“Now you must tell me how my father really is,” he said quietly.
“He believes he is sick. He may be wrong. But he is preparing for death. He wants to die quietly and quickly. He eats nothing.”
“What can I do?”
“You can make him want to live. No one else can.”
“But I do want him to live. I need him to live.”
“Then you may succeed.”
“And you? Are you all right?”
“I shall live a long time,” his aunt said simply. The idea didn’t seem to give her much pleasure.
When his father appeared, however, he was in excellent spirits. He took a little food with them, and then, beckoning to Shi-Rong, told him: “I have a little test for you.”
All through his childhood, from the time when his father himself taught him his first lessons, there had always been these little tests—curiosities, abstruse sayings, ancient tunes—puzzles to tease the mind and teach Shi-Rong something unexpected. They were more like games, really. And no visit home could be complete without something of this kind.
From a drawer Mr. Jiang took out a small bag and emptied its contents onto a table. There was a rattling sound, and Shi-Rong saw a tiny pile of shards of broken bone and turtle shell.
“When I was in Zhengzhou last month,” he said, “I was shopping at the apothecary’s when a farmer came in with these.” He smiled. “He wanted to sell them to the apothecary. ‘Grind them up,’ he said. ‘Sell the powder for a high price. They must be magic of some kind.’ He had a farm somewhere north of the river. Said he found them in the ground, and that he had more. I expect he hoped the apothecary would sell the powder successfully and pay him handsomely for more. But the apothecary didn’t want the stuff, so I persuaded him to sell them to me.”
“And why did you buy them, Father?”
“Ah, that’s your puzzle. You have to tell me. Take a look at them.”
At first Shi-Rong couldn’t see anything of interest. Just some little bones, grimy with earth. Two of the fragments of turtle shell seemed to fit together, however, and as he placed them side by side, he noticed that there were tiny scratches on their surface. As he searched further among the bones, he found more marks. The scratches were quite neat.
“The bones have some kind of writing on them. Looks a bit primitive.”
“Can you read it?”
“Not at all.”
“They are Chinese characters. I am sure of it. See here…”—his father pointed—“the character for man; and here is horse, and this may be water.”
“I think you could be right.”
“I believe this is ancestral Chinese writing, early forms of the characters we know today.”
“If so, they must be very old.”
“We have examples of fully formed writing from a very early period. I’d guess these bones are four thousand years old, perhaps more.”
Shi-Rong was suddenly struck by a beautiful thought. “Why, Father, you must get more. You must decipher them. This will make you famous.”
His father chuckled. “You mean I’d have to live for years?”
“Certainly. You must see me win the emperor’s favor and become famous amongst all the scholars yourself. It’s your duty to the family,” he added cleverly.
His father looked at him fondly. The love of the young is always a little selfish. It cannot be otherwise. But he was touched by his son’s affection. “Well,” he said without much confidence, “I’ll try.”
And now, he knew, it was time for his son to leave. He had a long way to travel. Shi-Rong would follow the river valley to Kaifeng, then take the ancient road until he came to the mighty Yangtze River, three hundred miles to the south. From there, another seven hundred miles down, by road and river to the coast. He’d be lucky to get there in fifty days.
As they parted at the gateway to the house, Shi-Rong begged his father, “Please live till I return,” and his father ordered him: “Keep my commandments.”
Then Mr. Jiang and his sister watched Shi-Rong until he was out of sight.
—
Two hours after Shi-Rong had departed, his aunt sat down at her writing desk. Her brother, after going for a short walk, had lain down to rest, and now she returned to the matter that had been occupying her thoughts for several days before Shi-Rong’s arrival.
On the desk in front of her, a large sheet of paper displayed a grid of hexagrams. As she had so many times before, she tried to decipher their message.
That was the trouble with the I Ching. It seldom gave clear answers. Cryptic words, oracular expressions, mysteries to be solved. Everything lay in the hands of the interpreter. Sometimes the message seemed clear; often it did not.
Had there been a consistency in her readings concerning Shi-Rong? It seemed to her that there had been some. There were indications of danger, but the danger was not close. There were suggestions of death, unexpected but inevitable. Death by water.
It was all so vague.
She had not told her brother. Or Shi-Rong. What was the point?
◦
The party for Trader was going splendidly. First of all, they’d given him a present.
“At first we couldn’t think what to give you,” they told him. “Then somebody suggested a picture. Picture of what, though? After much discussion, it was decided that you’re such an unconscionably handsome fellow, we’d better give you a picture of yourself!”
“Something to send your ladylove,” a voice called out.
“We should have given you several, for all the girls,” another rejoined. “But we couldn’t afford it.”
“So here it is,” they proudly cried.
It was a miniature, of course. One gave portraits to be hung on walls to senior men when they retired, not to young chaps starting out in life. But they’d done him proud all the same. They’d chosen the usual oval shape. That’s what the ladies liked. Painted in oil on ivory. But painted with such striking realism and richness of
