Insignia (6 page)

I hear someone approaching; I warn her but
she does not believe me. I pull away and am afraid, for it is
Eagle's Wing who has followed us. I feel I have made a grave
mistake. She will marry him, and I will never share a home with
her. Her father and my uncle will not allow us to be happy. Eagle’s
Wing will surely win. When he appears Sun is angry and embarrassed
and frightened; she slaps him before he can say anything. He is
astonished, but rather than leave he grabs her shoulders and pushes
her to the ground. She screams. I stand back, afraid, and do
nothing. This shames me for the rest of my life.

At thirty, I sit with the tiger beneath the
tree. His blood is flowing and I cannot wait any longer. He has
strength enough to lift his head so I tear the sleeve of my robe
and bind his shoulder. My left hand is swollen but no longer
bleeding. The tiger moves more slowly now, yet as I lay my grip on
the second arrow, he opens his mouth again, and into it I place my
hand. I ease the arrow out, very slowly, but at the last it catches
on his rib and there is no way to remove it gently. I whisper
again, and pull out the arrow. He growls and bites down.

I am fifteen. Sun kicks Wing in the knee. He
curses. She stands and runs into the woods. I start to follow, but
he catches my arm. He cannot run, so strikes me instead, and
threatens me to stay away from her. I know what he was going to do
to her; I know now why she did not go alone into the woods. I pull
away and try to follow her. But my shame will not let me call to
her. She disappears. Many believe either Wing or myself is to
blame. I allow myself to hope she has left the valley and now lives
somewhere else, but I think she must be dead. I have driven her
from the valley.

At sixteen, I petition to join the
monastery. Though old for a novice, I am accepted.

I study for many years. We hold the forest
sacred and all our training for defence is based on the spirit of
the trees. It is arduous, but is a relief and helps me to find
peace. Many of the monks are orphans. All are given a symbol to
wear as a tattoo on their right shoulder: the river, the phoenix,
the tortoise. I must wait for the abbot’s revelation of my
symbol.

At seventeen, I watch from the monastery
when the marauders return. Wing’s older brother is killed in the
fighting.

I am thirty. The monks who find me say that
they could not approach my body for fear of the tiger beside me.
But when they came near, he did nothing to harm them. He had licked
the stump of my left wrist clean. They bound my wrist and the wound
in the tiger’s side before bearing me back to the monastery. There
is much talk in the monastery when the abbot visits me in the
infirmary. I tell him of the encounter with the tiger and he nods,
telling me it is a miracle I was not killed. I say nothing. He
commends me for my keen ears and gentle words, and awards me the
symbol of the tiger, though I will not need a tattoo. My absent
hand speaks for me.

At forty-three, I watch from the gate-tower
of the monastery. I have been Brother Tiger’s Paw for thirteen
years. Much has changed, though the valley has had peace for long
years. Many children have been born, and I have advanced far in my
studies; I see now the cycle of things from nut to tree to rotten
wood and through to new growth. It is a good life. There are few
novices in the monastery; it has been long since any have chosen
our way over the prosperity of the fields. Long since any were
orphaned. My knuckles are pink and close to cracking in the cold
air, but I do not let this distract me; for there is something in
the wind, a scent I have not smelled since I was seventeen. Smoke
wisps up from the west and I am the first to guess what it means. I
sound the deep horn of warning, and the monks assemble quietly in
the courtyard. Eagle's Wing leads a delegation from the farmers to
the monastery to ask what is happening, because, other than at
Summer or Winter Solstice, the horn has not been sounded in many
years. Wing is nearly fifty; his work has made him dark of skin and
strong, and his eyes reveal his opinion of me. He thinks I have
grown soft, leading an idle life of contemplation. Perhaps he knows
so little of the Monastery and our Order, though he lives in the
same valley as we do.

I explain that I see invaders coming, to
which the monks nod, and Eagle's Wing scoffs. He has seen nothing,
and he lives closer to the Way; I must be mistaken, he says. The
marauders have never attacked in winter. The abbot shakes his head
and warns them to prepare, but the others do not listen. They are
young men, born after the last invasion, proud of their strength
and skeptical of ours. Eagle's Wing adds that if any horsemen enter
the valley, they will be welcome; for he will lead a charge against
them, and pull them from their mounts. No longer will the farmers
of the valley be targets, but warriors themselves. I understand the
look in his eyes, for I remember his family was chased here long
ago.

Three days later a tiger is seen in the
forest. It chases someone nearly to the gates of the monastery,
even as smoke begins to plume black and thick from the western
pass. I run down from the gate tower and out to the animal and its
quarry. It meets my gaze and stops; the woman runs past me. I see
it is the same creature I lost my hand to; I see also he had no
intention of killing the woman. The monks on guard duty approach
with long staves, made of holy wood, to drive the animal back, but
there is no need. I bow to him and he departs, climbing the slopes
to the north whence he came. Many count this strange, but there is
no time to wonder, as the rumble of hooves is heard beyond the
valley. The deep horn is sounded, but only the women and children
flee to the safety of our walls. Eagle's Wing spurs the farmers to
action, that the valley may have mounted warriors of its own. It is
a daring plan, but the monks will not take part. For while the
trees must give way before the forest fire, for there to be new
life, it is not for them to carry the fire to other forests. We
will keep the women and children safe behind our walls.

I return to my post. I witness the
approaching battle as horses spill down the slopes in the west,
black and brown, their riders bearing fire. It is as terrible as it
was when I was a child and a young man.

The woman who fled from the tiger is brought
to my post. She wishes to thank me, I believe, but I am going to
tell her that she was in no danger; I know this tiger and he would
not hurt her. I am about to tell her this, I will tell her in a few
moments. The sound of hooves thunders through the valley. The
horsemen have overrun the men of the valley. Those who have taken
horses from the marauders cannot control them, and are taken from
the battle by their new steeds into the forest. I hear this through
the trees. The slaughter is becoming unbearable. The monks will
have to intervene. The abbot will wait for my judgment on the
conflict before he gives permission for us to join. I must be calm.
Eagle's Wing fights in the rearguard of the retreat, which is
becoming a rout. He is mounted upon a brown horse that bucks.

I turn to tell her that she was in no danger
and is safe now. But I do not. I stare as she is staring at me, for
I know her, though I have not seen her since she ran into the
forest many years ago. Sun Rising asks if it is really me. I say it
is. I see in her face the many questions about what has become of
me, and I feel I am looking into a mirror. We say nothing, the
answers are in our eyes. I have always loved her, but I allowed
myself to forget, after I drove her from the valley.

The people are almost at the gates now. I
may open them, but the raiders, spurring their mounts up the slopes
to the monastery, are enraged that the farmers have fought back,
and pulled them down. Is the man right to defy his oppressor, if he
wishes to become the oppressor himself? The conundrum this poses is
artificial. He must not resist, he must fall back. With the
villagers who seek not a stronghold but a refuge already behind the
monastery gates, is it necessary to let the others in? A question
to be asked. What to do about the reappearance of Sun Rising, at an
unexpected time? A question to be answered.

I am five. Black smoke and dusty earth.

I am twelve. Water lilies and bread
baking.

I am fifteen. Dry leaves and fir
needles.

I am thirty. Wet fur and steaming blood.

I am forty-three. Black smoke and water
lilies.

I signal that the doors be opened. The
farmers are admitted, but Wing still engages the leader of the
raiders, horse to horse. Shall I permit them to kill each other?
Shall I trust my heart? I look at Sun and nothing is clear. The
people huddled behind our walls smell of sweat and fear, while
before me I smell the memory of baked bread and water lilies and
feel as though no years have passed. Yet where my emotions yield my
intellect will not.

I turn and leave my post, signal to the
interior warden, and we take up our staves; mine is but a club,
one-handed. Five of us hurry out to separate Eagle's Wing from the
horsemen, who are all around us now. They too are young men, but
for the leader; they have heard his stories, and look on us with a
mixture of fear and contempt. The horses’ breath steams in the
winter air; splattered blood and thrashing hooves turn the snow
pink.

My brothers and I move quickly, striking the
nearest from their horses, driving them away from Wing. He laughs
and charges past us to press what thin advantage we have. I call
for him to retreat, but instead he rides down the nearest raider,
killing him. He is too far away from us.

Those still mounted wheel to encircle us. We
separate and move through their midst, like mist through the trees.
We are among the forest now, and every branch is our ally, every
root their foe. Horses stumble; riders are swept from their backs;
but still there are too many of them. Wing is making things
difficult, plunging into them, confusing our strikes. I cry for him
to dismount, but he will not.

In a momentary tremor through the trees I
feel the approach of my old friend. Wing charges to engage the
enemy, who hack now at the branches of our trees, and some who aim
deadly fire on their arrows. Wing’s horse rears before me; I will
not let him pass. I should not let him die. But in the clarity of
this moment I see things I had not before; I must change or be
swept away by the fire. The majestic white and orange tiger sweeps
Wing from his brown horse. I know now that I have always been ill
at peace, no matter how I hide it. Now the horse is upon me. I slip
aside, but it is too late for Eagle's Wing; the tiger has torn his
throat out. He moves on, driving terror into the steeds of the
flame-wielding archers, sending the shots wild and letting the
panicked horses scatter the riders. He has removed the direst
threat.

The tiger follows my brothers and me to the
monastery. He does not enter, but looks at me once more, his eyes
wiser than my own, and again I bow. I know what I must do. The
monks tend the wounded, and I request an audience with the abbot. I
tell him of what has happened, and he nods. I request permission to
leave the order, renouncing all claim to sanctuary. He studies me
long, but nods again. He places his hand upon my forehead and tells
me I will now forget the whispering of trees, how to strike with
their limbs as my own and that I must leave my club of wood behind.
He wishes me well, and counsels me not to forget what has gone
before, but to accept it. I bow and take my leave.

Dressed only in some discarded clothes, no
longer my habit, I go to Sun Rising. I tell her I must leave the
monastery. I ask her if she would like to come with me. There is a
long silence, as we stand amid the frightened folk and the
bandaged, some still too afraid to return to their homes. She asks
me if I would truly give up everything to do so. I say, no, not
only for her, but I would give it all away to begin something new,
with her, if she will. We leave the gates of the monastery
together.

The trees groan under the weight of old
snow, their roots sleep deep beneath my feet, and their language is
strange to me now. Brother Tiger’s Paw of the Monastery no longer,
I leave. Sun walks to my right, her hand in mine after twenty-eight
years. We are leaving the valley, to the north, where perhaps we
will find safe passage.

The End

“Ming Yue! Let’s go.” Sheng Li took my hand
and we dropped through the clouds. Snow and wind billowed all
around us and I squealed in delight, oblivious to the cold.

We landed on a snow-covered sports field. In
front of us, a dozen teens skated on a large ring of ice about the
same length as a running track. Some students held hands, taking
their time, while others whizzed around practicing their
speed-skating. I knew exactly where we were.

“This is my old high school! Why bring me
here?” I looked to Sheng Li, my new husband. He was constantly
surprising me.

“Winter will be over soon, and I doubt we’ll
see another one as we are. And, this is a fond memory for you,
isn’t it?” He smiled.

I nodded. “Yes, we’ll pass on soon, I
believe. So, let’s skate!” I squeezed his hand and pulled him
forward to join the skaters who were unaware of our presence. We
had no skates, nor coats or gloves, just each other. We couldn’t
feel the chill of the wind, the scratch of metal on the ice under
our feet, but we re-lived that joy of being young, being free, and
being alive.

I never believed the old superstitions.
While at times the stories my grandmother told were romantic and
comforting, my academic mind couldn’t hold on to the idea of other
worlds and realms, of things we can’t see, but are told to blindly
believe in.