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THIRTY-SEVEN

Farmer Wu had told his son to come home that night, and had said nothing about bringing the barbarian with him. But the boy wasn’t willing to abandon the giant, even though he suspected the man had failed them. The moon had risen by the time he got back to Pine Point, and the overcast seemed to have thinned a bit; he’d had no real trouble finding his way to Nils’s things. He’d raked up a pile of needles there as insulation from the ground, wrapped himself in his blanket, the one the barbarian had worn the day before, and gone to sleep. With the fixed intention of waking up well before dawn.
Actually, he expected his stomach to waken him. He’d had no supper, unless one counted the snack his mother had packed.
It was much lighter when he awoke, and he sprang to his feet. But it wasn’t dawn breaking. Rather, the half moon was high, and the overcast had given way to clear sky. Stars glittered between the treetops, and he was cold, blanket or no.
The barbarian was there too, getting up from a needle pile of his own, as if Jik’s wakening had wakened him.
He now wore the shirt he’d left behind, which with his breeches and boots was all he had against the chill. And seemed none the worse for it.
They didn’t speak; there was neither point nor need. They simply gathered their things and left.
On the road, the night took on a special clarity for Jik, a rare beauty, the feel of a spiritual experience. His normal life consisted very largely of work and sleep. In summer he was usually in bed by dark, and it was getting light when his father wakened him to do his chores. His experience of night was very largely the occasional thirty-meter walk, sleepy-eyed and thick-headed to the odorous privy.
He wasn’t sure how near it was to dawn, but decided they should jog. His father had emphasized the importance of getting home and out of sight before daylight. This would be doubly important with the barbarian along; it wouldn’t do to be seen by some farmer walking early to his field, and there were the ravens to consider.
After a bit, Jik could see the wash of early dawn paling the sky. He speeded slightly; they still had perhaps three kilometers to go before leaving the last hamlet behind, and to detour through the forest would slow them. Also he was eager to reach home and breakfast. The reach and drive of his loping legs in the cool dawn air made him feel full-chested and strong, indomitable. He wondered if the barbarian felt the same. Perhaps the man often ran in the night; perhaps his strange eyes could see in the dark. That would explain some things. And it had been the barbarian’s hand that kept him from falling in the irrigation ditch, earlier that night.
The dawn strengthened. Birds awoke in the trees, and with preparatory chirps warmed up for their dawn chorus. It would be awhile, though, before they were out and flying. He and the barbarian were almost beyond the clearing, and not far from home, when Jik’s mood changed, suddenly and inexplicably. Fear struck him, fear without threat, followed as quickly by black despair. The ground began to tremble, or seemed to, and his vision blurred. He stumbled, stopped, uncomprehending. For a long minute the feeling persisted, intensifying, as if the world was dying, shuddering and twitching beneath his feet.
Then his vision cleared, the ground steadied, and the awfulness faded, leaving an ugly aftertaste. The chirping had stopped; there would be no bird chorus this dawn. Jik looked at the barbarian. The giant’s expression was reassuring—neither frightened nor worried, only intent. Then he said something in some strange language that might or might not have been Mongol, and they trotted on down the cart road into the woods.
On the plain that had once been a residential area of Beijing, the general sat upright on his bed. His bed-girl of the night had begun to scream, but that wasn’t what had wakened him. It seemed to him there was an earthquake, not massive, more a sort of trembling and twitching. Also something was wrong with his eyes, and he felt fear more powerful than he’d ever imagined.
The girl had stopped screaming and was crying loudly. He slapped her, and her wails softened to sobbing. Through his open window he heard shouts of fear, even terror.
With a curse he swung his legs from the bed, stood up and yelled for his valet. He’d have to go out there and enforce some discipline.
He still felt fear, ugly and black, but he wasn’t paying much attention to it just now. He had things to do.
A two-storied longhouse stood in a small forest clearing. Its roof beam curved up at the ends, and it was shingled with gray-weathered, hand-split wooden shakes. The walls were sawn planks of Korean pine, dressed smooth and stained dark. Around it were flowerbeds, shrubs and fruit trees, inobtrusive outbuildings, and great shading spruces dark in the dawnlight. A brook flowed past, splashing over stone dams small and mossy, built for aesthetics of sound and vision.
In a small room, a man sat upright on a thick meditation mat, his bare legs folded beneath him in a lotus posture. He was on the far side of middle age, his hair dark stubble, his thin beard mostly white. In other rooms, other men also sat meditating. In one long room, more than a dozen novices sat in the lotus posture on a broad bench, facing a wall. Two adepts stood by with supple staffs to waken any who dozed.
All of them felt the malaise when it began. It was the old master, Jampa Lodro, who saw into it most deeply. This was no earthquake; it was something in the realm between the Tao and Maya. Something malevolent lay there, something of power and evil intent. Something interesting. He contemplated it.
Baver awoke in his cell, not remembering for the moment where he was or how he’d gotten there. His first thought was earthquake, and he feared the building would be shaken down on him. But it wasn’t that strong; not at all. What was strong, what was truly powerful, was the fear, then the despair. At the moment he had no doubt that he would never leave this place alive, quake or not.

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THIRTY-SEVEN

Farmer Wu had told his son to come home that night, and had said nothing about bringing the barbarian with him. But the boy wasn’t willing to abandon the giant, even though he suspected the man had failed them. The moon had risen by the time he got back to Pine Point, and the overcast seemed to have thinned a bit; he’d had no real trouble finding his way to Nils’s things. He’d raked up a pile of needles there as insulation from the ground, wrapped himself in his blanket, the one the barbarian had worn the day before, and gone to sleep. With the fixed intention of waking up well before dawn.
Actually, he expected his stomach to waken him. He’d had no supper, unless one counted the snack his mother had packed.
It was much lighter when he awoke, and he sprang to his feet. But it wasn’t dawn breaking. Rather, the half moon was high, and the overcast had given way to clear sky. Stars glittered between the treetops, and he was cold, blanket or no.
The barbarian was there too, getting up from a needle pile of his own, as if Jik’s wakening had wakened him.
He now wore the shirt he’d left behind, which with his breeches and boots was all he had against the chill. And seemed none the worse for it.
They didn’t speak; there was neither point nor need. They simply gathered their things and left.
On the road, the night took on a special clarity for Jik, a rare beauty, the feel of a spiritual experience. His normal life consisted very largely of work and sleep. In summer he was usually in bed by dark, and it was getting light when his father wakened him to do his chores. His experience of night was very largely the occasional thirty-meter walk, sleepy-eyed and thick-headed to the odorous privy.
He wasn’t sure how near it was to dawn, but decided they should jog. His father had emphasized the importance of getting home and out of sight before daylight. This would be doubly important with the barbarian along; it wouldn’t do to be seen by some farmer walking early to his field, and there were the ravens to consider.
After a bit, Jik could see the wash of early dawn paling the sky. He speeded slightly; they still had perhaps three kilometers to go before leaving the last hamlet behind, and to detour through the forest would slow them. Also he was eager to reach home and breakfast. The reach and drive of his loping legs in the cool dawn air made him feel full-chested and strong, indomitable. He wondered if the barbarian felt the same. Perhaps the man often ran in the night; perhaps his strange eyes could see in the dark. That would explain some things. And it had been the barbarian’s hand that kept him from falling in the irrigation ditch, earlier that night.
The dawn strengthened. Birds awoke in the trees, and with preparatory chirps warmed up for their dawn chorus. It would be awhile, though, before they were out and flying. He and the barbarian were almost beyond the clearing, and not far from home, when Jik’s mood changed, suddenly and inexplicably. Fear struck him, fear without threat, followed as quickly by black despair. The ground began to tremble, or seemed to, and his vision blurred. He stumbled, stopped, uncomprehending. For a long minute the feeling persisted, intensifying, as if the world was dying, shuddering and twitching beneath his feet.
Then his vision cleared, the ground steadied, and the awfulness faded, leaving an ugly aftertaste. The chirping had stopped; there would be no bird chorus this dawn. Jik looked at the barbarian. The giant’s expression was reassuring—neither frightened nor worried, only intent. Then he said something in some strange language that might or might not have been Mongol, and they trotted on down the cart road into the woods.
On the plain that had once been a residential area of Beijing, the general sat upright on his bed. His bed-girl of the night had begun to scream, but that wasn’t what had wakened him. It seemed to him there was an earthquake, not massive, more a sort of trembling and twitching. Also something was wrong with his eyes, and he felt fear more powerful than he’d ever imagined.
The girl had stopped screaming and was crying loudly. He slapped her, and her wails softened to sobbing. Through his open window he heard shouts of fear, even terror.
With a curse he swung his legs from the bed, stood up and yelled for his valet. He’d have to go out there and enforce some discipline.
He still felt fear, ugly and black, but he wasn’t paying much attention to it just now. He had things to do.
A two-storied longhouse stood in a small forest clearing. Its roof beam curved up at the ends, and it was shingled with gray-weathered, hand-split wooden shakes. The walls were sawn planks of Korean pine, dressed smooth and stained dark. Around it were flowerbeds, shrubs and fruit trees, inobtrusive outbuildings, and great shading spruces dark in the dawnlight. A brook flowed past, splashing over stone dams small and mossy, built for aesthetics of sound and vision.
In a small room, a man sat upright on a thick meditation mat, his bare legs folded beneath him in a lotus posture. He was on the far side of middle age, his hair dark stubble, his thin beard mostly white. In other rooms, other men also sat meditating. In one long room, more than a dozen novices sat in the lotus posture on a broad bench, facing a wall. Two adepts stood by with supple staffs to waken any who dozed.
All of them felt the malaise when it began. It was the old master, Jampa Lodro, who saw into it most deeply. This was no earthquake; it was something in the realm between the Tao and Maya. Something malevolent lay there, something of power and evil intent. Something interesting. He contemplated it.
Baver awoke in his cell, not remembering for the moment where he was or how he’d gotten there. His first thought was earthquake, and he feared the building would be shaken down on him. But it wasn’t that strong; not at all. What was strong, what was truly powerful, was the fear, then the despair. At the moment he had no doubt that he would never leave this place alive, quake or not.

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