Black Dragon, Black Cat Page 6

  She maintained the pressure on the joint for several moments, applying more pressure periodically to make the boy howl in pain. The other boys, who had watched the altercation in amazement, began to giggle at Xieng-gui’s condition. “Poor Xieng-gui,” one of them mocked, “Beaten by a girl! What a story this will be tonight!”

  Another one tried to explain the unbelievable event, “Come on now, surely Xieng-gui let her win as a joke!” But this was not said very convincingly.

  Xieng-gui knew that he had been beaten, and began to cry from the pain and shame. Mao was not satisfied, and felt the need to taste revenge. “Poor Xieng-gui,” she said gleefully, “do you feel like a great kung fu warrior now?” Then she openly laughed at him, and let go of his arm contemptuously. Xieng-gui immediately got up and ran away, with tears in his eyes. His friends followed after him a few moments later, laughing as they did so.

  At the moment the fight ensued, a wizened old man chanced to pass by the fountain and witness the encounter. He was astonished as he watched the event occur. As Mao stood up, leaving the sobbing Xieng-gui to pry himself off the ground, the old man came to her and asked, “My child, how is it that you know kung fu?”

  “I know it because my master has chosen to teach it to me,” she replied, turning her eyes deferentially downward and bowing to her elder.

  The man was amazed. “A girl! ...learning kung fu! This is a strange day!”, he said shaking his head. “But tell me, what style of kung fu do you learn? I have not seen anything like it for many years.”

  Mao could not answer this question. She shrugged her shoulders and replied, “My master has never told me its name. I must ask him when I return.” However, she completely forgot about this during her rush home to tell Master Jai-tien about her successful encounter. Nevertheless, a seed was planted within Mao’s head that would eventually grow into a deeply rooted tree.

  Mao bowed once more, then began her mad dash up the hill toward home. The old man was left leaning on his walking stick and shaking his head, thinking, “A girl learning kung fu! This is a strange day indeed!”

  Mao was elated and filled with pride when she burst through the door of her home up the hill. There she found Master Jai-tien sitting in his chair, stroking the black cat that was curled in his lap. He did not smile at her when she entered, but continued to slowly stroke the black cat. He seemed somewhat upset, or at least like he was gravely concerned. Mao walked over to stand in front of him, with a beaming smile from ear to ear.

  “Master,” she said, trying to gasp air into her still heaving lungs, “I had a fight in town with a boy from the monastery, and I beat him!”

  “Is that so, Hei Mao?”, he said deliberately. “Please, stand there and tell me about it.”

  Mao recounted the story of the altercation word for word and blow by blow, leaving out no small detail. She beamed with pride as she remembered it, imagining how pleased Jai-tien must be listening to her description. But the old man did not appear to be pleased. His brow grew more furrowed with each statement by Mao, and by the time she had finished her tale his head had turned downward and his hand was covering his face.

  “Tell me, Hei Mao,” he said when she had finished, “why did you not simply walk away? It would have lost you nothing? What value do you place on the opinions of fools?”

  Mao was surprised, and a questioning look appeared on her face. “But Master,” she replied, “are you not happy that I won the fight? You have trained me very well thus far!”

  Jai-tien shook his head and said, “Apparently, I have taught you less well than I thought. I am ashamed of your behavior. You have disgraced yourself, your master, and the art of kung fu.”

  Mao was visibly stunned, and her mouth dropped open in shock. “But Master,” she pleaded, “I have only done what you have taught me. What did I do wrong?”

  Jai-tien’s eyes narrowed, and his lips began to quiver slightly. “What have you done? Can you not guess, Hei Mao? You have completely humiliated another being, and for what? A useless and meaningless feeling of revenge? How long will that satisfy you?”

  Mao started to turn her eyes downward, but remembered to keep them focused on her master.

  “The sixth virtue of kung fu is honor, Hei Mao,” he said after a long pause. “Tell me, what honor did you find in your revenge?”

  Mao was silent, but her eyes remained pointed at Jai-tien’s face, although swelling tears were beginning to make her vision blurry.

  “Did you find honor in humiliating a rival? Do you need to make someone else feel small in order to make yourself feel large by comparison? Cannot you find honor without this?”

  Mao did not know how to respond. She remained silent and tried to keep the tears from spilling out of her eyes.

  “The seventh virtue of kung fu is humility, Hei Mao,” the old man continued. “This virtue you also failed to display today. You have become too prideful, and have caused yourself dishonor and disgrace by doing so. Did you think that you had the right to dishonor another creature because of your own selfish desire for revenge? There is no honor to be gained by taking honor from another! I am ashamed of you. Please, leave me for an hour, and then return.”

  With this statement, he made a dismissive gesture and Mao turned around and dejectedly left the house. She went to the barn where the cow slept, and hid in its stall. She sobbed uncontrollably, knowing that something bad would result from this. She did not really understand her master’s anger, and felt that it was completely unjustified. What good is the knowledge of kung fu if you are forbidden to use it?

  An hour passed, and Mao returned to stand before Master Jai-tien. He looked up as she entered the house, and all of his many years seemed to press upon him. “Hei Mao,” he began, “you are not fit to practice the art of kung fu. Although you have shown that you possess an amazing talent and dedication, your heart and mind are not in a suitable state to continue your training. Until you can convince me that you possess both honor and humility, we will train no more. Now let us proceed up the hill to the house of Lu-chin.” With this he rose and passed Mao as he left the house. She turned to follow him with downcast eyes.

  The walk up the hill was excruciatingly slow. The master looked decidedly older, appearing to hobble for the first time in years, and to lean on his stick much more than usual. Several times he stopped to regain his breath, only to resume the climb after several deep sighs. Mao felt ill to her stomach, and once had to stop to vomit along the pathway. She was strongly anticipating the soothing vapors and warm taste of the tea to be served at the top of the hill.

  When they finally arrived at the house of Lu-chin, they entered to find the old woman in her usual chair. Mao could not help but feel a palpable tinge of sadness in the atmosphere. The old woman’s smile was slightly less warm this evening, and Mao wondered if perhaps she could sense the mood of her Master as soon as he entered the house.

  Jai-tien took his usual place in the chair next to his mother, and Mao walked to the kitchen table to warm and fetch the tea. When she leaned down to pick up the serving tray, she noticed that only two teacups were placed there. She knew immediately what this meant, and her heart burst once again. Nevertheless, she fought back her tears, served the tea to the two elders, and then sat down dejectedly cross-legged on the floor. How could the old woman have known? This mystery occupied her thoughts for the next hour, mercifully keeping her mind off of her misery.

  After the ceremony was complete, Jai-tien stood up, bowed to his mother, and led the way out of the house. Mao did the same after replacing the tea service, and followed him back down the hill with a heavy heart.

  The abyss

  Life at the little house near the green pond became very heavy and monotonous from that point forward. One day was the same as the others, only the seasons changed. The skies began to turn grey and the days shortened, heralding the coming winter on the wings of a cold northwestern wind. Each day began at sunrise with meditations and a series of chores, which would end
at midday with a small lunch, during which time Jai-tien would mostly stare at his food without eating. The afternoons were filled with nothing: no chores, no exercises, no training, just…nothing.

  Mao would often find the old man sitting in the house or behind the shed for hours, staring off into the distance. She would often find herself staring into the distance as well, at nothing in particular, perhaps watching the activity in the town far below or the clouds rolling through the heavens. Sometimes she would go away by herself to exercise and train, but this was lifeless and she lost all motivation and stopped after several weeks. Her master’s disappointment in her had been contagious, and she became very disappointed in herself.

  Jai-tien hobbled around the house with his head down, looking every bit as old as his advanced years would suggest. He no longer would call Mao by his pet name for her, Maome, but always used the formal Hei Mao. She did not so much feel a coldness from her master, but more of a distance between them, or perhaps a distance between Jai-tien and the world in general, with her just being a small part of it. She would follow behind Jai-tien each evening as he struggled up the hill with his head down, and sit on the floor cross-legged as he and Mother Lu-chin would share their tea. Often she would sit with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, remembering the taste and smell of the tea and the warmth of the cup within her hands.

  Mao’s nights were often filled with frustrated dreams. She often found herself traveling through distant lands, looking down from the mountains onto distant plains and valleys filled with shining, vibrant cities that stretched to the horizon. These cities represented to her the eternal city of Xiaomei, where the Grand Tournament of kung fu was held each year. She would often dream of herself as the great Hei Lang, fighting in the tournament there wearing the black costume of the legendary warrior. She would fight bravely to the end using her unique style of kung fu, but would always lose at the point where she should have performed the Dragonflame technique because she had forgotten it. This theme reoccurred in her dreams regularly. The agitation thus inflicted left her tossing restlessly in her sleep, thus disturbing the black cat which slept next to her each night. She often awoke in the middle of the night wearing a sweat-dampened nightshirt.

  The bleakness of the northern winter eventually gave way to the coming of the east breeze, harbinger of the renewal of the cycle of life upon the hills and throughout the valley. The hillside began to turn green, and the last vestiges of snow were soon disappearing beneath the walls of the Shailan Monastery near the top of Mount Shai-lae. In the house by the green pond, the mood remained somber and dour, and the heavy deluge of the early months of spring provided no signs of hope for a lift in the spirits of the residents. Jai-tien continued to show increasing signs of age, and Mao became more morose and melancholy. She spent most of her free afternoons in depression on the banks of the green pond or lying on the wall of the fountain in the village below. She often thought about that day at the fountain when she had met Xiengui, and the tragic aftermath. Now that event seemed so long ago, as if it had occurred in another age, or another lifetime. How her life had changed since then! What had once seemed so promising and fresh, now looked dull and lifeless.

  One day in late spring as Mao lay on the edge of the fountain strumming her fingers over the surface of the water, a man walked up to her unnoticed until he stood directly above her. As soon as his shadow passed over her, she looked up into the face of a familiar looking old man. He stared down at her, with a quizzical expression on his face, as if in deep contemplation. After a few moments, he began speaking. “You are not a girl of the village, but I sense that I have seen you before.”

  Mao also had that feeling, but could not imagine why, and did not think that she cared anyway. Yet she slid off the fountain wall and stood deferentially in front of the elder and bowed to him.

  “Hmmm….”, he intoned as he fingered the long, white whiskers on his chin. “Are you that girl I saw here last year fighting the boys from the monastery? Is that why I remember you?”

  Mao blinked her eyes with a startled expression, but she did not speak. A flush of shame swept over her cheeks.

  “So it was you! Interesting! Well, here we are again! Tell me, how is your training proceeding? How is your master, old Jai-tien, these days?”

  Mao’s look of amazement was very obvious, and the old man chuckled. “How do you know that my master is Jai-tien,” she asked after her surprise had faded.

  “I realized this later on that day after I saw you at this fountain,” he replied. “As I watched you, I knew that your style was very unusual, but it took me a while to realize that you were using a very basic and unsophisticated form of that used by my old friend, Jai-tien. His style is unique, and I had never seen anyone else use it until the day I saw you.”

  “You are a friend of Jai-tien?”, Mao asked with an expression of disbelief. She had never imagined that Jai-tien had any friends, as he never interacted with anyone but her and his mother.

  “Yes,” the old man answered, “We have been great friends for decades. We trained together many years ago, back when we were both not as ancient as we are today.” He chuckled and patted his swollen belly. “Jai-tien was the greatest warrior of our generation, and he honored me greatly with his presence.”

  This last statement caught Mao completely by surprise. She had sensed that her master was very knowledgeable and proficient in the art of kung fu, but she had never dreamt that he was as accomplished as this old man claimed. How could this be true? Surely he was exaggerating.

  “Well, I must be on my way,” he said after a few moments. “Please tell old Jai-tien that I will come to visit him in a few years.” With this, he walked off down the pathway that led out of the village and disappeared from sight.

  Mao stood by the fountain for many minutes thinking about the old man’s words. Could this really be true? Had this man really known Jai-tien and trained with him many years ago? Now that he had left, she wanted to ask him many questions, but she was so dumbstruck before he had left that she had never even thought to ask his name.

  When Mao returned to the house on the hillside that evening, she was hesitant to bring up the subject of the old man from the village. However, she had been asked to pass along a message, and she was obligated to do so. She walked into the house to find Jai-tien preparing the evening meal. “Master,” she began, “I met a man in the village this afternoon, and he wished me to pass along a message. He said that he would visit you in a few years.”

  Jai-tien momentarily stopped peeling the cucumber he was holding, and turned to look at Mao. “What is that you say, Hei Mao? You have met someone in the village today? What was his name?”

  Mao looked down at the floor and said, “He did not tell me his name, Master, but he said he once trained with you.”

  “Ahhh!”, Jai-tien exhaled. “That is Master Chung Jun, a great warrior of the Zhaojin style of kung fu. He and I trained together for two or three decades. I have not visited him in five or six years.” Jai-tien’s lips parted in a slight smile as he thought of his old friend. This was the first hint of a smile on the old man’s face that Mao had glimpsed in many months.

  Mao was very curious about the relationship between these two old men, and the history of their training together. “Where does Master Chung Jun live?”, she inquired.

  “He lives by himself on the hillside on the opposite side of the valley. It is perhaps a day’s walk from here.”

  Mao was perplexed by this answer. “But you two are friends. If it is but a day’s walk, why don’t you visit each other more often?”

  “We think of each other every day. I can sense his spirit arrive on the east wind in the mornings of springtime, and in the songs of the sparrows in the evenings of fall. What need is there to take one body to another? Everything that would be said between us has already been spoken a long time ago. I will go visit him again in a few years.”

  Mao wanted to ask further questions, but Jai-
tien waved her off before she could begin. “Go wash yourself! Dinner will be ready soon!”

  The days marched on without substance, and barely even a notice, through the end of spring and early summer. Although the rainy season had passed and the warm sun shone brightly in the sky, the grey mood persisted in the house of Jai-tien. Mao often found herself in the late afternoons throwing rocks into the green water of the pond, or stroking the matted hair of the old black cat. These mundane actions were performed remotely while her thoughts stirred up many things. Foremost in her mind during this period were wonderings about the history of Jai-tien and Chung Jun. She recalled the words of Chung Jun over and over again in her head, how Jai-tien practiced a unique style of kung fu, and how he had been the “greatest warrior of our generation.” Mao doubted if this could be true. If Jai-tien had been the greatest warrior of that time, would he not have won the Grand Tournament? Or did Chung Jun’s statement imply that Jai-tien had actually won the tournament? Could it be that her master was a tournament champion? No, surely this could not be! After all, who had heard of Jai-tien? She didn’t remember hearing any stories about him during her days at the monastery. Eventually, she gave up trying to make sense of Chung Jun’s statements and passed them off as merely the greatly exaggerated reminiscences of an old man.

  With high summer came an insufferable heat and humidity that pushed up from the southern coast. The days were long and hot, and the nights miserably still and breezeless. Mornings were often hazed in the steamy fog of vaporizing dew. The morning chores were dreadful in the thick soup of haze, and by afternoon the temperature was unbearable in direct sunlight. Mao passed these afternoons sitting in the shade of the willow trees on the banks of the green pond. There she would daydream about her hopes of becoming a great warrior, and become depressed at the thought of how those dreams had ended.