Dao of Language

I contemplate the two backpacks that rest on the floor of my room with satisfaction, since I know perfectly well where they come from and everything it took to have them here.

They are the work of the Office of Military Affairs and reached me a while ago now as part of the agreement by which I gifted them the manufacturing method of the backpack, but now, at last, I have a use for them and that satisfies my inventor’s vanity a little.

Because these two backpacks contain the entire luggage of my little excursion to the Sect. Food for six days, in case the trip drags on longer than foreseen, the new outfits my mother’s dressmaker made for me, every last one of the talismans I have been capable of creating and all the spirit stones we have, including the ones Lianhua obtained these days by exchanging a good part of our money.

I am mentally reviewing the list for the umpteenth time, checking that we haven’t skipped anything, when the door of my room opens and Lianhua and Xia come in.

Lianhua advances with that efficient stillness that accompanies her always, and Xia a step behind, with an expression that dances between the poorly disguised excitement over the trip and a shadow of nerves about everything else. She doesn’t give me time to ask anything, because Lianhua goes straight to the point.

“Zhāohuán Wen”, she tells me. “The carriage that is to take us to the palace entrance has just arrived.”

Upon hearing her, I let out the air slowly and turn my gaze away from the backpacks while I think that at last the preparations, the calculations and the last-minute reviews are over.

“In that case it will be better not to dawdle”, I reply, and I force the tone to sound resolute. “I don’t want to keep the Sect’s disciples waiting too long, who, from what I understand, are not people who stand out precisely for their patience.”

Lianhua inclines her head barely, loads one of the backpacks, positions herself behind my chair and begins to push me.

We leave the room and head down the corridors of the Pavilion, which at this hour of the morning are submerged in that suffocating calm that has become the permanent backdrop of my life since the fire Qi surge arrived. The heat sticks to the skin without remedy, the handmaidens bow discreetly at our passing and Xia walks at our side carrying the other backpack.

The trip to the courtyard is short, and the moment Lianhua takes me outside, the light obliges me to squint.

There, in the middle of the courtyard, waits the carriage that is to take us to the entrance of the Imperial Palace. It is nothing out of this world, only one of those discreet vehicles used to move around the interior of the palace along with its inevitable escort of Nei Wei.

Lianhua brings me up to the little door and, with the ease of one who has repeated the same gesture so many thousands of times, surrounds me with her arms, lifts me from the chair and settles me inside the carriage. Afterward she settles the wheelchair with acquired practice, secures it with care, and then she and Xia get in with the backpacks.

The moment the three of us are inside, the carriage sets off with a soft rattling and, escorted by the Nei Wei, we set course for the palace entrance.

The trip is brief, barely enough to see the few functionaries who still roam the palace defying the heat, and we are not slow to reach the great plaza that opens before the entrance of the Imperial Palace.

And the moment Lianhua draws back the little curtain and I take a look outside, I come across something that makes me raise an eyebrow, because there, in the middle of the plaza, is the carriage that is to take me to the Sect.

Not just any carriage, but the same one that in its day took my mother and me to the city of Xi’An, with its imposing bearing, its dark wood and its discreet but unmistakably expensive adornments, and with those enormous horses hitched at the front that seem more appropriate for pulling a rolling fortress than a travel vehicle. It is, without discussion, a magnificent carriage. And also, for what this trip is supposed to be, an absolute absurdity.

I stay looking at it a moment, and then I turn toward Lianhua.

“Tell me one thing”, I tell her. “Doesn’t it strike you that that carriage is a bit excessive for what, in theory, are five days of travel?”

Lianhua follows the direction of my gaze, contemplates the carriage without a muscle of her face moving and replies with that naturalness she reserves for when the answer exempts her from all responsibility.

“It is very possible, Zhāohuán Wen”, she concedes. “But Guifei Xiang insisted that it be precisely that one and no other. And, given its size, one must also add a small escort of Nei Wei to occupy themselves with its handling and its maintenance during the trip.”

I let out a silent little laugh through the nose, because, my mother being who she is, no more appropriate answer occurs to me than the one that comes out on its own.

“Well, good for my mother”, I murmur.

And I say it half in jest, but also half seriously, because I know my mother all too well and I know perfectly what lies behind a gesture like that. It is not that she worries about my traveling uncomfortably, or at least it is not only that. It is that, if her daughter has to go to a place she does not want to go, escorted by some strangers who look at her as one looks at a package that must be delivered, at least she will make sure she does it surrounded by the greatest possible luxury, with the best carriage she can obtain and with a few trusted Nei Wei stuck to it. It is her way of accompanying me without being present, and although I will never tell her so in these words, I am more grateful for it than I let show.

The moment the small carriage stops, Lianhua and Xia get out first. Between the two of them they help me down, seat me with care in the wheelchair and then Xia recovers the two backpacks while Lianhua positions herself behind the chair. And with the backpacks now on their shoulders and me installed, Lianhua begins to push me across the plaza in the direction of the enormous carriage that is to take us to the Sect.

As we approach, I begin to make out the people who wait at the foot of the vehicle.

There are five. Four men and a woman, all of them dressed in the attire of the Sect, those tunics of severe cut and sober colors that are recognized a mile off and that, even at a distance, transmit that sensation of belonging to something that believes itself above the rest of the world. And among the four men there is one who stands out over the others, not for his bearing, which is similar to that of the rest, but for a very concrete detail, and it is that on his tunic he sports an insignia that none of the others wears.

One does not have to be especially perceptive to put two and two together and realize that that insignia marks a difference of rank, and if the others are Outer Disciples, as my mother explained to me, then that man can only be the Inner Disciple who heads them.

And, indeed, the moment he sees our small group approach, it is he who reacts first.

He furrows his brow while he observes us approach, with the expression of one who sees something that doesn’t quite please them, and the moment he has us at a reasonable distance, without bothering to incline his head or dedicate to me the greeting that would correspond to my rank, he fixes his gaze on me and goes straight to the point.

“The elders sent me to fetch you”, he tells me, and in his voice there is not a hint of deference. “And I have already yielded enough by permitting that carriage and the Nei Wei who are to drive it. But I warn you from now that in no way do I intend to consent to your bringing handmaidens.”

He says it with the assurance of one who considers a matter settled even before discussing it, as if the mere fact of having said it aloud sufficed to turn it into law.

And I, instead of getting annoyed, feel how inside me something dangerously resembling a smile draws itself, because I have been waiting for this moment since I left my mother’s office and I have had the answer prepared and sharpened for a while now.

I lift my gaze toward the Inner Disciple with all the calm in the world, composing the most reasonable and understanding expression of my repertoire, and I speak with the same kindness with which one explains something evident to someone who has not yet caught on.

“I have not the least objection to dispensing with my handmaidens”, I begin, and I notice how bewilderment fleetingly crosses his face at an answer he clearly did not expect. “But, as you will understand, given my particular condition I cannot manage on my own in absolutely anything. So that if I renounce them, then it will be you who will have to occupy yourselves in person with everything I need, both during the trip and once we reach the Sect.”

I make a brief pause, deliberate, just enough for the sentence to sink in, and then I begin to enumerate with all the naturalness of which I am capable.

“And when I say everything, I mean everything”, I continue. “Someone will have to dress me each morning and undress me each night. Someone will have to groom me. Someone will have to lift me from the bed, put me to bed, and carry me from one place to another wherever I have to go, since I, for evident reasons, cannot do it alone. And, of course, someone will have to prepare my food. So that, if I dispense with my handmaidens, I take for granted that you will take charge of all of it with great pleasure.”

Here I stop and wait, although the effect of my words is almost instantaneous.

The Inner Disciple pales slightly as he goes processing what I have just said, as if his mind were racing ahead at full speed to the practical implications of the situation. And then, seeking perhaps some kind of support, or simply out of reflex, he turns for a moment toward his companions.

I follow the direction of his gaze and can barely manage to maintain my composure, because the four Outer Disciples, who until an instant ago were right behind him, at some moment of my little discourse have been retreating with much dissimulation a few steps and now seem profoundly absorbed in anything that is not the conversation.

One of them contemplates the sky with an interest that the morning, frankly, does not deserve. Another has set to examining with extreme attention the buckle of his own belt, as if he had just discovered it. A third has turned to study the enormous horses of the carriage with the concentration of a veterinarian, and only the woman remains a bit more attentive despite having retreated a few steps, looking at the scene with what I could almost swear is a hint of poorly disguised interest.

In any case, the message could not be clearer, and it is that none of them, absolutely none, has the least intention of volunteering to be my servant.

The Inner Disciple contemplates the silent stampede of his subordinates, understands that he is not going to find a single ally in that direction, and lets out a long sigh of defeat before turning again toward me. And when he finally speaks, he does so reluctantly, with the tone of one who signs a capitulation they would prefer not to sign.

“Very well”, he concedes at last. “Since you require special care, you may bring your handmaidens.”

I dedicate to him a serene smile, the same one I reserve for the small victories it is advisable not to celebrate too much.

“I thank you enormously for your understanding”, I tell him, with an impeccable courtesy that I know all too well probably turns out to be more irritating to him than any reproach.

And since the conversation has gone so well, I decide to take advantage to tie up one more loose end.

“If you will allow me, I would like to know your name”, I add with kindness. “After all, we are going to share a few days of road and it is probable that at some moment I will have to consult you about something, so I would prefer to know how to address you.”

The Inner Disciple observes me an instant, as if calibrating whether it is worth the bother, and in the end he decides that it is.

“Bai Zhen”, he replies dryly. “Inner Disciple of the Sect.”

And then, almost as if he were fulfilling an obligatory formality he would prefer to be rid of, he makes a vague gesture toward his four subordinates, who by then have already miraculously recovered the capacity to pay attention.

“They are Cheng Yu, Luo Bin and Fang Kun”, he says pointing one by one at the three men, who respond with inclinations of the head so brief and lukewarm that they barely count as a greeting. “And she is Song Yan. The four are Outer Disciples.”

The woman, Song Yan, inclines her head toward me with a gesture that, unlike that of her companions, has a touch of genuine courtesy that departs completely from the script of indifference that all the rest seem to follow. She says nothing, but that small detail is enough for me to file her away mentally as the only one of the group with whom one might perhaps deal without ending up with a headache.

And since Bai Zhen has had the deference to introduce himself, even if it has been more out of obligation than out of courtesy, I decide to return the gesture.

“It is a pleasure”, I reply with an inclination of the head much more elegant than his. “I am the Zhāohuán Sun Wen. And they are Lianhua and Xia, my handmaidens.”

I make a brief pause, and add what I am truly interested in making clear.

“I mention something to you in case it turns out useful during the trip”, I continue. “If at any moment you need something from me and, for whatever reason, you do not find me available, you may address Lianhua without any problem. She has my full confidence and is authorized to decide in my name on any matter that presents itself.”

Bai Zhen nods slightly at my words, with a gesture so mechanical that it makes it quite clear that the information goes in one ear and out the other without stopping in between. It is evident that the details about my retinue interest him more or less the same as the color of the sky, and the moment I finish speaking, he settles the matter without further preamble.

“If you have nothing more to do, then it is time to depart”, he says without the slightest hint of kindness.

“As far as I’m concerned, you may leave whenever you please”, I reply to him, shrugging my shoulders slightly. “I have no other pending matter.”

“In that case, prepare yourselves”, he replies. “We will depart the moment you have climbed into the carriage.”

I make the customary sign to Lianhua, and she sets to work without need for me to say anything more.

She approaches, lifts me from the chair and gets me up into the familiar interior of the carriage, that same lined interior I remember perfectly from the trip to Xi’An, and settles me in one of the seats. Afterward, between her and Xia, they also carry the wheelchair, which enters without too many problems thanks to the fact that the doors of this carriage are slightly wider than usual. Then they load the backpacks, get settled and, the moment the three of us are inside, I hear Bai Zhen’s voice from outside giving the order to depart.

An instant later, with a slight jolt, the enormous carriage sets off.

I draw back the little curtain a bit to peek out, more out of habit than anything else, and the first thing I do is take a look at the arrangement of our small procession. And what I see surprises me, even if only a little.

Because the five disciples of the Sect, far from climbing into some other vehicle or settling themselves somewhere, have opted to go on foot, distributed around the carriage in such a way that they have it completely surrounded as it advances. They do not walk grouped together nor chatting among themselves, but rather spread out with an evident intention, each one covering their part, attentive to the surroundings.

And that image obliges me to readjust a bit the opinion I had formed of them.

Because, however bad their manners may be, the truth is that their mission as escorts they are indeed taking seriously. One can be rude and competent at the same time, by the look of it, and at least in the second respect it does not seem they are going to disappoint.

And since I’m noticing the details, I also take note of who drives the carriage.

They are three Nei Wei, seated at the front while they handle the enormous horses with a firm hand. And although, in theory, they are here only to occupy themselves with the vehicle and its maintenance during the trip, I don’t have to think about it much to suspect that, knowing my mother as I know her, those three women carry a few additional orders that do not appear anywhere and of which I am probably not going to find out until it is necessary. Another pair of loyal eyes, discreetly placed just where she cannot be.

But I push all of that from my mind the moment the carriage crosses at last the Gates of the Imperial Palace and leaves my home behind.

Because, beyond those gates, the city begins. And there is something that interests me much more than the intrigues of my retinue, and it is what is, exactly, the real consequence of the Fire Qi Surge for the people who live outside these walls. One thing is to suffer the heat from the relative comfort of the Pavilion, with ice in the tea and freezing talismans, and quite another very different one is to suffer it when you are the one who has to go out into the street to earn your bread under this impossible heat.

So I peek out with all the attention of which I am capable, and the change in the city leaps out at me almost immediately.

I remember perfectly how the main street was the last time I traveled it. An avenue overflowing with people, a continuous river of passersby who came and went among the stalls and the shops, with the constant murmur of the haggling, the cries of the vendors and the bustle of a city alive at all hours. It was, in its disorder, one of those places that transmit the sensation that the world works.

And now, on the other hand, the street is almost empty.

The crowd that filled it has disappeared, and in its place one barely sees a handful of people who walk quickly, with the attitude of one who has only gone out because they had no other remedy. Many of the shops that before overflowed with clientele now have their shutters drawn, closed tight in broad daylight, and the few that remain open languish without anyone approaching to look at their merchandise.

I let out a sigh upon contemplating the panorama, although, deep down, it does not surprise me too much.

Because it was a foregone conclusion that the first to suffer were going to be the businesses that sell luxury. With this asphyxiating heat, no one in their right mind feels like going out to stroll, to browse among silks and trinkets or to spend their money on whims.

The carriage keeps advancing along the main street, and that image of the half-deserted streets is maintained, street after street, until we leave behind the zone of the great commerce and enter the plebeian neighborhoods.

And here the matter changes, although only up to a certain point.

Because the plebeian neighborhoods do retain some life. One sees more people in the streets, but it is a different life, functional, made of necessity and not of enjoyment. They are people who go or come from their respective jobs, women who go out to buy just enough for the day, men who carry tools or bundles, all of them moving with the haste of one who has something concrete to do and no desire to linger under the sun more than strictly necessary.

But there is an absence that is noticeable and that it takes me only a moment to identify, and it is that the children have disappeared.

There are no kids scampering through the streets, nor shouting nor chasing one another among the stalls as there always usually are in the humble neighborhoods. And neither are the elders there, those one comes across seated at the doors of their houses, contemplating the coming and going of the world with the patience of one who is no longer in a hurry to get anywhere. The most fragile, the most vulnerable to the heat, have taken refuge inside the houses and their absence gives the neighborhoods a strange air, as of a city from which a part of its soul has been torn away.

The carriage continues its march among the packed houses, and little by little the city goes opening up until we reach that strip of cleared terrain that separates the last dwellings from the wall. And the moment we approach the gates of the city, they open before us without anyone giving us the halt or asking us for explanations, with that fluidity that is only granted to the processions that clearly have permission just by seeing them.

A moment later, the carriage and its escort cross the threshold, and we leave behind the Imperial Capital.

Outside the walls, the landscape changes again, and I peek out once more with renewed curiosity.

The first thing that opens before me are the cultivation fields that surround the city, and here, unlike the streets, there are indeed people. Many, in fact. But it is not the tranquil image of peasants working the land at the rhythm one would expect.

It is something more desperate, because almost all of them go loaded with containers of water, buckets, jars, anything that serves to transport the liquid, and they toil at watering some fields that, even from a distance and with my untrained eye in these things, one can tell are suffering. The plants look wilted, dulled, struggling to survive a heat and a drought that begin to press in earnest, and those people are not cultivating but rather, more like, trying to keep alive what they can on the basis of pure effort, bucket by bucket, against a heat that does not help.

And contemplating that unequal struggle, suddenly I realize something, and it is that I never got to ask Master Mu how long this fire Qi surge could last.

It is a silly oversight, the kind of piece of information that now, seeing what I see, would turn out most useful to know. Because one thing is for people to endure a bad spell that is known to be passing, and quite another very different one is for this heat and this drought to become something that prolongs itself for whole years. The difference between the one and the other is, in the eyes of those peasants, the difference between a bad harvest and a famine.

I try to calm myself by remembering what I do know. The column of Qi that in its day sprang from the Celestial Rift did not last so long either, after all, so perhaps there are reasons to think that this too will end up subsiding. But, however much I repeat that argument to myself, I don’t quite manage to believe it, because I have the suspicion, very little comforting, that the expansion and the completion of the course of this surge are going to be a much, much slower process. One thing is for the source to run dry, and quite another very different one is for all the Qi that has already come out of it to dissipate, and I fear that the second may take considerably more time than anyone would like.

I push the thought aside before it drags me into a well of useless conjectures, because to conjecture without data is nothing more than an elegant way of worrying in advance, and the carriage, oblivious to my musings, keeps advancing.

And little by little we go leaving behind the cultivation fields as well.

Because, past the worked lands, the road at last enters into open nature, into those spots that grow at their own will without anyone tending or watering them. And here, where there are no peasants carrying buckets nor hands that try to keep anything alive, the effect of the surge shows itself in all its rawness. The vegetation looks battered, dry, parched in a manner much more severe than that of the fields, because these plants have no one to succor them and are enduring a heat for which, simply, they are not prepared.

And while the carriage penetrates ever deeper into that landscape cracked by the drought, I lean back in my seat, let the little curtain drop and resign myself to what, whether I want to or not, are going to be five long days of road.

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