Insignia (5 page)

Tears streaked my cheeks and I fell to my
knees to prostrate before him.

“Please, Mr. Chao. Please save her!”

“There, there.” He patted my arm and smiled.
“Mei Zhen is a truly beautiful girl, with a sweet nature. I have
made a request to the
baiji
river-maidens, that they
transform her. It is the only way you will ever see your love
again.”

“A river-maiden? Are the legends true?”
Everyone knew the stories of the
baiji
; the graceful river
dolphins were said to be the reincarnated souls of young virgin
women who died in, or beside the Yangze River.

“It is not encouraged for people to really
believe the legends, but yes, it is true. When my daughter, Chu
Hua, was terminally-ill last year, the
baiji
Goddess
promised to care for her. I now visit with Chu Hua each full moon,
and she appears in her human form to me only then. The rest of the
days, she is a smiling dolphin, dancing in the waves.” Chao’s
peaceful expression convinced me this was a good solution for Mei
Zhen. We would never marry, nor share a bed, but I could see her
every month and she would be free from a harsh marriage to an old
man.

I remembered too, standing with Mei Zhen on
the river bank and watching the
baiji
leap and play.
“They’re performing just for us!” Mei Zhen would say, laughing loud
and dancing on the beach herself. I remembered the breeze in her
hair, the billow of her soft cotton robes, her look of wonder and
bliss.

“I think Mei Zhen would want this,” I
answered in a whisper. Chao now held my and Mei Zhen’s happiness in
his hands. “Can you really convince them to take Mei Zhen? What if
they refuse?”

Chao smiled. “It is done. The moon is full
now, and my precious Chu Hua received the Goddess’ blessing. They
will wait for Mei Zhen in the shallows tomorrow, and take her into
their family immediately.”

“How do they do that?” I asked.

“Ah, but it is a great secret, not to be
shared with humans. It must be enough that we know they exist at
all.”

I nodded. “Very well. I will guard the
secret of the maidens always.”

“You are a good young man. I’m sorry you
cannot have the future that you dream of.” Chao rose then and said
good bye.

“Come to the riverbank tomorrow. Put on a
great show of grief for the Huang family and vow to avenge Mei
Zhen’s death. That rotten couple deserve to live in fear for the
rest of their days for what they have done to that lovely
girl.”

And so, I stood on the beach, my father
gripping me tight as I flailed my arms and screamed at the
injustice and loss. Only Mei Zhen’s sister glanced my way, and I
saw the tears in her eyes too. She wanted to scream and cry and
pound her fists as was the usual custom, but by declaring Mei
Zhen’s death a suicide, the funeral was a silent one of shame.

My feet sank deeper into the wet sand.
Something sharp cut my tender flesh but I took little notice. As
the four men tossed Mei Zhen’s weighted-body into the ocean I
screamed out loud as Chao had said to, but inside I made a promise
to Mei Zhen.

See you on the next full moon, my one true
love.

The End

I am born in the Valley of the Forest
Monastery. It is a time of invasion.

I am five years old. My name is Quick
Stream. I sit on the fence that pens our pigs while my father and
mother work in the fields. The mud stinks a familiar stench; earth
and slop and excrement. The sun is bright; it is summer. The
mountains surrounding the valley still have snow covering the tops.
My father has told me to keep an eye on the pigs, but to face away
from the sun and watch the pass to the west. It is called the Way
of Black Sorrow.

At seventeen years old, I remember watching
the Way at five and tremble, for once again smoke blows through
from the far side of the mountains; the marauders have returned. At
seventeen I am safe behind the walls of the monastery, but I
tremble nonetheless.

I am eleven years old. I live with my
father’s sister and her husband. He is unwilling to share his home.
I am old enough to work but not to be asked to leave. When the
harvests are poor, he yells at me. Perhaps he thinks it is my
fault. I don’t know what to say, so I leave until he has tired and
gone to sleep. The trees are not thick around the foot of the
mountains, but many evergreens grow higher up. The woods whisper in
the wind. The sound is soothing, and it helps one to forget. At
times, I see young monks wandering silently between the trees—they
are holy men; they tread softly on the earth, listening to the
whispers. They are men of peace, but all know they have trained
long to defend their monastery. At eleven I have heard that they
are fearsome in battle, as flowing in their movements as the
sapling in the wind, but hard as oak when they strike. I hide and
wait, and watch one as he passes. He does not look up; he gives no
sign of noticing me; and yet it seems he expects me to be here. At
eleven I do not understand how he can know this.

When forty-three years old, only my right
hand is sore in winter; the knuckles crack open in the cold. Snow
covers the shingles of the monastery and blankets the valley in
white. I stand in the watchtower above the gates. Stone walls were
built before I was born, to protect the people of the valley. The
monastery has never been troubled by the marauders. They have
tended to avoid it. Behind its walls, the farmers of the valley
have taken refuge in times of trouble. Before they pass between the
gates, I see them. The abbot trusts my judgment; he has done so
since I was thirty.

I am twelve. My aunt warns me her husband is
in a foul mood. I will offer to help our new neighbours repair the
abandoned home they are to live in. I once knew the people who
lived there.

I am five years old. Smoke rises between the
crags of the Way of Black Sorrow. It is dark and stinks; unlike
that of our hearth-fire. Our farm is one of the nearest to the Way.
I hear a rumble, as of snow tumbling down the slopes before it
crashes into the trees, but there is no avalanche. It may be on the
other side. From the monastery across the valley comes an answer: a
deep horn blows and echoes through the valley. I have only heard it
at Midsummer and Midwinter before. I am frightened and call to my
parents. As the rumbling gets louder, the pigs squeal and cry. I
run to the fields and warn my parents, but of what I do not know.
My father has heard it now too, and he tells me to stay with my
mother, who picks me up and runs. I jostle in my mother’s arms as
she goes; I cannot see what is happening. I hear the whinnying of
horses and men shouting; some are familiar voices. Many are
not.

I am twelve. The family who is rebuilding
the neighbouring house speaks strangely. They are from outside the
valley. But they are happy to be here. When I offer, the man
accepts my help with the fence around the animal pen. They have one
goat. I meet his two children. One is a baby, a boy; the other is
my own age, a girl. She is the first girl I have met since I was
very young. Most of the large families live on the far side of the
valley, and I see the others once a year, at Midsummer Night. But
my uncle has not allowed me to go for three years; he has asked me
instead to guard our home. The neighbours’ girl is named Sun
Rising. She has shiny, dark hair and brown eyes, and wears the
white blossom of a water lily in her hair. She watches as I help
her father.

I am thirty years old. I walk alone in the
woods, listening to the groan of tree branches under the weight of
snow. I wear sandals, a robe and pants. The air is cold on my bald
head and shaven face. The pungent scent of fir surrounds me, mixed
with something new, and I think back to Sun Rising. I am walking on
the northern slopes, where I last saw her. I do not permit myself
to look for a discarded lily.

She could not understand what the trees were
saying, but I can, now. I believe it will be a good summer for the
fields, as there is much snow on the mountains, and the streams we
drink from will run strong. I hear also from the trees as they
speak to me that I am not alone in the woods, that there is a
stranger here. There are strange tracks, and the signs of much
thrashing in the snow. I follow until I find a hunter. He has been
torn apart. His arrows lie scattered like twigs, his blood in warm
red pockets in the snow. His eyes stare at the sky; I close them. I
rest my hand against the trunk of an old spruce tree and close my
eyes. The forest is quiet, and after a moment I open my eyes and
continue, treading softly. I see blood staining the snow in large
drops; I follow for one hundred paces before it diminishes. The
snow is deep and the tracks are clearer. The stranger has taken
refuge under the wide boughs of an evergreen. He smells me and
begins to stand, but is too weak. I approach slowly, whispering to
him. I am ten feet away now, and we look into each other’s eyes.
His are larger than mine, and yellow; a tiger’s wise face looks
back at me. His body is great; his paws huge. He smells of damp fur
and blood. He is gravely wounded; one arrow sticks into his
shoulder, another is lodged in his side. I whisper to him until his
head sinks and his eyes close. I step beneath the boughs.

I am twelve. Sun Rising and her family live
in the house beside the one that used to belong to my parents. Into
the house I once lived in moves a different family. Like Sun’s they
are from outside the valley, but from the north. They did not enter
through the Way of Black Sorrow in the west, as Sun’s did. Their
two sons are older than me, and they do not need my help with their
house. The younger of them is named Eagle's Wing. When he is close,
I smell beer and meat on his breath, especially when he grabs my
collars to threaten me. I cower before his shoves and taunts; I
don’t understand why he should dislike me. He says I am always
watching him. This is not true, except when he visits Sun. She does
not like him, and the excuses he has for visiting, such as fixing
the thatch on the roof or building a work shed, ring hollow to me.
I am already helping Sun’s father with these things. Sun will not
come walking in the woods with me. She must help look after her
brother. And she is afraid of the forest, but will not tell me why.
I am sad at this, but she often asks me to come into the kitchen to
taste the fresh bread, or to move the table when she is sweeping,
so I allow myself to believe she enjoys my company. Eagle's Wing is
larger than I am, and stronger. When he visits Sun, he shoves me
out of the way when he thinks no one is watching. He is loud and
seems to get his way with others, perhaps because he doesn’t listen
to anyone’s objections. He never knows when I am watching, perhaps
because he only pays attention to himself. Nevertheless, Sun’s
father allows him to visit, because unlike me, he still has a
mother and father and home of his own.

I am five years old. My mother stumbles as
she runs up the slope to the monastery. The rocks are dry; their
dust grits in my tears and what runs out of my nose. The sun is
hot. We approach the gates, which are tall and made of iron, set in
grey walls of stone. A man looks down on us from a window over the
gates. The doors open and we are let in. My mother is crying.
Behind us others are running to the monastery and there are loud
noises from down in the valley. My mother has run the entire length
of the valley from our home to the monastery in the east. She
cannot breathe or speak. She gives me to the arms of my aunt, and
then breaks away from us, and runs back down the mountainside. I
cry for her to come back. But she does not. Black smoke and
horsemen run over the fields. My parents never return.

I am thirty. I place my hand on the thick
fur of the tiger near one of the arrows. Blood mats the white
undercoat but the pulse is steady. I remember the hunter’s arrows;
they are not barbed, as a warrior’s would be. The arrows are caught
in his flesh but the blood is red, not frothy or dark. He may live,
if I am not weak. I whisper again to the tiger, and his eyes open.
He raises his head to regard me, then opens his mouth; the gap is
small enough to fit my hand. He wants something as security; I know
this without understanding how. With one hand on the arrow in his
shoulder, I put the other on the beast’s tongue. It is rough like a
carpenter’s coarse sandpaper. The tiger closes upon my hand and
holds. I begin to pull the arrow out, very slowly, whispering to
him. After many minutes, the arrow comes free. Blood pours out of
the wound, and I press down on it. The tiger growls and bites down
on my hand. The pain is terrible but I do not release the pressure
on the wound. At length he relaxes his hold, and I feel blood flow
from my left hand. I can still feel my fingers. He licks the blood
from where his teeth have pierced me. His fur is thick and is
clogging around the first wound; I will bind it with a piece of my
robe. I will need help to finish this. I take hold of a tree branch
and wait. The tiger waits with me as I send for help; the message
ripples through the forest to the monastery.

I am fifteen. Sun Rising and I walk together
at the edge of the woods; it is a beautiful autumn day, near the
equinox, and some of the leaves have turned. The forest is a mix of
dark green, orange and yellow and the air is cool and dry. My uncle
has been suggesting I find a place to set my own roots, fixing up
the last unused farm. He means to help me, if I will do it. But I
know that I cannot manage a farm on my own, especially the one that
is left; its land has long been fallow and the soil is poor. But I
would like to ask Sun to be my wife. We talk as we pass between the
trees; she tells me she feels safe in the forest when I am around.
This is strange to me, for I always feel comfortable here. I listen
to the trees. She also tells me her parents have suggested she
marry Eagle's Wing, to which I suggest that Wing is a fool and
would not know what to do with an intelligent, beautiful woman. We
kiss and I know that I will never be happy without her. I have
longed to do this for years, and this moment echoes through my
life, back to the first time I draw breath to the moment I stand
above the gates of the monastery at forty-three.