The Middle Kingdom (95 page)

It was just as
they'd hoped. Kim had passed the test. Now they could progress—move
on to the next stage of his treatment. The house, once empty, had
been furnished. It was time now to fill the rooms with life. Time to
test the mosaic for flaws.

In the room the
man turned away from the boy and picked up his jacket from the chair.
For a moment he turned back, looking at him, to the last hopeful that
some small flicker of recognition would light those eyes with their
old familiar warmth. But there was nothing. The child he had known
was dead. Even so, he felt a kind of love for the form, the flesh,
and so he went across and held him one last time before he left. For
old time's sake. And then he turned and went, saying nothing. Finding
nothing left to say.

A
Gift of Stones

IN
THE HALL of the Eight Immortals, the smallest, most intimate of the
eighty-one Halls in the Palace of Tongjiang, the guests had gathered
for the betrothal ceremony of the young Prince Li Yuan to the
beautiful Fei Yen. As these events went it was only a tiny gathering;
there were fewer than a hundred people in the lavishly decorated
room—the tight circle of those who were known and trusted by
the T'ang. ,

The room was
silent now, the guests attentive as Li Shai Tung took the great seal
from the cushion his Chancellor held out to him, then, both his hands
taking its weight, turned to face the table. The seal—the
Family "chop," a huge square thing, more shield than simple
stamp—had been inked beforehand, and as the great T'ang turned,
the four Mandarin characters that quartered the seal glistened redly
in the lamplight.

On the low table
before him was the contract of marriage, which would link the T'ang's
clan once more with that of Yin Tsu. Two servants, their shaven heads
lowered, their eyes averted, held the great scroll open as the T'ang
positioned the seal above the silken paper and then leaned forward,
placing his full weight on the ornate handle.

Satisfied, he
stepped back, letting an official lift the seal with an almost
pedantic care and replace it on the cushion. For a moment he stared
at the vivid imprint on the paper, remembering another day. Yin Tsu's
much smaller chop lay beneath his own, the ink half dried.

They had
annulled the previous marriage earlier in the day, all seven T'ang
setting their rings to the wax of the document. There had been smiles
then, and celebration, but in all their hearts, he knew, there
remained a degree of unease. Something unspoken lay behind every eye.

Dark Wei
followed in his brother's footsteps and the Lord of You-yi was
stirred against him. . . .

The words of the
"Heavenly Questions" had kept running through his mind all
morning, like a curse, darkening his mood. So it was sometimes. And
though he knew the words meant nothing—that his son Yuan was no
adulterer--still he felt wrong about this. A wife was like the
clothes a man wore in life. And did one put on one's dead brother's
clothes?

Han Ch'in. . . .
Had five years really passed since Han had died? He felt a twinge of
pain at the memory. This was like burying his son again. For a moment
he felt the darkness well up in him, threatening to mist his eyes and
spoil things for his youngest son. Then it passed. It was Li Yuan
now. Yuan was his son, his only son, his heir. And maybe it was right
that he should marry his dead brother's wife—maybe it
was
what the gods wanted.

He sniffed, then
turned, smiling, to face Yin Tsu, and opened his arms, embracing the
old man warmly.

"I am glad
our families are to be joined again, Yin Tsu," he said softly in
his ear. "It has grieved me that you and I had no grandson to
sweeten our old age."

As they moved
apart, the T'ang saw the effect his words had had on the old man. Yin
Tsu bowed deeply, torn between joy and a fierce pride, the muscles of
his face struggling to keep control. His eyes were moist and his
hands shook as they held the T'ang's briefly.

"I am
honored,
Chieh Hsia.
Deeply honored."

Behind him his
three sons looked on, tall yet somehow colorless young men. And
beside them, her eyes lowered, demure in her pink and cream silks,
Fei Yen herself, her outward appearance unchanged from that day when
she had stood beside Han Ch'in and spoken her vows.

Li Shai Tung
studied her a moment, thoughtful. She looked so frail, so fragile,
yet he had seen for himself how spirited she was. It was almost as if
all the strength that should have gone into Yin Tsu's sons had been
stolen—spirited away--by her. Like the thousand-year-old fox in
the Ming novel
Feng-shen Yen-I
that took the form of the
beautiful Tan Chi and bemused and misled the last of the great Shang
emperors. . . .

He sniffed. No.
These were only an old man's foolish fears— dark reflections of
his anxiety at how things were. Such things were not real. They were
only stories.

Li Shai Tung
turned, one hand extended, and looked across at his son. "Li
Yuan . . . bring the presents for your future wife."

THE SHEPHERD BOY
stood apart from the others, staring up at the painting that hung
between the two dragon pillars on the far side of the Hall. Li Yuan
had noticed him earlier— had noted his strange separateness
from everything—and had remarked on it to Fei Yen.

"Why don't
you go across and speak to him?" she had whispered. But he had
held back. Now, however, his curiosity had got the better of him.
Maybe it was the sheer intensity of the boy that drew him, or some
curious feeling of fellowship; a sense that—for all his father
had said of Ben's aversion to it—they were meant to be
companions, like Hal and his father. T'ang and advisor. They had been
bred so. And yet...

"Forgive
me, General," he said, smiling at Nocenzi, "but I must
speak with Hal's son. I have not met him before and he will be gone
in an hour. If you'll excuse me."

The circle
gathered about the General bowed low as he moved away, then resumed
their conversation, an added degree of urgency marking their talk now
that the Prince was no longer among them.

Li Yuan,
meanwhile, made hfs way across the room and stopped, a pace behind
the boy, almost at his shoulder, looking up past him at the painting.

"Ben?"

The boy turned
his head and looked at him. "Li Yuan. . . ." He smiled and
lowered his head the tiniest amount, more ac-

knowledgment
than bow. "You are to be congratulated. Your future wife is
beautiful."

Li Yuan returned
the smile, feeling a slight warmth at his neck. The boy's gaze was so
direct, so self-contained. It made him recall what his father had
told him of the boy.

"I'm glad
you could come. My father tells me you are an excellent painter."

"He does?"
Again the words, like the gesture, seemed only a token; the very
minimum of social response. Ben turned his head away, looking up at
the painting once again, the forceful-ness of his gaze making Li Yuan
lift his eyes as if to try to see what he was seeing.

It was a
landscape—a
shan shui
study of "mountains and
water"—by the Sung painter Kuo Hsi. The original of his
Early
Spring, painted in 1072.

"I was
watching you," Li Yuan said. "From across the room. I saw
how you were drawn to this."

"It's the
only living painting here," Ben answered, his eyes never leaving
the painting. "The rest..."

His shrug was
the very symbol of dismissiveness.

"What do
you mean?"

"I mean,
the rest of it's dead. Mere mechanical gesture. The kind of thing a
machine might produce. But this is different."

Li Yuan looked
back at Ben, studying him intently, fascinated by him. No one had
ever spoken to him like this; as if it did not matter who he was. But
it was not simply that there was no flattery in Ben's words, no
concession to the fact that he, Li Yuan, was prince and heir; Ben
seemed to have no conception of those "levels" other men
took so much for granted. Even his father, Hal, was not like this. Li
Yuan laughed, surprised; not sure whether he was pleased or
otherwise.

"How? How
is it different?"

"For a
start it's aggressive. Look at the muscular shapes of those trees,
the violent tumble of those rocks. There's nothing soft, nothing tame
about it. The very forms are powerful. But it's more than that—the
artist captured the
essence
—the very pulse of life—in
all he saw." Ben laughed shortly, then turned and looked at him.
"IVe seen such trees, such rocks. . . ."

"In your
valley?"

Ben shook his
head, his eyes holding Li Yuan's almost insolently. "No. In my
dreams."

"Your
dreams?"

Ben seemed about
to answer, then he smiled and looked past Li Yuan. "Fei Yen____"

Li Yuan turned
to welcome his betrothed.

She came and
stood beside him, touching his arm briefly, tenderly. "I see you
two have found each other at last."

"Found?"
Ben said quietly. "I don't follow you."

Fei Yen laughed
softly, the fan moving slowly in her hand. Her perfume filled the air
about them. "Li Yuan was telling me how much he wanted to speak
to you."

"I see____"

Li Yuan saw how
Ben looked at her and felt a pang of jealousy. It was as if he saw
her clearly, perfectly; those dark, intense eyes of his taking in
everything at a glance.

What do you see?
he wondered. You seem to see so much, Ben Shepherd. Ah, but would you
tell me? Would even you be that open?

"Ben lives
outside," he said after a moment. "In the Domain. It's a
valley in the Western Island."

"It must be
beautiful," she said, lowering her eyes. "Like Tongjiang."

"Oh it is,"
Ben said, his eyes very still, watching her. "It's another
world. But small. Very small. You could see it all in an afternoon."

Then, changing
tack, he smiled and turned his attention to Li Yuan again. "I
wanted to give you something, Prince Yuan. A gift of some kind. But I
didn't know quite what."

It was
unexpected. Li Yuan hesitated, his mind a blank, but Fei Yen answered
for him.

"Why not
draw him for me?"

Ben's smile
widened, as if in response to her beauty, then slowly faded from his
lips. "Why" not?"

They went
through to the anteroom while servants were sent to bring paper and
brushes and inks, but when it arrived Ben waved the pots and brushes
aside and, taking a pencil from his jacket pocket, sat at the table,
pulling a piece of paper up before him.

"Where
shall I sit?" Ei Yuan asked, knowing from experience how much
fuss was made by artists. The light, the background— everything
had to be just so. "Here, by the window? Or over here by the
fcang?"

Ben glanced up
at him. "There's no need. I have you. Here." He tapped his
forehead, then lowered his head again, his hand moving swiftly,
decisively, across the paper's surface.

Fei Yen laughed
and looked at him, then, taking his hand, began to lead him away.
"We'll come back," she said. "When he's finished."

But Li Yuan
hesitated. "No," he said gently, so as not to offend her.
"I'd like to see. It interests me. . . ."

Ben looked up
again, indicating that he should come across. Again it was a strange,
unexpected thing to do, for who but a T'ang would beckon a prince in
that manner? And yet, for once, it seemed quite natural.

"Stand
there," Ben said. "Out of my light. Yes. That's it."

He watched. Saw
how the figures appeared, like ghosts out of nothingness, onto the
whiteness of the paper. Slowly the paper filled. A tree, a clutch of
birds, a moon. And then, to the left, a figure on a horse. An archer.
He caught his breath as the face took form. It was himself. A tiny
mirror-image of his face.

"Why have
you drawn me like that?" he asked, when it was done. "What
does it mean?"

Ben looked up.
On the far side of the table Fei Yen was staring down at the paper,
her lips parted in astonishment. "Yes," she said, echoing
her future husband. "What does it mean?"

"The tree,"
Ben said. "That's the legendary
fu-sang,
the hollow
mulberry tree—the dwelling place of kings and the hiding place
of the sun. In the tree are ten birds. They represent the ten suns of
legend which the great archer, the Lord Shen Yi, did battle with. You
recall the legend? Mankind was in danger from the intense heat of the
ten suns. But the Lord Yi shot down nine of the suns, leaving only
the one we know today."

Li Yuan laughed,
surprised that he had not seen the allusion. "And I—I am
meant to be the Lord Yi?"

He stared at the
drawing, fascinated, astonished by the simple power of the
composition. It was as if he could feel the horse fearing beneath
him, his knees digging into its flanks as he leaned forward to
release the arrow, the bird pierced through its chest as it rose,
silhouetted against the great white backdrop of the moon. Yes, there
was no doubting it. It was a masterpiece. And he had watched it
shimmer into being.

He looked back
at Ben, bowing his head, acknowledging the sheer mastery of the work.
But his admiration was tainted. For all its excellence there was
something disturbing, almost frightening, about the piece.

"Why this?"
he asked, staring openly at Ben now, frowning, ignoring the others
who had gathered to see what was happening.

Ben signed the
corner of the paper, then set the pencil down. "Because I dreamt
of you like this."

"You
dreamt. . . ?" Li Yuan laughed uneasily. They had come to this
point before. "You dream a lot, Ben Shepherd."

"No more
than any man."

"But this .
. . Why did you dream this?"

Ben laughed.
"How can I tell? What a man dreams—surely he has no
control over that?"