stupors, and they were not blinded—as I am—by subjective experience. Is it permissible to ask for an opinion?”
The reeds remained still.
“Let's put it this way. If you were to entertain somebody with the story of Li Kao and Number Ten Ox and Grief of Dawn and Moon Boy and Prince Liu Pao and so on, what would you call it?”
The reeds remained quiet, but then, slowly, they moved.
“Shi tou chi.”
“The Story of the Stone?” Master Li nodded. “Yes, I vaguely perceive what you mean. It's a question of priorities, of course, and I haven't quite sorted them out. But I'm almost there, I think.”
He got to his feet. Moon Boy and I followed his example, and we bowed to the skull.
“Ling,” Master Li said, “I still say you're a very great artist.”
The reeds moved for the last time. “Kao, I still say you were born to be hung.”
A priest was holding a gate open for us. We walked out to a green hillside, and the last I saw of the Temple of Illusion was a window in a small tower with shutters half-closed. A winking eye.
21
A few miles past the White Cloud Convent we turned off the path and climbed shale and granite and black rock and crossed a clearing. We burrowed through brush to another clearing at the side of a cliff, and Master Li gazed happily at a strange and rather unimpressive plant.
“The mind is a miser,” he said. “Nothing is ever thrown away, and it's amazing what you can find if you dig deep enough.” He began stripping thorny little seed like things. “Don't play with thorn apples unless you know what you're doing,” he cautioned. They're of the nightshade family, like mandrake and henbane and belladonna, and their principal product is poison. From the Bombay thorn apple comes the legendary potion of India, dhatura, which can stupefy, paralyze, or kill, depending upon the dosage, but which can also produce a medicine with remarkable effect upon internal bleeding and fever. With any luck we'll have Grief of Dawn on her feet in no time.”
Our trip back to the Valley of Sorrows was fast and uneventful, although Moon Boy and I grew ever more apprehensive as we approached, and we were weak with relief when the feather duster head of Prince Liu Pao thrust from a studio window and called cheerfully to us.
“Hurray! Grief of Dawn is as good as cured!” the prince yelled optimistically. “She's been unchanged! No weird sounds while you were gone, no more murdered monks, and no mad mummies crawling up from tombs!”
Moon Boy and I ran inside. Grief of Dawn looked very lovely and very vulnerable as she tossed in fever. She seemed to sense our presence and tried to sit up, and fell back, and Master Li stepped up and took her pulse. Since he used the right wrist I assumed he was checking on the condition of her lungs, stomach, large intestine, spleen, and parta ulta. He grunted with satisfaction.
“She can take the potion in full strength,” he said confidently, and at once he set to work with the thorn apple: boiling, distilling, blending with herbs and mysterious ingredients, and finally testing it on a cat, who seemed to enjoy it.
I don't know whether or not the stuff could be called miraculous, but I do know that Master Li added a final ingredient that no other physician could have managed. Moon Boy and I propped up Grief of Dawn, and Master Li managed to get a good dose of the portion down her throat. Within a minute she was stirring restlessly, and then her eyes opened. At first she saw nothing. Her eyes cleared and focused and her head moved forward and her lips brushed Moon Boy's cheek. “Darling,” she whispered. I leaned forward. “Dear Ox,” she said, and she kissed me too, and even managed to blush when Prince Liu Pao grinned and presented his cheek for a kiss.
“What happened?” she whispered. “It was dark and damp and I was running and running and running, and something terrible was behind me.”
“Well, it's gone now,” Master Li said comfortingly. “You have nothing to worry about except how in hell Ox is going to add enough space to our shack.”
The sick girl sat up straight.
“I've already figured it out, and there'll even be space for Moon Boy when he pops up,” I said happily.
“How about the prince?” said Master Li. “Let's include all of the family. Your Highness, do you object to sleeping three to a bed when you wander into our alley in Peking?”
“Not at all!” the prince said cheerfully.
Grief of Dawn was looking at Master Li with wide glistening eyes. The old sage shook his head ruefully.
“A man my age starting one more family. Sheer idiocy! At least,” he added, “I'll have the most fascinating young wife in all Peking, and that is the understatement of the century.”
I didn't fully understand what he meant until Grief of Dawn had completely recovered. Both she and the prince had us recount our adventures in Hell over and over, and Grief of Dawn gazed in wonder at the scar where the arrow had entered her chest and said she wished she could remember what it was like to be stone-cold dead. Master Li paced the floor, obviously yearning for action. His excitement was catching, and I think it helped speed Grief of Dawn's recovery, and then she was as fit as she had ever been and Master Li got us up with the sun. He said it was time to try something, and we had best be heavily armed. I chose an axe and stuck a short sword in my belt. Moon Boy and the prince both selected spears and daggers. Master Li lined his belt with throwing knives. Grief of Dawn was far and away the best archer among us, and she selected a bow from the pile and added a quiver of arrows and a knife in her belt. Master Li climbed up on my back.
“Start down the hill, and go across the valley to the hill beside the monastery,” he said. “Along the way I'll entertain you with some fascinating notes I've taken.”
Master Li pulled out a sheaf of notes and told Grief of Dawn to walk beside me. It had rained during the night, and the morning was very beautiful. Raindrops like tiny pearls glowed on each leaf, and damp grass sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight.
“My pet, according to the inner recesses of my mind, you have a credit account in Hell that could buy one or two of the lesser kingdoms. The reason lies in a lullaby to old Tai-tai that you sang when you were delirious, and that was only the beginning of an incredible performance. You're packed with more marvels than the Puzzle Book of Lu Pan!” he said enthusiastically. “Let's start with one of the most astounding conversations I've ever experienced.”
He flipped through his notes and began to read aloud.
GRIEF OF DAWN: Mistress, must I go to Chien's? It smells so bad, and the bargemen make rude jokes about ladies, and that old man with one leg always tries to pinch me.
MASTER LI: Darling, what does your mistress want you to buy at Chien's?
GRIEF OF DAWN: Rhinoceros hides.
MASTER LI: And where is Chien's?
GRIEF OF DAWN: Halfway between the canal and Little Ch'ing-hu Lake.
MASTER LI: Darling, does your mistress ever send you to Kang Number Eight's?
GRIEF OF DAWN: I like Kang Number Eight's.
MASTER LI: Where is it?
GRIEF OF DAWN: On the Street of Worn Cash-Coin.
MASTER LI: What do you buy there?
GRIEF OF DAWN: Hats.
MASTER LI: Hats. Yes, of course. And where do you buy your mistress's painted fans?
GRIEF OF DAWN: The Coal Bridge.
MASTER LI: I suppose she also sends you to buy the famous boiled pork at… What's the name of that place?
GRIEF OF DAWN: Wei-the-Big-Knife.
MASTER LI: Of course. Do you remember where it is?
GRIEF OF DAWN: Right beside the Cat Bridge.
Master Li lowered his notes, and regarded Grief of Dawn with the fondness of a connoisseur examining a rare
