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

There was enough light in the eastern sky to see their way as they rode together, enjoying the coolness of the morning and the faint damp breeze coming from the sea. They skirted the walls of Zhapu and started out onto the long spit of land. It was quite empty. The sun had not yet risen out of the blue-grey sea.

“You’ve always liked to ride out here, ever since you were a little boy,” his uncle said at last.

“Yes,” said Guanji absently. “On Wind.”

They rode on awhile before his uncle spoke again. “Ilha’s wrong, you know,” he said. “She thinks I try to decide all the children’s fates. That is not correct. I try to discover what it is they are fated to do. That is quite different.”

Guanji didn’t reply at once. His observant uncle had guessed correctly: Ilha’s words had been on his mind when he’d set out for his ride. Had the older man been waiting for him that morning so that he could talk to him? Probably.

Guanji didn’t question his duty to serve the clan or the obedience he owed his uncle. That wasn’t the problem. But Ilha’s words had sowed a tiny doubt in his mind. Was it possible that his own belief in his destiny, one he’d held since his earliest childhood, was somehow an illusion—a falsehood created, with whatever good intention, by his uncle?

“How did you discover my destiny, Uncle?” he asked finally.

“I considered your horoscope,” his uncle replied. “And the fact that your father was a hero—which he was,” he added quickly. “But what really showed me the way was something else.”

“What was that?”

“The old Manchu who taught you to ride and draw a bow. He was the one.”

“I know he liked me…” Guanji began.

“Oh, it was more than that.” His uncle smiled. “I knew it was my duty to put you on a horse. Your father would have wished me to. But I didn’t know if you’d take to it. I put my own sons on a pony, too, you know. And they liked to ride well enough. But that was all. The old man took no interest in them.”

“And he did with me?”

“After your third lesson, I asked him how it was going. But he would not say. He told me to ask him in a month. So I waited a month and asked him again. And this is what he said: ‘I’ve taught plenty of boys to ride, but never one like this. Boys like this are born, not made. He is a Manchu warrior. It’s not just his talent. It is his spirit. Give me this boy.’ So I did. But I never forced you, Guanji. You loved it. That’s why the old man and his friends adopted you and taught you all their songs. They knew you were one of them.” He paused and nodded. “That’s how I knew it was your destiny.”

“I was certainly happy,” said Guanji.

“I’m annoyed with Ilha. She was foolish. She made a joke about something that is sacred. So if you want the truth about what you are, all I can tell you is to search your own heart. There’s no other way.”

They reached the battery on the knoll. A line of golden light was gleaming along the horizon. They waited and watched in silence as the sun slowly emerged from the sea. Then they wheeled their horses and started back.

“I think I am a Manchu,” Guanji said. “It is what I feel.”

“Very well.” The older man seemed pleased. They rode on a little way. But then his uncle reined in his horse and they both stopped. “And now, Guanji, I have some more news for you to hear.”

“Good or bad?”

“Bad.” His uncle sighed. “But it is time.” He considered a few moments. “You have known only two places in your life so far: Zhapu and Hangzhou. Both towns with garrisons of Manchu bannermen. And while it’s true that most of our bannermen don’t practice horsemanship as they should, our Manchu tradition is respected here.”

“Of course.”

“What you do not know is that, outside Beijing itself, these two towns are almost the only places where that is the case.” He smiled regretfully. “I never told you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Manchu bannermen are broken, Guanji. In most of China, we’re a laughingstock. Even the emperor has nearly given up on us.”

“But the emperor’s a Manchu. The Manchus rule China.”

“Two hundred years ago,” said his uncle, “when we drove the Ming dynasty from China, a bannerman would say proudly that he was the slave of the emperor. Why was he proud? Because to be the slave of the emperor was to be above all other men.” He nodded. “Our garrisons, all over China, were to remind the Han that we were in charge. Bannermen were well paid—the silver stipend, the rice allowance, and all sorts of other benefits besides. And we weren’t allowed to engage in menial trades that were beneath a Manchu. We held our heads high. But then something happened.”

“What?”

“The march of generations. It took time, of course, but our numbers grew. Revolts, bad harvests, piracy, not to speak of the recent war with the barbarians and their evil opium, put great stress on the treasury. The emperor couldn’t pay so many bannermen. The payments got smaller, and the bannermen still weren’t supposed to take other work. Do you know what happens when you pay men just for existing? They become demoralized. Many forgot how to fight. But they still expected their stipends and their rice. Some even rioted when they didn’t get enough. There are cities where half the bannermen are beggars now—still proud of being Manchus, of course, because they’ve nothing else to be proud of, poor devils. If there’s trouble in one of the provinces, the emperor often uses banners of Han Chinese or even local militias instead of us.”

“Then why do you want me to be a Manchu warrior?”

“Good question. Because it’s your only hope.” His uncle paused.