was a dull pain in his head, but the image would not let him go.

“Wake up.” The voice was insistent and Haung could sense the urgency in it. He tried to listen more closely, but again his attention was dragged back to the image.

“Now,” and Haung felt a burning pain in his nose. His arms collapsed under him and his chin struck the stone floor sending sparks and stars spinning through his head. The vision shattered, leaving him lost and bereft.

“You have to learn to let it go,” Shifu’s voice said. “Go and rest. Come back later tonight.”

Haung lay on the floor, gasping for breath, the remnants of the smelling salts, acrid in his nostrils, and blood from the cut on his chin dripping onto the top step.

* * *

Haung sat on the thin mat. His legs were crossed and his arms rested comfortably on his knees. His cupped hands held the object of his focus. In the four corners of the breezeless room, tall candles sent forth a steady, soft yellow glow. The rest of the room was bare of furniture.

Breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, he concentrated on crafting the mental image.

“No, no,” Shifu said. “It should not be an effort.”

Haung opened his eyes and stared at the grey haired man sat, in similar pose, opposite him. “How could it not be an effort?”

“Haung, you chose it.” Shifu gave a slight smile.

“So?”

“So it is yours. Once chosen it cannot be changed. It is yours forever. You were told to think of something that you could bring to mind without effort. Something you could see every time you closed your eyes. Something that has meaning. Such a thing should not be an effort to recall.”

“But Shifu, you are asking more than that.”

“Of course I am. Haung, being a
Taiji
is not easy. There are many challenges to overcome. Surely you are not afraid of a little effort?”

“No, Shifu.”

“Good, then try again. Create the image in your mind. Examine it from all sides. Make sure that it is flawless. You are finding it hard to let go of an imperfect image. The test of the stairs showed that. You must learn to create and destroy the picture you create, and do so without hesitation. Now, try again.”

Haung stilled his breathing and listened to the beat of his heart, its steady rhythm marking time. When he could feel each pulse of blood race through his body he began to create the image. The hardest part was the beginning. His mind must be empty of all thought. Every time he felt that he was getting to the stage when he could begin, a stray thought would cross his mind. An image of Jiao, of his boy, a memory of the day, or just the thought that he was finally ready to begin.

“The exertion of the tests, the mindless repetition of physical activity, the need to put your body beyond the pain, all aid process, but Haung, you need to be able to reach the same state whenever you wish it.”

Haung rubbed his thumb over the object in his palms, feeling its contours and sought the dark place in his mind, the place where thought would not, could not, go. He felt his thoughts brush against the locked vaults where he had carefully contained his knowledge of the void. He could sense the cold that emanated from those thick doors. It called to him.

“Leave the void alone,” Shifu said. “To be
Taiji
is look within, not without. To make the very best of your mind and body. Not to rely on outside forces for your power. Pass it by, Haung.”

Haung dropped deeper into his mind, letting go the conscious effort. In the recesses, the dark places where men rarely go, there was power. He had felt it before. In itself it was not scary. What he could do with it was.

“The choice is yours,” Shifu said. “Just know that you are a good man, Haung. You will make the right choices. Do not be scared of yourself. Create the key and take the power that is yours.”

Haung let his conscious mind drift even deeper and there it was. In the dark corner of his mind and memory, the image he had to create. It was there all the time, but he had buried it beyond accidental memory, beyond the chance that it would creep into his waking mind. He did not have to create it, only allow it to be seen and understood. Half the task was letting it be seen, the other half to let it go.

It rose from the mists and fog of memory, became clearer, the lines more defined and the colours refined. With the eye of his mind he gazed at it, drank it in and choked back a sob.

“It is the key to your power, as much a part of you as your hands and feet.” Shifu’s voice sounded soft in his mind. “Now, let it go. Return to the now and rest. When you are ready we will do this again and again until you can find the key and unlock your power within a heartbeat.”