China by Edward Rutherfurd (historical books to read TXT) 📕

they walked tall and straight and free. She was funny, too. Her light-skinned face might be composed and ladylike, but her hazel eyes were often laughing. And she was like a second mother to him.

He loved to walk the streets of Zhapu. For though the British attack had left harsh marks on the garrison quarter, the seaside town was still a charming place, with a winding central canal crossed by nine steep-humped ornamental bridges. Houses, temples, pavilions, whose roof corners curved up into elegant points, and high garden walls flanked the canal; here and there, a willow tree hung gracefully over the water.

But most of all, Guanji liked to ride out on Wind. Often they’d skirt the edge of the town and take the trail that led to the end of a long, low spit of land that jutted out into the sea, where there was a small shore battery on a little knoll. The sea, protected by headlands, was often so still that, in his mind’s eye, he could imagine it was a vast plain of grassland, like the northern steppe from which his people came. At such times, he liked to think that the spirit of his father, whose face he could scarcely remember, was riding beside him. And this secret company he kept brought him a sense of inner peace and strength.

Since all things come to an end, the time came when Guanji was getting too big to ride his pony. His uncle bought him a small horse, just as sturdy as Wind, but more fleet; and Wind was to be given to another boy. On the day before Wind’s departure, Guanji took him for a final ride by the sea so that his father’s spirit also could bid farewell to his pony.

He was on his way back into Zhapu when he saw a boy named Yelu walking along the lane. Yelu was at school with him. He lived in a small house in the garrison and his parents were quite poor. Yelu and he weren’t friends; but they weren’t enemies, as far as Guanji knew. Sometimes Yelu got angry, and then Guanji used to think he looked like a little pig. But he never said so. He nodded to Yelu politely enough as he drew near. But Yelu stood in his path. “They say your uncle’s bought you a new horse.”

“It’s true. This is my last ride on Wind, so I’m feeling really sad.”

“You get everything, don’t you? The old men call you Little Warrior.”

“It’s because I can sing a lot of zidi songs, I think.”

“And your father’s supposed to be a hero.”

“He died in the battle here,” Guanji answered modestly, “like many others.”

“That’s what you think. I heard he ran away. He got killed later. He was hiding in a well. What do you think of that, Little Warrior?”

Guanji was so shocked and surprised that for a moment he didn’t know what to say. And before he could even shout that it wasn’t true, Yelu ran off.

When he got home, he asked Ilha what she thought.

“Of course he’s lying, silly,” she said. “Isn’t it obvious? He’s jealous of you. Besides, after his own father escaped alive on the day of the battle, some people said he was a coward, although it was never proved.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“People don’t talk about it.”

“But how could he make up such a lie about my father?”

“When people make up lies like that, it’s often because they’re afraid the lie is the very thing people might say about them. It’s like transferring an evil spell. You take the ugly spider that’s fallen on you and throw it onto someone else.”

The next day, when Guanji told Yelu to be ready to fight him after school, Yelu apologized and confessed he’d made the story up and that he knew it wasn’t true. So they didn’t fight. But Guanji couldn’t help wondering if Yelu had just apologized because he was afraid of getting a beating. So he didn’t really feel better. And although he would never disbelieve his uncle, the little episode left a tiny doubt in his mind.

A few days later he went riding on his new horse to the long spit of land by the sea. And as usual, he imagined that the silent water was a great expanse of steppe. But though he waited, the spirit of his father did not come to join him, and he rode out to the end all alone.

—

A year after this, Ilha got married. “As nobody’s allowed to marry one of their own clan,” she had teased her father, “I don’t see how any husband is going to please you, unless he’s one of the royal clan.” But in the end, they found a young man whose ancestors were satisfactory and whose prospects were good. He lived in the great city of Nanjing, on the Yangtze River, a hundred and fifty miles to the north.

Guanji remembered two things about that day. The first was the bride. The beautifully embroidered red marriage qipao she wore seemed fit for a princess. Her platform shoes raised her to the same height as a man. But it was her hair that amazed him. Normally on formal occasions it would be parted in the middle, then wound into two pinwheels, one above each ear. As a bride, however, her hair had been pulled over a big comb, high above her head, and decorated with flowers, so that she seemed to be wearing a towering crown. “You look so tall,” he said in wonderment.

“Be afraid.” She laughed.

The second thing was the shamans. Her father insisted upon them. The two old men set up a curious little shrine and performed ancient rites from the Manchurian forests, in a deep chant that nobody understood except his uncle—and Guanji wasn’t even sure that his uncle did, really. It added a strange solemnity to the day.

Guanji was sorry Ilha wasn’t living closer, but she promised to come to see him whenever she could.