Shike by Robert J. Shea (classic children's novels txt) đź“–
- Author: Robert J. Shea
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“No,” said Yukio. “I forbid it.”
“I also,” said Liu. “You would die for nothing. He would simply find another excuse to destroy the city.”
“I believe that he will abide by his word.”
Liu said, “Let me speak with you.” Taking Jebu by the arm, he led him to the rocky shore of the island. Yukio and Arghun waited in silence.
Jebu said, “I am a Zinja monk, Your Excellency. I do not cling to anything, even life.”
“Here in our land your Order is called Ch’in-cha,” said Liu. “I know something of its teachings. If you did not offer to die to save so many thousands of lives, you would not be a true Ch’in-cha. But for you actually to sacrifice yourself would be foolish. And it would show you lack the Ch’in-cha wisdom.”
Jebu studied the old man’s calm face curiously. Liu’s black eyes seemed to give off a radiance.
“I am prepared to listen,” Jebu said.
“If you accept Arghun’s view of things, he has already imprisoned your mind, and he can kill you whenever he chooses. The future is closed to you. But as a member of the Order, you should know that no single view of anything is true, that the number of gates we face is always infinite. If you choose to go on living, many things might happen. You might be killed anyway, in battle. The Emperor might send reinforcements and drive the Mongols off. Arghun might be killed in battle and his accursed quest for your death would perhaps die with him. A plague might strike and wipe out all of us, besiegers and defenders. Or the Mongols might suddenly decide to lift the siege and go away.”
“That will never happen. The Mongols never give up.”
“You are quite an authority on Mongols, young monk. But I forget you are part Mongol yourself. Withdraw your offer to give yourself up to Arghun. I believe that life has more to teach you, and that this is not your time to die.”
“I see nothing ahead of me.” Jebu had tasted the sweetness of life and now life seemed altogether bitter. He had known Taniko and lost her. He had known victory in battle and then had been driven from his homeland in defeat.
Liu said, “The Ch’in-cha finds his happiness in nothing.” “You know that?”
Liu smiled. “And the Ch’in-cha believes in nothing. Yet, you believe it is right for you to sacrifice yourself. But you have been taught that there is no right and wrong. The Ch’in-cha do not believe in good or evil.” He paused, and his black eyes held Jebu’s. “The Ch’in-cha are devils.”
Jebu did not think, after all he had seen and done, that he could ever be greatly surprised again. But this moment left him voiceless. He could only stand and stare at Liu in wonder. He did not know if he dared say anything at all.
“Not all of us wear grey robes and live in monasteries,” said Liu. “Have I convinced you not to throw away your life because of Arghun?”
Jebu bowed. “Eor now, Excellency, you have. I do not know why you have spoken to me as you have. I do not know if there is any reason why I should listen to you. I have no way of knowing if you are truly one of us or simply a person who has learned some of our secrets. But your words convince me, and I must follow my convictions.”
“That is all I hoped for.”
They went back to where Yukio and Arghun were standing, Liu walking first, Jebu a respectful distance behind.
“The young monk has decided that you have no right to demand his life,” Liu said to Arghun. Yukio shot a relieved grin at Jebu.
Arghun’s expression did not change. “He condemns your city to death.”
“If you do conquer the city and kill all who live here,” Liu said, “the guilt will be upon you. Nothing requires that you put so many people to death but your own thirst for blood.”
Arghun turned to his standard-bearer and beckoned. The warrior went back to their sampan and took a large mahogany box from the bow. He carried it back to Arghun and laid it at his feet.
“I have brought this gift for you, Governor Liu Mai-tse,” said Arghun. “You have been expecting reinforcements to help you withstand the siege. Understand now that you are doomed.” Arghun bent down, undid the catch on the box and stepped back.
Yukio looked questioningly at Liu. Jebu held his breath, a terrible suspicion of what the box contained sweeping over him. Governor Liu signalled to Jebu to open the box.
Within it lay the pale, bloodless head of Governor Liu’s son, on a bed of straw.
“I will not let them crush me,” Taniko told herself over and over again. Not Horigawa and not the Mongols. They might rape and kill her, as they had that poor woman on the road. They might, as Horigawa predicted, enslave her and grind her down until she ended her life as a ravaged old woman. But there was that within her, that which was not Shima Taniko, the vulnerable woman, which no one could destroy. That could be what Jebu meant by the Self.
After she had waited a long time in a felt tent with the other members of Horigawa’s party, two Chinese men beckoned her and escorted her a short distance to another tent. She heard the voices of men singing around the campfires. She couldn’t understand the words, but the songs were plaintive and moving. The Chinese men left her alone.
The tent was dark and reeked of smoke and sweat. It had a cylindrical latticework wall and a flattened conical ceiling whose spokes, radiating from two central poles, reminded her of a parasol. There were layers of thick, soft rugs on the floor, woven in intricate patterns, and she sat on silk cushions. So this was the sort of place in which Jebu’s people lived. Thinking of Jebu reminded her of Horigawa’s prediction that Jebu would be killed by the Mongols. Horigawa had tried to kill him before and failed. She prayed to the Buddha to help Jebu live.
Unable to keep track of the time, she brooded, circling again and again through boredom, fear and hopelessness. She would probably never see the Sacred Islands again. Or Jebu. She threw herself down on the cushions and wept.
She had had chances to kill Horigawa. Why had she never. done it? She decided that if she ever met him again she would cut his throat without a word of warning and take the consequences. What a fool she had been to imagine that some good might come of this journey to China.
She sat up. The pillow on which her head had rested was soaked with tears. Her face was ruined. She found a pitcher of water and a basin and washed her hands and face. Her make-up box had been taken from her along with all her other clothes. There was no mirror. She desperately wanted a bath. The air in the tent was warm and close, and she could feel herself sweating. These Mongols probably never bathed. Just as the rumours foretold, they did stink abominably. The entire camp smelled of the greasy, unwashed bodies of meat eaters.
One small oil lamp struggled vainly with the shadows around her in the circular room. Through a round opening in the centre of the tent roof she could see a patch of black sky with a single star in it. It was a warm, windless night.
As the oil lamp flickered lower, she lay in the near darkness and called upon the Lord of Boundless Light. “Homage to Amida Buddha.” After a while she sank into the long, heavy sleep of the despairing.
In the morning one of the Chinese men brought her food, coarse cakes and wine, and put more coals on the fire. She tried to ask him questions, but he would not answer her.
The tent was provided with a porcelain pot for her to relieve herself. She had fresh water now, and she took off all her clothes and washed herself thoroughly. The cool water refreshed her.
After dressing, she went to the doorway of the tent and opened the low wooden door. Bright sunlight and dust assailed her. All around her she had heard the bustle of men and horses. She had not realized until now how quiet the Mongol tents were.
A guard in a silk coat snapped at her in his language and waved her back into the tent. She went back and sat down, and considered how she might escape.
She had as much chance of eluding the Mongol horsemen as a baby rabbit trying to escape a falcon. And even if she did, how could she survive in an unknown, war-ravaged countryside? She was even more likely to meet injury or death if she ran away from here than if she stayed.
She had lost everyone and everything she loved. It scarcely mattered what the Mongols did with her. Again she sat down and buried her face in her hands and cried.
After a time, though, the tears stopped flowing. She was doing precisely what Horigawa would want her to, letting herself be ground between the millstones of monotony and despair until she had no power to resist her fate. She reminded herself that she was samurai. She remembered that she had resolved not to let them crush her. She stood and clenched her fists.
A Mongol woman’s round face appeared in the doorway.
“May Eternal Heaven send you good fortune,” she greeted Taniko in Chinese. “I am Bourkina, servant of our lord Kublai Khan.”
Bourkina might be anywhere from thirty to seventy years of age. She wore a yellow Chinese silk robe and a heavy necklace of gold and jade that hung down to her waist. Her stride was long, her gestures commanding, almost mannish. She reminded Taniko of peasant women she had seen, women who worked constantly and lacked the delicate manners of wellborn ladies. She might enjoy silk and jade now, but she had surely been born in poverty. Her hair and eyes were dark, and Taniko could see in her no resemblance to Jebu.
Bourkina was solicitous. Was Taniko comfortable? Did she need anything? All Taniko’s belongings would be delivered to her later in the day, as soon as they could be located. Bourkina asked what sort of food Taniko preferred and said she would do her best to see that she enjoyed her meals. In all this concern Taniko sensed little warmth. It was as if Bourkina had been placed in charge of a valuable horse and were seeing to its needs. With the advantage, in this case, that the horse could talk. But this horse wanted to do more than talk.
“May I have writing materials?”
Bourkina looked astonished. “What for?”
“I like to write down what I see and think.”
Bourkina looked at her as if she had suddenly sprouted wings. “How did you learn to write?”
“In my country all people of good family are taught to read and write. Women, of course, write a language different from that of men, but it serves our purposes quite well.”
“Among our people women do not read or write at all, and only a few men do. Our Great Khan Mangu and our lord Kublai Khan and their two brothers are all considered scholars. But they are most unusual men.”
“You
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