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Authors: Tim Murgatroyd
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boy, stand before me!’ ordered the fat man, chuckling for no apparent reason. His accent was unplaceable. ‘My, a fine boy! My! ’
Hsiung glanced anxiously at the door. Had Deng Nan-shi decided to sell him at last?
‘Truly he has grown well,’ continued their visitor, rubbing a scar on his meaty jowls, ‘a tribute to your care.’
Deng Nan-shi acknowledged the compliment. For a long moment the men regarded him. The long dark room hoarded shadows between smoking oil lamps and racks of scrolls, chests of woodcut printed volumes. The hunchbacked scholar cleared his throat.
‘Before our visitor shares his news,’ he said, ‘I must tell you a story. It is the story of yourself – from a certain perspective.’
Yet he seemed in no hurry to start.
‘He is tall,’ murmured the fat man.
‘Listen closely,’ began Deng Nan-shi …
Ten or so years earlier the scholar’s wife had still been alive, though no longer young and almost past son-bearing age.
‘We had no child of our own,’ said Deng Nan-shi. ‘Teng was yet to be born. We wanted a son badly, for I was the last of my line. Without a son, who would tend the ancestral altars when I sought my next incarnation?’
Then, miraculously, a child had appeared. One day Deng Nan-shi’s wife had come running, saying a baby was crying in the gatehouse, wrapped in a bundle of coarse, hemp blankets. When the cloth was unwound they discovered two things: a naked baby boy, kicking his limbs as though in rebellion against all confinement, a boy with a bawl loud enough to shake Heaven.
Secondly, a letter wrapped around the child for safekeeping. This was less satisfactory than the splendid child; its ink had run so that only the words Remember the officer who saved you. I beg you to repay what … and a single character, Hsiung , were legible. Whether the character referred to the boy’s name, no one could determine.
Hsiung looked up, his face burning with emotion. ‘That boy was me?’
‘Of course,’ said Deng Nan-shi. ‘There is more …’
The childless couple had not hesitated; for, indeed, an unknown officer had saved them seventeen years earlier. At last his sacrifice could be repaid, life for life.
The fat man stirred as if about to speak, then subsided into his Buddha-like smile.
‘A year after you joined us,’ continued Deng Nan-shi, ‘Teng was born. A miracle, for my wife was past a woman’s best. Perhaps that was why she weakened and died a few years later. I have never ceased to mourn her loss, as you know well.’
Hsiung realised he was trembling. ‘Why did you not tell me before?’ he asked. ‘I could have looked for my father!’
The room remained dark. Lantern light softened the older men’s faces. It seemed neither wished to be the first to reply. Deng Nan-shi asked kindly, ‘Where would you have looked?’
‘Anywhere!’ cried Hsiung. ‘Wherever he is!’
‘And where is that?’
Hsiung hung his head.
‘I don’t know.’
Now the fat man chuckled again, a chesty noise, mirthless as his smile.
‘Ha! Ha! The lad has plenty of spirit.’
‘Where is he, sir?’ pleaded Hsiung. Then more aggressively: ‘ Who is he?’
‘Ah,’ sighed the stranger, raising a plump finger. ‘That is what your honoured master asked me to find out.’
The two men regarded the boy in silence.
‘When may I go to him?’ pressed Hsiung.
Their visitor ran a finger round his collar; he was perspiring though the night was cold. ‘All I had to help me find him were two clues: the name of Hsiung and that your father had fought bravely at the fall of Hou-ming. Careful enquiries among – let us call them, associates of mine – revealed there had been an officer among the Yueh Fei rebels who fitted that description. But he was captured not long after you appeared in Honourable Deng Nan-shi’s gatehouse and was taken to the Salt Pans. What happened to your father there I cannot say.’
‘I am really called Hsiung!’ marvelled the boy.
Hsiung glanced anxiously at the door. Had Deng Nan-shi decided to sell him at last?
‘Truly he has grown well,’ continued their visitor, rubbing a scar on his meaty jowls, ‘a tribute to your care.’
Deng Nan-shi acknowledged the compliment. For a long moment the men regarded him. The long dark room hoarded shadows between smoking oil lamps and racks of scrolls, chests of woodcut printed volumes. The hunchbacked scholar cleared his throat.
‘Before our visitor shares his news,’ he said, ‘I must tell you a story. It is the story of yourself – from a certain perspective.’
Yet he seemed in no hurry to start.
‘He is tall,’ murmured the fat man.
‘Listen closely,’ began Deng Nan-shi …
Ten or so years earlier the scholar’s wife had still been alive, though no longer young and almost past son-bearing age.
‘We had no child of our own,’ said Deng Nan-shi. ‘Teng was yet to be born. We wanted a son badly, for I was the last of my line. Without a son, who would tend the ancestral altars when I sought my next incarnation?’
Then, miraculously, a child had appeared. One day Deng Nan-shi’s wife had come running, saying a baby was crying in the gatehouse, wrapped in a bundle of coarse, hemp blankets. When the cloth was unwound they discovered two things: a naked baby boy, kicking his limbs as though in rebellion against all confinement, a boy with a bawl loud enough to shake Heaven.
Secondly, a letter wrapped around the child for safekeeping. This was less satisfactory than the splendid child; its ink had run so that only the words Remember the officer who saved you. I beg you to repay what … and a single character, Hsiung , were legible. Whether the character referred to the boy’s name, no one could determine.
Hsiung looked up, his face burning with emotion. ‘That boy was me?’
‘Of course,’ said Deng Nan-shi. ‘There is more …’
The childless couple had not hesitated; for, indeed, an unknown officer had saved them seventeen years earlier. At last his sacrifice could be repaid, life for life.
The fat man stirred as if about to speak, then subsided into his Buddha-like smile.
‘A year after you joined us,’ continued Deng Nan-shi, ‘Teng was born. A miracle, for my wife was past a woman’s best. Perhaps that was why she weakened and died a few years later. I have never ceased to mourn her loss, as you know well.’
Hsiung realised he was trembling. ‘Why did you not tell me before?’ he asked. ‘I could have looked for my father!’
The room remained dark. Lantern light softened the older men’s faces. It seemed neither wished to be the first to reply. Deng Nan-shi asked kindly, ‘Where would you have looked?’
‘Anywhere!’ cried Hsiung. ‘Wherever he is!’
‘And where is that?’
Hsiung hung his head.
‘I don’t know.’
Now the fat man chuckled again, a chesty noise, mirthless as his smile.
‘Ha! Ha! The lad has plenty of spirit.’
‘Where is he, sir?’ pleaded Hsiung. Then more aggressively: ‘ Who is he?’
‘Ah,’ sighed the stranger, raising a plump finger. ‘That is what your honoured master asked me to find out.’
The two men regarded the boy in silence.
‘When may I go to him?’ pressed Hsiung.
Their visitor ran a finger round his collar; he was perspiring though the night was cold. ‘All I had to help me find him were two clues: the name of Hsiung and that your father had fought bravely at the fall of Hou-ming. Careful enquiries among – let us call them, associates of mine – revealed there had been an officer among the Yueh Fei rebels who fitted that description. But he was captured not long after you appeared in Honourable Deng Nan-shi’s gatehouse and was taken to the Salt Pans. What happened to your father there I cannot say.’
‘I am really called Hsiung!’ marvelled the boy.
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