Chapter Seven #2
Leaving the old man to rest, Xian worked quickly to set the kindling in the firebox.
He paused, as he always did, before lighting the fire; bracing himself for the ghosts of a violent past to appear; the fire engulfing his mother’s rooms, eating at wood and bamboo like a starved monster.
He liked to believe he recalled no details.
But his dreams were not always so accommodating.
They told stories he did not wish to hear; of black shadows moving behind the sliding doors, of whispers heard before everything turned bright orange and yellow; as though the sun had crashed into the room.
His mother screamed for him, then screamed for help that only came after she’d been silenced forever.
He blew against the fledgling flame softly, patiently, until it brightened and caught. He sat back on his heels, watching until he was certain there was strength in the flicker amongst the wood and dry grass.
Xian rose to his feet, dusting off his qun, the skirt thankfully devoid of any more stains. He returned to where the daoshi now sat on his knees on the floor before the statue, eyes closed, a half-smile on his lips. ‘Your dance was a vision.’
‘I didn’t see you at the ceremony, daozhang.’
‘Better to stay invisible at these things. Less things said, more to be heard.’ His eyes opened, finding Xian at once. ‘You are blessed indeed. And there is nothing unnatural about such talent, do not mind what they say. If the gods see fit to put magick in your feet, who are we to fear it?’
Xian offered no reply, wary of where such talk might take them.
‘Shall we pray?’ he asked, finding his place on the mat beside the daoshi.
‘Let us pray.’
They bowed in supplication, touching noses to the reed matting, and rising again; seven times in total before they settled again on their knees; eyes closed, hands pressed palm to palm, thumbs touching at their chests.
It was only when Xian sat in the darkness behind his closed lids he realised how tired he truly was.
He settled into a meditative state, listening to the low hum of the daoshi’s voice as he recited his prayers.
He must have dozed off because a sudden hiss from the old man nearly had him leaping out of his skin.
‘You can’t be in here.’ Wenming’s whisper might have well have been a shout. ‘You’ll wake his highness, go on with you.’
He grunted as he hurried to his feet, moving with such speed Xian was still blinking his eyes open.
‘Your shouting has woken him up just fine, daozhang.’
Now Xian jerked to attention. He rocked forward on his knees, wincing at a dull ache, and rose to his feet.
Song Lim had found him again.
The daoshi tutted. ‘I’m not shouting, and you are still here.’
‘I wish to pray.’
‘You’ve not stepped a foot inside my shrine since you arrived, merchant.’
‘I’m an artist, daozhang. A shoemaker. And I see by the state of those sandals you’ve laid at the door that I have arrived not a moment too soon to rescue you from bunions.’ Song Lim’s smile was broad, his amusement making his eyes dance with mischief.
Xian hid his own smile behind his veil. His empty stomach now whirling with more than simple hunger. His secreted trips to Mercy’s pond always brought a smile to his face, but not this strange rush of warm delight.
He surprised himself by speaking up.
‘Master Wenming, if we have your blessing I do not mind if Master Song should join us.’
The daoshi glanced his way, cocking his head, and peering more intently. ‘You do not mind?’ He looked to the Goddess of Mercy, and his furrowed brow smoothed. ‘Ah, he does not mind…not at all. Well there we are. But a shoemaker?’
Uncertain if the old man spoke to him or the statue, Xian answered anyway, ‘Yes, Master Song is a talent shoemaker, who has the custom of the Lady Tian.’
The daoshi muttered something Xian did not catch, but Song Lim must have because his chesty laughter erupted.
‘What is it?’ Xian asked.
‘Nothing, your highness,’ Master Wenming replied. ‘Merely said I was not surprised he’s finally come to seek the benevolence of the Goddess of Mercy.’
Xian lowered his head, so neither Song Lim nor the daoshi would see his amusement. ‘He has assisted me greatly this day. Allowing him to join us is the least I can do, by way of thanks.’
Wenming’s right eye seemed to have developed a twitch. ‘Of course, of course.’
‘Are you well, daozhang?’ Xian frowned.
‘Yes, yes. I’m perfectly…’ He pressed a hand to his rounded belly. ‘Actually, perhaps I am not. You saw how unsteady I was just now, hunger is to be blamed. Would your highness be offended if I excused myself to take my supper?’
Xian blinked. The daoshi had informed him not an hour ago that he’d just eaten three bowls of congee.
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry your meditations have been interrupted. Thank you again, for your help with the ashes.’
‘It’s not right you are kept among them so often, dear boy.’ The old man shuffled over to the doorway, where Song Lim stepped aside for him. ‘See to it you tend the fire, Master Shoemaker. If you truly wish to assist Prince Xian, you’ll keep him away from those cinders.’
Lim tipped his head. ‘Though I do not disagree, I’d say I could serve him best by not keeping him from anything he wishes to do.’
That odd twitch bothered Wenming’s lip again.
‘True, true. Good. That is most pleasing.’ The daoshi planted a hand against the wall, leaning there as he lifted the hem of his robe and wriggled his foot beneath the woven straw straps of his sandals.
Song Lim was not wrong in declaring them to be in a poor state.
They looked as though a chicken had pecked at them; tufts of straw poking out where they ought not.
‘Now your highness, if you should tire of this man’s company, know that my rooms are nearby.
One shout, and I shall be here with my walking stick to poke out his eyes. ’
Song Lim did not even react; he was too busy staring at the daoshi’s footwear, wearing a mortified look. ‘They are a travesty, master. One I must rid you of on the morrow, I’ll not take no for an answer.’
‘Then I’ll not pay a single copper coin, for I am being bullied, right in front of Guanyin, no less.’
Song Lim grinned. ‘I would not take the coin of a noble daoshi, master.’
Wenming huffed, tugging at the cross-folds of his robe, and adjusting the belt. ‘Good evening, your highness.’ He bowed and turned to Song Lim. ‘Good evening, artisan. I shall return in a hour or two, and expect to see Prince Xian in as fine a spirit as I leave him.’
He regarded the shoemaker a little longer, then turned away, muttering to himself. He moved in his waddling way along the path to his dwelling. It was indeed not far, and he soon disappeared from view into his modest abode, which sat in the shadow of the south hall of the manor.
Xian stood alone with the shoemaker, nervous, but in a vastly different way to when he’d been on his knees in the Reception Hall.
‘Master Song,’ he said, softly. ‘Did you wish to pray?’
The shoemaker, still outside, stooped to pick up something from the narrow verandah.
He righted, holding a black lacquered box.
A pagoda scene was carved into its side, with great lily pads filling the pond, and several carp peeking from beneath their wide leaves.
Xian’s chest pained at seeing the beautiful fish.
He’d left Mercy in such a terrible hurry.
‘No, I do not wish to pray,’ Lim replied. ‘But I hope you don’t mind me waiting until you have finished with your devotions? I have brought something for you.’
‘For me?’
‘Yes.’ He held up the box. ‘May I come in, your highness? You need not be polite to me, if you’d rather be on your own?’
Xian shook his head. ‘I have no prayers to offer, and do not wish to be on my own.’ Though it had always been true before now.
He’d grown used to solitude, grown to rely on its quiet and untroubled company.
That is why he found Mercy so soothing; she wanted nothing from him, nor sought to take anything.
‘I would like to see what you have brought, Song Lim.’
‘Good,’ he declared with great cheer, and a hint of relief. ‘Because they have no other owner but you. I knew it, the moment we met.’