A Bond Undone Page 3

  “Your name is Yang Kang, is it not?” She was now speaking slowly and deliberately. The chill had returned to her voice. In fact, she sounded more menacing than before.

  “No, Guo Jing is my name.”

  The woman pondered his answer. “Sit down.”

  Guo Jing obeyed without a word as she took an object from inside her shirt and put it on the ground. It gleamed under the stars.

  Guo Jing picked it up. It was the dagger he had kept since he was a boy. A gift from his mother.

  Twelve years had passed since he last held it. He remembered that night very well. Climbing up the mountain on the Mongolian steppe, hoping to learn kung fu from the seven strangers he had met that morning. As he reached the top, he got caught up in a bloody fight between his future shifus, the Seven Freaks of the South, and the terror of the martial world, Twice Foul Dark Wind. He pulled out the knife to defend himself – and the seven strangers who were so kind to him that morning – and buried it in the stomach of the man who had caused the carnage, the man who killed the Fifth Shifu he never got to know. That man was Copper Corpse Hurricane Chen, one half of Twice Foul Dark Wind.

  But Guo Jing did not know the story behind the dagger. He had not yet learned to read, when the blade was his. He did not recognise the characters carved into the hilt as a name. Yang Kang. Vitality Yang. He did not realise his fate had been entwined with that of this Yang Kang even before he was born. He had no idea the knife was one of a pair given to his father and his father’s best friend by a Taoist monk when his mother was with child. Or that his father and his friend exchanged these little swords to seal a pact of marriage if one had a boy and the other a girl, or of brotherhood if their children were of the same sex. That was how the dagger with the name Yang Kang had ended up in Guo Jing’s possession.

  The young man was also not aware that he had in fact met this Yang Kang in combat not two days before, or that he had already come face to face with Yang Kang’s mother and father, as well as the man Yang Kang thought was his sire.

  And yet, he had heard the name Yang Kang before. Indeed, it had been uttered this very evening in the palace – by the Prince’s Consort.

  The woman snatched the knife back. “You know this dagger, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he answered, unaware of the bile evident in her voice.

  Guo Jing, by nature, was a trusting, artless creature. This aspect of his character had only been amplified by growing up among the straight-talking, hospitable men of Mongolia. Because she had saved his life, he had made up his mind that this sickly woman on his back must be kind-hearted and that he must repay her with honesty. Even when she spoke in such an alarming tone, it did not occur to him to turn and look at her face.

  He then added, “I stabbed an evil man with this dagger when I was a child. He disappeared, along with—”

  The hand tightened over Guo Jing’s windpipe, squeezing hard. He thrust back with his elbow, but, instead of freeing himself, all he managed to do was to offer her his wrist, which she locked in an iron grip between her fingers.

  Now the woman took her hand off his throat and slid down from his back. Once settled on the ground, she barked, “Look at me!”

  Then she crushed her fingers together.

  The pain from his wrist sent a firework of stars across Guo Jing’s eyes. He fought to focus. Long, unkempt hair. Skin pale as paper. He knew her. Iron Corpse Cyclone Mei. The other half of Twice Foul Dark Wind.

  He struggled with all his might to wrench free, but she dug her claws deeper into his flesh.

  How can it be? I was saved by Cyclone Mei? Impossible! But it is her! The absurdity of the situation cut through the fear, panic and pain that seized Guo Jing.

  The irony of this encounter was not lost on Cyclone Mei either. But was it fortuitous? She began to wonder. She had searched and searched, without luck, for more than ten years for the owner of this dagger. And now he had come to her.

  Seeing the recognition in the young man’s eyes, she locked him by the throat again. However, her fingers stayed slack as her focus started to drift from the here and now.

  Sweet bastard husband, did you deliver your murderer to me? Dearest filthy dog, do you think of me from the underworld? Do you know revenge has been the only thing on my mind since that horrible, horrible night?

  She threw her head back to look at the stars, but her eyes were cloaked by an unceasing blackness. She tried to stand up, yet the lower half of her body stayed limp and motionless.

  My internal-energy flow must have taken a wrong turn. If Shifu was here, he’d point me in the right direction, and I’d be able to walk again. If Shifu was here, he’d teach me, he’d explain patiently. Even if I had a thousand, ten thousand questions. Shifu . . . Shifu, I wish I could hold your hand once more. Would you . . . Would you teach me again?

  Waves of memories and emotions long suppressed surged through Cyclone Mei, lapping at the fringes of her mind.

  4

  FLORA MEI.

  That was the name my doting parents gave me. I spent my days playing and did not have a care in the world. Then they left me to fend for myself in this world.

  My father’s brother and his wife took me in. When I turned eleven, they sold me for fifty taels of silver to a wealthy family, the Jiangs of Jiang Village in Shangyu County.

  I became a maidservant.

  Master Jiang was kind at first, but the mistress was always cruel.

  And soon I turned twelve.

  I was doing laundry by the well and Master Jiang approached me, a smirk on his face.

  “The little lady is growing prettier by the day.” He stroked my cheek. “You’ll be a great beauty before you turn sixteen.”

  I turned away from his touch and ignored him. Then his hand crept down to my bosom. I shoved him aside. I had been doing laundry, so my hands were covered with soap bubbles and they stuck to his beard. It was an absurd sight and I could not help but laugh.

  Thump! My head split with pain. I almost fainted.

  “Little vixen! Are you seducing my husband already?” The mistress struck me over the head again and again with a wooden staff.

  I fled. But she quickly caught up with me and pulled my hair, yanking my head back.

  “Strumpet! I’ll smash your face! I’ll pluck out your eyes!” She swung the staff at my face and jabbed at my eyes with her pointy nails.

  I shrieked and pushed her back. She fell on her backside and that made her blind with rage. She screamed and yelled. Three older maidservants rushed over, grabbed hold of my arms and legs and dragged me into the kitchen. She had them press me down on the floor and made a show of heating the fire tongs in the stove until they were red hot.

  “I’ll brand your face. I’ll sear your eyes. I’ll make you blind and ugly!”

  “No! My lady! Please!”

  I fought, but I could not break free. I screwed my eyes shut. The heat was inching closer and closer.

  Suddenly, a clatter.

  “Have you no shame?!”

  The searing heat melted away. The pressure on my limbs vanished. I scrabbled to pull myself up.

  A man in a light green robe hoisted the mistress by the back of her collar. Her whole person was lifted from the ground. He held the fire tongs in his right hand, inches from her face.

  “Help! Help! Bandit! Murder!” Mistress Jiang screeched like a pig at the slaughter.

  Several male servants came running in, armed with batons and pitchforks. The man extended his leg and flicked his foot. One by one, they flew out of the kitchen and into the courtyard.

  “Sir! Have mercy!” The mistress changed tactic.

  “Dare you do this again?”

  “Never! Sir can come by to check.”

  “You think I have nothing better to do? Let me gouge out your eyes first.”

  “No, sir, please! Take the maid. A gift – for my trespasses.”

  He let her go and the mistress collapsed in a heap. She scrambled onto her knees and knocked
her head loudly against the floor in a great show of submission and gratitude.

  “Thank you, merciful sir! This girl is yours. We paid fifty taels of silver for her. But she is yours for free.”

  “I don’t want a gift. You would have killed her if I hadn’t stepped in.” The man took a large sycee ingot of silver from his robe and threw it on the floor. “That’s a hundred taels. Put it in writing that she is free.”

  The mistress ran into the house, dripping tears and snot. She soon returned with the note of my freedom, as well as Master Jiang. His cheeks were red and swollen. She must have slapped him very hard.

  I kowtowed to thank my saviour.

  “Stand up and come with me.” He was so slender and his face so serious.

  “I shall give my whole being to serving Master,” I promised as I bowed on my knees.

  “You shall never be in servitude again. You are to become my disciple.” A smile tugged lightly at the man’s lips.

  He was Apothecary Huang, Lord of Peach Blossom Island. He became my shifu. He had already taken five protégés by that time, the most senior being Tempest Qu, followed by Hurricane Chen. The remaining three – Zephyr Lu, Galeforce Wu and Doldrum Feng – were a little younger than me.

  Shifu gave me a new name: Cyclone Mei.

  SHIFU TAUGHT me kung fu. He also taught me how to read and write. When Shifu was busy, he had Brother Tempest Qu look after me. He was our eldest martial brother and learned in both the martial and the literary arts. He was also a painter. He enjoyed discussing poetry and lyrics with me, explaining their meanings and nuances.

  In no time at all, I had turned fifteen.

  I was now much taller and my hair had grown lush and long. When I caught my reflection in the water, I had to admit that I had grown quite pretty.

  From time to time, I would catch Brother Qu’s eyes lingering on me. I felt shy under his gaze. He was thirty – twice my age. Tall and thin, like Shifu. He had the same melancholic air, too. Always frowning, never happy. But he did sometimes crack jokes when I was around, to make me laugh. He also liked to tell me about the ancient poems Shifu copied in his precise calligraphy.

  One day, Brother Qu silently put one of Shifu’s manuscripts on my desk while I was doing my daily penmanship practice.

  One playing a game with coins on the stairs,

  One passing by the bottom of these steps.

  Our encounter was lodged in my heart then,

  And ever more so now.

  Written in black ink, on white notepaper, in Shifu’s hand – gallant, wiry and angular. I looked up. Tempest did not seem to be his usual self. There was a strange glint in his eyes.

  “Did our shifu write this?”

  He nodded and laid another sheet of paper over the one he had just placed on my desk. Also in the same dashing handwriting.

  Southern willow,

  Its tender leaves yet to grow lush.

  Fourteen, fifteen,

  Idly with the pipa lute in hand, searching.

  Our encounter was lodged in my heart then,

  And ever more so now.

  I could tell something was not right, but I could not put my finger on it. I felt my cheeks grow hot, my heart beat faster. I wanted to stand up, to step away.

  “Little sister, do sit down.”

  “Is this also by Shifu?” My voice sounded feeble.

  “It is his handwriting. Ouyang Xiu wrote the poem.”

  I heaved a sigh. My body relaxed.

  “In this lyrical poem, Ouyang Xiu revealed the feelings he had developed for his niece. When she was twelve or thirteen, he saw her playing a game of coins with her friend, laughing and running around the courtyard. He was struck by her beauty, the pureness of her energy. She was even more beautiful by the age of fourteen or fifteen, but Ouyang Xiu was an old fellow in his fifties, and he could only ‘lodge the feelings in his heart’ and pour them out again in his writing.

  “This personal verse actually caused quite a stir when it was somehow circulated. Ouyang Xiu was an important government official and greatly admired for his morality. But this composition led to criticism and a backlash at court. To be honest, nothing in the poem breaks the bounds of any ethical codes. He was stirred by her beauty and youth and put his feelings into words, but he never acted on his compulsions. There was nothing to make a fuss about. Do you know why Shifu likes this poem so much?”

  Tempest waved a wad of paper. Each inscribed with the same verse:

  Our encounter was lodged in my heart then,

  And ever more so now.

  “Do you see, now?”

  I shook my head.

  He leaned in. “You don’t?”

  I shook my head again.

  “Then why are you blushing?”

  “I’ll tell Shifu.”

  The blood drained from his face. “Please don’t! Don’t say anything to him. He’ll break my legs.”

  His voice was unsteady. He must have been really frightened. But then we were all a little afraid of Shifu in our own way.

  “Of course I won’t! I’m not a fool – I don’t go asking for trouble.”

  “Has Shifu ever raised his voice at you?”

  NO, HE hadn’t. Shifu had never once raised his voice at me.

  But he would raise his hand at Hurricane when Brother Chen’s rough speech riled him. Hurricane could tell when Shifu was about to hit him, and he would dart and dodge, beautifully agile in his superb lightness kung fu. But Shifu was always faster, smacking him on the top of his head, ever so lightly.

  Shifu would also ignore Galeforce for days when his headstrong student got too argumentative. It troubled Brother Wu so much that he sank to his knees and knocked his head against the ground to beg for forgiveness. In response, Shifu would flick a sleeve and send him flying in a somersault. Galeforce always made sure to make a clumsy spectacle of his fall, dust and earth all over his face. The display would make Shifu chuckle and all would be well again.

  Whereas Shifu was always kind to me. He never even darkened his countenance on my account, though sometimes his brow would furrow as though something were troubling him.

  And I always knew what to say to cheer him up.

  “Shifu, why are you upset? Is it something Brother Chen or Brother Wu has done?”

  “I wish it were them. I’m angry at the heavens.”

  “Why?”

  “You won’t understand.”

  I would take his hand, then, swinging it back and forth lightly. “Please, Shifu. Tell me. If you explain, then I’ll understand.”

  It always worked.

  Shifu would smile, go to his study and come back with a few sheets of poetry written in his calligraphy.

  But, after that exchange with Brother Qu, I grew wary whenever Shifu brought out his poems. I would blush and avert my gaze. I feared reading those lines again.

  Thankfully, it was something else:

  Verses by Zhu Xizhen

  Copied by Old Heretic Huang

  Men aged, things changed.

  No desire to drink amid flowers as tears stain my clothes.

  Now I but wish for sleep with the door shut,

  Let plum blossoms fly like snow.

  An old man can never regain the joy of youth,

  Resentful of wine and tired of music.

  With the twilight once more comes storm and rain,

  Outside the wind chimes strike a broken tune.

  The poet has aged,

  He cares not if the peach blossoms still smile as old.

  The east wind blows ten thousand li,

  The realm red and broken under the setting sun.

  Things bygone, hero’s tears, wrinkled face.

  Bemoan the westward dusk,

  Rue the night tide’s return.

  “Shifu, why do you always write about being old? You’re not old,” I said, commenting on the inscription. “You’re in your prime and your martial skills are incomparable. None of my brothers is as strong as you.”
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br />   “Everyone grows old. You are in the blossom of youth, but decay is the only prospect for me.

  Grief for the grey hair reflected in the mirror,

  Silken black at dawn, snowy white at dusk.”

  “Shifu, come, sit down. Let me pluck out those pesky greys.” I pulled one from his temple and showed it to him. He blew at it. A deep, powerful exhalation. I let go. The strand flew out of the window and high up into the sky.

  “A feather of lofty heights among ancient clouds,” I said, trying my hand at poetry. “Shifu, someone as knowledgeable as you only comes along once in a thousand years.”

  “Cyclone, you know how to make me smile. But no knowledge can keep me from growing old, or keep you from growing up. One day, you will leave your shifu.”

  “Shifu, I won’t grow up!” I took his hand and made a promise. “I will stay with you and learn from you all my life.”

  “That’s child’s talk.” A rueful smile. “Ouyang Xiu said it well in the lyrics set to the tune of ‘Settling Wind and Waves’:

  Sitting by the blossoms, wine in hand, I wish to ask my gentle friend,

  Is there a way to hold on to spring?

  If only spring could be persuaded to stay.

  Empty words,

  Flowers, which care not for sentiment, look on men of feeling.

  All that blooms must one day wilt.

  Since time bygone,

  How oft would that face of rouge blossom anew?

  “You will grow up, Cyclone, and no internal kung fu can defy the heavens. If he wants us to grow old, we will.”

  “I will learn from you all my life, Shifu. I will wait on you until you are a hundred years old – two hundred years old!”

  “That’s sweet of you.” Shifu shook his head and returned to the security of verse:

  “Treasure spring when it comes,

  Precious,

  Realise flowers will not bloom forever.

  Waking after drinking, my gentle friend is gone.

  A thousand times,

  Whether wind or water, the current carries you away.”

  “Shifu, come wind or water, Cyclone Mei won’t be carried away! I will stay here and focus on learning the Divine Flick.”