Heartbroken Arrow

CHAPTER 1
TRAP

A hazy day, the cold wind blowing through endless drizzle; the misty rain blown by the wind not only pelting one’s head and face, but also soaking one cold to the core.

The prison of Taichang prefecture towered in the midst of light wind and rain, its dark gray stone facade lending it a gloomy and cold air, causing those who looked upon it to feel utterly depressed, its semi-circular gates like a giant animal’s mouth that had so many times mercilessly swallowed up young lives.

The cell that Fan Kuzhu squatted in was like all the others: narrow, moldy, and damp. Twelve spans1 long and six wide, his entire world. The only thing out of the ordinary was that Fan Kuzhu was locked up in this cell by himself.

That’s not to say that Fan Kuzhu received preferential treatment. Quite the oppposite. This was a “privilege” for only those guilty of severe crimes, or for those prisoners awaiting judgment. Once one entered Taichang Prison’s “solitary cell”, that person could basically count half his life as discarded.

At the top of the wall was a small window, little wider than the palm of one’s hand, and run through with two thumb-width iron bars. Wide enough to allow some ventilation, but far too small for a person to fit through.

Fan Kuzhu had been in prison already more than three months, though it had only been three days since he had been moved from his old “solitary cell” to this new one.

Fan Kuzhu sat cross-legged on the cold, hard wheat-strewn floor, his pallid moustached face gaunt and sunken with a dark gloom to match the weather. More than three months of bitter distress felt to him as endless as three hundred years. Three months before, he would never have dreamed that he could one day fall to such a wretched low.

Was this some kind of endless dream? High-spirited Fan Kuzhu, iron-courage, stalwart Fan Kuzhu, top masterhand of the Magic Wing Sect, who all over two lives and a case of jewels, only in the name of “justice”, had with such awe-inspiring, not easily cowed self-confidence and unsullied willigness, thrown himself in prison. He hoped only that the local authorites would see the matter clearly, and that his future would not be tarnished; if he could see these two things come to fruition he would be satisfied. Of course, he knew he was innocent, just as his junior brother Tong Li knew he was innocent.

Even so, after after three trials, he was still unclear about what his final fate would be. And although the local authorities made an effort to console him, and though his junior brother Tong Li over and over again reassured him, the treatment he received that was reserved for severe offenders, never changed.

While in prison, he had a lot of time to reminisce. He thought of his young, adorable wife, of his dearest junior brother Tong Li, and he also thought often of his other fellow disciples. Naturally, he went over and over again in his mind the robbery and murder case of Squire Wu. Why his personal symbol, the “Gold Winged Arrow”, had been found at the scene?

* * *

The small window on the iron door that could only be opened from the outside creaked open and a wrinkled old face filled the space. A kind and polite voice said, “Uncle Fan, I’m not disturbing you am I?”

Fan Kuzhu knew the voice outside belonged to the old jailer, Old Yuan. Every day, at the same time, he would address him thusly courteous, as if he were addressing an elder, as if this Fan person were not sitting in prsion but merely recuperating in there for a time.

He turned his head slightly said emotionlessly, “You’re so polite, Old Yuan. I’m so bored. I would welcome a chat.”

Old Yuan smiled, his mouth and nose filling the window space. “It’s getting dark, almost supper time. I just came from the kitchen; again it’s coarse rice and sweet potato soup. I tell you Uncle Fan, it’s enough to make one accustomed to eating coarse food such as I want to vomit. How can you stomach it? That kind of food, ugh….”

Fan Kuzhu said listlessly, “After more than three months it’s become a habit. In fact, for people in here, who has the mood to be fussy about what one eats? As long as you can make do and prolong your life a bit, that’s counted as a blessing.”

Old Yuan looked left and right and suddenly lowered his voice. “Uncle Fan, I slipped you some stewed meat into your coarse wheat meal. It’s just a token of my esteem; please do me the favor of eating it—”

Fan Kuzhu’s feet were fettered, but his hands were free. He cupped one hand over the other and with gratitude said, “Thank you. Recently I’ve troubled you a lot, and it really bothers me. Old Yuan, if I ever get out of here, I’ll definitely make it up to you.”

Old Yuan returned the gesture in haste from outside the window slot and said, “Uncle Fan, don’t say that; I’m not worthy of such an honor. Uncle Fan is impressive and dignified, and I’ve admired you for a long time. I never dreamed I would have the chance to make your acquaintance. Oh, but let’s not talk of that. Uncle Fan, don’t forget to eat the stewed beef……”

And with a creak the iron window panel was once again shut. Only then did Fan Kuzhu remember the question he had wanted to ask. “Old Yuan, Old Yuan, is there any news about my case?”

From outside the door came the sound of heavy footfalls, which gradually grew fainter. There was no reply. Fan Kuzhu didn’t know if Old Yuan had heard his question or not. He sat in a daze on the floor until the jailor arrived with his supper.

At the bottom part of the iron door was a secret slot two fingers high.2 Ordinarily this would be locked from the outside, only used to deliver meals. The jailor opened the slot and pushed the inedible food through.

Sure enough, it consisted of a shallow wooden bowl of sweet potato soup along with a fist-size portion of coarse wheat meal.

Licking his lips, Fan Kuzhu pulled himself to the door. He took a drink of the turbid and moldy-smelling sweet potato soup, then picked up the wheat meal and held it to his nose and sniffed. Not bad; he caught a whiff of the stewed beef. It had been mixed in so well one could not tell the meal had been disturbed at all.

Fan Kuzhu swallowed his saliva and dug into it. His tongue grazed the meat and the fragrant taste of meat flooded his mouth. It was really a hunk of stewed beef, tender and plump. He was chewing it carefully when suddenly he bit down on something soft, yet tough. It was something small and round.

His teeth and lips told him that what he had bitten was not meat. He spit the object into his hand to inspect it. Heavens, it was a tiny, tightly-bound roll of parchment.

Fan Kuzhu eyed the iron door. Once he was sure it was safe, he quickly unrolled the parchment. It was oilstained, but he could still make out clearly the ink-brushed diagram. It was a diagram of his own jail cell, marked with positions, dimensions, as well as a crimson arrowhead. The arrowhead was positioned over the third stone at the bottom of the right side wall.

His heart pounded, and his eyes instinctively zipped to the indicated stone along the wall. It was a two-span grayish-white stone. It didn’t look any different from any of the other stones.

But of course it must be different, for Fan Kuzhu knew his junior brother Tong Li had drawn the diagram. Before advising Fan Kuzhu to give himself up to the police, Tong Li had clapped his chest and guaranteed, that even if the officials treated him unfair, or if they tortured him in order to get a confession, or ruthlessly framed him, he would certainly think of a way to get him out. Now, the diagram, by way of the jailor Old Yuan, had appeared. It must certainly be Tong Li keeping his promise!

Fan Kuzhu gently ripped up the parchment. He tore it into tiny pieces very slowly. His heart was by no means filled with joy, not in the slightest. On the contrary, his chest felt tight, and he seethed with resentment. He felt incomparably humiliated, furious, because by the time Tong Li had come up with a plan to rescue him, his case had certainly already reached an unsuitable verdict. He was filled with hate. He had never done anything like this. He didn’t even know where the victim, Squire Wu, lived!

Of course. No wonder that after three trials there had been no further developments. No wonder the jailor, Old Yuan, had pretended to not hear and was unwilling to tell him the reality of the situation. It looked like his case had turned out poorly.

Fan Kuzhu took a deep breath, inhaling the desolate autumn air—he was suddenly struck with a cold shiver. Wasn’t autumn the season for executing criminals? If the case had been settled, he would not be exempt from the death penalty; it was very possible. Heavens, it was quite possible that they had been holding out on him, holding him up until time came to carry out the death sentence!

His teeth chattering, Fan Kuzhu’s whole body shivered. His eyes burned, and his face was distorted as he looked up at the damp, mold-pocked ceiling. What about the law of the land? What about justice? To snatch away an innocent man, an unsullied man, and just cover his face and cart him off to his death? No. No, he wouldn’t accept that. He couldn’t die, and he definitely couldn’t accept this injustice!

Now was the time to take action. The imperial court’s laws and statutes were not enough to clear his name; he would have to use his own means to cleanse himself. The local authorities were not just and sound; he would have to go and get justice for himself. He would not let his life and reputation be soiled for all eternity!

He stared blankly at the third stone at the bottom of the wall. It was a cold, lifeless stone. Fan Kuzhu’s innermost longing grew more and more fervent. He understood. His life, the future, his reputation, everything was bound to that cold, lifeless stone!

* * *

The dead of night.

The nightwatchmen’s rhythmic wooden clapper filled the air with a somber tone. It was the second watch.

Fan Kuzhu lay curled up on his pallet of wheat, waiting for the on-duty jailor to make his scheduled rounds.

Then, along the edge of the third stone at the base of the wall he probed with his fingers what turned out to be gray clay. The outside coloring was the same all around, yet the difference in strength and structure was as great as heaven and earth. In the end he didn’t even need to find any tools; his ten fingers alone were enough, and the paste was peeled off one stip after another.

It didn’t take long before Fan Kuzhu had moved the stone to the side. Behind the stone spread a deep black cave which appeared to extend downward, and cold air puffed in bursts from the eye of the hole. The wind was of course bone-piercingly cold, but it was also clear and refreshing—it was like a symbol of freedom, singing as boundless as the sea and sky!

It was really too easy, and Fan Kuzhu couldn’t help but inwardly praise his junior brother Tong Li’s well-thought-out plan. It had been executed perfectly, and only now did he realize why he had suddenly been moved from one “solitary cell” to another. The solitary cells were all the same, yet one had had a subtle, yet profound difference. Tong Li really knew what he was doing!

Now that everything had been made clear, he had to make sure everything was in order. Fan Kuzhu had checked around everywhere, only squeezing into the hole a short way, then he carefully fitted the stone back into its hole so that when the jailor made his rounds he wouldn’t discover the opening. And if he was fortunate, he just might have an opportunity to escape.

Not bad. The cave extended downward, the moist clay oozed underneath and mixed with the humid air, giving him an uncomfortable feeling. The cold wind slid around and spun through the cave, seeping into his muscles and penetrating his skin. Fan Kuzhu made use of his momentum to crawl downwards; it was like he was marching into the depths of hell.

Inside the cave it was pitch black, a blackness thick and deep, like a pool of ink. Even though Fan Kuzhu was used to straining to see in the dark, even now he could only barely see a span in front of him, his feet still dragged down by the fetters around his ankles, which only made the crawl become more and more arduous.

Suddenly, the once smooth sloping cave in one fell swoop transformed in the middle and dropped off—as if at a precipice, suddenly dropping straight down an immeasurable distance. The struggling Fan Kuzhu put both his palms out and touched emptiness, and he tumbled over and fell down. He suddenly felt the world spinning, like his feet were stepping on a layer of cloud. There was nothing, no object to grasp onto!

There was a “thump” and he hit his head on something hard, the force enough to stop his fall. He lay there, dizzy and in a daze for he knew not how long, until the fog cleared. His eyes were pierced by a thin ray of light, a thin, dim and hazy ray of light.

The thin ray of feeble light flashed, rippled, and Fan Kuzhu heard the murmur of running water. It turned out the source of the light was none other than a subterranean stream, light refecting off the rippling water……

Using this thin stream of light, Fan Kuzhu was able to make out his situation. Now that he could see, he couldn’t help but break out into a cold sweat. His whole body was numb—the thing he had hit his head on was none other than a row of iron bars. The bars were as thick as his arm, wide enough for the subterranean stream to drain through. He was wedged upside down between these bars, the bottom below him as straight down and pitch black as a well. He couldn’t budge at all. His situation was clear: he couldn’t turn back, and he also couldn’t pass through. These bars marked the end of the tunnel!

Fan Kuzhu wanted to cry. Who would have thought he would end up like this, that he would sink to such a dangerous and desperate situation? Was this an accident, or had it all been planned?

The faces of his dear wife, his fellow disciples, his friends, and even the old jailor Old Yuan, all spun around in his head. He didn’t know why.

He couldn’t think of a way out.

Silently beseeching Heaven, now Fan Kuzhu finally understood what true sorrow and anguish that was!

* * *

Time passed bit by bit. Fan Kuzhu, tiredpanted like an ox, as if his heart and lungs were about to explode—At this point in time, he had already exhausted every way he could think of to struggle free. He wiggled and pulled against the ruststained iron bars, scrabbled like his life depended on it to dig the mud out from around the iron bars, but to no avail. The bars didn’t budge, as they were implanted firmly and deeply into the earth and rock.

Whoever had dug this tunnel, whoever had made use of it, had long since known that the tunnel was a dead end. They certaintly knew, dozens of years ago, maybe even a hundred years ago, the outcome that had arranged!

Fan Kuzhu thought he heard the subtle sounds of laughter, different laughs containing the same mocking derision, now distant, now close, the sound drifting from place to place. Among the laughs was one that seemed quite familiar…

Now a bout of dizziness, now a bout of muddleheadedness…

* * *

In time, Fan Kuzhu regained his composure, suspended in that vast blackness, and he calmed down a bit. He began to think deeply, using his head like he used to be able to do whenever he was met with some crisis.

He slowly used his strength to realign himself upright, then he carefully probed with his foot, searching for the loosest of the bars—even just a slight budge would do. On the third attempt he found one, and he felt around for the rustiest part of the bar. He stood on it and used the manacle chain as a saw, hands extended to each side supporting himself on the mud walls as he began to move his feet, back and forth, up and down, he used the manacles around his feet and placed the chain in the middle of the bar and used his legs to work it back and forth, up and down, rapidly filing.

The filing of the iron chains on the iron bars produced a screeching sound and threw sparks. The iron began to heat up. After a short while, Fan Kuzhu’s ankles met with an unbearable scorching pain like a branding iron. He gritted his teeth and endured until he could not take it anymore and briefly stopped. Then he once again resumed his work……

His whole body soaked in sweat, Fan Kuzhu’s legs were nearly numb, his ankles split and lacerated from chafing, dripping blood, red and swollen up to his knees, breathing heavily and labored like an animal. Just at the point where he could take it no longer, he heard the wonderful clink of breaking, then the sound of a piece of the iron bar splashing into the water. He didn’t have time to look down and see the fruits of his labor, the lower half of his body already passing through the gap left by the broken iron bar, and he dropped into the stream below!

Such icy, cold water. Such a long and distant future…

* * *

In his dream were roiling black clouds, bright flashes of lightning, the terrible faces of goblins and ghosts appearing faintly, circling round and round, along with shrill wails accompanied by faint weeping, hollow sneers, the calm running water suddenly surging forth in a galloping torrent. The mountains, forests, ravines, and gullies, their color suddenly changing to blood red, the earth and sky quaking, the harsh wind punching like a stampede of ferocious beasts, huge ferocious muzzles, sharp claws reaching out, everywhere in this primal chaos there is only wicked evil, only frightful trembling, only ruthless violence and cruel jealousy—

Suddenly spasming, Fan Kuzhu was shocked out of his dream. He felt a warm hand on his forehead. It must have been that hand that had saved him from that horrible, despairing dream. He strained to open his eyes and his hazy line of sight made him dizzy, made his vision swim. He quickly shut his eyelids, then gently opened them again, thus allowing his pupils somewhat adjust to the bright light.

When he opened his eyes he saw a kind face looking down at him, a smile revealing tenderness, its expression showing deep concern. It felt warm, like it would naturally let Fan Kuzhu receive its kindness.

“Amida Buddha, benefactor, you have finally woken up.”

It was a Buddhist monk—Fan Kuzhu at once tried to avoid the light and still look at the face and, sure enough, if was a Buddhist monk, who looked to be not so young.

The monk removed his hand from Fan Kuzhu’s forehead, smiled serenely, and said, “You’re fever is dissipating. You have passed the worst of it; your legs are split open and have been infected with rust, causing you to contract a high fever. I immersed you in cold water to reduce the heat. Judging by your injuries, it is fortunate you have a good constitution, physically strong. Otherwise, you might not have recovered from your coma……”

Fan Kuzhu opened his mouth several times, and eventually a low and hoarse voice issued, “You say…I was in a coma?”

The monk nodded. “For two whole days. I found you by the riverbank nineteen miles3 outside of Taichang. The riverbank was quite desolate and remote. How did you end up soaking wet out there?”

Fan Kuzhu held his tongue and heaved a long sigh.

The monk seemed the wise sort, and seeing him in this condition, did not press him further. He only said, “You just rest and preserve your strength. Your in a thatched hut here at the temple for the night. I know it is not much, but I have applied medicine and you should be able to get up after three to five days…”

Fan Kuzhu stammered, “Thank you for saving my life. Words can’t begin to pay you back… I, it’s engraved on my heart…”

The monk, round plump face like a full moon beaming with a calm easiness. He smiled and said, “No need to thank me; Heaven is merciful and us monks also cherish mercy. If I can help you now, that is my goal. But I am just an instrument in a predestined arrangement, how can I claim the credit?”

Fan Kuzhu swallowed, his mouth dry, and said, “I have not yet asked your name?”

“Old patches4 here is called No Tribulations.”

Fan Kuzhu smiled wryly. “However, I still haven’t told you my name and background. But it’s a difficult topic; I hope you can forgive me.”

The monk No Tribulations said, “The Buddha has things “he cannot say”, much less regular people like you or me. If you don’t want to say, I won’t force you.”

Fan Kuzhu only now took notice of his surroundings. He was in a thatched hut, with a window on all sides which not only helped with circulation, but also let a lot of light in. Except for a narrow bed, a table, and a chair, there was nothing else in the room. From the sparse furnishings he could see that the monk was not the greedy or corrupt sort; this was truly not the place of an ordinary person…

In the middle of the hut was only a bamboo bed, which Fan Kuzhu now lay in, two days and two nights… Where had the monk slept? He couldn’t help feeling bad. “Master, these two days I have slept on this bed, where did you sleep?”

No Tribulations said, “I can sleep wherever; human life is one big dream, we are always in a dream, so what need is there to rely on an object such as a bed to sleep?”

Fan Kuzhu stammered, “Master is right, though I do not have your ability to penetrate truth so clearly…”

No Tribulations changed the subject, “Are you hungry? Do you want to eat something?”

Fan Kuzhu shook his head slightly. “Thank you Master, but I don’t feel like eating……”

The monk looked at Fan Kuzhu with pity and said, “There is a knot in your heart. Though it’s not obvious, but you should release it. The matters of the world have long ago been decided. It is unavoidable. What is scattered cannot be fastened again; you torment yourself by struggling against Heaven’s Way.”

Fan Kuzhu was overcome with a surge of feeling, and he gritted his teeth and said, “Master follows the Way of non-action, but I lack this enlightened state of mind. People in this mortal world are trapped in a huge vat, trampling each other, struggling to break free, unable to cleanse ourselves, simply caught up and mixed together.”

No Tribulations was silent for a time, then said, “Grudges are evil. Angry thoughts lead to unceasing evil disasters. You must ponder this carefully.”

Fan Kuzhu smiled sorrowfully, “It’s just as you said: the matters of this world are already decided. If I can’t find a way out, I can accept and tolerate many more hardships!”

No Tribulations did not reply. He looked up and swallowed, his expression solemn, as if he were looking to the Heavens in supplication, looking for guidance; how could he change the perspective of one who has suffered so much?

* * *

On East Slope Street in Fuquan Town, down the first alley sits an imposing black brick house, the expansive grounds ornamented with flower trellises and pavilions. The door knocker on the main gate was polished to a bright shine, six broad stone steps leading up, their construction adding to the stately magnificence of the grounds.

This was Fan Kuzhu’s house.

However, this time when he returned home, he did not walk into the house just and honorably as he had before. Instead, he had to be careful, had to take a roundabout way; he had too many knots to untie, too many resentments to air out.

It was now an early autumn dusk, the sky already dark and gloomy.

Fan Kuzhu knew his home well; he kept himself concealed and scaled the wall and entered his bedroom, but the room was lonely and empty. The bedcovers on his narrow bed were made up neat and tidy, and the mirror on the vanity table reflected a desolate room. The clothes in the trunk and the shoes and boots in the cabinet were all arranged in tidy order, and everywhere was clean. Very orderly. The only things missing were signs of life.

It was obvious that no one had lived in this bedroom for a long time. During that time, of course Fan Kuzhu could not have returned, but his wife? Where had his lovely wife gone?

He went through the study, the guest room, every hall, front and rear, and discovered that there was no one in the house whatsoever. His wife was not there, his steward was not there, nor his accountant or servants, not even his retainer, Little Croton!5

The entire house was like a ghost town, so still, so dark, so devoid of life. It was as if the house’s former inhabitants had disappeared into thin air. The desolate atmosphere of the house enveloped and squeezed in on his heart.

Fan Kuzhu could not believe that there was no one at his house, otherwise why was everything in the house so neat and tidy? There should at least be a servant left behind to see to things, even if it were the dumbest one, Old Liu…

He was leaning against the porch when he saw something very ordinary and common, yet it made him pleasantly surprised to no end—from the kitchen adjacent to the courtyard curled a stream of smoke.

Right. How could he have neglected to check there?

He nearly flew to the kitchen doorway and pressed himself against the wall. He peeked inside and saw no lamps were lit, only the glow of fire from within the stove illuminating the silhouette of a swaying figure. The lonely shadow slowly moved back and forth before the stove, like a despondent ghost…

On sight of the person’s back, Fan Kuzhu felt a burst of happiness followed by a burst of misery, and his throat tightened…

 

NOTES

Span is my translation for 尺, which is often translated as “foot”. But Chinese has its own unique system of measurement, so I wanted to translate them differently. The word originally referred to the distance between thumb and pinky when the hand is spread out, so it really is a “span”. The length varied throughout the dynasties.寸. Often translated as inches, but since Chinese has its own unique measurement system, I want to translate them according to their original meanings as best I can. “Fingers” then, is a translation of 寸, usually translated inches. It’s the width of a finger (or thumb, depending on how you interpret ancient texts). English does have a similar measurement, such as measuring the amount of alcohol in a shot glass. “Give me three fingers…”I haven’t come up with a unique translation for this yet. But this is a “Chinese mile”, 里. About 1/2 km or 1/3 mi. Originally it was the equivalent of 300 paces, so sinologist Victor Mair has proposed calling it “tricent”, Latin for “three hundred”. I’m tempted to adopt this myself, but it’s just so… Latin, you know? Though I can’t think of anything better so far. For this translation I will stick with mile, but it’s not the US mile.老衲. Just a way for monks to refer to themselves, translated literally here to show you he’s using a special way of referencing himself. “Patches” refers to monk’s robes, supposed to be made from strips of patches, not a single length of cloth.巴豆, Croton tiglium, purging croton, one of the 50 fundamental herbs of Traditional Chinese Medicine.