“Then what about our security?”
“Will over five hundred monks and nuns who are experts in the martial arts be enough?” he asked ironically.
“Oh, my!” I replied, quite relieved. “Nuns as well? So Wudang is a mixed monastery? You didn't tell us that.”
The antiquarian turned around and ignored me, as was his habit when something annoyed him. However, I was beginning to understand that his actions weren't as rude as I'd first thought; they were simply the awkward reaction of someone who doesn't know what to say or do and therefore keeps quiet, avoiding the situation. The antiquarian was human, too, though it might not seem so at times.
Thus our militiamen remained in Junzhou, after serious protests by the Kuomintang lieutenant and Shao, the Communist leader. I felt most sorry for the village people who were going to have to put up with them until we returned. However, Lao Jiang's order was unequivocal and his reasons logical: We had to respect the monks of Wudang. It would not be in our best interest to arrive with armed soldiers. Such a show of force was a mistake we could not make, especially because this time we weren't going to find a hidden jiance. As indicated in the Prince of Gui's message, we were to humbly ask the abbot of Wudang if he'd be so kind as to give us the old piece that had been in the monastery's possession for centuries, ever since it was left there by a mysterious master geomancer named Yue Ling. I didn't say a word to anyone, of course, but I seriously doubted the success of our mission. I honestly wondered why the abbot of Wudang would ever agree to something like that.
The antiquarian, the children, and I headed toward the first of the monastery gates, still accompanied by our twelve guardian warriors. Xuanyue Men means “Gate to the Mysterious Mountain,” of all things, and this worried me right from the start. Mysterious Mountain? That didn't sound good—almost as bad as putting a gate on a mountain. Was there anything more absurd? However, Xuanyue Men was actually just a sort of commemorative stone arch some sixty-five feet high, the tops of its four columns and five tiered roofs lost in the forest canopy. It was certainly beautiful and didn't inspire the distrust its name suggested. There we said good-bye to the soldiers, who returned to Junzhou. Bundles in hand, we began our climb to the top, walking up the wide stone steps of a single ancient staircase that Lao Jiang called the “Divine Corridor” after he'd read the name carved into the rock. The first temple we came to was called Yuzhen Gong;32 it was colossal but empty. All we could make out from the door was an enormous silver-plated statue of Zhang Sanfeng, the great tai chi master, in the main hall.
We climbed until night fell. At times the staircase was a steep trail and at others a narrow pass alongside a stunning precipice. I never lost my nerve or trembled in fear at the thought of falling. Life had become so much simpler now that I faced real danger. Since the Mysterious Mountain was a Taoist pilgrimage site, there was on it a humble inn that attended to the faithful. We were thus able to have an adequate dinner and sleep on warm, bamboo k'angs. We resumed our climb the next morning, looking out over beautiful pine forests lost in a sea of clouds as we headed toward the peak. We could now make out several strange buildings, dotted here and there with red walls and curved green roofs from which glittering gold reflections shot up into the clean, clear morning air. There was a symmetrical, ordered, harmonious look to the scene, like at Rémy's house, as if each building had been placed in the exact spot destined for it from the beginning of time. My legs, much stronger than before, carried me at a good pace, and I didn't tire. I could feel my muscles flex as I firmly set one foot in front of the other. In the sunlight the many grasses and bushes carpeting the ground exhaled new fragrances that heightened my senses, and the screeching, howling monkeys living on the Mysterious Mountain lent a real sense of adventure to our climb. Where had all my pathetic neuroses gone? Where were all my ailments? Was I the same busy, worried Elvira of Paris and Shanghai? I had almost decided I wasn't when I was distracted by an ugly insect that flittered next to the stone staircase and gave off the most incredible incandescent sparkles.
We finally reached the first inhabited monastic buildings of Wudang. Lao Jiang hit a bell with a piece of wood that was hanging down on a chain. A short while later, two monks came out of the gong—out of the temple, that is—wearing typical blue Chinese outfits but with strange little black hats and white gaiters up to their knees. Both smiled politely and bowed in greeting several times. Their faces were wrinkled and weathered by the sun and mountain air. So these were the great masters in martial arts? I wouldn't have guessed it in ten thousand years—the magical Chinese number that symbolizes eternity.
Lao Jiang approached courteously and spoke to them for quite some time.
“He's introduced himself and asked to speak privately with the abbot about a very important matter regarding the old master geomancer Yue Ling,” Biao explained. If Fernanda had lost a minimum of twenty pounds, Little Tiger had grown four inches or more since we left Shanghai. He was already taller than me and it wouldn't be long before he was taller than the antiquarian. He'd soon be a giant! Unfortunately, his newly acquired height made him clumsy, with an awkward gait, hunched shoulders, and bones that seemed to be disjointed.
“He didn't introduce anyone but himself,” Fernanda observed, annoyed. “Are you sure he didn't say anything about us?”
“No, Young Mistress.”
Fernanda snorted and turned her back, as if to look out at the view. The sky was beginning to cloud over, and rain was on its way.
Lao Jiang came back a moment later, and one of the monks began running up the Divine Corridor as if the steep staircase were nothing more than a gentle slope.
“We're to wait here until I'm called by the abbot, Xu Benshan.”33
“Until we're called?” I asked pointedly.
“What do you mean?”
“I'd like to meet with the abbot as well.”
A look of annoyance crossed the antiquarian's face. “But you don't speak Chinese,” he objected.
“I know quite a few words and can understand much of what's being said,” I replied haughtily. “I'd like to be there when we're received by the abbot. Biao can explain anything I don't understand.”
Silence was his only reply, but I couldn't have cared less. Lao Jiang and I were now the adults responsible for this journey, and even though being a Westerner put me in an uncomfortable and not terribly useful position, I was not about to become a silent pawn who existed only to serve the antiquarian's political interests.
The rain began to pour down before the abbot's messenger returned, and we were forced to take shelter in Tazi Gong. As we sat on reed mats, two young novices dressed in white served us some lovely tea. It was my niece who noticed that one of them was a nun about her age.
“Look, Auntie!” she exclaimed, pointing out the female novice with her eyes.
I smiled. I was beginning to like Wudang.
Suddenly Fernanda turned to the antiquarian. “Did you notice, Lao Jiang, that one of them is a young girl?”
I didn't have time to silence her with a pinch and was stunned when the antiquarian turned his head toward her and replied, with absolute calm, “Yes, Fernanda, I did.”
Good Lord in heaven! Lao Jiang was speaking directly to my niece! How had such a miracle occurred? He'd called me by my first name the day before, and now he was talking to Fernanda after having ignored her for nearly two months, as if it were absolutely normal. Either there was a prudent waiting period for these things according to protocol or the antiquarian had taken heed of our gibes and comments (which seemed highly unlikely). Whatever the reason, the miracle had occurred, and we couldn't allow it to go unnoticed.
“Thank you, Lao Jiang,” I said with a bow.
“What for?” he asked with a smile, obviously well aware of what I meant.
“For using my name and speaking to my niece. Thank you for the trust you've shown in us.”
“Haven't you been using my friendship name for months now?” After a few seconds of surpri
se, I realized it was true. Both the children and I had inappropriately been using that form of address (Lao Jiang, “Old Jiang”) because that's what Paddy Tichborne called him. I smiled to myself and continued to drink my tea. Fernanda, unaware of our conversation, was still watching the young nun. My niece's curiosity had been piqued by their similar ages and their cultural differences.
About an hour later, the messenger monk returned with news that the honorable Xu Benshan, abbot of Wudang, would receive us immediately in the Library Pavilion of Zixiao Gong, Purple Cloud Palace. Elegant litters with latticework windows were placed at our disposal to shelter us from the rain, which was now really pouring down, and this is how we traversed the final stretch into the very heart of the Mysterious Mountain.
Purple Cloud Palace was enormous, similar in size to a medieval walled city. We crossed a stone bridge over a moat before arriving at the main temple, raised up on three terraces carved into the side of a mountain and made of red lacquered wood with bright green ceramic roof tiles edged in gold. The litters stopped, and we got out in front of a high stone staircase. Although the porters didn't say a word, it seemed obvious we were to climb those stairs in order to meet Xu Benshan. The place was extraordinary, majestic, I might even say imperial, although the relentless rain gave us little opportunity for quiet contemplation. Splashing through the puddles, our sandals and hats soaked, we hurried up the stairs as a few monks dressed like those from Tazi Gong came down toward us carrying waxed straw umbrellas. Both groups met on a landing between two sets of stairs, next to a gigantic three-legged black iron pot. Gesturing kindly, the monks sheltered us from the deluge and accompanied us into the pavilion, where, with all the simplicity and magnificence of such an important Taoist abbot, Xu Benshan was waiting for us, seated at the end of a room lit by torches. All along both walls lay hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of ancient bamboo slat jiances. It was breathtaking but hardly seemed the place to receive a visit from strangers. Unless, of course, the abbot knew why we were there and what we were looking for; I surmised that Lao Jiang's message including the name of the old master geomancer Yue Ling had been an arrow that had hit its target.
Imitating the monks ahead of us, we approached the abbot in short, ceremonious steps. Once in front of him, we all bowed deeply. The abbot had no beard or mustache, and his hair was covered by a hat that looked like an upside-down pie. There was nothing to help me guess his age. He was wearing a sumptuous flowing brocade tunic with a black-and-white motif, and his hands were hidden inside his long “sleeves that stop the wind.” One thing I did notice when I bowed were his black velvet shoes, and they had me absolutely perplexed: The raised leather soles were nearly four inches high. How could he walk on them? Or didn't he walk? In any event, despite his undeniably aristocratic bearing, Xu was otherwise a very normal man. Actually quite small and thin, he had a pleasant face and jet-black, almond-shaped eyes. He looked nothing like a dangerous warrior—no one in the monastery did, and yet this was their most famous trait.
“Who are you?” he inquired, and I was ecstatic when I realized I'd understood him. To our surprise, Lao Jiang responded with the truth, telling him all about Fernanda and me, including our full names in Spanish. Biao acted as interpreter, because my niece was determined not to learn a single word of Chinese. I found it helpful, since I still didn't know many words and expressions, and there were times when I couldn't correctly identify the musical tone that made a word mean one thing or another.
“And what is this matter regarding the master geomancer Yue Ling that you wish to speak to me about?” the abbot asked after the introductions.
Lao Jiang took a deep breath before answering. “The abbots of this great monastery of Wudang have had a piece of an old jiance in their possession for two hundred sixty years. It was entrusted to them for safekeeping by the master geomancer Yue Ling, close friend of the Prince of Gui, known as Emperor Yongli, last Son of Heaven of the Ming dynasty.”
“You are not the first to come to Wudang demanding such piece,” the abbot replied after a moment's reflection. “But, as I told the emissaries sent by the current Emperor Hsuan Tung of the Great Qing, I must advise you that we know nothing of this matter.”
“Puyi's imperial eunuchs have been here?” Lao Jiang asked worriedly.
The abbot was surprised. “I see you know they were eunuchs from the imperial palace. Indeed, Chief Eunuch Chang Chien-Ho and his assistant the vice-eunuch general came to Wudang just two moons ago.”
Such silence fell over the hall that we could hear the faint rattling of the bamboo slats and the soft crackling of the flames in the torches. Our conversation had come to a dead stop.
“What happened when you told them you knew nothing about the jiance?”
“I don't think that is any concern of yours, Antiquarian.” “But were they furious? Did they attack?”
“I repeat: That is none of your concern.”
“I must tell you, Abbot, that they've been pursuing us since Shanghai. The Green Gang, the most powerful mafia in the Yangtze delta—”
“I know the gang you speak of,” Xu Benshan murmured.
“—was hired by the eunuchs and the Japanese imperialists to attack us in Yuyuan Gardens, where we found the first piece of the ancient book. They then attacked in Nanking as soon as we found the second piece. We made the trek here, traveling in stealth over eight hundred li, to ask you for the last piece so we can complete our journey.”
The abbot remained silent. Something Lao Jiang said had given him pause.
“Do you have those two pieces of the jiance here with you?” he asked at last.
Lao Jiang's eagle eyes sparkled. They were entering his territory now: it was time to negotiate. “Do you have the third piece in Wudang?”
Xu Benshan smiled. “Give me your half of the hufu, the insignia.” Lao Jiang was taken aback. “What insignia do you mean?”
“If you cannot give me your half of the hufu, I cannot give you the third and final piece of the jiance.”
“But, Abbot, I have no idea what you're referring to,” Mr. Jiang replied. “So how can I give it to you?”
Xu Benshan sighed. “Listen, Antiquarian. Though you may be in possession of the first two pieces of the jiance, obtaining the third will do you no good if you do not have, or do not know you have, the indispensable objects that will allow you to achieve your goals. Note that at no time have I asked you about the purpose of your journey, and my only interest is in helping you. I believe that your words are sincere and that you have the first two pieces of the ancient letter from the foreman. But I must not disobey the Prince of Gui's instructions, which were brought to us by Master Yue Ling. The third piece is the most important, and it bears special protections.”
Lao Jiang's face was a mask of astonishment. I could practically hear the wheels turning as he tried to recall anything about an insignia from the Prince of Gui relating to the jiance. I was also racking my brain, calling up every word from the scene in the original text of the miniaturized book where the prince spoke with his three friends. But if memory served me correctly, no one mentioned any sort of insignia there. No insignia, no emblem, no badge of any kind. Perhaps it was in the jiance itself, in the very letter from Sai Wu to his son Sai Shi Gu'er, on the bamboo slats. But no, because as far as I remembered from what Lao Jiang read when we were on the barge on the Grand Canal, there was no reference to any such object there either. It was completely absurd. The only insignia we'd seen and actually held in our hands since this crazy story of royal treasures and imperial tombs began was in the hundred-treasure chest, and that had nothing to do with the Prince of Gui or the jiance. It was that thing … that half a gold tiger. My thoughts came to a sudden halt. The half a tiger. It was then I understood: The gold tiger and the Tiger of Qin!
“Lao Jiang,” I called out in a small voice, my heart racing. “Lao Jiang.”
“Yes?” he replied without turning around.
“Lao Jiang, do you remember that go
ld figurine we saw in the hundred-treasure chest? The one of half a tiger, its back covered in ideograms? I think that's what the abbot's referring to.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked angrily.
“‘The Tiger of Qin,’ Lao Jiang. Don't you remember? Shi Huang Ti's military insignia.”
The antiquarian's eyes grew wide in understanding. “Biao!” he thundered.
“Yes, Lao Jiang,” the boy replied in a frightened voice. “Bring me my bag. Immediately!”
We had left our bundles at the entrance, so Biao dashed off. In the meantime the abbot stuck up a conversation with me.
“Mme De Poulain, what motivates a foreigner like you to make such a dangerous journey through an unknown country?”
Lao Jiang translated the question for me and gestured to indicate that I should speak freely. “Financial difficulties, monsieur l'abbé. I'm a widow, and my husband left me with debts I'm unable to pay.”
“Do you mean it is out of necessity?”
“Exactement.”
The abbot remained silent for a few seconds, during which time Biao returned and handed Lao Jiang his travel bag.
The antiquarian began to dig around inside and, completely distracted, mumbled, “The abbot has asked me to translate these lines from the Tao Te Ching34 by Lao-tzu: ‘Because one is moderate, one may be said to follow the way from the start. / Following the way from the start, one may be said to accumulate an abundance of virtue. / Accumulating an abundance of virtue, there is nothing one cannot overcome. / When there is nothing one cannot overcome, no one knows his own limits.’ ”
“Please thank the abbot very much,” I replied, trying to memorize the long Taoist thought Xu Benshan had just given me. It was truly beautiful.
Lao Jiang pulled out the lovely hundred-treasure chest, wrapped in silk. He'd carried it with him the whole time, and I hadn't even thought to wonder what had happened to it, whether the antiquarian had hidden it well before we left Shanghai or whether he had it with him. I felt completely irresponsible, foolish—and it wasn't the first time. The little gold tiger cut lengthwise in half shone in the antiquarian's hand, his face an inscrutable mask as he approached the abbot. We could be wrong, of course; it was far too early to celebrate.