Текст книги "Home Improvement: Undead Edition"

Автор книги: Сьюзан Маклеод

Соавторы: Seanan McGuire,Rochelle Krich,Toni Kelner,Simon R. Green,E. e. Knight,S. J. Rozan,Charlaine Harris,Melissa Marr,Stacia Kane
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

The Path
S. J. ROZAN

“The Trent Museum,” I sighed to my friend, the Spirit of the South Mountain, “refuses to return my head.”

“You are wearing your head.” If mountain spirits can be said to have a weakness, it is this penchant for stating the obvious. “Furthermore, you are a ghost. Even if you desire a second head for reasons you have not explained, the head you speak of, if it has gone off somewhere from which it must be returned, is clearly corporeal. Were it to be returned, you would have no ability to use it.” They also tend to expound at length on any topic before them.

“It is not, literally, my head,” I clarified. “I speak only out of a sense of attachment, a spiritual obstacle of which I daily struggle to rid myself, now no less than when I lived. The hermit monk Tuo Mo, my most recent incarnation, who died one hundred and three years ago as you might remember—”

South Mountain Spirit shrugged. Flocks of birds arose squawking from his trees, to settle once again when the tremor subsided. “Time has a different meaning to me,” he said.

“Yes, of course.” I watched a last edgy bird circle, finally fluttering onto a branch. “In any case, the body of Tuo Mo has returned to dust long since; and that dust (including, of course, the dust that had been the head) has reentered the cycle of existence. The head I mention is that of the Buddha statue in my cave.”

“Ah, yes. One of the many carved from the sandstone cliff by monks such as yourself? I have always wondered, actually, why Cliff Spirit permitted that.”

“From reverence for the Buddha, I would imagine.”

“You have never asked him?”

“He’s rather forbidding, not approachable like yourself.”

“And you, even as a ghost, retain the timidity of the little monk you once were.” Sunlight bathed his slopes and a light breeze rustled the trees thereon.

“I’m glad I provide you with amusement,” I said, attempting a grand air of dignity. The trees danced even more merrily. “But yes.” I deflated. “It is as you say: here in the spirit realm I retain all the flaws I had in my last life as a man. It is quite disheartening.”

“Never mind about that,” said my friend, who, craggy and precipitous though he may sometimes be, is often also gentle. “We were discussing your head.”

“The statue’s head,” I said, only too happy to turn away from consideration of my own flaws. “Yes. Well, the cave in which I lived as a hermit monk contains a large carving of the Buddha, created by monks seven centuries ago. From it, shortly before I died, an expedition from the Trent Museum, in New York City, America, removed the head.”

“Did they? For what reason?” Though once familiar with these events, South Mountain Spirit nevertheless required some prompting of his memory. Spirits of Place are universally better at being remembered than at remembering.

“Do you not recall their arrival?” I inquired.

“Vaguely, I do. A loud and unpleasant bunch, with growling vehicles, clanging pots, and boisterous voices, building smoky fires larger than they needed. They came to your caves from the north, however, and did not approach any closer than my foothills, so I did not consider them of consequence. Over the course of millions of years, you understand, one sees so many things.”

“Yes, I imagine.”

“In fact, a similar group has arrived at your caves now, I believe? Sometime in the last decade, if I am not mistaken . . .” Mists gathering, he drifted into reverie.

“Six months ago. You are correct.”

The mists thinned, stretching apart. “They are different, however, I think. More respectful, surely?”

“Yes. They have come for another purpose. They are here to restore the caves.”

“What does that mean?”

“To make things as they were.”

“Why would one want things as they were? Or expect them to be so?” My friend gave me an uncomprehending look. Fog, thicker than the mists of a moment since, began to gather at his brow. He is the spirit of an ever-changing mountain, whose trees grow, leaf, and fall, whose waterfalls break rocks from boulders and, washing them into streams, alter their courses. I knew at once this was a concept he would never grasp.

“It is a notion of men,” I said, an explanation I have often used in conversations since entering the spirit realm. At first I had been astonished to hear myself, not because the phrase is incorrect, but because conversation itself was an activity I, as a man, had hardly been capable of; and explanation or correction, never. Spirits, I have found to my surprise, are much less terrifying than men.

“Ah, I see,” said South Mountain Spirit, the fog lifting. Humans, with their dissatisfactions, rushings-about, and simultaneous attempts to change some things and prevent others from changing, are inexplicable to most Spirits of Place. Thus South Mountain Spirit accepted this pronouncement, if not as the elucidation he sought, then as the explanation for why such elucidation was not forthcoming. “In any case,” he said, “we were not discussing this new expedition of men. Our subject, as I have had to remind you once already, was the Buddha head.” Spirits of Place, as they are tied to very specific objects of the physical world, can on occasion be doctrinaire.

“Indeed,” I agreed. “Well, apparently the Emperor of China”—again, the fog began to gather, so I reminded him—“at the time, our secular ruler.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Is he no longer?”

“The Emperor died long ago. Long in human terms, I mean. We are now ruled by”—I knitted my brow, as I do not fully comprehend the meaning of this myself—“the government.”

“Ah.” Seeing my confusion, South Mountain Spirit said, “Another notion of men?”

“Precisely.”

Essentially uninterested in men, he did not request further illumination, but waited for me to continue my tale.

“The Emperor,” I said, “had, it seems, given permission for the expedition from the Trent Museum, in New York City, America, to remove from our caves whatever items they cared to carry off. This exalted art, the Emperor explained, would be better looked after—and would more strongly redound to the glory of China—in a museum in America than on the walls of a cave in the desert.”

South Mountain Spirit considered that. “What is a museum?”

“As far as I understand, though my appreciation of these concepts is poor, it is a building in which people place beautiful things.”

“For what reason?”

“To look at, I believe.”

“As in the case of monks’ caves and temples, as aids to meditation?”

“I do not believe so, though I can offer no other explanation.”

“Personally,” he said, as gusts of wind came up and tossed the branches on his slopes, “I have never understood the need for any of it.” A family of deer, startled by the sudden breeze, bounded across a brook. “Are not my forests and rivers beauty enough? The layers of red rock on North Mountain, the pale sands of the desert?” The winds eased. “I apologize. You are here to tell a story. Pray go on. The Emperor, you were saying, permitted the removal of many objects, including this head with which you are now concerned.”

I shrugged, which had little effect on the wildlife. “Possibly Explorer Trent and his expedition left behind some indication of their gratitude in the Emperor’s coffers; who am I to know? In any case, our monastery, which seven hundred years ago had housed a thousand monks—”

“I remember those days! You do not, I believe?”

“No.” It is unlikely I was there in that incarnation. In any case, as with all ghosts, the only incarnation I remember, of the hundreds (or, in the case of one as hapless as I, no doubt thousands) I have lived through, is the most recent.

“Such chanting,” South Mountain Spirit said joyously, the sun glittering off his watercourses. “Drumming, and bells, and dancing, bright prayer flags snapping in the wind! Some monks made the journey as far as myself, to perform rites and hang prayer flags from tree to tree across my valleys. You used to do that, when Tuo Mo lived. By then you were the only one.”

“Yes.” I smiled, remembering the three days’ walk from my hermit cave to South Mountain, sandals slapping the desert trail, prayer flags rolled in my monk’s bundle. “It seemed the proper thing to do, though it was a difficult journey. It is easier to visit with you now that I am incorporeal.”

South Mountain Spirit, who has always been incorporeal but who cannot, of course, leave South Mountain, was here faced with yet another concept he did not understand. He began to brood. I have learned not to approach him when thick clouds are gathering, so I waited. As usual, his mood changed rapidly. “Continue,” he instructed after a few minutes, his brow clearing. “I am interested.”

“I’m gratified to hear it,” I told him. “As I say, the monastery had once been large and bustling; but by the time I came to live there, it was greatly reduced in size, and when the expedition arrived, we were eight small monks. We chanted and prayed while they chopped and pried. Attachment to the things of this world, our abbot daily reminded us, is one of the chief impediments on the spiritual path. We watched them remove our statues and altar cloths, and tried to think of it as a blessing, an opportunity to practice detachment.”

“Were you successful?”

“Those who were spiritually mature did succeed, to varying degrees. In fact I hear our abbot went on to become a bodhisattva. But I, sadly, was not far enough along the path to be able to use this lesson. I was unable to rid myself of a strong attachment to these objects, and a powerful desire to see them remain. This attachment created in me a great sense of loss when the objects were taken away. None more so than the Buddha head.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“More than you know.” I sighed again. “Now: at the time the expedition arrived, I was ill.”

“Tuo Mo, your incarnation, was ill, you mean.”

“Yes, exactly.” I attempted to keep my patience with this literal-mindedness, which was, after all, merely his nature. “And a few days before the Trent expedition left, Tuo Mo died.”

“Freeing you, as a spirit, to continue your journey along the path.” He peered at me and dark clouds began to gather again on his brow.

“Yes,” I said, “I think you begin to understand.”

“You,” he said portentously, thunder rumbling, “are still here.” Mournfully, I said, “I am.”

He paused in reflection. “The spirits of humans,” he spoke slowly, “remain in this spirit realm for forty days before assuming a new incarnation. As I mentioned, I am not very precise about the smaller divisions of time, but are we not well beyond your forty days?”

“We are one hundred and three years beyond my forty days. Time, as you say, has a different meaning to you. But even a Spirit of Place can no doubt see that, though I have departed the worldly realm, I cannot continue my journey through the cycle of existence, arriving eventually, as all sentient beings will, at Buddhahood, if I cannot leave this spirit realm to be reborn.”

“Well,” he demanded, “why have you not left, then?”

“I cannot.” I shook my head with sorrow. “Three days before I died, the expedition removed the head of the Buddha statue from my cave. This saddened me; and, unknown to me at the time, caused great uproar. Not in the realm of the living, where we monks continued chanting and praying. But among the cave spirits, I later learned, there arose much consternation. The statue, you see, had from the beginning been the guardian of the spirits of all the other images painted and carved on the walls: not only the humans, but the horses, the foxes, the tigers and cranes and peacocks. With the head gone, the statue was incomplete, and therefore unable to perform its function. Demons began to gather. My cave, formerly a peaceful retreat, became fear-filled, the air sharp with anxiety. The image spirits joined together in an attempt to keep the demons at bay. They held them off for a time, but it was clear that they would not be able to continue until the coming of the Buddha of the Future.”

“And if they failed?”

“Demons would flood the cave. The spirits would flee, leaving behind the images, which, uninhabited, would start immediately to deteriorate. The demons, of course, would gleefully hasten that process, cracking statues and peeling paint from walls. The labor of centuries of monks to create and maintain a place whose purpose was to assist men along the spiritual path would come to an end.”

“An unfortunate outcome,” South Mountain Spirit rumbled, “as men do appear to need assistance.”

“Oh, yes, most certainly. Now, I knew nothing of this, of course, at the time of my departure from the realm of men. I left the body of Tuo Mo and presented myself to the Lord of the Underworld. His scribes showed him the accounting of my virtues and imperfections. He pored over their scrolls, finally turning his terrifying visage to me. ‘You have come at an opportune time!’ he thundered. I must tell you, I have met the Lord of the Underworld a thousand times now, and he frightens me anew each time.”

“I believe that is his function, is it not?”

“It is, and he performs his duties with enthusiasm. While I anxiously awaited instructions as to my next incarnation, he glowered silently, taking much longer than usual. Finally he roared, ‘Ghost of Tuo Mo, you will be given a task to fulfill!’

“Hearing this, at first I was excited: Did it mean I had made enough spiritual progress in Tuo Mo’s lifetime to move on to a higher realm? Was I now one small step closer to the enlightenment I so dearly sought? Alas, as it turned out, that was not the case.

“ ‘The spirits in your cave are in a state of great distress!’ he howled. ‘They have lost their guardian and will soon be at the mercy of a cloud of demons. Ghost of Tuo Mo, why did you not attempt to stop the removal of the Buddha head?’

“ ‘I? The expedition—the Emperor—our abbot—I was a small monk—’ I’m afraid I squeaked, shivering before him. ‘I could not have prevented it.’

“ ‘You did not try! Who are you to know what effect your efforts might have had? But throughout this life, you were cowardly, Ghost of Tuo Mo. You were terrified of these strangers, you who trembled to speak in the presence of your brother monks. So terrified that you fell ill when the expedition arrived. And now you have died!’

“I hung my head. ‘I did not intend to die, my Lord.’

“ ‘What care I for your intention? The expedition has removed the Buddha head, and you have died. And as though those events were not enough, before you left the worldly realm the removal of the head created in you, Ghost of Tuo Mo, vast stores of attachment and regret that you were unable to resolve.’ He leaned forward, eyes burning. ‘Can you deny these things?’

“I could not. The Lord of the Underworld settled himself on his throne once more and continued. ‘You must expiate these imperfections and the cave spirits must be protected. You will not move on from this realm in the usual forty days. You will instead return to your cave and become the new guardian!’ ”

At this point in my story I was surprised to hear South Mountain Spirit interrupt, ringing with laughter that echoed down his gullies. “Yes, now I remember your telling me this! It was the first time you visited me, soon after you arrived in this realm. How funny it struck me. The little round monk, he who quivered if required to speak to his fellows, charged with defending lion spirits from underworld demons.”

“Yes, well, it has been very hard work,” I sniffed. “As both you and the Lord of the Underworld pointed out, I am not particularly well suited to it. However, through my anxiety and fear, I have done it to the best of my meager abilities, and the benevolent deities have aided me, for my cave has remained a refuge from the chaos, trouble, and disorder of the world outside it. Though human visitors have not been many, still some have come, and after spending time in meditation, they have left with some small addition to their store of wisdom.”

“In that case,” cheered South Mountain Spirit, “I say, well done!”

“Thank you,” I said humbly. “But you can understand, now, my distress when I hear that the Buddha head will not be returning.”

“No,” said South Mountain Spirit, still sunny and unperturbed. “I cannot.”

I attempted to control my exasperation, short temper being an unhelpful attribute along the path. “If the head does not return,” I explained, “I cannot leave this realm. I am to be Cave Guardian until and unless the Buddha statue can resume its former role. If it cannot, I will be here until the coming of the Buddha of the Future!”

Slowly, the sunlight faded behind collecting clouds. After a long, misty pause, South Mountain Spirit spoke. “I cannot, of course, feel the source of your unhappiness. It involves the flow of time, meaningless to me. However, you are my friend, and I am distressed to see you in this state.” Rain began pelting from the black clouds piled along his brow. “How do you know the head will not be returning?”

“The chief of the restoration project is a man called Leonard Wu. He is from New York City, America, but has been sent here with the consent of the government in Beijing. Leonard Wu was surprised and delighted to see the state of the images in my cave. He had anticipated, he told his chief assistant, Qian Wei, that the destruction caused by years of neglect would be much worse. Neglect! If only he knew how hard I have been working!”

“Why don’t you tell him?”

As a ghost, of course, I do not have a heart; nevertheless, something in my spectral chest began to pound. “I? Speak? To a man?”

“Oh, of course, how foolish of me! The timid little monk.” Again he laughed.

“Leonard Wu, however,” I managed to go on, “has been speaking with the director of the Trent Museum, in New York City, America, throughout his time here. In the human realm this type of conversation is called ‘negotiating.’ ”

“I believe humans ‘negotiate’ my paths. Is it the same?”

“Yes. It involves understanding, careful attention, and compromise. Still, it is not always successful.”

“That is true on my paths, also. I try to be of help, pointing out places where they should and should not step. Those places are clear and obvious, it seems to me. However, often the humans cannot understand me, and sometimes, they fall.”

“Human understanding is, alas, limited. The director of the Trent Museum, for example, failed utterly to understand the importance of the return of the head. This,” I said, “even though, as you do here on your paths, I tried to help.”

“You? In what way?”

“I became quite excited when I realized what was being discussed. The return of the head! My next life, finally looming! When it first appeared that negotiations were not proceeding well, I screwed up my courage and began hovering close to Leonard Wu. After some time, though I was trembling, I did what I thought I would never do: I attempted to whisper in his ear.”

“ Youwere trembling? You are the ghost! Leonard Wu is supposed to be trembling!” Again, the laughter of wind in the trees.

“As you mentioned,” I said miserably, “my faults are no fewer in this realm than in the human one. It is difficult to understand how to correct them.”

“And it is difficult for me to understand humans,” South Mountain Spirit said affably. “No less so your spirits than your fleshly incarnations. So, my friend. Apparently this head is important enough to you that you overcame your bashfulness.”

“I have not overcome it. It continues to haunt me. Yes, yes, I know, I am meant to be the one who haunts!”

He did not reply, though a small rockslide tumbled down one of his shoulders.

“The head’s return is, however, as you say, very important to me. So I forced myself to approach Leonard Wu. But I could not speak. Incoherent from nervousness, I managed a croaking whisper. He shook his head, looking around as though he suddenly recognized nothing. Then he continued in his work. I tried and tried, but I could not make words come to me. Finally he left my cave that day, complaining of headache.”

“Then he has not come to understand the importance of the return of the head?”

“In fact he has, though not through me. Leonard Wu, as it happens, is very fond of cats. It has given him joy to take special care with a painting on the north wall, wherein the Buddha allows himself to be eaten by starving tigers. The Spirit of the Mother Tiger, who has been of great help to me in defending the cave—and who, with reason, is not impressed by my prowess—has become close to Leonard Wu. She, more brave than I, has whispered to him, has told him stories of the way the cave once was, how things were here when the statue was whole. He will stop in his work when she speaks, dust-brush in hand, and stare at the painting or carving he is cleaning. Soon after she began whispering to him, he redoubled his efforts for the return of the head.”

“That sounds quite hopeful.”

“Oh, yes! I could hardly restrain myself from howling through the camp. All the cave spirits felt the same. We were so eager, so optimistic!”

“But from what you say, your hopes have not been borne out.”

“No. Leonard Wu has failed. This morning he told his chief assistant, Qian, that the head would not be sent back. Together they stood mournfully regarding the statue, on which they have been hard at work in preparation for the reunion with its head. The assistant asked if that was a final decision. Leonard Wu said it was. I was quite stricken to hear this news, and hurried here for the consolation of a visit with you, old friend.”

“I am honored,” South Mountain Spirit gravely said. We sat together in silence for some time as his streams tumbled and his trees waved. As always, I felt comforted by his presence. “But surely,” he finally said, “once you have taken solace in my wooded hillsides and rocky tors, your unhappiness must spur you on to further action?”

I blinked up at him. “Action? I am the ghost of a simple monk. My entire earthly life was spent in contemplation, in a cave to which I took in order to avoid ‘action.’ Whispering in the ear of Leonard Wu was beyond my abilities. What action could there be for me to take? No.” I shook my head. “All that remains for me is to return to my cave and continue my efforts to protect the multitudinous spirits there, until time itself stops.”

I felt quite low. South Mountain Spirit, however, did not, even in sympathy, share my mood. A splendid sunset broke through the glowering clouds encircling his peak. “Clearly, my friend, you must go yourself to the Trent Museum, in New York City, America, and retrieve the head.”

GLEAMING SUNLIGHT ILLUMINATEDthe vast vertical cliffs that were the buildings of New York City, America. I stared up at them. Though I had only the faintest understanding of their materials—steel and glass—and though they were certainly larger by far than any manmade structures I had ever encountered, I had lived the only life I could recall in a cave in the side of a towering cliff. As fearful as I had been when considering this journey, I found myself strangely reassured by the sight of these looming structures.

Similarly familiar were the vehicles racing through the valleys between the towers. Though countless in number and moving without horses or oxen, they seemed to me not unlike the vehicles used by both expeditions to my monastery. At the beginning of my journey I had even ridden in one, hovering beside Leonard Wu as he drove away from the caves. Thus neither the structures nor the vehicles of New York City, America, were sources of alarm.

I was, however, not entirely comfortable there. What took me aback were the people.

My incarnation as a hermit monk born in a tiny desert village had, of course, limited my opportunities to traffic among my fellow humans, and my inclination toward timidity had, if anything, embraced those limits. I understood from conversations around the cooking fire between Leonard Wu and the members of his expedition that Beijing, and likewise New York City, were inhabited by vast crowds of people. Therefore I had thought it prudent to attempt to stretch my small imagination to the utmost, in order to ready myself for what I might find. I considered the flocks of birds that migrated over South Mountain in fall and spring. I contemplated the roiling of the fish in the monastery fish pond as I fed them. I meditated on the countless industrious ants, hurrying to and fro between anthills on the desert pathways. Once my journey with Leonard Wu began, I found myself among progressively larger numbers of people, first in the nearby village where Leonard Wu stopped for a meal, next in the town, and then in the airport where we boarded a plane to Beijing. In the Beijing airport, much larger than the one we had flown out of, I was unsettled by the crowds and stayed close to Leonard Wu’s side. Still, by the time we reached New York City, America, I felt confident I would take the situation in stride.

As it turned out, I was woefully unprepared.

In New York City, America, human beings swarmed this way and that, seemingly not in concert, but impressively able to avoid plowing each other over. The bright colors of their clothing, their various ages and sizes, and the hues of their skin were multitudinous almost beyond my comprehension. I gaped, and stared, and gawked. “Oh, my friend,” I whispered, thinking of the Spirit of the South Mountain, “if only you could see this sight!”

But he, on the other side of what I now realized was, in many senses, a very large world, could not. My words were heard only by the spirits in the streets of New York City, who, flitting along the roadways, perched in trees or on building ledges high above, or resting against lampposts and on stone walls, greeted me, observed me, or ignored me as was their wont.

I, of course, had no need to be in the streets at all, headed at a human pace for the Trent Museum, drifting beside the purposefully striding Leonard Wu. Being a ghost, I could have left my monastery cave in western China and appeared instantaneously at any location I desired.

That, however, was not the plan.

I had been quite astonished, and not at all pleased, when the Spirit of the South Mountain had proposed that I travel to New York City, America.

“I am the ghost of a hermit monk, born ten kilometers from the monastery in which I spent my life! The journey here to South Mountain is the longest I’ve ever made, either in body or as a spirit! How can I go to America?”

“It is precisely that you are now a ghost that makes this journey possible.”

“Possible . . . well, yes. But . . .”

“As I said earlier, my friend: you are as timid now as when you lived.”

“Yes, all right, that’s undeniable. But as you also said: the Buddha head is of the physical realm, and I am not. If I were to travel all the way to America, and find it, I could not bring it back.”

“That is the reason you must not go alone.”

“But go with whom? You cannot go! Mother Tiger Spirit, the fox or peacock spirits? They are as ethereal as I am!”

“You will go with Leonard Wu.”

Surprised into speechlessness, I had sat silent as South Mountain Spirit’s winds began to blow. This happens often when he is thinking.

“Leonard Wu also desires the return of the head, does he not? You will go back to the monastery caves and discuss the situation with Mother Tiger Spirit. She will persuade him to undertake a trip to New York City, America, to retrieve it.”

“Even if she is successful and he decides to go,” I said anxiously, “the director of the Trent Museum has already refused to return the head. How will Leonard Wu convince him otherwise?”

“What happens then will happen then. You will be in New York City, America, with Leonard Wu. Between you, you will find the answer.”

Terrified at the prospect, I tried to persuade South Mountain Spirit that this idea was not a good one, that I would not be able to accomplish the mission, that it was bound to meet with failure.

“Everything you say may be true,” my friend had said equably. “But answer this: what have you to lose?” I had no rejoinder. Moreover, I realized, even had I an answer, there is never any point in arguing with a mountain spirit. They will not be moved.

I bade a glum farewell to South Mountain Spirit, who was bathed now in a tranquil, fading sunset, and returned to the monastery. As had been true for some weeks, the cliffside caves were the scene of much hubbub. The restorers’ hushed, delicate, painstaking work on the paintings and carvings in the caves’ interiors was balanced by the loud and messy sawing and hammering of the construction crews as they built temporary walls for protection and walkways and scaffolding for access. Clouds of dust kicked up by their vehicles engulfed men and tents before Desert Wind Spirit cleared them away. (She is mercurial and arbitrary, but not malicious, and she had told me she was quite enjoying all the bustling about, so she was trying to be helpful.)

I made my way back to my cave, there to find Leonard Wu. He was, as usual, working with great care, as he cleaned the painting of the bodhi tree on the cave’s rear wall. I stood beside him for a time, watching his precise dabbing and brushing. Mother Tiger Spirit was curled at his feet.

“Mother Tiger Spirit”—I made an attempt to speak with an air of authority—“Leonard Wu must go to the Trent Museum, in New York City, America, and personally request the return of the Buddha head.”

Mother Tiger Spirit half-opened an eye and looked at me. “What?” I repeated my statement.

She licked a lazy paw and rubbed at her ears. “Why?”

“South Mountain Spirit has suggested it.”

“The director of the Trent Museum, in New York City, America, has already refused this request. How could Leonard Wu persuade him any better if they were standing face to face?”

“South Mountain Spirit says”—I forced myself to continue—“I am to go with him.”

As with any feline, Mother Tiger Spirit’s countenance does not reveal her emotions. However, there was no mistaking her derision as she sat up and roared, “You? The quaking monk, to travel to the ends of the earth? With a man? What good will you be?”