Creation (74 page)

Although Confucius encouraged me to ask questions, I seldom did when others were present. I preferred to question the sage when we were alone together. I had also discovered that when he had a fishing rod in his hand, he was at his most communicative. He would even ask me questions, and listen carefully to the answers. Therefore, it was to my own surprise that I found myself asking Confucius a question in front of the disciples. I suppose that I was affected by the general tension. Confucius’ son was dying; Yen Hui was ill; the master was so outraged by the new taxes that schism within the ranks of the disciples was a distinct possibility. In order to distract, as well as to learn, I heard myself ask, “I have noticed that in parts of the Middle Kingdom, men and women are put to death when a great lord dies. In the eyes of heaven, is this seemly, Master?”

All eyes were suddenly turned upon me. Since there is not a society on earth that does not perpetuate ancient customs which profoundly embarrass thoughtful contemporaries, my question was definitely unseemly.

Confucius shook his head, as if to condemn with a physical gesture a practice that he was obliged to explain if not justify. “Since the time of the Yellow Emperor, it has been the custom for the great people who have died to take with them their loyal slaves. In the west the custom still flourishes, as you witnessed in Ch’in. We are less traditional here in the east. But that is because of the duke of Chou, whose words on the subject place the whole matter in a somewhat different light.”

Whenever Confucius mentioned the duke of Chou, one could be fairly certain that he himself was about to subvert custom in the name of the legendary founder of Lu, whose sayings seemed never to contradict Confucius’ own views of things. “Since our rulers like to be served in their tombs as they were served in their palaces—a seemly desire and entirely traditional—it has been the custom to put to death all sorts of useful men and women, horses and dogs. This is proper, up to a point—a point that the duke of Chou elucidated so beautifully, as he did everything. He noted the fact that human bodies quickly deteriorate and that their flesh soon turns to earth. In no time at all, the most beautiful concubine that ever lived will lose her form and turn to common clay. Now, the duke of Chou said, ‘When these slaughtered men and women turn to clay, they lose their original shape and function. So let us substitute for temporary flesh, true clay images that have been so fired that they will last forever. In either case, the great lord is surrounded by clay. But if the images about him are made of clay that has kept its shape, then his spirit will be able to gaze upon the loyal slaves forever.’ ”

The disciples were pleased. Whether or not the duke of Chou had ever said such a thing did not matter. Confucius had said that he had said it, and that was enough. Certainly, every intelligent Cathayan agreed that human sacrifice on a large scale is wasteful and pointless—and condemned, according to Confucius, by the Chou dynasty. “Of course,” Tzu-lu noted, “the people of Ch’in have little regard for human life.”

“True,” I said. “In fact, when I asked the dictator of Ch’in why he felt obliged to put so many people to death for unimportant crimes, he said, ‘If you wash your head properly, you will always lose a few hairs. If you don’t wash your head at all, you will lose all your hair.’ ”

I sensed, to my surprise, that most of those in the room agreed with Huan. But then, the people of the Middle Kingdom tend to favor the death penalty for crimes that we would punish with a simple mutilation or even a beating.

The subject of funerals, of mourning, of what is owing the dead, fascinates the Cathayans even more than it does us. I never realized quite why until Tzu-lu suddenly asked the master, “Do the dead know that we pray for them?”

I was aware—who was not?—that Confucius always had a deep dislike for the unanswerable question. “Wouldn’t you agree,” he asked, “that it is quite enough that
we
know what we are doing when we honor them?”

“No.” As Confucius’ oldest and fiercest disciple, Tzu-lu did not in the least mind contradicting the sage. “If spirits and ghosts do not exist, then I see no reason why we should bother to propitiate or serve them.”

“But if they do exist?” Confucius smiled. “What then?”

“We ought to honor them, of course, but—”

“Since we cannot know for certain, is it not best to do as our ancestors did?”

“Perhaps. But the expense of a funeral can ruin a family.” Tzu-lu was stubborn. “There must be some other, more reasonable way of serving both spirits and the living.”

“My old friend, until you have learned how to serve living men properly, how can you hope to serve them when they are dead?” Confucius looked, inadvertently I should think, at Yen Hui, who looked at him and smiled; suddenly every detail of the young man’s skull was visible beneath the loosened skin.

“Besides,” Confucius went on, “the world that matters is this world, the living world. But since we love and respect those who came before us, we observe those rites which remind us of our unity with the ancestors. Yet the real significance of these rituals is not easily grasped, even by the sage. For the common people, the whole thing is a mystery. They regard such ceremonies as services rendered to propitiate frightful ghosts, which is not the case. Heaven is far. Man is near. We honor the dead for the sake of the living.”

Confucius’ evasions on the subject of heaven always fascinated me. I wanted to’ question him further, but we were interrupted by the arrival of Jan Ch’iu and Fan Ch’ih. They squatted at the back of the room like schoolboys late for their lesson.

Confucius stared at Jan Ch’iu for a long moment. Then he asked, “Why are you late?”

“Affairs of state, Master.” Jan Ch’iu’s voice was low.

Confucius shook his head. “I may not hold office but if there had been state business this evening, I would have known.” There was an embarrassed silence. Then Confucius asked, “Do you approve of the new taxes?”

“This morning I posted the assessments on the wall of the Long Treasury, at the order of Baron K’ang.”

“That is well known.” For once the tips of the two front teeth were no longer visible; the old man had so set his rabbit’s mouth that he looked uncharacteristically stern, like some devil-god of lightning. “I did not ask you whether or not you had posted the new assessments: I asked you if you approved of them.”

Jan Ch’iu looked desolate and nervous. “As steward of the Chi family, I am obliged to obey the prime minister.”

Confucius was as close to rage as it was possible for him to be. “In all things?” he asked.

“I have duties, Master. And it has always been your rule that one must serve one’s lawful lord.”

“Even when he requires you to commit sacrilege?”

Jan Ch’iu looked puzzled. “Sacrilege, Master?”

“Yes, sacrilege. Last spring Baron K’ang went to Mount T’ai. He offered jade to the spirit of the mountain. Since only the sovereign may do that, he committed sacrilege. Did you assist him in those ceremonies on Mount T’ai?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Then you have committed sacrilege.” Confucius snapped shut his official fan. “Have you begun to collect the new taxes?”

Jan Ch’iu nodded, eyes to the floor.

“What you are doing is unjust. The taxes are excessive. The people will suffer. You should have tried to stop Baron K’ang. You should have warned him of the consequences of what he is doing.”

“I did warn him that the taxes were ... would be resented.”

“When the ruler refuses to act justly toward the people, his servant is obliged to resign. Your duty was plain. You should have given up your post as steward of the Chi family.”

Throughout the room there was the hissing sound of breath suddenly inhaled. I was witnessing something that had never happened before. Confucius had denounced a disciple—a disciple who happened to be one of the most powerful men in the state. Jan Ch’iu got to his feet. He bowed low to the master and withdrew. Fan Ch’ih remained. Smiling pleasantly, Confucius changed the subject.

For a time, Lu seemed to be on the verge of revolution. I was reminded of Egypt’s response to Darius’ war levies. There is always a point beyond which you cannot drive people, and when that point is reached, either the ruler must enslave them all or he must find some clever way to retreat from his position.

Confucius now became the center for those anti-Chi knights who served the duke and also the Shu and Meng families. Although the barons objected to the taxes, they dared not confront Baron K’ang. Like Duke Ai, they made cryptic remarks. Like Duke Ai, they did nothing. Not only was the Chi family army powerful, it was loyal to the dictator. Also, the day before the new taxes were posted, Baron K’ang increased the pay of every one of his soldiers. In difficult times, loyalty is expensive.

During this tense period I spent my days at the foundry. Since Baron K’ang did not send for me, I did not attend the Chi court. Needless to say, I did not visit Confucius. I also avoided the ducal court, always a center of dissent. In fact, I saw no one except Fan Ch’ih, who would come to see me. He was my only link with the dangerous world of the court.

Fan Ch’ih liked to come to the foundry and watch the iron smelters. He found the process fascinating. I found the Cathayan metalworkers fascinating. I have never known any people so quick to learn and master new techniques. Although I was officially in charge of the state’s iron production, I had very little to do after the first few months. The metal-workers now knew everything that their Persian counterparts knew; and I was redundant.

A week after the tax levy, Fan Ch’ih paid me a call. I turned over the works to my chief assistant and stepped out of the heat and glare that molten metal makes into a hazy violet evening, marked by the slow falling of large flakes of snow. As we strolled toward my house I was told the latest news. Apparently Baron K’ang was in complete control of the situation. The taxes were being collected and the state was reasonably secure from internal dissension. “But the master has refused to see Jan Ch’iu. Or Baron K’ang.”

We were in the street of the Shang potters. The Shang are the dark-haired pre-Chou inhabitants who were conquered by the northern tribes. Before the Chous came into the Middle Kingdom, the Shang were priests and administrators, masters of reading and writing. Now they have no power. They make pottery. But, lately, many of Confucius’ gentlemen are of the old Shang stock. Thus, slowly, the dark-haired people return to power, as they appear to be doing everywhere in the world. Zoroaster, the Buddha, Mahavira—even Pythagoras—are reviving the old religions of the pre-Aryan world and, slowly, the horse god is dying everywhere.

“Isn’t it dangerous,” I asked, “for Confucius to challenge Baron K’ang?” We stood in front of a pottery stall. Since each Shang shop contains a single lantern that makes the yellows and reds and blues of the glazed pottery glow like so many coals in a furnace, Fan Ch’ih suddenly looked to be a rainbow made flesh.

Fan Ch’ih smiled. “This is ‘Chou in the east.’ Or so we claim. Our divine sage is safe, no matter what he says.”

“He says that he is not a divine sage.”

“He is modest, a sign of divinity if there ever was one. But he is cruel. Jan Ch’iu suffers.”

“He could end his suffering by resigning as steward.”

“He won’t resign.”

“Then he prefers to suffer?”

“He prefers power to goodness. This is not uncommon. But he would like to be good as well as powerful, which is uncommon. He thinks that this is possible. The master disagrees.”

Fan Ch’ih bought us roasted chestnuts. As we peeled them we burned our fingers; as we ate them we burned our mouths. All the while, soft clinging flakes of snow like icy feathers fell from dull silver sky to dull silver earth. “You must speak to him,” said Fan Ch’ih, mouth full of chestnuts.

“To Jan Ch’iu?”

“To Confucius. You are a neutral figure, an outsider. He’ll listen to you.”

“I doubt that. Besides, what can I say?”

“You can say the truth. The state suffers because there is no harmony between the ruler and the divine sage. Now, if Confucius will receive Jan Ch’iu ...”

I said that I would do what I could. Meanwhile, I asked—yet again—about my return.

Fan Ch’ih was not optimistic. “Nothing can be done this year. The treasury’s still in deficit. But I do know that Baron K’ang is very interested in the overland route to India.”

“Your silk road?”

“My silk road, yes. But such a trip would be a major undertaking.”

“I grow old, Fan Ch’ih.” To this day, I associate utter loneliness with snow falling, chestnuts burning.

“Bring together Baron K’ang and Confucius. If you do, you’ll get what you want.” Although I did not believe him, I said that I would do what I could.

The next day was the last day of the old year, and so I went to Confucius’ ancestral shrine. I could not have selected a worse moment. For one thing, the expulsion rite was in full swing. This is easily the noisiest ceremony on earth. Everyone races about, blowing horns, beating drums, shaking rattles. It is believed that only by making the most noise possible can the evil spirits of the old year be driven out to make way for the good spirits of the new year. During the expulsion rite, it was Confucius’ custom to put on court dress and stand atop the eastern steps of the ancestral shrine. When the noise was at its most deafening, he would speak soothingly to the ancestral spirits. He would tell them not to be frightened or amazed by the awful racket. He would entreat them to remain where they were.

But to my astonishment, Confucius had not taken his usual position on the steps to the shrine. Was he ill? I hurried to his house. Or tried to hurry: every few steps and I was stopped by the antics of the exorcists and their official madmen.

For a sum, an exorcist will go from house to house, driving out evil spirits. The exorcist is accompanied by four very noisy men who are called the madmen. Whether or not these creatures are really mad is unimportant. Certainly, they behave in the most grotesque manner possible. Each wears a bearskin over his head and shoulders; and carries a pike and shield. Once inside a house, the madmen inspire the servants to ecstasies of ear-shattering shrieks while the exorcist darts about the house, howling epithets at the evil spirits that live in the cellar, the eaves, the back rooms.