Date: Sun, 08 Nov 1998 12:06:41 GMT
From: Michael Gouda <stachys@eurobell.co.uk>
Subject: The Old Man Under the Moon
The Old Man under the Moon
==========================
A poem from Ancient China
-------------------------
"Now what about this one?" asks the grey-haired antiques dealer with
the pencil thin moustache and unreliable eyes. He takes out a long object
from its case and reverentially unpacks it from its dark green, oiled silk
covering.
"Aah," cooes the potential purchaser, her finger-tips itching to touch
the precious article, lips twitching with anticipation.
The grey-haired man opens the fan, displaying the overlapping sectors,
covered with embroidered silks which glisten with a jewel-like intensity.
Colours shimmer from the surface, pearly opalescence, rich ruby reds, the
gleam of emerald and sapphire, reflecting and refracting the sunlight
through the window.
"The fan is made of the finest materials," says the grey-haired man.
"The struts of ivory. And the workmanship . . . ." He let silence convey
the magnificence. Then he realises that perhaps silence is not sufficient.
". . . superb," he finishes. "Notice the tiny figures which stroll amidst a
delicate tracery of bamboo and willow trees. They are clothed in brilliant
garments and surrounded by chrysanthemum and jasmine flowers."
He allows a minute to elapse for the customer to take them in, then
continues.
"The embroidered pictures represent a story from the life of Wen Long,"
he explains. "Wen Long, the poet," he adds almost as an afterthought as if
it scarcely needs to be mentioned, as if the client will surely know. "It
was made during the reign of the Empress Wu Tse Tien - 618 AD. Here at the
beginning - " he indicates a group at the extreme left of the fan" - you can
see Wen Long with his parents."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Aieee," shrieked Wen Long's mother, a whirlwind in yellow silk. "The
marriage broker is early."
"The Mei Poh is always early," said Wen Long's father. "It is part of
her job."
"But she is earlier than the early I expected. Where are the rice
cakes? Where is the bottle of date wine? Where is the Hong Pau?"
"The cakes are where you set them out," said Kwan Xhu, Wen Long's
father. "The wine is ready to be poured. I have the money here."
Another sharp rap on the bamboo door.
"Let her in, Wen Long."
The young man who would be a poet but was bewildered at the moment by
the general confusion, obeyed his mother.
A small woman with a wrinkled face, an incipient moustache, her head
covered with a green shawl stood outside. Woman and boy stared at each other
for a moment. The woman twitched her thin lips and gave Wen Long an
appraising look - as if she was summing him up for something - perhaps a
coffin.
"Invite the lady in, Wen Long," came his mother's voice.
The woman fussed herself in, her movements prissy and deliberate. She
sat down, arranging her clothing around her precisely. Wen Long's mother
pressed cakes and wine on her. The woman sipped and nibbled with no evident
signs of enjoyment. Wen Long's mother looked anxious.
"Is this the boy?" asked the woman after the formalities were over.
"This is Wen Long," said his father proudly. "My eldest son. My only
son."
"How would you describe him? What are his good points?" asked the
woman. She stared at Wen Long and appeared to find the prospect slightly
unsatisfactory. Her mouth drooped at the corners and the moustache followed.
"He is a good son," said Wen Long's mother.
"He is obedient and willing," said his father.
The woman sighed as if trying to make the best of a bad job, then
produced paper, ink and bamboo brush from the canvas bag tied around her
waist. On the parchment she screwed up her face as if what she did was
slightly distasteful to her and wrote 'Wen Long: willow of form, fleet of
foot, strong of body, imperious of face, agile of mind'.
"Have you a suitable girl in mind, Mei Poh?" asked Wen Long's mother,
seemingly unembarrassed by her own bluntness.
The broker appeared to consider. Eventually she said, "There is Chung
Hwa from the neighbouring town of Ping An."
"I know her father," said Kwan Xhu. "He is a man of substance."
"I know the girl. She is pretty enough, but can she cook?"
"She has skin of porcelain, hair of ebony and very small feet," said
the Mei Poh defensively. "You can teach her to cook - if you think that is
necessary."
Wen Long considered the probability of his union with Chung Hwa, but he
found little attraction in the girl, her porcelain skin, her black ebony
hair and her small feet - though others might consider her captivating. He
sighed, his long sensitive face expressing his inner conflict, respect for
his parents, his own secret desires.
"My son is a poet," said Kwan Xhu.
"It will not be held against him," conceded the broker. "Shall I make a
formal offer to the girl's parents?"
Kwan Xhu nodded and his wife seemed pleased.
They handed over the Hong Pau, the traditional red packet of money,
payment for her efforts. Mei Poh tucked it away inside her dress.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"What are they doing?" asks the potential customer.
"It is a family group," says the grey-haired man. "It expresses their
harmony."
"And who is the old woman with the wrinkled face and the long
moustaches?"
"Probably the grandmother," says the expert hurriedly. "Now here the
poet lies asleep - " and he points without touching the surface to the next
illustration in the centre of the fan where through a window, a young man
can be seen, his body partly covered by an embroidered mantle, lying on a
bed.
"He is very handsome," says the customer, a high-bosomed, bouffant
hair-styled, fur-shrouded, red finger-nailed matron, itching to handle the
exquisite object. "Beautiful," she mouths through blood-red, lipstick-caked
lips. She studies the miniature figure through a magnifying glass.
"In the literature he is described as 'willow of form, fleet of foot,
strong of body, imperious of face, agile of mind'," says the grey-haired
man.
"Almond eyes, olive skin," salivates the customer. "Couldn't you just
eat him?"
The grey-haired man looks slightly alarmed at this unabashed urge
towards cannibalism. "He is a poet," he says reprovingly.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A misty cloud almost obscured the blue hills in the background. The
opal light of the full moon shone through the rice paper curtain and onto
the sleeping features of Wen Long. Troubled dreams plagued his sleep.
And the scent of the lime tree flowers filled the warm night air.
In his dream Wen Long saw an old man walking along the beach under the
opal light of the full moon. On his back he carried a large green bag and in
his hand a scroll. Every so often the old man peered short-sightedly at the
scroll and then shook his head so that his wispy beard fluttered like an
agitated fly-whisk. The green oiled-silk bag on his back bounced and spilled
its contents onto the sand, strange red strings which writhed with a life of
their own.
In his dream Wen Long knew the strings were important but worried
because he did not know why or what they were.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Who is the old man with the beard and the green bag on his back?" asks
the customer.
"It is probably a fisherman with a net full of fish. See there is a red
tentacle coming out from the bag. He has caught an octopus," says the
grey-haired man.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In the morning even before the sun had evaporated the mists of the
night Wen Long left his house. A pair of monkeys chattered at him from the
branches of a sycamore tree as he walked down the road to where he knew the
sage, Huek Sian Ren, would be sitting at his accustomed place by the door
jamb of the pagoda.
"Huek Sian Ren," he said, bowing deferentially as a sign of respect. "I
had a dream last night." And he told him of the Old Man with the bag of red
strings on his back and the scroll in his hand.
Huek Sian Ren gestured to him to sit close that he might share some of
the young man's warmth for it was a chilly morning and the old man's bones
had taken cold. As he spoke his breath billowed small clouds of condensation
into the air.
"Have you not heard of the Old Man under the Moon?" Wen Long's eyebrows
expressed his ignorance. "Not the Man IN the Moon, Wen Long, the Old Man
UNDER the Moon, who walks with his bag of red strings on his back under the
light of the full moon. The red strings tie together the ankles of the
beloved, no matter how far apart they may be, and the old man reads the
appointed names from his scroll and fastens them together. So if you are
intended to fall in love with, for instance, Chung Hwa, you will be fastened
to her with a red cord."
"I can see no red cord fastened to my ankle," said Wen Long
despairingly, staring at his feet.
Huek Sian Ren laughed. "Only a true poet, who sees with the eye of a
poet, can see his red cord," he said. "To other men they are invisible."
Three cranes flew over their heads, making strange croaking sounds. It
was almost as if they shared the laughter of Huek Sian Ren.
Wen Long blushed with humiliation. "But," he protested, "that is my
intention - to be a poet." And he put his hand in front of his mouth in case
he be thought guilty of disrespect. "How can I become a true poet?" he
wailed.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The grey-haired man indicates another place on the fan. "Here he is
shown listening to the Master Huek Sian Ren who is teaching him his
apprenticeship as a young poet."
"They are sitting very close together," comments the customer.
"It is thought that Wen Long was a trifle deaf. He would have to sit
close to hear the words of the master."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"You must learn the 370 ways of describing the chrysanthemum flower,"
said Huek Sian Ren, "and the 141 colours of the sycamore bark. You will have
to study for several years with a master who will teach you the 74 ways of
pronouncing the three chief vowels and then you will need an expert
calligraphist who - "
"I have already written poems," Wen Long interrupted with great
presumption and gasped at his own audacity. But he continued in spite of
this and quoted a verse for Huek Sian Ren's benefit:
Wen Long takes a boat and is about to depart
When suddenly he hears the sound of footsteps
And singing on the shore.
The water in the Peach Blossom pool is
A thousand feet deep
But not as deep as Ta Zhen's parting love for him.
"It is an interesting poem if rather unskilled," commented Huek Sian
Ren grudgingly, "but who is this Ta Zhen?"
Wen Long hung his head in shame, but whether at the rebuke or the
question was not clear. "Alas I have never met him," he said. "But I am sure
I will."
And in his mind's eye he could see the manly figure of Ta Zhen, his
broad shoulders, slim waist and - for this he knew he must have - his
massive accomplishment. His hair would be as purple-black as the breast
feathers of a raven, his complexion olive, his eyes dark as jet stone. His
skin would be smooth as polished teak wood over hard sinuous muscles. Legs,
sun-stained, rock hard where they disappeared disappointingly under his
worker's breeches. His feet would be bare, the toes long and flexible. And
his smile would be as the summer sunshine which lights up the countryside
and disperses the cold morning mists. At these thoughts and the picture he
conjured up in his mind, Wen Long felt his own bamboo shoot stiffen. Hastily
he glanced down to see if it showed through the cotton of his trousers.
"The old man won't tie you to another boy," said Huek Sian Ren
reprovingly. "It's strictly male to female. You would best concentrate on
Chung Hwa."
They sat in silence for a moment. "Or perhaps . . . ," said Huek Sian
Ren and put his hand on Wen Long's thigh. Who started. The hand on his thigh
seemed unnecessarily intimate. It was only inches away from his erection,
now rapidly diminishing.
"Dear boy. Sweet boy," said Huek Sian Ren amorously.
Wen Long felt uncomfortable. This old man surely could not be the Ta
Zhen of his dreams. Added to that the hand looked like a chicken's claw. He
stood up. "I must get back for breakfast," he said. "I will bring you a bowl
of rice."
"Dear boy. Sweet boy," repeated Huek Sian Ren, but this time he sounded
disappointed.
Another pair of cranes flew overhead and disappeared over the trees to
the west as Wen Long walked home. It seemed to him that the birds were free
and able to fly wherever they wished whereas he was imprisoned here while
Fate - and his parents - decided his future.
The sun's rays lit up the countryside and dispersed the early morning
mists - but not those that confounded Wen Long's mind.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"I have been told," says the client studying the embroidered surface of
the fan with an intense gaze, "that Chinese names actually mean something.
What does Wen Long mean?"
"It means 'Cultured Dragon'," says the grey-haired man.
"And Chung Hwa?"
"Essence of Spring."
"And what is this word, written down there?" She points with her
blood-red finger nail at a piece of exquisite calligraphy and the
grey-haired man pulls back the fan slightly from her predatory reach.
"Ta Zhen," he says. "It means 'massive accomplishment', presumably
referring to the poetic output of Wen Long. It is probably not a name at
all."
"Do you see here," says the grey-haired man - he points to where yet
another image of the young man appeared at rest amongst the gardenia
blossoms.
"He seems to spend a lot of his time asleep," ponders the customer.
"It is where he receives his inspiration."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
That night Wen Long dreamed again. But this time the Old Man with his
green sack approached Wen Long and seemed to study him through misty blue
eyes. Then the Old Man peered short-sightedly at his scroll. Even the light
of the full moon was apparently insufficient to enable him to make out the
characters, perfectly calligraphed as they were. "I cannot quite make out
the other's name," he said uncertainly. "Is it Chung Hwa?"
"No," said Wen Long in his dream, "It must be Ta Zhen."
"Ah," said the Old Man and repeated, "Ta Zhen." He nodded and bent down
to tie a red chord around Wen Long's naked ankle. The silk felt cold and yet
at the same time it seemed to burn his skin. Then the sensation ceased and
he felt nothing. The Old Man wandered off into the distance and the string
unwound after him, the moonlight creating a silver path.
Wen Long awoke with the words of a poem fully formed in his mind:
While travellers' goals are flying clouds,
A friend's affection is an enduring sun.
Wen Long waves goodbye, and as he goes from here,
The bamboo grove sighs farewell.
He knew then that he must leave his family, his friends, his home town
and search wherever Fate led him. But where should he go? He glanced down at
his leg where the Old Man in his dream had tied the red string. Something
shimmered in the early morning light, something attached to his ankle which
led off towards the East, towards the rising sun.
Now he knew which way to go.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"There is a boat here," says the customer. "Is Wen Long off on a
journey?"
"He has been summoned to the Court of the Empress Wu," says the
grey-haired man, "As official poet. It was a great honour."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The rectangular bamboo sails of the junk rattled in the wind as if they
were anxious to be off. Strong men with supple bodies, the sweat outlining
their muscles, pulled on the ropes. Wen Long stood on the quayside, his
parents beside him, his mother in tears, his father angry.
"But why are you leaving your home, my son? Your parents who love you?
Your betrothed?" asked Kwan Xhu.
"I must find my destiny," said Wen Long, his eyes on the straining
backs of the sailors as they toiled in the sunshine.
"And what shall we tell Chun Hwa?" asked his mother.
"Tell her a true poet must sacrifice the ultimate happiness for his
art," said Wen Long somewhat hypocritically, considering the reason why he
was making the journey, and climbed aboard the junk.
He found himself a space to sit where a coil of rope provided some sort
of comfort on the deck. The waters of the Huang He river slipped softly
past. Wen Long sorted the words in his mind and then wrote them down.
Blue mountains climb beyond the fertile fields.
White water rushes round the jagged rocks.
Right here is where, alone and restless, Wen Long
Begins a journey of a thousand miles.
"Honoured poet," said a soft though uncultured voice beside him.
Wen Long looked up to see one of the sailors standing with his back to
the rail which ran round the deck. He wore no shirt. The sun shone on his
broad shoulders, shiny with sweat, the horizontal pectoral muscles, the
concave depression under his ribs and the flat stomach. His skin was bronzed
from exposure to the elements. A pair of rough trousers, fastened with a
piece of hempen rope, ended mid shin. Bare feet, the toes long and flexible.
"Brawny sailor," said Wen Long, the smile on his face revealing the
playfulness of his remark. "What can I do for you?" Privately he thought of
various things but was not sure whether any of them would be appreciated.
"Can I speak with you, honoured sir?" asked the sailor.
Wen Long patted the coil of rope beside him. There was just room for
another. After a slight hesitation, the sailor squatted down, his legs
crossed. He was close enough for Wen Long to feel the warmth of his body
though they were not touching. He could smell the man's sweat, the sweat of
a clean healthy body which had been toiling in the heat of the sun. The
smell excited Wen Long. Could this be his Ta Zhen, found almost before they
were out of sight of his home village? His bamboo shoot sprouted.
"My name is Wen Long. What is yours?"
"Shui Seng," said the sailor. "I know you. You are the poet." He
stretched himself as if the relaxation after a day's work was a luxury and a
bare leg lightly brushed the clothed one of Wen Long. "I have a favour to
ask, honoured poet."
Wen Long's mind whirled. The man's wide hand with its broad, stubby
fingers, was but inches away from his own. He could feel the breath from the
man's mouth as he turned his face towards him. It was as soft as a kiss. He
thought he could detect the scent of sandalwood. Perhaps he had been chewing
on a piece of the fragrant wood. He kept his own gaze resolutely forward. If
he turned he might not be able to resist kissing the young face. His tone
when he spoke was artificially light.
"What can I do for you, Shui Seng?" he asked. "Ask anything," he said
wildly.
"Would you write me a poem?" said Shui Seng, "A poem for my betrothed
who lives in Ping An?"
Wen Long's heart sank. This could not be his Ta Zhen, who was tied to
him with the Old Man's red string. Nevertheless he nodded, he would write a
poem. Shui Seng was overjoyed, seemingly at a loss for words. He grabbed
hold of Wen Long's hands within his own warm ones. He raised then to his
lips and kissed them in gratitude.
"Honoured, sir . . ." He seemed about to be even more fulsome, looked
as if he might embrace Wen Long's whole body, press him with his but a shout
from the bosun on the poop deck had him hurriedly getting up and running
back to his duties.
A solitary crane stood in the shallows of the river.
Wen Long sighed. He started to arrange words in his mind.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Where did he travel to?" asks the customer.
"To the capital city which in the Tang Dynasty was Chang 'An. See there
is a representation of it here. Look at the magnificent detail! The skill!
The artistry! The buildings seem to have an almost three-dimensional
solidity."
"I wonder who made the fan," ponders the customer.
"It is signed."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Chang 'An.
Bustling town of stone-built dwellings. Pagodas, palaces. Narrow
streets where the palanquins of the mighty jostled with the bare feet of the
humble. Soldiers strutted. Knights sneered down at the peasantry from
horseback. Bureaucrats bustled self-importantly, their fans agitating. The
high-pitched sounds of street traders offering their bargains filled the
air. Bamboo cages held tiny songbirds which trilled songs out of all
proportion to their size. Smells of spices vied with that of rotting
cabbage. Everywhere the rich fabrics of silks and brocades contrasted with
the dull hempen of the peasants.
It was music to the ears of Wen Long. He walked between the handsome
buildings as if in a dream, hearing the sounds, smelling the alien, but
exciting scents, gazing rapturously at the sights.
My sleeves are perfumed
By the fragrance of the city
But my senses are . . . dominated? stupified? overawed? uplifted?
So enthralled was he and so rapt in his search for the right word for
his poem that he failed to notice the crowd had quietened, that they were
drawing back from the centre of the street, prostrating themselves on the
ground. "Kow tow," there was an urgent whisper and a plucking at the hem of
his shirt but Wen Long did not notice. Nor did he see the covered palanquin
which turned the corner, the covers of gold brocade, decorated with green
dragons, encrusted with precious jewels and carried by eight strong
supporters. Not until a soldier in leather armour with the Royal
Chrysanthemum emblem emblazoned on his cuirass, grabbed him around the waist
and hurled him to the ground did he realise that something was amiss.
"Do you not know it is treason to stand in the sight of the Empress?"
growled the soldier.
Wen Long, his mouth full of mud, lay quietly. He could see nothing
except the bare - and indeed shapely - calves of the man standing over him.
There was a gasp from the crowd around him and Wen Long dared raise his head
slightly. The palanquin had stopped, the curtains parted and a long slender
arm, draped with a rose coloured sleeve, emerged and was beckoning.
The soldier grabbed Wen Long by his shirt and the scruff of his neck
and dragged him forward before releasing. Wen Long fell on his face again.
The curtains parted slightly and a voice, cultured but with a rough
authority that brooked no possibility of disobedience, said, "Lift him so
that I can see his face!"
The soldier pulled Wen Long's face from the mud by the hair at the back
of his head. There was a pause while the unseen occupant studied him.
Eventually a query. . .
"Who is he?"
Wen Long couldn't remember!
The soldier prodded him in the ribs with his stick. "Tell the Empress
your name, fool," he snarled into his ear.
"Wen Long . . ."
"Highness," prompted the soldier in a sibilant whisper.
"Highness," said Wen Long. "I am a poet."
"Bring him," said the voice. The curtains closed and the bearers
started again. As they passed, they heard, "Wash him, and get him some
suitable clothes."
The soldier pulled Wen Long to his feet and, holding him around his
waist, half dragged, half lifted the dazed poet along in the wake of the
procession.
"Where are we going?" asked Wen Long.
"To the Imperial Palace," said the soldier. Wen Long could feel his
strong body pressed against his own side. It felt virile and somehow
comforting. The soldier's arm was around his waist. "The Empress has taken a
liking to you."
Wen Long's apprehensions diminished. But the soldier continued.
"The Empress' desires are strong. She has been known to exhaust the
capabilities of the strongest of young men." He paused. "Leaving them no
more than dried out husks, like dead locusts in the desert. It is
nevertheless a great honour to be 'chosen' by the Empress."
Wen Long misgivings returned.
"But I am not like that," he managed. "I am a poet."
"And if she is not fully satisfied, you will be beheaded."
"Aieee," wailed Wen Long. He twisted in the soldier's grip, trying to
escape. His arm which before had seemed a support, now appeared full of
menace.
"Do not try to run away," said the soldier. "It is more than my life is
worth to allow it."
Cranes circled overhead.
The procession with Wen Long and the soldier bringing up the rear
reached an imposing building which Wen Long, if he had been less
apprehensive, would probably have appreciated as a fit subject for a poem.
Its gable ends, exquisitely carved into the shapes of writhing dragons were
lacquered in red and gold. Its imposing gates were painted with delicately
calligraphed messages of good luck. Nevertheless they still clanged shut
behind him with what he thought was a final and menacing foreboding.
The processional way led between formal gardens where willows wept over
rectangular fish ponds. Golden carp nosed their way curiously to the surface
to watch their Empress and gasp open-mouthed at the honour.
They entered a magnificent hall with statues of Royal animals down each
side. Huge pillars held up the roof which was decorated with swirling images
and much gold. The palanquin containing the Empress and her attendants
disappeared into the distance while Wen Long and the soldier turned off into
a small room on the right. It was comfortably furnished with a bed, a table
and some low stools. Various scroll paintings, mostly of misty landscapes,
hung on the walls. The window was protected by a carved wooden lattice.
In the corner stood a bowl and a ewer made from the finest porcelain.
"I am Koo Wei Siong," said the soldier, who, now on his own seemed less
forbidding especially after he took off his helmet to reveal a young man's
face, with arched eyebrows and a sensitive, almost poetic mouth, thought Wen
Long.
"We have not much time," said Koo Wei Siong. "Strip and wash," and he
gesticulated towards the washing facilities in the corner. Wen Long waited
for a moment for him to withdraw but the soldier seemed to have no intention
of leaving him alone to complete his ablutions. Instead he began to remove
his own heavy leather armour, the breast and back plates, the leg greaves
and finally the piece that protected his genitals. Wen Long tried not to
stare too obviously as more and more parts of the soldier's body were
revealed. He saw a lean, muscled body, the legs long and shapely, the arms
strong. Only the area at the fork of his legs was hidden by a white loin
cloth. Wen Long looked at it hungrily.
"Come on," said Koo Wei Siong. "Surely you have seen a man's body
before. Get those filthy rags off you and wash carefully. Then we will rub
some spices and scents on - the Empress' favourites - and finally for you a
silk robe."
Wen Long removed his best shirt, admittedly a trifle grubbied now from
his close contact with the street, and his trousers. He poured water into
the bowl and with a sponge, washed off the day's grime.
As he did so and realised what he was preparing himself for, he grew
more and more frightened. At last he turned to Koo Wei Siong. "I will not be
able to perform for the Empress," he admitted. "I like only men."
Koo Wei Siong gave him a frank, appraising look. "I suspected as much,"
he said. He approached the quaking body of Wen Long and gently laid his a
hand on his back. It was a tender gesture. With his other hand he touched
the flat surface of Wen Long's stomach so that the poet was held in an
embrace. Wen Long's bamboo stiffened and Koo Wei Siong wrapped his hand
around the stem so that a spasm of delight shot through the poet's loins.
Had he at last found the Ta Zhen of his dreams? He looked swiftly at the
soldier's ankle but could see no shimmering red cord attached to his own.
"I am of a similar disposition," said Koo Wei Siong, "though I like
women also." He appeared to think for a moment, a frown creating a slight
fault on his almost smooth brow. At last it cleared. "It is a problem -
though I think I can find a solution. If the Empress approves of you, she
will summon you to her boudoir after dark. There will be no lights as no one
may look upon the sacred unclothed body of the Empress. She will know you
only by your scent and your feel. Luckily we are of a similar build and I
can also rub on the unguents and wear your robe."
"You mean, you will substitute yourself for me. You would do that for
me?" He clasped Koo Wei Siong's body in gratitude and felt, within that
concealing scrap of cloth, an answering erection to his own.
But Koo Wei Siong drew back, albeit reluctantly. "We have no time for
play at the moment. If you are truly clean, I will put on the perfumes and
dress you in the manner of the court."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"There are no more pictures," says the client regretfully. "Does the
story end here?"
But the grey-haired man swiftly turned over the fan to show more
illustrations on the back. "But how is that possible?" asks the client. "How
is it that the embroidery does not go right through the silk?"
"It is part of the ancient craft," says the grey-haired man. "A lost
secret. See here Wen Long appears dressed in silk and brocade in front of
the Empress Wu Tse Tien." He gives his client a sharp look. "AD 618," he
adds, perhaps forgetting that he has already told her this, perhaps wishing
to emphasise the great age of the artefact. "So many years ago and yet the
colours are as bright as if they were dyed only yesterday."
The client nods appreciatively.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Wen Long, robed magnificently in a blue silk gown fastened around his
waist by a jade belt, his hair black and glossy with pomade - Koo Wei Siong
should have been a barber - wearing wooden sandals that clacked
satisfactorily on the marble floor, entered the sumptuous Jade Hall of the
Imperial Palace.
He was terrified.
A double row of wooden columns, lacquered in red and gold, held up the
roof beams and trusses each one ending with a carving of a phoenix taking
flight. The smell of rare incenses wafted through the air amidst the
tinkling sounds of flutes and reed organs.
The Empress Wu Tse Tien sat on her golden throne, a figure dressed in
rose silk, diminutive but with a huge personality. Her black eyes flashed.
She commanded instant obedience. Drawn up in lines in front of her stood her
officials, each one dressed in the robes of his office, generals and
warriors to her left, viziers and secretaries of state to her right. Two
enormous eunuchs kept her cool with peacock feather fans.
Empress Wu made a sign and Koo Wei Siong prodded Wen Long in the ribs.
"Approach and bow until your head touches the ground," he whispered.
"I cannot move," said Wen Long, his body shaking. "My legs have turned
to cabbage stalks."
Koo Wei Siong muttered. "Don't be a fool. You'll get us both beheaded!"
He placed his hand in the small of Wen Long's back and gave him a shove. Wen
Long started forward in a sort of hobbling stumble. Koo Wei Siong went with
him in case he fell, his hand sinking lower so that it cupped one of his
buttocks. Wen Long found the touch strangely comforting. At the step below
the throne, Koo Wei Siong gave him a push and it was enough to make the
poet fall to his knees.
"Head to floor," said Koo Wei Siong, imitating the instruction.
"So this is the poet," said the Empress.
Wen Long said nothing.
"Well, poet, we would hear a little of your work."
Wen Long's mind was a blank.
"Speak, fool," said Koo Wei Siong, out of the side of his mouth.
Wen Long dredged through what remained of his mind. Somewhat muffled -
for he dared not raise his head, the words emerged. It was the poem he had
written for the sailor, Shui Seng's betrothed, but it did not matter:
"After the long burning day,
In the golden censer
the fragrant incense is dying away.
You are the coolness of midnight
Which penetrates my screen of sheer silk
And chills my jade pillow."
"Stand," commanded the Empress, "so that I can see you more clearly."
Wen Long felt some strength return to his limbs. He stood and with
renewed confidence, continued with his poem, Koo Wei Siong standing by his
side. The Empress's keen eyes observed the slim young man in front of her
and seemed delighted with what she saw. Her small pink tongue appeared and
licked the corners of her mouth.
"After drinking wine at twilight
Under the chrysanthemum hedge,
You are more graceful
Than the yellow flowers
And more refreshing
Than the west wind which -- "
"Yes yes," she said interrupting him. "enough poetry. Have him brought
to my room after dark," she said - and dismissed them.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Here Wen Long is presented at the court and finds favour with the
Empress, obviously a great appreciator of poetry," says the grey-haired man.
"Who is that figure that stands so closely behind Wen Long?" asks the
client.
The grey-haired man dismisses the question with an airy wave of a
well-manicured hand. "It is just an attendant, probably a soldier," he says.
"No one of any importance."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Wen Long lay in the narrow bed alone. Koo Wei Siong had left hours
before, dressed in the blue robe Wen Long had himself worn earlier and
scented with the same perfumes. The time passed and Wen Long grew more and
more apprehensive. Could anything have happened? Had the substitution been
discovered? Were armed guards about to enter and drag him off to execution?
Naked under the coverlet Wen Long shivered with anxiety. Even if all
went well, Koo Wei Siong was not his Ta Zhen. There was no red cord fastened
to his ankle and when he returned, would Wen Long be able to resist the
physical attraction to which he had already nearly succumbed?
The sound of a water clock measured his apprehension in drips.
At last the grey silk of dawn began to light the windows and still Koo
Wei Siong had not returned. Light would surely mean that he had been
recognised. Wen Long shivered. - Then without warning the door was flung
open. A figure, dark silhouette against the light outside, stood there for a
second before crumpling to the floor. Wen Long jumped out of bed and ran to
the prostrate form.
"Koo Wei Siong," he said. "Koo Wei Siong, are you all right?"
Koo Wei Siong groaned. "What a woman," he mumbled. "What stamina! What
perseverance! What insistence!"
With an effort Wen Long dragged him onto the bed where he sprawled
there on his back. His eyes closed, his mouth opened, a slight snore
emerged. Well, thought Wen Long, there would be no danger from this man
tonight.
Disillusioned and - it must be admitted - slightly disappointed, Wen
Long pulled on his old clothes, muddied as they were, and with one last look
back at the recumbent form on the bed, crept silently out through the door -
and away into the dawn.
As he passed the pool with the carp, a crane took off, its wings
rattling together. The raddled reflection of the moon smiled brokenly back
at Wen Long from the surface of the water. A shimmering ribbon led the way.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Why is he walking so dejectedly along the road?" asks the client.
"He has lost all his fine clothes!"
"Wen Long went through a period of abstinence," says the grey-haired
man. "Self-denial to advance his poetic talent."
"How fine! How noble!" says the customer approvingly. "What sort of
things did he give up?"
"Oh you know. Meat, rich foods, opulent clothes, money, sex. He lived
as an itinerant beggar - on the generosity of others."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Wen Long was down almost to his last copper coin. All the money he had
brought with him had been exhausted. He was hungry, thirsty, tired and the
soles of his shoes had worn so thin that he could feel the sharp stones of
the road cutting into his feet. The last village he had passed through had
even refused him a bowl of rice when he had asked. He thought longingly of
his mother's rice cakes, his father's date wine, a soft bed, a clean shirt.
The road - if you could dignify this less than cart track with the name
- snaked up the mountain, its sides bordered by thorny bushes which bore no
fruit. On his right side the grey stone of the mountainside towered
precipitously while on the left it fell into a bottomless gorge.
As Wen Long hobbled along a figure suddenly emerged from behind one of
the bushes and stood in his way in the centre of the track. A tall figure,
broad-shouldered, slim waisted and carrying in his right hand, a cudgel of
massive proportions. His hair was as purple-black as the breast feathers of
a raven, his complexion olive, his eyes dark as jet stone. His skin was
smooth as polished teak wood over hard sinuous muscles. Legs, sun-stained,
rock hard where they disappeared disappointingly under his rough breeches.
His feet were be bare, the toes long and flexible. And his smile was as grim
and menacing as that on the face of a tiger.
"Ho," shouted the man, even though they were close enough for a whisper
to carry. "I am Lew Kang, bandit and master of the road. Travellers pay
their dues to me or they disappear into the canyon." And he gestured with
his free hand over the precipice at the side of the road.
Wen Long stared at the man. Surely this was his Ta Zhen. It was the
figure of the man he had always seen in his imagination, the features
handsome though a little disfigured by the broad scar down the side of his
face which he had not envisaged. It did give the man nevertheless a rough
excitement, an aspect of brutality which added to the titillation.
"Are you deaf?" shouted Lew Kang waving his cudgel in the air
alarmingly. "Give me your money."
"Unfortunately I have none," said Wen Long. "I am a poor poet and you
are my Ta Zhen." Yet as he looked he saw that he was mistaken for although
the shimmering cord ran towards the man, it did not fasten around his ankle,
rather it disappeared between his legs and went on and on up the dusty road.
Still could he have been mistaken. In the full glare of sunlight the shimmer
was indistinct.
"I am Lew Kang," contradicted the bandit. "If you have no money then
you must give me your clothes." He peered at Wen Long's shirt which, though
muddied and sweat stained, still bore the needlework decorations his mother
had lovingly embroidered. Again he waved the cudgel menacingly.
Wen Long's conviction that this was his Ta Zhen wavered. Lew Kang
brought down the cudgel on his shoulder with considerable force and it
evaporated entirely.
"Aieee," he shouted sounding exactly like his mother. With the only
hand that had any feeling left in it, he tore off his shirt exposing the
golden jade of his skin.
"And your trousers," demanded Lew Kang, his smile twisting the scar to
even more alarming proportions.
One handed Wen Long fumbled with the cord tied at his waist. Lew Kang
helped him by ripping it open and the garment dropped to the ground leaving
Wen Long shamefully exposed. His bamboo shoot cowered. He tried to cover
himself with his hand.
"Payment in full," growled Lew Kang and he grasped the naked form of
Wen Long around the waist turning him so that his backside was towards him.
Behind him he felt Lew Kang opening his own garments and Wen Long knew that
he was, at long last, about to lose his virginity. It had been protected for
so long - against the feminine charms of Chun Hwa, the importunate hand of
Huek Sian Ren by the door jamb of the pagoda, the maritime allure of Shui
Seng, and the military one of Koo Wei Siong. And now it would fall before
the lusty organ of Lew Kang, the bandit.
A hand came round and grasped his bamboo shoot and despite himself, Wen
Long found himself stiffening. He could feel something hard and long probing
at the crack between his melons. The massive crown found his beginning and
his end. It pressed. Wen Long prepared for pain or ecstasy he was not sure
which when --
-- there was a clashing of wings as a crane flew overhead, and a
muffled crump. The arms around his waist relaxed and fell away and the
warmth of the body at his back disappeared.
For a moment Wen Long stood transfixed, naked and waiting, but then, as
nothing further happened, he turned round.
The body of Lew Kang lay sprawled on his back in the centre of the
road. From his trousers protruded his massive accomplishment, still
distended but slowly deflating. A rock, the size of a duck's egg lay beside
the bandit's head and on his forehead already bloomed a livid bruise. The
crane twice flew round, clacking its beak together - it sounded as if it was
laughing - before flying off.
Wen Long quickly put on his own clothes, gave the recumbent bandit a
kick - possibly from disappointment - and sped off up the road.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"There is one man lying on the ground and a bird flying overhead," says
the client.
"It is one of the corporate acts of mercy that Wen Long is reputed to
have done," says the grey-haired man. "He found an injured man in the road
and succoured him. The bird is a symbol of charity."
"Like the Good Samaritan," asks the client.
"Something like that."
"But why is Wen Long naked," asks the client, again giving the surface
of the fan the closest of inspections through her magnifying glass.
"He gave his own clothes to cover the poor unfortunate."
"What a saint!"
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was evening when, dusty, travel-stained, tired, aching in every
limb, Wen Long entered the gates of his own town entirely unrecognised.
People he had known all his life passed him unnoticed. Mr Su, his old school
teacher, gave him not a second glance, Madam Pan from the corner shop,
noticed him but looked at him as if he was a beggar and, had she not been
such a lady, nearly spat. Had he changed so much?
As he walked, he observed two figures coming along the street arm in
arm, chattering together in the customary feminine manner. One was Chun Hwa.
"Oh Tao Pi," she was saying to her companion as she passed Wen Long,
"how happy I am since we met." Wen Long saw that a tiny shimmering cord
stretched between their two ankles, joining them together. So the Old Man
under the Moon had been at work here. He sighed but whether from sadness or
relief even he could not tell.
Limping, Wen Long followed his own red cord up the street, past his
parents' house, towards the pagoda where Huek Sian Ren sat.
In the mists which were rising from the river it was difficult to make
out the Sage's figure but there was certainly a dark shape there, by the
door jamb of the Pagoda. A crouched figure was there and the red cord
glowing in intensity led directly towards it.
Wen Long approached.
As he got close he could see that the figure was in fact a crane.
It turned and was transformed.
A man, glowing with youth, arms outstretched, with a smile as warm as
the summer sunshine which lights up the countryside and disperses the cold
morning mists. His body hard and virile pressed against his. Smells of
sandalwood and jasmine. He was drawn into the sheltering portals of the
pagoda's doorway, while the yellow waters of the river surged on unregarded.
Wen Long's bamboo shoot stiffened, sprouted, blossomed, seeded!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Why is he embracing that other young man?" asks the client, almost
jealously.
"It is his brother," says the grey-haired man. "They have been parted
from each other for a long while and he is greeting him on his return."
"I would like to buy the fan," says the customer.
"It is very expensive," says the grey-haired man and names a sum that
causes the client to gasp.
"But I must have it," she says and without any more ado, writes out a
cheque.
As she leaves the shop the grey-haired man makes a phone call.
"Hey, Samuel, send me round another three of your special,
super-quality Wen Long fans,' he says. "'They're selling like hot cakes."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Chinese Names and their meanings:
---------------------------------
Wen Long (the Poet) - 'Cultured Dragon'
Kwan Xhu (Wen Long's father) - 'Honour thy Ancestor'
Shui Seng (the Sailor) - 'Water Born'
Koo Wei Siong (the Soldier) - 'Generously Manly'
Chun Hwa (the Girl) - 'Essence of Spring'
Tao Pi (the Friend) - 'Peach Skin'
Huek Sian Ren (the Sage) - 'Angelic Crane Man'
Lew Kang (the Bandit) - 'Strong and Manly'
Ta-Zhen (the Ideal) - 'Massive Accomplishment'
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Wen Long's poems are based on original Chinese poetry by Li Bai and Li
Qing Chow.
My thanks to my friend, Liong, for his help with the Chinese details.
Any mistakes are my own.
--
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