The Wall of Storms, page 10
And Fithowéo continued to ululate, letting his throat and ears be his eyes, until he strode out of the cave, emerged into the sunlight, and picked up two pieces of darkest obsidian and placed them in his eye sockets so that he had eyes again. Though they were blind to light, they sowed fear into all who gazed into them.
And that was how the humble orchid joined the Calendrical Dozen.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TEACHER AND STUDENT
DASU: THE FIRST YEAR IN THE PRINCIPATE (THIRTEEN YEARS BEFORE THE FIRST GRAND EXAMINATION).
And so Aki helped Mimi get off the bed and gave her a crutch she made out of driftwood. She did not tell Mimi how unlikely it was that she would ever gain command of her leg. She simply expected her to figure out a way to do so.
Mother and daughter combed the beach and worked in the fields and helped the fishermen with their catch. Aki strode purposefully ahead, not looking back to see if the hobbling Mimi could keep up. For the common men and women of Dara, every day was a day of battle.
And Mimi learned to brush off the numbness in her leg; she learned to ignore the prickling pain in her hip; she learned to lean and shift weight and strengthen herself until she could walk with a crutch under her left arm.
One morning, as the pair combed the beach, they found pieces of some unusual wreckage. The remnants of spars and bulkheads were not made of wood, but some material closer to bone or ivory, carved with intricate designs of an unknown beast: a long tail, two clawed feet, a pair of great wings, and a slender, snakelike neck topped with an oversized, deerlike, antlered head. Aki brought the wreckage to the clan headman, but the elder could not recall ever seeing anything like it.
“It’s not from the emperor’s expedition,” said Aki, and she made no more mention of it. The world was full of mysteries. The strange wreckage seemed to Mimi to be holes in the veil that hid the truth of the world, but she could not understand what she was seeing.
They brought the wreckage to market and sold it for a few pieces of copper to those who liked collecting curiosities.
But Mimi dreamt of the strange beast long after. In her dreams, the beast fought the storm turtle and the gale shark and the squall falcon, while lightning froze their poses momentarily, creating staccato, chiaroscuro scenes as spare and beautiful as they were terrifying.
She hoped that the turtle did manage to save that dream ship, just as she hoped that the gods had spared her father and brothers.
News arrived that the Xana Empire was no more. A great lord called the Hegemon had toppled the throne of Emperor Erishi in the Immaculate City and restored the Tiro kings of old. Few in the village mourned the empire’s passing—patriotism, like white rice, was a luxury of the well-to-do.
It was said that the Hegemon had butchered the sons of Xana at Wolf’s Paw, including all the young men from the village who had gone to fight for Marshal Marana. For days, people waited outside the door of the magistrate’s home, hoping for news of their sons and husbands and fathers and brothers, but the doors remained shut as the magistrate convened with his advisers and clerks on how to properly conduct himself to curry favor with the Hegemon so as to keep wearing the official’s dark silk hat. The lives of the dead soldiers were not even an afterthought.
Aki did not put up mourning tablets for her sons either. “I did not bury them with my hands,” she said, “and I certainly will not bury them in my heart.”
Sometimes, when Mimi woke up in the middle of the night, she saw her mother sitting on the floor next to the bed, her shoulders heaving, her face turned away. Mimi would put a hand out and touch her mother’s back. The two would stay connected like that in the silence, until Mimi fell asleep again.
Eventually the people left the magistrate’s courtyard and went back to their endless toil, which turned sweat into food and pain into drink. Private shrines to the dead and presumed dead were erected in their houses, but none made passionate speeches about the honor of Xana or spoke of vengeance against the Hegemon. The people were too numbed by sorrow to feel hatred—wars were personal to the great lords, but who could say for sure that the Hegemon bore more responsibility for these deaths than the marshal or Emperor Erishi?
While her brothers and father did not come home, a new king did arrive in Dasu.
King Kuni was a strange lord. He lowered the taxes, did not demand corvée service to build a new palace but paid the laborers to repair roads and bridges, and abolished the old, harsh laws of Xana that had meted out punishment for even sneezing too loudly. He let it be known that men and women of the other islands who had been displaced by the wars were free to come to his island, and he would even help them get settled with free seeds and tools. The elders and widows of Dasu rejoiced: The wars had drained the island of men, and husbands and fathers were in short supply. Though some women agreed to marry into existing households, especially if the families were wealthy, not all wanted such an arrangement.
It was also customary for women in love or in need of each other to be joined in Rapa marriages—the goddess was said to have once fallen in love with an ice maiden. As the folk opera troupes sang:
Their love was one that would play out over eons,
Through minute gestures measured in inches and centuries,
Through whispers that would echo down dusty shelves of history,
Through a single glance penetrating the scale of creation and a
Single dance that
Would outlast the eruptions of volcanoes and the sinking of the
Islands of Dara
Into the sea.
With the war, the number of Rapa marriages had grown so that women could support each other—it was easier to till the fields and to raise children together. Still, there were many women who preferred men and did not want to share, and strangers were indeed welcome.
Aki, who was asked but never agreed to bind herself in a Rapa marriage, paid no attention to any of the new men who came to settle in their village, though several seemed interested in her. She struggled to till their small plot of land with only Mimi’s help and supplemented their income by helping the fishing crews.
“My husband is away,” she said to anyone who asked. “He’ll be back soon. And my sons, too.”
“Do we have any talent?” Mimi asked her mother one day.
“Why are you asking that?”
Seven-year-old Mimi had returned home earlier to prepare dinner while her mother was finishing up in the field. She had to stand on a stool to reach the boiling pot on the stove—dangerous, but the children of the poor had to learn to do things earlier. A crier had come through the village bearing an announcement from the palace in Daye: King Kuni was looking for people with talent and was willing to reward them, no matter their present station in life.
Mimi repeated the message to her mother, word for word. It ended with this: An oyster clasped in the branches of the most exquisite head of coral is as likely to hold a pearl as one mired in mud.
She had always had an excellent memory: She could repeat stories from Aki after one telling, and she could perform entire folk operas in the long winters to entertain her mother.
“The magistrate’s son is said to be going to the palace in Daye to show the king his skill with the brush and writing knife,” said Mimi. “And the village schoolmaster is holding a contest for his students to select two who can recite the most Classical Ano poems to be presented to the king. I heard Uncle So on the other side of the village is going to show the king his new way of tying knots in fishing nets, and Auntie Tora is thinking she wants to present her collection of herbal remedies. Do we have any talent? Maybe we can also go to the king and live like the magistrate’s son.”
Aki looked at her daughter. She is an extraordinary child. What if the king took an interest in her?
Then she remembered what had happened to her husband. Men of talent should be honored to serve the emperor.
“Talent is like a pretty feather in the tail of a peacock, daughter. It brings joy to the powerful but only sorrow to the bird.”
Mimi pondered this. The veil over the world seemed to grow even thicker.
King Kuni rebelled against the Hegemon. Once again, the men (and women also, this time) of Dasu left the fields and fishing boats to die in distant lands. Aki wasn’t surprised. The dreams of the great lords of the world were built upon the blood and bones of the common people. The blossoming of the golden chrysanthemum required the fertilizer made from the ashes of the Hundred Flowers. That was an eternal truth.
Peace did not come again until Mimi had turned thirteen, when King Kuni became Emperor Ragin, initiating the Reign of Four Placid Seas.
DASU: THE FIRST YEAR IN THE REIGN OF FOUR PLACID SEAS (FIVE YEARS BEFORE THE FIRST GRAND EXAMINATION).
One day, Mimi was in the markets at Daye. She was old enough for Aki to trust her to take care of selling the harvested grain and paying the landlord their rent all by herself. She was a better negotiator than Aki, in any event.
The sons and daughters of the wealthy rode through the streets on horseback, whips singing through the air, and Mimi and the other peasants dodged out of their way. Her hobbling gait and the heavy load of the grain sample bag meant that sometimes she was too slow, and several times the horses came close to trampling her. But Mimi only gritted her teeth and did not complain. Just as there were many ways of seeing, there were many ways of walking.
The scholars and bureaucrats of the emperor rode more sedately through the streets on comfortable carts pulled by teams of horses or men, and they kept their gazes averted from the dirty, numb, malnourished faces of the poor next to the sewer ditches hugging the road.
Mimi tamped down her anger. That was the way of the world, wasn’t it? Emperor Ragin was supposed to care about the lives of the common people, but there were gradations among the commoners as well. As far as she could tell, it was only the people who were already well off who sang the praises of the new reign.
It was as useless to think about how she and her mother could also lead a life of ease and luxury, to be dressed in silk instead of rough hemp, to eat soft white rice instead of sandy millet that scratched their teeth, as it was for a dandelion to think that it could be honored like the chrysanthemum.
A crowd was gathered at the center of the market. Curious and hoping for some exciting performance of magic or acrobatics, she pushed her way through the thronging spectators, wielding her walking stick like an oar through thick mud and water. She was disappointed to see only two men sitting face-to-face on a woven mat at the center, their hair styled in the double scroll-bun indicative of their rank as toko dawiji, scholars who had passed the first level of the Imperial examinations.
“. . . knows that the closer something is, the bigger it appears, and the farther it is, the smaller,” said the first scholar.
“It is your contention then that the sun is closer at dawn and dusk, but farther away at noon, thus explaining why it looks bigger at sunrise and sunset?” asked the second scholar.
“Plainly,” said the first scholar.
“But everyone also knows that the closer a source of heat is, the hotter it feels. How do you explain the fact that the sun feels hottest at noon but cooler at dawn and dusk, if the sun is in fact farther away at noon?” asked the second scholar.
“Er . . .” The first scholar furrowed his brows, stumped by this puzzle.
“Simple. Your explanation is wrong!” said the second scholar.
“It is not wrong,” said the first scholar, his face turning red. “The great sage Kon Fiji explained that nature, like human society, follows a discernible structure of hierarchy. The sun is as far above the earth as the emperor is above the common people. It only follows that the gods must have intended the sun to be at its greatest distance from the earth when it is at its apex, symbolizing the grace and nobility of the Imperial throne.”
“But what about the noonday heat, my learned friend?” asked the second scholar.
“That is easily explained.” The first scholar took a drink from his cup of tea and furtively glanced at the crowd around them. Now that so many people were watching, he had to win this debate to save face. He put the cup down and raised his voice, injecting into it an arrogant confidence—sometimes it was enough to sound like one knew what one was talking about.
“Your argument assumes that the sun is at a constant temperature. But that is not so. Employing pure reason, we discover that if the sun feels hottest at its farthest point from the earth at noon, it must also gradually increase in heat as it rises and cool down as it sets. The point at which the sun is hottest is also when it is highest, which is indeed the most perfect design.”
Does the world follow a design that can be perceived? Mimi wondered. Is nature a model for society so that what is natural is also what is just?
She had never heard of such arguments before, and she was mesmerized. The learned men seemed to think that the world itself was a kind of speech that could be decoded. She remembered her attempts to understand the conversation of the gods as a child. She yearned for such knowledge, knowledge that would allow her to interpret the signs of the gods, to see through the veil of the world and get a glimpse of Truth.
“You Moralists always assume the conclusion before the argument,” said the second scholar contemptuously. “It is just as Ra Oji said: A disciple of Kon Fiji is the world’s most powerful lens, for he bends all rays of evidence to focus on his desired opinion. Even if he is idle and has an empty belly, he would argue that it is the fault of the food for not recognizing his moral superiority and actively seeking his belly.”
The crowd roared with laughter.
“In the end, a Moralist convinces no one but himself,” continued the second scholar, pleased that he had the backing of the crowd.
“You Fluxists are good at poking fun at seekers of truth while offering up nothing of use yourselves except witticisms,” said the first scholar, his voice trembling with rage. “What is your explanation for the sun’s changing size then?”
“Who knows? It might indeed be the case that the sun moves farther away as it rises, as you contend, or it might be the case that the sun shrinks as it ascends, like a jellyfish contracting its cap to propel itself upward in the ocean. But your very approach is wrong: We need not force nature into models drawn by our desires. As the Ano sages told us, Gipén co fidéra ünthiru nafé ki shraçaa tefi né othu. We need only conform our life to the rhythms set by nature. I wake up in the crisp morning breeze and enjoy a breakfast of raw strips of whitefish, bought fresh off the wharf and spiced with ginger; I hide in the shade of a great parasol tree to take a nap at noon, dreaming that I am a cuttlefish with a fluttering fin skirt and that the cuttlefish is also dreaming of me; and I wake up at dusk to take a brisk walk along the cooling beach, admiring the looming blush of the setting sun. I much prefer my life to yours.”
“Going with the flow is not the path to approach the reality of the universe. I’m no Incentivist, but Gi Anji was at least headed in the right direction when he pointed out that learned men must understand the world and improve it, for we’re not dumb beasts or dandelions scattered by the roadside, but endowed with the godly impulse to transform the earthly realm to bring it closer to heaven.”
“The reality of the universe must be experienced, not constructed. . . .”
What’s it like to ponder such questions all day? Mimi thought. To not limit one’s thoughts to the weather and the harvest and the fishing haul, to not have to struggle to plan for the next meal and the meal after that, but to be able to imagine and debate the substance of the sun and to believe that it is possible to read the larger patterns of life?
The scholars went on debating in that vein, and the crowd cheered and offered their own observations from time to time. Eventually, the scholars tired of the argument and parted ways, having exhausted their store of classical quotations and learned citations. The crowd dispersed and only Mimi was left, still thinking and replaying the debate in her mind.
“The market is about to close, miss.” A kind voice interrupted her reverie.
“Oh no!” Mimi looked around and saw that it was true. The grain buyers were packing up and driving their carts back to the warehouses. She would have to come back the next day. She was mad at herself—how could she have been so irresponsible?
She saw that the speaker was tall, gaunt, like the trunk of a seasoned pine. He was in his late forties, with graying hair that he tied up carelessly in a loose bun, and his skin was as dark as the shells of the great sea turtles. Though scars on his face marred his otherwise handsome features, his green eyes were friendly and warm in the light of the setting sun.
“You seemed fascinated by that debate,” the man said, an interested expression on his face. “What were you thinking just now?”
Still a bit unsettled, Mimi said the first thing that came to her mind, “Why do so many sages have family names that end in ‘ji’?”
The man looked stunned for a second, and then laughed.
Mimi’s face flushed. She lifted the bag of sample grain over her shoulder and turned to leave, her humiliation making her stumble.
“I’m sorry!” the man said from behind her. “It’s refreshing to hear an original observation. I meant no offense at all.”
