Monkey (2 page)

Malao shivered. He'd run in a big circle, and now he was right back where he'd started, near Cangzhen!

The soldier was headed in Malao's direction. Malao watched him closely. Heavy armor covered the man's body, and he carried a short wooden stick about as long as Malao's arm. Malao got a good look at the stick as the soldier passed through a pool of moonlight. The stick was nearly as big around as a monk's staff and was made from a very light-colored wood, white waxwood. The entire surface was decorated with intricate carvings that had been colored brown with a hot piece of metal. The soldier was still some distance away, but Malao knew exactly what those carvings were.

Monkeys.

Malao's upper lip curled back.

The warrior monks of Cangzhen Temple—or any temple, for that matter—were not allowed to have personal possessions. Personal possessions meant a tie to the greedy world of men, so the monks owned nothing and shared everything. However, within Cangzhen, weapons were an exception. Though they weren't supposed to favor any one more than another, Cangzhen's warrior monks almost always did. Malao's favorite was called a short stick, and the specific stick he preferred was now in that soldier's right hand.

Malao hugged his knees tight and began to rock back and forth. That soldier had helped slaughter Malao's friends and family and burn down the only home Malao had ever known. And now the soldier planned to walk away with a souvenir. Malao wasn't about to let that happen.

As the soldier passed under his tree, Malao focused on the rhythm of the soldier's strides. When the soldier's right arm went backward and his weight shifted to his left leg, Malao dropped from the tree like an anvil.

THUD!

Malao's feet smashed into the back of the soldier's left knee and the knee buckled, slamming to the ground. Malao grabbed the stick and flipped forward, twisting it out of the soldier's hand and leaping onto a low-lying branch. He grinned at the soldier and waved the stick.

“Get down here, you little monkey!” the soldier said, staggering to his feet.

Malao shook his head and scurried to a higher branch.

“Don't play games with me, monk. I see your orange robe. You better not make me climb up there after you.”

Malao turned to leap to another tree when the soldier raised his voice.
“I said get down here!”

Malao stopped. If the soldier raised his voice any louder, reinforcements might come. Malao had no interest in fighting an entire garrison of soldiers. He needed to do something, fast. He zipped to the opposite side of the tree so that he was directly behind the soldier, facing the same direction as the man, and jumped straight down. He landed with one small foot on each of the soldier's shoulders.

The surprised soldier tilted his head up and grabbed on to Malao's robe. Malao slipped his stick under the soldier's chin, pressed his knee against the base of the soldier's head, and leaned back.

The soldier choked and teetered backward, letting go of Malao's robe. He swung his arms wildly, trying to knock Malao off his shoulders. Malao responded by shifting his weight forward.

The soldier toppled over, hitting the ground face-first. He struggled, but Malao held the stick firm until the man's body relaxed. Malao slid the stick out from under the soldier and rolled him over.

The soldier was breathing slow and steady. Cautiously, Malao rested one of his bare, dark-skinned feet on the man's nose and wiggled his toes. The man didn't flinch.

The soldier was definitely unconscious.

Malao giggled softly and slipped his stick into the folds of his robe. He paused and looked around. Cangzhen was close. He might as well check to see if any of his brothers had circled back. Perhaps he could even spy on Ying and “uncover some of his secrets,” as Grandmaster had instructed.

Grandmaster!

The last time Malao had seen Grandmaster, he'd been alone with Ying inside the burning practice hall. Those two would probably fight until only one was left standing!

Malao darted forward, silently following the soldier's tracks back toward Cangzhen.

I
nside the smoke-filled practice hall, student and master stood toe to toe in a fight to the death. Flames rolled like waves over the rafters high above, casting shadows across Ying's carved face. His black eyes burned hotter than the fire overhead. He popped his knuckles one at a time.

Grandmaster stood solid as an eighty-year-old oak.

“You know the real reason I've returned, don't you, old man?” Ying spat.

“From the look in your eyes, I can tell,” Grandmaster replied.

“I hate you!”

“I know.”

Ying spread his arms wide like an eagle and began
to circle Grandmaster. “Why did you raise me to be something I'm not?” he said.

“I thought it was best,” Grandmaster said in a calm tone. His head turned slowly, his eyes following Ying.

“Best for who?” Ying snapped.

“Best for me, I suppose,” Grandmaster replied. “Cangzhen needed an eagle. Perhaps I should have chosen something else. Something less … aggressive.”

“Then what should you have raised me to be?” Ying asked sarcastically. “A dog to follow you around and jump at your every command? You should have raised me as I was meant to be raised!”

Grandmaster shook his head. “No, that would have been disastrous. Of that I am certain.”

“You will pay for robbing me of my birthright!” Ying said. “And you will pay for changing my name. Others shall pay, too. My vengeance will fall on every person whose life you touched with warmth and compassion, for that is my destiny.”

“That is indeed your destiny,” Grandmaster said. “But you have the power to change it.”

“Never!” Ying shouted. He stopped circling and stood behind Grandmaster. “After my man retrieves the dragon scrolls from your library, I will learn what I was born to learn. And when I close the final scroll, I will take with pride the name my father gave me. The name you tried to bury beneath the feathers of an eagle. Arrogant fool!”

“Do not follow in your father's footsteps,” Grandmaster said. “I urge you to forge your own path. Your
father was a sick man. Only a sick man would give his son the name—”

“ARRRGH!” Ying lunged straight at Grandmaster's back. His pointed teeth stopped a hair's breadth from Grandmaster's thin, wrinkled neck. “Don't you dare talk about my father that way!” Ying hissed. “He did nothing wrong, and you know it. It was all your doing. You set the events in motion, and you've been trying to reverse your wrongs ever since. That is why you took me away from the clan and raised me yourself, isn't it?”

“No,” Grandmaster replied, turning to face Ying. “I took you in because I wanted to give you hope.”

“You didn't take me in,” Ying said. “You
took
me. You did it because you wanted to rewrite my future. Admit it!”

“I did it because I felt sorry for you,” Grandmaster said, folding his bony hands. “And because I feared what you might become if you were exposed to the wrong people.”

“Exposed to the wrong people?”
Ying said. “You mean people with
passion?
People with
vision?
People like the Emperor?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should never have taken me along to help him last year, you foolish—”

“I know,” Grandmaster said, turning away. “I know. …” He lowered his head.

“Turn around and fight, old man!” Ying said.

Grandmaster shook his head.

Ying snarled and stepped around in front of Grandmaster. Grandmaster closed his eyes and turned away again.

“Face me!” Ying demanded.

Grandmaster raised his head high but said nothing.

Ying took a deep breath, rooting himself to the earth. “Then prepare to meet your ancestors. …”

Ying raised both hands ceremoniously and extended his fingers. Slowly he brought his fingers together and curled them down while stretching his thumbs down and curling them up. He snapped the perfectly formed eagle-claw fists back and drew a lifetime's worth of angry energy from every corner of his body, pushing it up through his shoulders, into his arms. Driven by hate, he slammed his clawlike fists into Grandmaster's back. There was a tremendous
CRUNCH,
and Grandmaster slumped to the floor.

Ying spat and walked out of the burning practice hall without bothering to give his father's killer a parting glance.

M
alao slowed as he approached the tree line across from the Cangzhen compound. He picked a large maple and scurried up the trunk. Peeking through the new leaves at the end of a branch, he saw Ying standing in the smoky moonlight, just inside Cangzhen's main gate. A circle of soldiers surrounded Ying. Even from a distance, Malao could sense Ying's anger and hear bits and pieces of his ranting.

Ying seemed most upset with a man he called Tonglong, who looked to be about thirty years old and had an extraordinarily long, thick ponytail.

Nice haircut,
Malao thought, and giggled to himself as he watched Tonglong formally present his straight sword to Ying. Ying unsheathed the sword
and swung it dramatically over Tonglong's bowed head. Then he reached down, lifted a large, round object, and threw it at Tonglong.

Tonglong caught the spinning object and placed it on the ground, next to his feet. As Tonglong wiped his hands across his chest, Malao stared at the object. He couldn't figure out what it was. He thought there might be something else on the ground near Ying, but the soldiers were blocking his view. Malao scratched his head and looked back at Tonglong.

Malao knew
Tonglong
meant “praying mantis” in Cantonese Chinese. He also knew how rare it was for people in their region to have a Cantonese name. Most people spoke Mandarin Chinese.

Malao wondered how Tonglong got his name. Malao and his four brothers all happened to have Cantonese names—thanks to Grandmaster—and each was named after his spirit animal. The same was true for Ying.
Malao
meant “monkey” in Cantonese.
Ying
meant “eagle.” A praying mantis seemed like an odd spirit animal to Malao, yet it suited Tonglong perfectly. He had a strange, insect-like quality.

For some reason, Malao couldn't take his eyes off Tonglong. It may have been the way the smoke mixed with the moonlight, but Tonglong reminded Malao of someone. …

Malao shook his head and tried to focus on something else. He stared at the object on the ground again. The smoke cleared for a moment, and Malao noticed that the large, round object was flesh-colored and
streaked with red. It was someone's head! And it looked a lot like—

“Grandmaster!”
Malao gasped.

“Hush,” a voice whispered from behind Malao.

Malao jumped. He turned and saw his brother Hok on a limb behind him.

“Hok! Did you see—”

“Not here, Malao. Follow me.”

Malao watched Hok drift silently through the trees, his robe fluttering against his slender frame like orange kite paper. Malao swallowed hard and followed.

Hok stopped in the forked limbs of an enormous, half-dead elm. The dead half had a large hollow in its massive trunk, high off the ground. Hok eased inside. Malao scurried in after him.

“Greetings, little brother,” Hok whispered as he sat down. “I apologize for sneaking up on you like that. I hope I didn't scare you.”

“D-don't worry about it,” Malao stammered. “Did you see that? Grandmaster's head—”

“I know,” Hok said. “It's over now. Sit.”

“Over?” Malao said as he began to pace. “You call
that
over? We have to do something! We—”

Hok raised a pale hand. “Slow down, Malao. Please. We'll act when the time is right, but now is not the time. Why don't you take a deep breath and tell me what else you saw?”

Malao took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He sat down across from Hok. “I didn't see anything else,”
Malao sighed. “I was only in the tree a moment before you came. How long have you been back?”

“Not long enough, unfortunately,” Hok said. “I wish I had returned sooner. Perhaps I could have helped Grandmaster … or Fu.”

Malao's eyes widened. “Fu?”

“Yes,” Hok said. “After I circled back here, I saw Fu arguing with Ying at the main gate. Grandmaster was there, too. Ying sliced Fu's cheek pretty badly with his chain whip. Then he killed Grandmaster.”