Mouse (5 page)

ShaoShu nodded.

“The mantis has been my family's symbol for many generations. It is fast, intelligent, and more than anything, efficient. Just like my father. Just like
me.
“

A chill ran down ShaoShu's spine. He felt like someone—or something—was watching him. He stared at the building, and high on one wall, he noticed a circular recess that contained a painting of a particularly vicious mantis. It was tearing a small bird to pieces.

ShaoShu looked away and said, “Your father is buried in there?”

“Buried? No. No one is buried in this cemetery. That is not our custom in this region. We cremate our dead, burn them to ash. The remains are collected in an urn and entombed.”

ShaoShu pointed to the roofless buildings behind them. “Is that what those squares are for?”

“Yes. Behind each plaque is a small space that contains an urn. The shelves are for placing offerings. Those buildings contain generation upon generation of hundreds of families.”

“But your father has a whole building to himself?”

“That's right.”

“He must have been very important.”

“He was, indeed.”

ShaoShu looked at the ornate black building again. “How come he doesn't have a shelf?”

Tonglong chuckled. “We place his offerings on the ground, facing the painting of the mantis with the bird. Open the sack, and you can help me.”

ShaoShu cringed but did as he was told. He untied the sack, and a foodlike scent that he couldn't identify wafted forth.

“What is that smell?” he asked.

“Smoked beef tongue. It was my father's favorite.”

ShaoShu made a sour face.

“Don't worry,” Tonglong said. “You won't be eating it. It is intended for my father's spirit only, like everything else in there.”

ShaoShu began removing the rest of the bag's contents, growing more confused with each item. Besides the smoked beef tongue, he pulled out a small cask of wine, three dinner buns, three apples, three robes made of thin colorful paper, and several blocks of thick paper folded and painted to resemble bars of gold and silver.

Tonglong arranged the food and wine on the ground, then picked up the paper items and the empty sack. He led ShaoShu to a nearby fire pit that had a small lantern burning next to it, even though it was broad daylight. Tonglong put the items down and
neatly unfolded one of the paper robes, laying it on the fire pit's cold ashes.

“They say even spirits need new clothes and money,” Tonglong said. “People burn these likenesses to satisfy those needs. It is a way of showing that you have respect for your ancestors, respect for your past.”

Tonglong picked up the lantern and opened it, lowering it to one corner of the paper robe. The robe burst into flames. As he began to unfold a second robe, he looked at ShaoShu and nodded toward a sunny courtyard. “Why don't you wait for me over there? I am going to meditate now.”

“Yes, sir,” ShaoShu said, glad to be getting away from the smoke and the eerie black building. He strolled over to the courtyard and sat down on a stone bench in the warm sun.

He thought about letting his mouse out to get some fresh air and sunshine, but he was concerned that it might run off. Chasing a mouse across a cemetery did not sound like fun. Besides, Tonglong would probably be finished at any moment. After all, how long could a person meditate?

Several hours later, ShaoShu was still wondering. Lunchtime had come and gone, and Tonglong hadn't budged. He sat in the same position hour after hour, unmoving, his legs crossed, his eyes closed, and his back perfectly straight. ShaoShu had never seen someone with so much discipline.

ShaoShu's stomach growled, and he glanced over at the food offerings. Even smoked beef tongue was
beginning to sound better than no lunch at all. How ever, he saw that the food was covered with a blanket of swarming flies, and he quickly lost his appetite.

With nothing to do, ShaoShu decided to take a nap. He hadn't slept much over the past few days, and this seemed like a perfect opportunity. He closed his eyes, and after what felt like half an hour, he was startled awake by the sound of heavy boots crossing the courtyard. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and was shocked to see that it had grown dark. The moon was even beginning to rise.

“Time to get to work,” Tonglong said, stopping next to ShaoShu.

“Uh, okay,” ShaoShu replied, pushing himself to his feet. He made a move toward the fire pit, but Tonglong grabbed his arm.

“Where do you think you are going?”

“To get the sack.”

“Why?”

“To collect the food offerings.”

“No,” Tonglong said. “They are to stay here.”

ShaoShu looked at him, unsure what Tonglong wanted him to do.

“I didn't bring you along just to be my servant,” Tonglong said.

ShaoShu glanced around at what little he could see of the cemetery, and his nose twitched. He didn't like the sound of this at all.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I need you to retrieve something.”

“From where?”

Tonglong pointed to the circular painting high up the wall of his father's final resting place. The painting of the mantis tearing the bird to pieces.

“In there.”

S
haoShu glanced up at the circular mantis painting on Tonglong's father's final resting place, then at the formidable statues. There was only one thing inside that building, and ShaoShu had no interest in retrieving it.

“How do you expect me to get in there?” ShaoShu asked.

“That painting is only rice paper glued to a round wooden frame,” Tonglong said. “It's called a spirit window. You can easily tear through it.”

ShaoShu glanced up at the night sky and muttered, “Why did he have to wait for night?”

“I heard that,” Tonglong said. “Not that it's any of your business, but I'd rather not have anyone see what you are about to do.”

“I won't be able to see, either, sir!” ShaoShu pro tested. “I can't do it. I don't think I can squeeze through there.”

“You will do it,” Tonglong said. “Or you will die. Do you understand?” He gripped the straight sword sheathed neatly in his sash.

ShaoShu lowered his head, defeated. “I understand. I'm going to need a boost, though, sir.”

Tonglong led ShaoShu over to the front of the small building, stepping around the food offerings. He grabbed ShaoShu by the waist and lifted him up, but ShaoShu's head was barely in line with the painting.

“I need to be higher, sir,” ShaoShu said. “Can I stand on your shoulders?”

“Grab hold of the window recess.”

ShaoShu gripped the lip of the recessed circle containing the mantis painting, and Tonglong let go of his waist. As he dangled there, Tonglong squatted down, grabbed ShaoShu's ankles, and planted ShaoShu's feet firmly on his shoulders before standing up again.

ShaoShu found that the bottom of the round window was now in line with his belly button. This was better. He poked at the rice paper covering the circular recess, and his fingers easily broke through.

“Tear the whole thing out and put your head in,” Tonglong said. “Tell me what you see.”

ShaoShu gladly tore the scary painting to pieces and threw them to the ground. He pushed against the wooden frame, and it crumbled in his hands. With the
circular opening cleared, he pressed his head through it, but the rest of his body was stopped short by his shoulders. He pulled his head back out and looked down at Tonglong.

“I can't see anything, and I can't fit. Please let me down.”

“No,” Tonglong said. “You're not finished yet. Take hold of the recess again, and keep your balance. I'm going to squat once more.” Tonglong squatted and reached down as ShaoShu teetered on Tonglong's shoulders. ShaoShu couldn't see what he was doing.

Tonglong stood, and ShaoShu maintained his grip on the window opening for support. Tonglong said, “Lower your right hand.”

ShaoShu dropped his hand, and Tonglong slapped something cold and slimy into it.

“Ew!”
ShaoShu cried. “What is it?”

“Beef tongue. Nice and slippery, thanks to the flies. Pull off your robe and wipe it against your shoulders. You'll squeeze right through.”

ShaoShu paused.

“I could always cut off one of your arms instead to help you fit,” Tonglong said.

Remembering Tonglong's straight sword, ShaoShu began to worry. “Why do you think I can make it, sir?”

“Because a mouse can fit its entire body inside any opening that can accommodate its head. It does so by dislocating its joints. I felt your arm earlier, and you have very loose joints, like your namesake. I suspect that you can dislocate one or even both of your
shoulders without too much trouble. I can help you, if you like.”

ShaoShu swallowed hard. “No, thank you, sir. I'll manage.” While it was painful, he'd done it before.

He pushed his robe off his shoulders, down to his waist, and gooseflesh formed across his back and arms in the cold night air. He quickly slathered the rotting beef tongue up one shoulder and down the other, then threw it aside.

ShaoShu shoved his head back through the opening and craned his neck in the darkness of the interior. He could see nothing. He slipped his right arm and part of his right shoulder into the window and groaned. “A little higher, please, sir.”

He felt Tonglong grasp his ankles, and slowly he began to rise. The moment his hips were in line with the opening, ShaoShu wrenched his right shoulder violently in toward the center of his chest. With a muffled cry and a loud
crack, squish!
he thrust his upper body through, his left arm and shoulder following with the help of the slick beef tongue juice.

He was in up to his waist.

ShaoShu took a deep breath, sweating profusely, trying to block out the tremendous pain in his dislocated right shoulder. Before he could make his next move, he felt Tonglong preparing to give him one final shove.

“No!” ShaoShu squeaked. “Not yet, sir!”

But it was too late. ShaoShu felt Tonglong twist him through the opening like a screw. An instant later,
he landed in a heap on the cold stone floor, not having had a chance to pop his shoulder back into its socket. Without two arms to cushion his fall, his head struck the floor violently.

ShaoShu slipped into unconsciousness.

C
harles sat on the deck of his sloop, straining his eyes in the dim light of a paraffin lamp. In one hand, he held a block of flint; in the other, a large stone hammer. Raising the hammer high, Charles brought it down with great precision against a subtle crack in the flint's side. A flake roughly the size of his thumbnail sheared off, landing at his feet in a shower of sparks.

Charles smiled. He loved knapping flints in the dark. If he had enough time, he would make a whole pile of flints for his Dutch mates to use in their pistols. That would be an appropriate gift in exchange for the hospitality he would surely receive.

With thoughts of Dutch delicacies racing through his mind, and his eyes on his work, Charles didn't see
the others until they were standing on the bank not fifteen swimming strokes from his sloop.

“Ahoy, matey!” Malao said. “Permission to come aboard?”

Charles set down his tools and stared at them across the short span of water.
What are they doing here already?
he wondered. It had only been one day.

“Well?” Fu growled.

“Of course you can come aboard,” Charles said. “But what about Ying's mother?”

Someone coughed—a deep, wet cough—and a slender, attractive woman with long black wispy hair stepped forward from behind Ying. She bowed.

Charles was dumbstruck. It was WanSow, Ying's mother.

WanSow stumbled, and Ying grabbed her by the waist.

“Don't let her fool you, Charles,” Hok said gently. “She is not as strong as she might look. She needs treatment.”

“I am fine,” WanSow retorted, and Charles heard a slight gurgle in her voice.

“She has fluid in her lungs,” Hok explained. “Can you take us to the large apothecary in Hangzhou?”

“That is where you had planned to take her all along, isn't it?” Charles asked.