Lydia Kwa's novel is a book of quiet subversion, upending classical Chinese tropes with contemporary ideas around gender and feminism. Filled with psychological complexities, magic and poetic allusions to classical Chinese literature, The Walking Boy explores the intrigue of inner alchemy while exorcising the ghosts of history.
Lydia Kwa's novel is a book of quiet subversion, upending classical Chinese tropes with contemporary ideas around gender and feminism. Filled with psychological complexities, magic and poetic allusions to classical Chinese literature, The Walking Boy explores the intrigue of inner alchemy while exorcising the ghosts of history.
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Overview
Lydia Kwa's novel is a book of quiet subversion, upending classical Chinese tropes with contemporary ideas around gender and feminism. Filled with psychological complexities, magic and poetic allusions to classical Chinese literature, The Walking Boy explores the intrigue of inner alchemy while exorcising the ghosts of history.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781551527642 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Arsenal Pulp Press, Limited |
| Publication date: | 10/01/2019 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 13 MB |
| Note: | This product may take a few minutes to download. |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Prologue
THE DREAM BEGAN one quiet summer afternoon. With no pressing duties left to perform, I had lain down alone in my private chamber and became quickly ensnared. The story that was revealed to me seemed unnatural, strange, and filled with superstitions. A year has passed, yet the dream still breathes and insists. I preserve it here for my own pleasure, neither dictated by another’s whim nor to fulfil any of my obligations to transcribe the thoughts of others. I have been wracked with indecision concerning the future of this document. We will be returning to the Eastern Capital in time for the Autumn Equinox celebrations. I must decide soon. For the time being, this will be safe in the secret compartment. To quell my anxiety, I prepared a concoction of chrysanthemum petals infused in wine. I think of Tao Yuanming, that philosophical poet recluse of the early fifth century who found it painful to exist within the contradictions and political dilemmas of his time. Although I am no direct relation of his, I am a poet and a woman acquainted with dilemmas. I respectfully adopt as my sobriquet a description he was fond of using. Why not raise a few cups to such a soul? This elixir of chrysanthemum, a flower that blooms in the cold season and whose tonic abilities to confer long life can be released only through an intoxicating trance.
“Cold Flower”
HARELIP WASN’T EASILY convinced. Burrowing under the quilt, the old man argued with himself or, rather, his dream. His mind relived the story countless times, the scenes occupying his attention with stinging clarity. His heart fluttered in awkward, irregular spurts. He turned toward the window. No light from the sliver of moon concealed by clouds. He shivered with dread as he gazed at Baoshi, sleeping undisturbed next to him.
In the dream, he was the incredulous onlooker. Watching Baoshi descend Mount Hua, watching another face instantly recognizable to him draw closer and closer. Man and boy shed copious tears. Was it joy? Grief? He couldn’t hear what they were saying. He wanted to move toward Ardhanari, to beg him for forgiveness. He woke up, throat parched. The dream was a beast whose claws dug deep into him. When he rose from the kang, his lungs were seized by spasms of pain. He stumbled outside the shack and coughed into his hand. The blood-tinged phlegm sat resolutely in the well of his palm.
CHAPTER ONE
Waking of Insects
Second Lunar Month
New Moon
702 CE
MOUNT HUA
270 LI EAST OF THE WESTERN CAPITAL CHANG’AN
AT THIS TIME of the early morning, just as the perpetual lamp indicates the Hour of the Rabbit, everything exists in the bluish shadows before dawn, suspended between life and annihilation. The candles on the altar to Harelip’s left flicker in the draft. His upright torso vibrates, swayed to and fro by an invisible wind. The sensations from the dream are still with him -- the raspy dryness in the throat and the fickle heart rhythms. His hands clasped in his lap break out into a sweat. Last night he washed off the blood immediately after coughing it up, but the memory hasn’t disappeared. He checks the height of the incense stick on the altar. Barely half. Why is time passing so slowly? He directs his gaze back to the ground. A dull ache spreads across his shoulders and he stifles a sigh. The jade pendant rests against his chest with the weight of regret. Ardhanari has probably spent all these years wondering what has become of him. Last night’s dream took him by surprise, seeing his friend’s face just as he had looked so many years ago. A narrow beam of light through the one window in the wooden shack caresses Baoshi’s left cheek and tickles the fine hairs of his nostrils. He twitches his face then sneaks a look at Harelip sitting directly across from him. His Master is deep in concentration, head bowed and body showing no signs of slackening since they both began to sit before sunrise. Dust motes suspended in that beam of light are rushing toward him with news of recent adventures in the magic realms. He smiles with pleasure.
Harelip’s mind wanders through various incidents in his early life in the Chang’an monastery, learning from both Buddhist and Daoist medical texts. The meeting with Xuanzang who brought the sutras back from India. Then Xuanzang’s death shortly after his translation project was completed. Two years later, preparations by his superiors to recommend him to the court, where Daoist influence was threatening to overshadow Buddhist sympathies. He was the perfect gambit, a young, intelligent monk who was a gifted healer. Oh, yes, a bit of a renegade but absolutely suited to his superiors’ plans to increase their influence with Emperor Gaozong. That recommendation to the court was to happen at the same time as Gaozong and Wu Zhao’s ascent up Mount Tai for the Feng and Shan rituals. That was the reign year Qianfeng. Well, he turned his back on all that when he didn’t join the procession up the sacred mountain.
He even knows more about the world of Wu Zhao since she has become Nü Huang, Female Emperor. He hears news about the intrigues at court from the villagers below. When they make the trek up the mountain to see him with their ailments, they rattle off what they’ve heard without any suspicion that their hermit healer has his own secrets. Twelve years ago, Wu Zhao usurped the throne from her son Li Zhe -- successor to the throne after Li Zhi died and was given the posthumous name Gaozong -- and proclaimed herself Holy and Divine Emperor. That fact has been repeated to Harelip countless times, the tone of incredulity surprisingly fresh. These days, the villagers are harping on Nü Huang’s affair with those two half-brothers. Imagine, they say in hushed tones, in her seventies. Harelip often feels tempted to say to them, “Just how exciting can that be?” The villagers have been especially nervous ever since Nü Huang moved the court back from Luoyang to Chang’an last winter. Rumours are circulating that her health is failing.
Harelip clears his throat uneasily. He shouldn’t let his mind drift aimlessly through such troublesome reminiscences. He looks up and notices that the incense stick has completely burned down, leaving a pile of grey ash. The perpetual lamp confirms the time. The Hour of the Dragon. He’s surprised by growling sounds emanating from Baoshi’s belly. That boy! He bends forward to gather up the pair of tiny bronze cymbals in front of his feet, strikes them together, and waits for the sound to fade away before striking the cymbals together a second time, then a third.
Baoshi raises his head at the sound of the cymbals and frowns. His loud stomach embarrasses him. These days, he never seems to go for very long before feeling gripped by monstrous hunger pangs. Only moments before, his mind had started to fantasize about a pig roasting above hot coals. He listens as Harelip recites the Heart Sutra.
“... whatever is form is emptiness, whatever is emptiness is form ...”
Baoshi’s attention drifts back to the idea of the roast pig. When was the last time he had eaten suckling pig? Or any kind of pork for that matter? When he was still with his parents. Sadness lodges in his chest. Before too long, the final words of the sutra penetrate his daydreaming.
Their eyes meet. Together they emit sighs as if one were prompting the other, yet their furrowed brows are plagued with vastly different concerns. Harelip uncrosses his legs from the lotus position and groans. The two small hours of sitting were painstakingly slow this morning.
“Curse of old age! Wooden screws coming undone! How could a creaky wheel reach immortality? Will my body be nimble in that Pure Land?”
He and Baoshi rise up from their tattered cushions and turn their bodies to face the altar. They make their prostrations before the figure of Buddha, a modest wooden sculpture only two hands high whose sensuous red and gold robes are faded and chipped in places. Even Buddha is in need of repair, Harelip notes. He turns to face Baoshi and rests his gnarled fingers lightly on the boy’s shoulders. “Baoshi, I’ve taken care of you all these years.”
“Yes, Master, I remember and I’m always grateful.” He blushes, the memory still able to flood him with shame. He fidgets under Harelip’s hands. That tone of voice is what Harelip uses when he’s about to launch into a speech or a teaching. How much longer before their morning meal?
“My dear Baoshi, do you remember what I told you about my reason for coming to this mountain?”
“Yes, Master. You said you were fleeing for your life.”
Harelip’s cheeks flush red-hot. Would Wu Zhao have become so enraged by his absence at the Mount Tai ritual that she would have had him imprisoned or killed? Or exiled to Lingnan to the south? He’ll never know for sure.
He nods to Baoshi, appreciating the firm jawline and elegant cheekbones. What bright, curious eyes! And those lips, as yet untainted by carnal pleasures.
“I had a troubling dream last night. When I woke up, I knew I couldn’t ignore it.” He notices that Baoshi looks somewhat distracted.
Harelip chokes back the rush of feelings and hobbles over to the window to peer outside. A sparrow pecks at seeds on the ground, its hopping movements swift and urgent. He thinks to himself, he’s nothing like this sparrow, utterly focused on picking out everything edible in its path. Instead, his mind is distracted by misgivings about the past. Had he made a mistake, fleeing to Mount Hua, without any consideration of Ardhanari’s feelings?
He can’t answer his own question. He turns around to find Baoshi replenishing the oil in the perpetual lamp.
“Do you know what a novice on a pilgrimage is called?”
“No.” Baoshi shakes his head vigorously.
“A walking boy.”
Baoshi looks at his Master quizzically.
“I dreamt that you left the mountain and found your way to Chang’an. And you met this man, Ardhanari. He was a special friend of mine before I fled the city.” Harelip pauses before continuing. “You must become a walking boy for my sake. Leave this mountain, find Ardhanari, and bring him back to Mount Hua to see me.” He means to sound firm, even confident, but his voice wavers.
“When?” Baoshi sits down, elbows on their small table, his hands cupped against his forehead.
“Not for another two or three months. When the ice on the paths has completely melted, and it’s warm enough for easier travelling.” As he finishes speaking, he shudders at the memory of his harrowing journey up the mountain in winter. To think that had been half a lifetime ago, and he has never left since then.
He joins Baoshi at the table and leans toward him. “Do you remember what I called you that first day we met?”
“You said that I’m a miracle of Heaven. I shall never forget.” His ears burning with upset, he asks, “How long do I have to be away then?”
“Until you find Ardhanari and convince him to return with you. Can you accept this, my son? That I would ask you to set off on this pilgrimage based on a single dream? A dream I find so compelling I would sacrifice having you at my side.”
Harelip’s body trembles with all the emotions he’s holding in check.
“Master, I owe you my life. I will do what you ask, even though I’ll be very sad to be away from you.”
Harelip inhales loudly, sucking back his own urge to cry. “If you decide to assume a hermit’s life on Mount Hua at the end of the pilgrimage, you’ll be doing so of your own volition. You had no choice when you were placed in my care. You were a boy. Still a boy, really. When you go out into the world below, you’ll be exposed to all kinds of possibilities, and that will allow you to discover what your true path consists of. I must stay on the mountain for the sake of the villagers. Besides, in the dream, you were the one who met Ardhanari, not me.”
Baoshi’s belly offers another long growl. Harelip laughs. “Come, miracle of Heaven! We’re taking up too much time talking about a pilgrimage that will begin many weeks from now, and here I am ignoring your hunger. Let’s fill your belly before you faint from starvation.”
***
NÜ HUANG’S APARTMENT
THE INNER PALACE AT TAIJIGONG
NORTH CENTRAL CHANG’AN
THE EAGLE-OWL launches herself from the top branches of a cypress, swooping down into the clearing. Wu-wu, wu-hu-huhu, the raptor announces, as her wings slap the cold night air. Small creatures scurry into hiding, burrowing under piles of leaves or escaping into the crevices of tree trunks.
Not enough time. A hare moves too slowly too late, the scent of fear betraying his presence. The eagle-owl grips the hare with her claws and lifts him up into the darkness.
In the middle of the Hour of the Tiger, Nü Huang moans while still asleep. The owl’s stare entraps her as she fidgets and squirms, struggling out of sleep. She sits up abruptly between Changzong and Yizhi on the heated kang, her heart pounding violently in her chest. She glances down at their curled-up bodies to reassure herself where she is.
“Heaven help me! It cannot be true,” she exclaims.
Ah Pu, the Ordinary One, emerges drowsily from the antechamber, stumbles once as she hurries across the room toward her sovereign in her padded slippers. This is all too familiar to the maid. She lights the lantern on the side table next to Changzong and averts her eyes from the brothers’ naked bodies, partially concealed by the quilt. She places her hands on Nü Huang’s shoulders.
“Your Majesty, come back. You are only having a dream,” her seasoned voice coos gently, keenly aware she must be careful not to startle her mistress. She studies Nü Huang’s eyes. Not quite returned to this waking realm yet. How sad it is to see the crinkly old woman still plagued by these horrible nightmares.
Ah Pu touches Nü Huang’s forehead with the back of her own hand. Clammy and cold, despite the fact that the coals inside the kang are still simmering with white heat. Nü Huang’s skin is a shocking contrast to her own warmth. The wind rattles against the wooden latticed windows and doors, insulated with translucent rice paper, and leaks through the minuscule gaps between the panels. A storm is building. Ah Pu can feel it in her old bones.
She massages Nü Huang’s shoulders gently with her hands. No matter what she has heard of Nü Huang’s misdeeds, beginning in the days when she was Wu Zhao, the concubine, to when she became Gaozong’s Empress, to the days since she proclaimed herself Nü Huang, Female Emperor, Ah Pu feels pity for her mistress. She, more than all the other maids and the younger ladies-in-waiting, has known the full extent of Nü Huang’s growing dependency on her, especially since Her Majesty’s deteriorating health in the last two years.
Nü Huang doesn’t respond to Ah Pu’s touch at first, her eyes engaged by a vision. The women laugh at her from behind their unkempt, blood-soaked hair. She can’t understand what they’re saying. The sounds resemble gurgling more than words. The gurgling of brooks or of infants? She can’t be sure. They flail against the darkness, their protesting limbs whipping up turbulence in her.
The warmth of Ah Pu’s skilful hands eventually rouses Nü Huang from her dazed state. Nü Huang’s eyelids flutter rapidly and she looks up, relieved, finally able to focus her attention on Ah Pu. Treading quietly out of the room, Ah Pu soon returns with a tray. She places it down on the side table and deftly removes the red cork of the miniature jade flask, taps its narrow neck until enough of the Sleeping Comfort powder spills into the waiting spoonful of warm honeyed water. She extends the spoon toward Nü Huang, who meekly accepts the medicine.
After the maid has returned to her own kang in the antechamber, Nü Huang lies back down. The coals glow reddish-white in the brazier across from the bed. She stares at the lantern.
Nü Huang ponders, mesmerized by the light, that forty years have not made enough of a difference. Have they returned only in her imagination, or are they still here roaming the Inner Palace? Those virulent demon souls! Not deterred by zigzagged bridges or lang, the covered arcades that extend from the forbidden lou apartment in the southeastern section of the Inner Palace to her own lou in the north wing. Nor has their presence been diminished by the most fanciful of exorcism ceremonies. What is the point of that large ornate screen placed right inside the main doors of her apartment when it fails to block them? Demon souls with not even a liang of respect for the passage of time. Are they planting fears of the owl in her dreams now? She pushes her tongue against the roof of her mouth, feeling annoyed.
When Changzong and Yizhi came to lie down beside her last night, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. They had set out their collection of objects on a square of golden embroidered cloth at the foot of the bed and then surrendered themselves to playing the usual games. She penetrated each one through his rear heavenly gate with her ivory implement, and they both responded with abundant gratitude as always. Then they smeared their jade stalks and her jade gate generously with lust ointment before thrusting gleefully into her. She was again pleased to see that the half-brothers competed with each other to enter her. She clutched at their lithe, muscled forms, giggled with delight at their shifting chameleon selves, and felt gratified by the infusion of their life force. Afterwards, she sunk rapidly into a deep slumber.
So why the dream? There had been no signs in those first few months back in the Western Capital. Are the former Empress Wang and concubine Xiao still keen to distress her? She had thought that calling the former Empress “Snake” and the concubine “Owl” would banish them to the far reaches of the forest. Yet they return, entering the wilderness of her dream. Yizhi turns toward her and his head falls against her neck. He emits a single, loud snort before starting to snore, a continuous wheezing sound.
Nü Huang studies Changzong’s face. What exquisite eyebrows. Like the wings of a crane in flight. She tries to keep her eyes open. Despite the loud clattering of the doors and lattices, the magic powder is working. Why am I falling asleep, she wonders, when those demon souls are still eager to penetrate the doors and walls? She shifts her body again, this time to lie on her back. Her eyelids close tightly as the rain breaks through the clouds, striking the roof tiles.