"Glad to oblige," Moxa said, adding, "I needed your weight to keep me from floating away. I forgot to mention: I can't swim, either."
Instead of berating him, Moxa burst out laughing; and the two of them raced on ahead, capering like a pair of schoolboys.
Only Master Shu seemed low-spirited. His steps had slowed, he leaned more heavily on his staff. Often, as they made their way through the woodlands, Voyaging Moon played the flute she now carried, but its music brought only shadows to the old poet's furrowed face.
Two days later, they left the forest track to follow a hard-packed roadway. Here, they saw other travelers, merchants in carriages or sedan chairs, farmers with ox carts and wheelbarrows of produce on their way to Chen-yeh, the district capital close to the banks of the Lo. Mafoo licked his lips at the prospect of dumpling houses, but Master Shu announced that they would turn away from the town and go farther upriver, where they would attract less attention. He recalled a ferryman there who would row them across.
The old man urged them to make haste. For some while, Master Shu had been sniffing the air and casting uneasy glances at the gathering clouds. The closer they drew to the river, the darker grew the sky. Late that afternoon, by the time they sighted the ferryman's hut, the first raindrops had begun to fall.
Of the ferryman himself, there was no sign. Mafoo and Moxa went off to find him, while Jen and Voyaging Moon made their way to the water's edge. The river was broader than Jen had envisioned, and he could barely make out the green banks of the farther shore.
Master Shu pointed with his staff. "Once across, you must yet go many leagues to Ch'ung-chao. I had hoped I might guide you all the way."
"What do you mean?" Jen replied. "Of course you will. Why wouldn't you?"
Master Shu did not answer. Before Jen could question him further, Mafoo and Moxa were back; with them was the ferryman, shaking his head and pointing at the lowering sky.
"He's worried about a storm. Once the rain starts, the fellow claims it could last for days," Mafoo said. He added brightly, "Nothing else for it. We'll have to go to Chen-yeh and put up with the hardships of an inn, with all those hot meals and soft beds."
"I'm bound to find a client or two there," Moxa said. "We'll manage nicely."
"A few more days won't matter," Voyaging Moon said, while Master Shu remained silent, offering no opinion.
Jen hesitated. Delay would make little difference. Yet, with the river before him, his impatience grew. He wished to be across and on the way to T'ien-kuo. He questioned the ferryman, who admitted he could likely reach the farther shore before the storm broke. The return was what troubled him. He might, he protested, be stranded on the opposite bank who knew how long, away from wife and children, soaked to the skin, catching a cold into the bargain.
"Aha!" cried Moxa. "The Nose of Thoughtful Inhalations smells a question of money. Well, then, cash cures all complaints." Delving into his sack, he produced a handful of silver coins and a string of coppers, and the sum, indeed, outweighed the ferryman's reluctance.
"Settled, then," said Jen. "We'll cross now."
The ferryman urged the travelers to board immediately. Voyaging Moon, tucking the flute in her jacket, sprang lightly into the boat. Jen helped Master Shu to a place astern, between Mafoo and Moxa. The ferryman bent to his oars, the craft slid into the current.
The wind had freshened; the waters of the Lo turned choppy. Well before the boat reached midstream, the waves began snatching at it. Despite his efforts, the ferryman could not hold to his course. The current bore the craft farther downriver, well away from the little dock on the opposite shore.
Now the sky had turned black, and the rain began in earnest, pouring down in blinding sheets. The wind rose to a screaming gale. The boat pitched and spun like a leaf on the tide.
"Row back! Row back!" Mafoo cried, gripping the side of the boat, while Moxa crouched beside Master Shu.
"No!" Jen shouted, throwing his arms around Voyaging Moon. "That's as dangerous. Keep on. If the wind slackens." The ferryman could obey neither command. As he hauled with all his might at the oars, one of them snapped, and he tumbled backward. The helpless craft slewed around in the clutches of tide and gale.
The boat plunged into the trough of the waves, then suddenly flung upward, lurched sideways, and shuddered an instant before it capsized.
The shock tore Voyaging Moon from Jen's arms. Water closed over his head. He fought his way to the surface again. Lightning like clawing fingers ripped the sky. In flash after flash, he glimpsed Mafoo and Moxa floundering in the tide, the ferryman trying desperately to keep afloat. Master Shu had vanished, his staff tossed like a straw on the waves.
Jen, in that moment, saw Voyaging Moon struggling against the current. He shouted to her, but the wind bore away his words. Then she caught sight of him and stretched out her hands. He swam toward her. The shattered boat spun between them. A broken timber struck him full force. Her face was the last thing he would remember.
• • • • •
Jen is snatched from his beloved, his friends swept away in the tide and scattered to the winds. However, before returning to our hero and his fate, we must now follow along with Voyaging Moon. The tale of her own journey is told in the next chapter.
15
• The Tale of the Singing Flute •
A MAN CALLED HONG was innkeeper of the Golden Grasshopper in the town of Chen-yeh. This fellow Hong had a quick eye for profit and a deaf ear for whatever did not work to his advantage. He gave nothing without getting more in return. No one ever bettered him in a bargain. When a terrible storm forced travelers to seek refuge at his inn, Hong doubled his prices for food and lodging, delighted that the misfortunes of others turned into a benefit for himself.
It was at this time, some days after the storm had passed, that a young girl came to the kitchen door and politely asked for food. Her face was bruised, her garments were tom and weather-stained. Even so, she did not have the air of one accustomed to begging. The cook would gladly have given her a handful of leftovers, but Hong happened to come into the kitchen at that moment. When he saw what the cook was about to do, Hong shouted angrily at him and pushed him aside.
"Do you mean to bankrupt me?" he cried. "Your business is cooking food, not giving it away." He turned to the girl. "Be off. You'll get nothing for nothing here."
The girl did not move, but looked squarely at Hong. She was none other than Voyaging Moon. The gale that had swept away Jen and the others had flung her amid the reeds and cattails of a little backwater. Battered, half-drowned, she opened her eyes to find herself alone, the flute clutched tightly in her hand. For days afterward, she searched along the riverbank from dawn to dusk, even through most of the nights. She questioned children playing along the shore, women washing clothes in the shallows, and everyone who crossed her path. No one, they told her sadly, could have survived such a tempest on the river. What kept her heart from breaking then and there was her certainty that since she was alive, so must the others be.
At last, driven by hunger and exhaustion, she came to Chen-yeh and the Golden Grasshopper. Once she had eaten a little and regained strength, she determined to search yet again, to comb both hanks of the Lo from source to mouth if need be. The inn keeper's refusal did not discourage her in the least.
"Nothing for nothing?" Voyaging Moon said. "That's a fair exchange. What of something for something? My work for your food."
Hong thought this over for a few moments. His inn was crowded, his servants hardly able to keep up with their tasks, his guests already complaining and threatening to leave if conditions did not get better. He badly needed another pair of willing hands, and he quickly calculated the girl's labor would be worth far more than what she ate. Of that, he would make sure.
"Agreed," Hong said, with a show of reluctance, "but only because I have a generous heart. You can have what you scrape out of those pots and pans and not a mouthful more. For the rest, you'll do as you're told, no shirking, no laziness. Even at
that, I'm cheating myself. But I can't help it, that's how I am."
"Generosity must be a painful affliction," Voyaging Moon sympathized. "I hope you don't suffer too much from it."
All that day, Voyaging Moon did every task that Hong demanded, scrubbing, sweeping, fetching water, hauling charcoal, with never a word of complaint. The cook secretly made sure the girl was fed with more than pot scrapings, and he prepared her a pallet of straw in the kitchen corner.
At nightfall, when Voyaging Moon finished her work, she did not rest. A hopeful thought had come to her mind. She left the kitchen and climbed to the roof of the inn.
There, perched cross-legged on the tiles, she put the flute to her lips and played a soaring melody, praying that somehow Jen would hear it wherever he might be and that the music would bring him to her.
As she played, her heart followed the notes shimmering like stars in the dark sky. The voice of the flute sang of love, longing, and hope. Indeed, the instrument seemed to have its own spirit that spoke wordlessly but clearly, as if playing of itself, its tone more beautiful than it had ever been.
Voyaging Moon stopped. She was not alone. The music, meant for Jen, had drawn other listeners. Guests had come out of their chambers, tradesmen from their shops, passersby had halted in the street below. As Voyaging Moon put aside her instrument, cries of disappointment rose from the crowd, and they pleaded for her to continue.
The innkeeper had hurried from his counting room to learn the cause of the commotion outside.
"Come down," he shouted when he saw Voyaging Moon and her flute. "You should be scrubbing pots for your keep, not amusing yourself on my valuable time. You'd best put a broom in your hand instead of that wooden whistle."
At this, the crowd around Hong protested loudly, insisting on the girl playing again. A few even threatened to give Hong a good beating if he forbade her to do so. Many more, however, pressed money into his hands, urging him to reward such a marvelous musician and induce her to keep on. The bewildered innkeeper had wits enough to pop the cash into his purse. Though he had no ear for music, he heard coins clinking merrily enough; and, by the time Voyaging Moon climbed from the roof, Hong's vinegar frown was transformed into a honeyed smile.
"My dear young lady," Hong said, "if I spoke harshly it was only because I feared for your safety. You could have fallen and harmed yourself. Step inside, night air is bad for the lungs. If only you had told me you had such a valuable skill! Have you eaten well today? Come along, come along," he added, taking Voyaging Moon's arm and drawing her inside.
The guests, along with a number of passersby, followed. All begged to hear more of her music. Hong made a place for Voyaging Moon in the middle of the eating room, called for food and drink to be served to her; then, rubbing his hands, he asked her to take up the flute again.
"Surely you won't deny these good folk the pleasure of your music," Hong said. "Look around you, lovely lady, and see how many have come to hear."
Though Voyaging Moon's grief had burdened her heart, it had not dulled her wits. She saw that Hong had gone to each one in the room, demanding more cash. His purse was already full to bursting. It came quickly to her mind that a share of Hong's profit would allow her to hire a riverboat, buy provisions, and employ helpers in her search for Jen.
"I won't deny anyone the pleasure of my music," she replied sweetly, "and you, Master Hong, won't deny me payment for it. As you yourself told' me: nothing for nothing."
Hong sputtered and protested, but the guests had grown impatient, threatening to leave and demanding their money back. So, Hong fished into his purse and produced a couple of coins.
"Why, Master Hong, what of your generous heart?" Voyaging Moon said. "Not to mention the weight of your purse. It seems to me we can strike a better bargain. Equal portions should be a reasonable division. No, no, you're right, that won't do at all," she added, as Hong squealed indignantly. "Much better to make it three coins out of ten. That is, three for you and seven for me."
Hong shook his fists and tore his hair, claiming that Voyaging Moon would ruin him.
"How can that be?" Voyaging Moon said. "Since it cost you nothing to begin with, what you gain is pure profit. Furthermore, if I refuse to play, you'll gain nothing at all."
No matter how the innkeeper groaned and wrung his hands, Voyaging Moon held to her offer. Finally, Hong grudgingly accepted. Voyaging Moon then played for the assembled audience, so charmingly and graciously that Hong was able to extract still more cash from them as well as from new arrivals. At the end of the evening, Voyaging Moon required the innkeeper to spread all the coins on a table, holding nothing back, and she herself made the division. Even with his three coins out of ten, Hong reckoned on fat profits in his future.
"I should also mention," Voyaging Moon said, "that I'd play much better if I slept in my own chamber instead of a straw mat in the kitchen."
Hong ground his teeth but finally had to agree. Voyaging Moon tucked her earnings into her jacket and retired to the room Hong reluctantly provided. Next evening, she played again before an even larger audience, to the increasing joy of the innkeeper. She did likewise the following evening. Nevertheless, when she had finished performing, she still climbed to the roof and poured out her music to the night sky, ever hopeful it would reach the ears of her beloved.
By the end of the week, Voyaging Moon calculated that she had earned enough to continue her search better outfitted than before. She announced to the innkeeper that she would depart the following morning. Hong was furious at the thought of losing future profits. Voyaging Moon, however, told him flatly that she would play no longer and in no way could he force her to do so.
"If you try," she warned, "I'll play so badly it will drive every guest from your inn and you'll be worse off than ever."
Hong could not browbeat her into changing her mind. Realizing she was no longer of use to him, he quickly shaped a plan. "The wench thinks she's had the better of me? That remains to be seen."
Hong set his plan in motion without an instant's delay. That very night, he struck up a conversation with a merchant who had just arrived and planned to leave early next morning.
"One of my bondmaids has taken advantage of my good nature," Hong told the merchant. "She's turned slack and impudent and I'd like to be rid of her. I haven't the heart to throw her out into the street. I'll sell her to you at a bargain price if I'm sure you'll give her a good home. She may need a stricter hand than mine. I've been too soft with her; that's my nature. But, if you pay no heed to the lies and wild tales she tells, and let her know who's master, she'll be obedient enough. She can even tootle a few notes on the flute, but I won't ask extra for that. One thing I do want," he added, "is that jacket she wears. I loaned it to her and must have it back."
Considering that his wife had been plaguing him to buy a bondmaid, the merchant gladly paid out the low price Hong demanded. Before dawn the next day, they went to Voyaging Moon's chamber. Hong had forewarned the merchant that the girl was so devoted to him that she would resist every effort to take her away; therefore, the innkeeper provided some lengths of rope at no added charge.
Voyaging Moon was already awake and dressed when the two burst in. Though taken unawares, she kicked and bit and fought with all her strength. But they overpowered her. Hong tore away the jacket, where she had hidden her money. Voyaging Moon found herself bound and gagged, hauled down to the stable, and thrown into the merchant's carriage along with her flute. Captive, robbed of her earnings, she was borne southward, far from the River Lo where she had planned to search.
For all that, she kept a brave heart. Her determination only strengthened. Therefore, during the days that followed, instead of raging and struggling, she cleverly made a show of docility. The merchant felt confident enough to remove her gag. She told him she was glad to be free of Hong-which was quite true. She gathered that the merchant lived in Chai-sang, the capital of the northern province. She resolved to escape before they reached that city.
r /> During the journey, the merchant lodged Voyaging Moon in stables of roadside inns where they halted at each day's end. Before retiring, he made sure the girl was securely tied for the night. One evening, as he was about to leave the stable for his chamber, Voyaging Moon called him back.
"Now that we're far from Master Hong," she said, "I can tell you this. He cheated you. You brought my flute along, didn't you? Yes, well, what he didn't tell you is that it's a remarkable instrument. When played, you'd be amazed at what it does."
Voyaging Moon would explain no further. The merchant, his curiosity roused, took the flute from the carriage. He examined it, finding nothing extraordinary. Voyaging Moon urged him to blow into it. When he did so, however, he produced nothing but squeaks and whistles.
"Let me show you how," Voyaging Moon said. "Untie my hands so I can hold it properly."
The merchant did as she asked, then sat down in a corner of the stable and watched her closely. Hoping and praying her plan would succeed, Voyaging Moon put the flute to her lips. Hardly breathing, she played the softest, gentlest melody. The flute whispered and murmured as if its spirit answered her wishes.
"Remarkable, indeed," the merchant said in a hushed voice. "Why, it seems the same lullaby my mother sang to me when I was an infant. I've heard nothing like it these many years." He brushed away a tear. "Keep on, keep on, I beg you."
The merchant closed his eyes and blissfully smiled. Within moments, his head nodded and dropped to his breast. Blowing out his lips, toying with his fingers, he soon snored and gurgled happily away.
Voyaging Moon tucked the flute into her shirt. "You don't mind if I borrow your horse, do you?" Receiving no contrary answer, she quickly unhitched the animal. Before climbing astride, she patted the slumbering merchant on the head. "Sweet dreams," said Voyaging Moon. Though it was not the largest of towns, Nang-pei boasted the finest theater in the province. Traveling companies of tumblers, jugglers, singers, and dancers went out of their way to stop there. The folk of Nangpei always welcomed these performers. That autumn, however, the one who drew their warmest applause, their loudest cheers, and their delighted devotion was a girl who charmed them with the music of her flute. She could not set foot in the streets without admirers crowding around her. Young swains, love-smitten, sent her jewels, necklaces, and bracelets, along with flowers and heartrending notes begging her hand in marriage. But the girl graciously declined all such offerings. Rumor had it that she was richer than any of her would-be suitors.