“Are you saying the Snows were betrayed by someone within Chinatown?”
“Somehow Chou Shou, that most reliable of men, is nowhere to be found,” Johnny Ma went on. “And our respected strategist, Water Spider, has misplaced his strategy, and the Lidded Eye is making ominous markings about him in her scrolls. Who then is great among the Ministers? No one ever trusts any Minister for the South—with good reason!” Johnny added, laughing. “Grace is very old. But Huang Ti: he is in his prime. He is not tainted by any of the Compass portfolios.”
Water Spider frowned. “But what could the Dragon gain from such chaos? Or Huang Ti, either?”
“There is that empty throne,” Johnny said.
“You can’t believe Huang Ti imagines he could be Emperor. Even his arrogance would not support such a dream,” Water Spider said flatly.
Johnny Ma shrugged. “Perhaps you are right. But I would look to your back these next few days, Excellency. As for myself,” he added reflectively, “when all this settles down, I believe I shall ruin the smug prick.”
“Pray, not on my account,” Water Spider said, smiling.
“Not at all, not at all. I shall do it for myself. Not even for the sport of the thing, you understand, but because it is Right.”
“It has been observed,” Water Spider said drily, “that to fitly serve the State is the only true joy.”
Johnny Ma nodded, eyes narrowed to slits amid a haze of sweet smoke. “The ancient precepts must be heeded. And if I am a rogue sometimes—and I admit I am—I endeavor always to be a pious one.”
Water Spider smiled, but his mind was back on the disturbing conversation with the Snows. “Johnny?”
“Yes?”
“I begin to think there could be a war waiting at the end of this. A real war, with a real enemy.”
“The Snows, you mean?”
“If someone did betray them, that person is a fool. You have not seen them fight as I have. You have not seen the reports from their other wars. This is an enemy we dare not make, a war we could not win.” Water Spider looked at Johnny Ma, face drawn. “I think we need to find Emily Thompson. I think we need to do it very soon.”
Chapter
Twelve
Jen was trapped in his mother’s apartment building. He had come with Claire, the white bitch who broke his luck, to rescue his ma, who was also Water Spider’s woman. The stupid pompous prick had finally learned, a little late in the fucking day, that loyalty is owed blood to blood.
Claire and Ma had gotten away. Jen hadn’t.
Well, he’d been meaning to come visit, hadn’t he? Ha ha. Only now gargoyles squatted on every gable, and he was trapped in a dingy flat across the hallway from his childhood.
He rehearsed his Long Fist form. He crouched in the cat stance, front toe touching the hardwood floor, just touching: no weight on it, not so much as a feather. He had been doing forms for a long time now. His hams were shaking with exhaustion and the sweat ran in streams down his face.
By Buddha’s black balls, I don’t want to die here. Please don’t let me die like this.
Don’t think. Don’t think. “It is your own fear that draws the demons to you,” Water Spider had told him once. “It is your own hate that gives them life.” Trapped in a haunted apartment building like this, demons crawling everywhere, if he wasn’t careful, if he let himself think, if he let himself despair, it would come back to him, oh yes. Like a pearl growing around a grain of sand his demons would grow flesh and hunt him down. That’s what minotaurs were, Water Spider said. Fear made flesh. Nightmares in the waking world.
Quick block left arm / step front, punch right / punch left / recoil.
Snap back, humming. Body like a spring, like a wire.
The thing about practicing is that you have to do it consciously. It isn’t enough to go through the motions. You have to think deeply into every move, you have to imagine your enemy at your fingertips, you have to feel the flex of his limbs, drawing away from you. When you block, you have to feel the wind of his fist across your face.
Sweat. Sweat everything out. Sweat fear, sweat rage, sweat like cool rain, drumming down, drumming down.
Sad thin little rains. Creaking on the window like a bed creaking in the next room.
Hands and arms a cage, left toe touching—just touching—next to right foot, explode: left back knuckle / recoil / right punch!
So Jen had stayed behind to buy time for Claire to get his ma out of the building. Stayed behind with his sword raised against the demon. Showed no fear. Only the joke was on him, the demon had no face, couldn’t see how brave he was. Ha ha. And his lovely sword, his lovely north wind sword, his kick-ass, split-balls, high-tech, lowlife piece of shit—
Well, it was gone now.
And the sound of the rain had come drumming down, not loud but everywhere, creeping over him like sad clouds.
But he did the brave thing. He didn’t run back the way his ma had gone. He ran for the stairs instead. Pounded up the threadbare red carpet, bits of wood showing through just as he remembered it, raced the length of the building on the second floor. By now they were sure to be out, he didn’t even look behind him, just heard the rain falling sad in his head and yelled to shut it out, down the back stairs four at a time, huge flying leaps with his life in his throat, stairs-landing-turn, stairs-landing-turn, stairs-landing-turn, stairs…
Stopped on a landing, chest heaving. He should have been out by now. Should have made it to the ground floor. In fact, counting landings, he should be on floor -3, pretty funny except there wasn’t any basement in the New Moon Manor.
It was very quiet.
He looked down over the banister. The stairs went twisting down forever, he couldn’t even see the bottom. “Wonder who has to clean the carpets,” he said. He used to once, for pocket money.
From Uncle Lui he had learned to joke at the worst things.
When he spat down the stairwell, he couldn’t hear it hit.
Here’s a memory for you: lying face down on that worn carpet, three guys beating the shit out of him which happened a lot when he was oh eleven or twelve, and he never fought back, didn’t believe in fighting, he was a pacifist, very noble, and knew in his heart how much braver he was because of it. They beat the shit out of him pretty good pretty regularly and looking down through puffy eyes where his split lip was drooling blood on the carpet and thinking: shit the stain, never clean that one oh well maybe it won’t show, red on red anyhow.
Story of his life, hey? Red on red.
Half horse stance, forward posture. Left back knuckle / recoil / right punch.
Hammer fist, dropping to crouched-toe stance.
Wait.
Still as dew trembling on the edge of a leaf.
At least he was smart enough not to go to his mother’s apartment. Didn’t know much about demons, but knew that much. Felt his childhood stalking him like a shadow. Didn’t matter how many stairs he went up or down, he always came out on his mother’s floor, see. But he was too smart to go into her apartment. Too much past there, no shit.
Fucking Snow broke his luck, would you believe it?
Listened at the doors. No one home in Number 32 so he went in there. It was next to Ma’s, but at least he wasn’t back home, not all the way. Some sounds from her apartment, though, sometimes. Didn’t like that much. A few sounds. Creaking floorboards maybe. Creaking bed. Like that.
Don’t listen don’t listen don’t listen don’t listen.
Don’t think don’t think don’t think don’t think.
Creak, creak. Creak, creak.
There was a baby crying in the next apartment. It cried a lot, even for a baby. Long, whimpering cries. Not loud but steady like the rain. Sometimes someone shouted, across the way, or there was a thud, or a crash like pans smacking together, and the baby would stop for a long moment and then start in again, louder. Jen figured it must have been about the saddest baby in the world.
Shouter and Shrieker lived next to the
baby. Fought like bad-tempered parrots. They might have moved in before Jen left home, he wasn’t sure. There was always a couple like them, though, in all the New Moon Manors he and Ma had lived in over the years. Most times they went quiet when he passed their door. Except for once, when he thought he heard her crying, very softly. He almost knocked that time.
Maybe Shouter knocked her around, maybe he didn’t. Maybe she deserved it if he did; if Jen had learned one thing from Water Spider, it was that there were two sides to a story, plus a top and bottom and a few other angles. Hell, he’d done things that—that would have been hard to explain.
But still he thought maybe he ought to knock. Do the right thing. Like staying behind while Claire and his mother got away. That had been the right thing to do. That helped. There weren’t so many times in your life you could be sure you were doing the right thing. There were a lot of people you wanted to beat the shit out of, but you could almost never be absolutely sure it was OK.
That was the best thing about working for Water Spider. The Honorable Minister for Borders did not have these doubts. He was very certain he knew which things were right.
Oh, the lovely freedom from doubt. Jen could hold back his fist in certainty; and let it fall, likewise. Not that Water Spider was always right. The pompous hand-jobber. Only a fool, blind with his own rank and smarts and obvious personal worth, could be so sure of himself. So smug. But that wasn’t Jen’s problem. He had dished off those particular responsibilities. He had gone to some trouble to get right and wrong defined as narrowly as possible.
Not because he was stupid. Because he was smart.
So here he was trapped by a demon in New Moon Manor, practicing forms until his muscles burned and the sweat soaked his shirt because the moment he let himself think, maybe a minotaur would form around his fear, his ugly thoughts. Maybe a demon would come and he would be dogmeat.
Must be a fucking genius, hey?
And up, Drawing the Bow, left toe out, and: coil down! / back knuckle / left hand block, next to shoulder: grip: pitchfork to forward stance.
Step into Number 8 Long Fist. Then up to reverse punch in low horse forward stance. Crescent kick / back kick.
Grab / head butt / throw!
And stop, terrified, at the sound of something hitting the floor. A quiet thump, like a cat jumping to the ground. The memory of weight spinning over his hip. Cool fingers wrapped for an instant around his wrist, opening when she hit the floor.
There had been a ghost in his arms. Something taking flesh from the thick enchanted air around him.
Don’t think don’t think don’t think don’t think.
She?
Here’s a memory for you: thirteen years old and he finally fought back, swung like a maniac no fucking science at all broke three knuckles and crushed the fucker. That’s when he found he had no fear left. No fear left—fucking amazing, hey? No courage in him exactly, just so much anger, so much rage there wasn’t room for anything else. He held the fucker up so the fight wouldn’t be over, kept him from folding with horrible stomach shots Pow Pow Pow and then Boom across the side of the head again and drove him into the concrete piling of the underground parking lot. Boom. Pow Pow Pow and again. Boom Boom Boom Boom.
Buddha’s balls, broke three knuckles. No science at all.
Pretty clear pretty soon the guy wasn’t going to be okay. Shouldn’t have kicked him in the head. Should not have done that. Classic early mistake. No reason. Fight over, point made. But so much anger. Managed to stop himself after a couple of kicks but even then he stood over the other boy with blood running down his hands and screamed at the unconscious body. Screamed and screamed. The sound huge in the parking lot, like metal tearing.
In a way it worked out for the best. The kid didn’t die, quite. But every time he went by, it sort of told everyone else not to fuck with Jen, hey: this sorry flat-faced fucker smiling or drooling or whatever, his eyes like shop windows after closing time. Good advertising. Discouraged anyone else from taking a run at Jen, which was lucky because there was absolutely no fucking science to him back then.
But oh, it had been sweet and dreadful, to find his boy’s body thickening with muscle, to discover he was good at this. Lots of other stuff on top: pacifism too simple a response, times you have to fight for what is right, how about defending the weak? But at the heart of it, that moment, standing with his hands running red and screaming at Chinatown’s next village idiot, screaming fucking berserk Don’t fuck with me, you cock-sucking butt-cunt I’ll fucking kill you, you fucker, do you hear me?
Story of his life, hey? Don’t fuck with me.
The idiot gave him the creeps. That was way worse than death, that blank smile. Sorry, wrong number. Nobody home. Call again. Any fight after that, Jen stopped the moment the other guy went still. Totally involuntary. They noticed it in the gang he ran with for a while. Other guys would get him steamed and then play dead and he would stand there like a guilty john who couldn’t get it up, no come in his fists at all.
Always meant to marry a passive woman for this reason. Always imagined maybe a slap from a feisty girl, just enough to draw the lightning from him, the big red spark of his violence jumping between them and then her on the ground bleeding or god knows what, it scared the unholy shit out of him and he touched girls like eggshells, like fine china. Couldn’t risk one who would hit him.
Not because he was stupid. Because he was smart.
So after being a little runty kid all his life his chest got deep and his short little legs and arms got stubby with muscle. Black curls of hair on his chest, would you believe it?
One day he realized he must have been a rape baby. Made sense. The hair, the muscles. The violence in him all the time. The rage. His mom so young and the way she never talked about his father. Not ever.
Maybe it wasn’t true. But it felt true. He carried that rape inside himself, like a disease. He didn’t ask his mother.
Unbearable, to have violated her like that.
There wasn’t much furniture in the empty apartment. What there was he shoved into the kitchen or carried into the hallway. Then the empty main room was just big enough to practice in, bare feet slapping and squeaking on the worn wood floors.
He lost his feel for the passage of time. The past seemed a long way away, though. At the bottom of those stairs, maybe. A long way. As for the future…
Don’t think.
He wasn’t very sure about day and night, either. Maybe days and nights were going by, but whenever he thought about it, it seemed to be maybe pretty late at night. Couldn’t be sure, though. There was nothing but a bamboo blind over the window, he could always check.
Choking horror came over him whenever he moved to pull the blind. It was a funny sort of war going on within his body: his eyes showed him only little red tasselled blind pulls, but his hands shook and his heart hammered as if every other part of him besides his brain and eyes knew they weren’t just cords, they were snakes / death / poison, dangling there.
He remembered Water Spider’s story about the little girl’s house with the gargoyles outside and he left the blinds alone. His body had always been a lot smarter than his brain.
Here’s a memory for you: sitting cross-legged on the floor with his ma and Uncle Lui. Dinner time. Bowls of steaming rice with little bits of apple cut in, one of his mother’s staples. Fish soup. Ginger pickles. Ordinary stuff.
Uncle Lui has had a bad day. You can tell because he smiles a lot. He does this when he is angry. He sells shoes. He has many reasons to get angry, but salesmen only sell things when they are smiling. He can be very charming.
Jen’s mother knows him well enough. She does not ask about his day. But it is part of Uncle Lui’s nature not to brood in silence. It is important to show that these things do not bother him. He makes a joke about his surly customers.
The rice is a little dry. Some on the bottom of the pan is burned. Jen’s mother apologizes.
Uncle Lui waves his hand. “No,
no, not at all. It is very complicated. Hm. Rice. Water. Fire. Hm. Very complex.” He grins.
Jen’s mother does not say anything. She is hurt but she does not say anything. She desperately wants them all to get along. She will do almost anything to avoid fighting, especially in front of her son.
And because Jen knows this, he too cannot say anything. He knows his mother’s loneliness far better than he knows any other feeling. He knows he must not do anything to upset Uncle Lui. Jen is ten years old and quite smart enough to realize that Uncle Lui could leave at any time, like Uncle Chan. Uncle Lui has been living with them for a year but they are not a family. He has no reason to put up with Jen. Jen must be very sure not to make him angry.
His mother has never said this to him. She would die rather than say this. But exactly because she would never ask him to sacrifice himself, he is very careful with Uncle Lui. He has no interest in Uncle Lui, (the feeling is mutual), but Jen would never do anything that might risk the relationship between Uncle Lui and his mother.
She wants them to be a real family. Jen has even tried that. Once he called Uncle Lui “Dad.” It was awkward for both of them. He didn’t try again.
So they can’t be a family. But at least he can keep her from her terrible loneliness. She never speaks of it, but he knows it like the smell of her hair.
His mother ladles fish soup into a bowl and passes it to Uncle Lui. “I am not a stupid woman,” she says.
“Of course not! Of course not…A stupid woman would have burned the pickles!”
Uncle Lui laughs toward her. He has this little laugh, this little teeth-baring good humor. Many years later, Jen will be sparring in a gym with an older man whose whole style is to hide behind a little left jab, poke poke poke, and he will remember Uncle Lui’s little laughs. The quick little challenge in his eyes. His bare teeth. Ha ha ha. Ha ha ha. Jen broke his arm. Cost him dearly in apologies and errand-running and even a little cash. He laughs at himself when he remembers it.