Creation (63 page)

The current son of heaven proved to be a brisk little man of forty, with a long pointed beard. He wore an elaborate ceremonial robe on whose back a dragon had been picked out in gold thread. In one hand he carried a large disk of green jade attached to an ivory stick, the outward symbol of heaven’s fickle mandate.

The duke of Chou stood alone at the north end of the room, the altar at his back. Between him and the court stood the marshals of the left and the right; they are the great officers of the realm. Next came the hereditary priests; then the various masters of music and ceremony, the courtiers and the guests of Chou. Because of the high rank of the duke of Sheh—a rank quite as specious as that of the so-called son of heaven—we were able to watch close-to-an-interminable ceremony in which, according to the muttered comments of my master, “The whole thing’s a botch. Too scandalous!”

The duke was particularly outraged when the succession music was played. “This may be played
only
in the presence of one who has both the mandate and the hegemony. Oh, it is perfect sacrilege!”

The succession music was composed more than a thousand years ago. While it is played, extraordinarily costumed dancers act out the peaceful succession to the throne of a legendary emperor called Shun. Properly played and mimed, this music is supposed to bind together in perfect harmony earth and heaven.

Democritus wants to know how music can be remembered for a thousand years. So do many Cathayans who maintain that the original music has been either corrupted or totally forgotten over the centuries and that what one hears today at Loyang is a travesty of the original, and because it is a travesty, the mandate of heaven has been withdrawn. I wouldn’t know. I can only say that the effect is bizarre to western ears—and eyes.

When the music and mime ended, the duke of Chou asked the Yellow Emperor for heaven’s blessing upon the Middle Kingdom. Then the son of heaven reinstated all the lords of Cathay. This part of the ceremony was as impressive as it was meaningless.

Solemnly the duke of Chou motioned for the lords of the Middle Kingdom to approach him. Fifteen splendidly dressed men scuttled toward the duke. I should mention here that whenever a person of inferior rank presents himself to a person of superior rank, he lowers his head, raises his shoulders, inclines his body, bends his legs so that he will seem as small as possible in the presence of the great one.

Just short of the duke, the fifteen resplendent figures stopped. Then the marshals of the right and left presented the duke with fifteen bronze tablets covered with the beautiful and for me never-to-be-comprehended Cathayan script.

The duke took up the first tablet; then he turned to an elderly man in a silver robe. “Come near to me, beloved cousin.”

The old man moved crablike toward the duke. “It is heaven’s will that you continue to serve us as our loyal slave. Take this”—the duke thrust the tablet into the old man’s hands—“as a token of heaven’s will that you will continue to serve both us and heaven as the duke of Wei.”

I was most impressed. Within the dusty hall, whose dark beams were half eaten away by termites, all the dukes of Cathay had gathered in order that their authority might be renewed by the son of heaven. There are eleven dukes of the inner states, and four dukes of the so-called outer realms. As each duke received the emblem of authority and renewal, music played, priests chanted; and the duke of Sheh laughed softly. I did not dare ask him why. At first I thought he was simply angry that what Sheh there was, was his no longer. But when the duke of Ch’in received with cringing gratitude the mark of sovereignty, I was startled to see that he was not the same man whom I had last seen howling like a wolf at the mound of the Emperor Wu.

“That’s not the duke,” I whispered.

“Of course it isn’t.” My eccentric master giggled.

“But who is he?”

“An actor. Each year the fifteen dukes are impersonated by actors. Each year the son of heaven pretends to renew the authority of the real dukes. Oh, it is perfectly scandalous. But what is my poor friend to do? The real dukes won’t come to Loyang.”

“I thought you said they all accept him as son of heaven.”

“They do.”

“Then why don’t they do him honor?”

“Because he is not the son of heaven.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither does he. Not really. Yet it is simple. As long as they
pretend
that he is son of heaven, none of them can claim the mandate. That’s why this performance is so necessary. Since each duke dreams of one day seizing the mandate, all the dukes are agreed that it is best, for now, to act as if the duke of Chou is really what he says he is. But sooner or later some duke will obtain the hegemony, and when that happens, Loyang will vanish like a dream and the Yellow River will be red with blood.”

As the actor-dukes withdrew, the son of heaven proclaimed, “Here at the north stands the lonely one. The mandate of heaven is
here
!”

There was then a fearful noise from the musicians, and a hundred men with fantastic feather headdresses and animal tails began a series of dances that was as extraordinary as anything that I ever saw at Babylon, where
all
things are to be seen. In the midst of a whirl of harsh colors and strange sounds, the son of heaven withdrew.

“They are playing the music of the four cardinal points,” said the duke. “Purists dislike it. But purists dislike any innovation. Personally, I prefer the new music to the old. That’s heresy in some quarters, but these are heretical times. Proof? There is no duke in Sheh.”

I cannot remember how long we stayed at Loyang. I do remember that for the first time since I had been made captive, I felt almost free. I attended numerous dinner parties with the duke, who enjoyed showing me off. Not that I was much of a success. Cathayans in general and the courtiers at Loyang in particular have little interest in the world beyond what they call the four seas. Worse, I looked odd and spoke their language with a disagreeable accent, two plain deficiencies not apt to ensure popularity. To my surprise and the duke’s disappointment, hardly anyone was interested in the western world. What is not the Middle Kingdom does not exist. In Cathayan eyes we are the barbarians, and they are the civilized. I have found that if one travels far enough, left becomes right, up down, north south.

Yet I found the general seediness of the court at Loyang remarkably appealing. The courtiers wanted only to be amused. They played word games that I could not follow. They gossiped wickedly about one another. They dined well on chipped plates, drank from dented cups, wore frayed robes with elegance.

Wandering about Loyang, one got the sense that once upon a time it must have been an impressive if somewhat primitive capital. One also got the sense that its day was forever past. Like ghosts, the attendants of the son of heaven went about their ceremonies, ineptly performed according to the duke of Sheh; and like ghosts made lustful flesh, they enjoyed themselves as if they suspected that their day was done and that the court they served was but a fading shadow of a world forever lost.

We visited the Hall of Light, an ancient building dedicated to the Wise Lord—I mean heaven. It is curious that I find the two concepts interchangeable; yet whenever I mentioned the Wise Lord to Cathayan priests, they looked ill at ease; changed the subject; spoke of the Yellow Emperor, of royal descendants, of the mandate ... that eternal mandate! They cannot or will not deal with the notion that there is a first and guiding principle to the universe. They have no conception of the war between the Truth and the Lie. Rather, they are concerned with maintaining a harmonious balance between heaven’s cloudy will and earth’s tempestuous follies. They believe that this is best done by carefully observing those elaborate ceremonies that propitiate the ancestors.

The duke was shocked to find the Hall of Light filled with musicians, jugglers, vendors of food. The effect was most cheerful, but hardly religious.

“I can’t think why he allows this!”

“What should be happening here?” I watched with fascination as a group of dwarfs did complicated acrobatics, to the delight of a crowd that threw small coins at the small performers.

“Nothing. This is supposed to be a refuge where one may contemplate the idea of light. And, of course, religious ceremonies are held here. I suppose the duke collects rent from the vendors. Even so, it is shocking, don’t you think?”

The duke was answered not by me but by a melodious voice behind us. “Most shocking, Lord Duke! Most distressing! But that is the condition of man, is it not?”

The owner of this beguiling voice proved to be a gray-bearded man with unusually
open
eyes for a Cathayan; eyes bright with good humor—or sadness. The two are often the same, as this remarkable man liked to demonstrate.

“Li Tzu!” The duke greeted the sage with an exquisite balance of respect and condescension. If I have not said so before, tzu is the Cathayan word for master or sage. I shall now refer to Li Tzu as Master Li.

“This,” said the duke to Master Li, “is the son-in-law of the king of wealthy Magadha.” The duke seldom forgot my royal connection, which he hoped would one day make him rich. “He’s come to us to be civilized. And now”—the duke turned to me—“you’ve met the wisest man in all the Middle Kingdom, the keeper of the archives of the house of Chou, the master of all the three thousand arts ...” The duke was lavish in his praise of Master Li. Like so many impoverished nobles, he felt obliged to make up with effusive compliments and elaborate manners for all the outward panoply and state that he could not afford.

Master Li showed more than polite interest in my foreign-ness; he was also the first Cathayan to realize at a glance that I could not be a native of Magadha. Although he had not heard of Persia, he was aware that there was a land filled with blue-eyed people beyond the Indus River; and since he wanted to know what we knew, he invited the duke and me to dine with him at the edge of the grounds for the sacrifice to earth. “The lonely one has been pleased to allow me the use of the old pavilion. We shall eat frugally, and talk of Tao.” The word tao means the way. It also has many other subtle meanings, as I was to discover.

We made our own mundane way through a group of half-nude dancing girls. As far as I could tell, they never actually danced; rather, they lounged about the Hall of Light, waiting for someone to buy their favors. The duke was horrified by the blasphemy. “I never thought that any son of heaven, no matter how—” Wisely, he did not finish the sentence.

Master Li serenely filled the gap. “—how compassionate! Yes, the orphan is deeply compassionate. He wants only to make the people happy. He does not strain after what is impossible. He is an adept of wu-wei.” In the Cathayan language, wu-wei means do nothing; and to Master Li the art of doing nothing is the secret not only of ruling but also of human happiness. Does Master Li really mean doing nothing at all? No, Democritus. Master Li means something even odder than that. Presently I shall try to interpret him.

We walked through the busy alleyways of Loyang. I don’t know why I felt entirely at home. I suppose because I had been so long in the desert, the forest, savage Ch’in. The people of Chou must be the most cheerful on earth, and if they find sad their comedown in the world, they disguise the fact beautifully. Also, like so many busy people, they practice wu-wei without knowing it. Yes, Democritus, that is a paradox, soon to be examined.

The ground for the sacrifice to earth is in a park to the north of the city, not far from that conical mound of earth which is to be found at the edge of every Cathayan city. This mound is known as sheh, or holy ground, and symbolizes the state; it is always close to a grove of trees that are not only characteristic of the region but sacred. At Chou, the chestnut tree is holy.

In the third month of each year, the so-called spring terrace play is performed in these grounds. Actually, this is not one play but a number of alternating plays, dances, ceremonies. If the spring terrace play is not a success—that is, precise in its ritual—there will be a poor harvest or no harvest at all. The terrace is a ridge of earth where the worshipers can sit and observe the ceremonies. On this one occasion of the year, men and women may mingle freely. Since the spring terrace play is the high point of the year for all Cathayans, various magnates curry favor with heaven—and the people—by financing the festivities, rather the way they do nowadays in certain Greek cities. Originally these fertility rites were somewhat like those that are still celebrated in Babylon, where both women and men are prostituted in order to ensure a good harvest. But over the years the Cathayan spring terrace play has become quite decorous—inaccurate, too, according to both the duke and Master Li. I wouldn’t know. For some reason I never attended this ceremony during my years in the Middle Kingdom, but if I had, I would not have known whether or not the play was ill or well done.

As we passed the earth mound, the duke of Sheh was relieved to find that not so much as a blade of grass grew on its surface. “If the holy ground is not kept perfectly clean ...” The duke made a sign to ward off evil. Then he bowed to the earth altar, which is square because the Cathayans believe that the earth is square, just as they think that heaven is round; at the south of every city there is a round altar to heaven.

Master Li led us across a narrow stone bridge to a charming pavilion on a limestone crag whose base was circled by a narrow, swift, white-foaming stream. I must say that I have never seen anything quite as strange or lovely as the Cathayan countryside, at least that region between the two great rivers. The hills are of every fantastic shape imaginable, while the trees are quite unlike anything to be found in the west. Also, whenever one travels, there are unexpected waterfalls, gorges, vistas whose cool blue-green depths are as magically inviting as they are perilous, for Cathay is a haunted land of dragons and ghosts and outlaws. Although I saw neither ghost nor dragon, I did see many brigands. Cathay’s beautiful, seemingly empty landscape is a hazardous place for the traveler. But then, wherever one goes on this earth, all things are spoiled by men.