The Scarlet Hill

Front matter

THE SCARLET HILL

Books by Frank Owen

The Wind that Tramps the World

Prologue

Prologue

1.

This last night was to be Yuhan's. Her uncle had proclaimed it. If her three beautiful sisters envied her, they did not show it. It would not have been fitting, for they were all married. After all, they were not as ambitious as Yuhan, though they were better horsewomen. And never did any of them have to worry over excess of curves. Not infrequently, Yuhan had envied them. But all that was yesterday, before she had been acquainted with the fact that she was so soon to be the property of Prince Shou. Even Uncle Yang was satisfied. He was always pleased with good business arrangements. No vinegar money was Yuhan; she was in truth a Thousand Pieces of Silver. Even the Emperor would be angry if anything happened to Yuhan now.

He had never seen her; all arrangements had been handled by Ministers of the Court. Nor did he care to gaze upon her face. So many women did he possess, one more or less was of less consequence than a boiled turnip. One rare woman like his favorite concubine, Mei-fei, was of more consequence to him than the three thousand odd others who occasionally bore him sons. Not many sons at that compared to the number of women—eighteen, a mere pittance. Mei-fei was treasure indeed. A sweet, gentle nature. In her company, the Emperor found comfort; in her young arms he found strength. As for the Empress—a good woman, but burdened with jewels, the pomp of position, and a biting tongue.

It had been the Emperor's desire that Prince Shou acquire a pleasing concubine, in order that his world might be tranquil. News had come to him that frequently the Prince did not return to his palace until the sun, like a new-drawn sword, swept across the sky. A slender concubine might insure his future.

The arrangements had been completed thanks to the good offices of his Ministers. The matter, as far as he was concerned, was like a wind gone down. Certainly it was of no interest to him that for her last night of freedom, Yuhan had chosen to go with her uncle to the bazaars of Changan, gay and colorful, where were displayed uncountable things to enthrall the sight, to entice the ear, or to captivate the heart.

Uncle Yang accompanied Yuhan to the bazaars. He had replenished the depleted store of almonds in his sleeve. Without them, he felt like a mariner without a compass. They helped him ponder weighty affairs of state. Often as he nibbled them he ruminated on his chances of being ennobled a Duke. Some day he might even aspire to a "Three Eyed Peacock Feather."

Porters carried them in sedan chairs, before which a servant ran, swinging a lantern, and shouting, "Make way! Make way!" A man of position would as soon appear on the streets after dark without his clothes as without a lantern. It was a badge of position, even as were the ropes of his chair. And on the road, perfect etiquette was adhered to. A man afoot must male way for even the lowliest coolie if he is carrying a load. A coolie steps aside for a sedan chair. If the chair is empty, it gives way to one in which there is a passenger. A chair with a lean passenger, recognizes the precedence of one burdened with the fat, which in turn gives way for a camel or a horse. And all step aside for a wedding procession or the swaggering equipage of a mandarin. It pleased Yang Yuan-kuei that he belonged in this category.

At the fringe of the bazaars they abandoned their chairs to wander about afoot, becoming colorful bits of the kaleidoscope of light and gayety.

Near by was an outdoor Punch and Judy show. They paused for a moment to laugh at the antics of Punch. "How old things last," said Uncle Yang. "I remember my grandfather telling quaint tales about how he thought Punch and Judy were real people when he was a boy. Truly, they seem to have found the ever-lasting-youth-medicine."

Yuhan tried to remain solemn, in a manner befitting her blossoming womanhood. She was no longer a child. Her gentle breasts had formed into ivory hills, pinktipped as though with coral. Tomorrow she would be concerned with charming a young prince. Nevertheless, tonight, despite all her efforts to keep a sober face, smiles came, followed by laughter. Perhaps it is the echo of the little girl within them, that makes all lovely women desirable. Let it be whispered that Yuhan insisted on seeing the show twice. Momentarily the affairs of the Court were forgotten. Vexed, indeed, would have been Prince Shou had he been aware that he had been nosed out of her affections by Punch and Judy of all people, nor would he have been mollified by the fact that it was for but a brief moment.

At last, with reluctance, Yuhan turned away. Her uncle was insistent. He had noticed a drug vendor but a short distance away, and medicine to him was indeed a drug. He liked purple medicines, or failing that, dark vegetation green. Whenever he traveled through the Provinces, in every city he walked through Medicine Street as adventurers seek out hills and valleys. For a thousand li in every direction there was scarcely a drug shop unacquainted with his footsteps. Though his health was well-nigh perfect he irritated it with enough medicines to drown all the ailments recognized by the Clio Medica of China. He drank medicine with as keen a relish as men usually drink warm wine, and a great day it was for him when he discovered a new cure. But tonight he was disappointed. The itinerant merchant was displaying only perfumes. To cover his chagrin, he purchased a small vial for Yuhan. It was called "A Thousand Hours of Love," a blending of musk and apricot blossoms. It made her very happy.

As they walked on, Uncle Yang's stomach growled with disappointment When he reached home, he would take a draught of the brew of three "Great Blessing Pills," the ingredients of which were ten drugs for ten diseases. Surely one of them would ease his discomfort. He refused to believe it was only excessive vexation. Meanwhile he continued to munch almonds, coupled with cumquats which he purchased along the way. But Yuhan, content to drink in color and light, the magic of the night, ate nothing. She had no wish for food. Her cup of happiness was brimming over.

Before the door of an improvised shop, an aged man squatted in the dust. His face was like the sunburned earth of the Great Desert, so parched and blistered it had cracked into a thousand wrinkles, lines of venerable age on a face that was set like a mask. His beard was so long it nearly touched the ground, as he sat there; a straggling wisp-like beard, thin as the frame of its possessor, long and thin and flaked with patches of snow like East Mountain in late autumn. So deep-set was the seal of age on his face, the years passed him by, unable to work further havoc. Nevertheless his eyes were bright, small eyes that glowed from the caverns of his being as though the little beings in them were carrying lanterns. There was no darkness in his heart. For the eyes of his heart could survey the universe. His name was Visram, a man from India, Brother to the Night. The stars were windows through which he gazed to the world on the other side. Keen, indeed, was his vision.

"Come, Master," he implored, "your future for a few cash. If there is aught of good to come, I will tell it to you, so that by your good fortune you may be warmed twice."

Yuhan's heart skipped a beat. Tomorrow she would be the concubine of a Prince. After that—?

Yes, the future might be worth the telling.

"Venerable Uncle," she whispered, "may I listen?"

He laughed, or was it a grunt of content? It was foolish, but tonight he was in an amiable mood. After all, it could do no harm. And perhaps it would be as effective as "Pills of Gratification." Besides, it might contain much of interest.

So they followed the old necromancer into his shabby quarters, a small room, on the bare earth, barren of furniture. In the center, a drum lay upon the ground like a table, a drum covered with sand lightly spread over its beating surface as evenly as on the banks of the far Yellow Sea. Above, exactly centering it, suspended by a thin strand of silk, was a long, sharp-pointed bamboo pen. Near by, stuck in a yellow wooden candlestick, a lighted candle spluttered feebly. It made the shadow of old Visram loom up monstrously.

Although the air had been warm and heavy with spices among the winding lanes of the bazaars, within the rude shelter it was damp and cheerless as the labyrinths of a monastery. Old Visram seemed nervous and ill at ease. He was disturbed at the way the candle was burning. Large globules of grease, formed, ran down the sides and splashed over the ridge at the base. It worried him because he was so highly attuned to symbolism. He knew the way of men and spirits and dragons under the mountains. He knew every shape that haunted the dusk. Even foxes were no mystery to him. Fishermen employed him to paint eyes on their boats, because the eyes of Visram could see more clearly than anyone else. Coupled with his gifts, he had an uncanny dramatic sense. Yet now, as he watched the candle, he grew excited. So tight-clutched were his hands, the knuckles seemed without flesh. His nostrils twitched. His body trembled like a reed in the wind. In his excitement, he all but fell over and only regained his footing by clutching Yang Yuan-kuei's shoulder. His action was a serious affront to a Court officer, but Uncle Yang ignored this lack of decorum. For something of the mood of old Visram had affected him strangely, as though the breath of pestilence had swept over Changan. He had felt exactly that way when locusts had swept over the country and turned fertile fields into sad desolation, until the greatest Capital under Heaven was a ghost city shunned even by the wolves.

The old necromancer chattered a strange gibberish. Presently, he paused as though forcing himself back into reality.

"The candle weeps," he said huskily. "How can one gaze into the future when the candle weeps?"

Uncle Yang tossed a few cash on the ground. He was thankful for the question. Cupidity was a natural force that he could understand. He slipped a few almonds into his mouth. He wished this absurd affair were over so that he could walk once more in the lanes of men.

From a small chest near by, old Visram drew a fresh candle which he lighted before snuffing out the candle that wept. The second candle glowed with a cold blue light, an odd eerie light, but at least it did not weep.

Old Visram sighed. He did not like it, but he was afraid to risk a third candle. It might not even burn as well. He appeared very tired. By lantern-light, his parch face had a bluish tinge. Steadily he gazed at the bamboo pen, suspended by the silk thread, and now he muttered a strange gibberish more anguished than that of monkeys, or so Yuhan thought. She regretted the vanity that spawned the impulse to know the future. Nevertheless, curiosity eclipsed her uneasiness. It was foolish to be disturbed. Had she not always been without fear? Still she could not help but feel somewhat guilty, as though she were stealing fragrance or precious stones. Startled, she paused in her thoughts, for the bamboo pen was moving, though no human hand directed it. Old Visram gazed entranced as characters formed in the sand. And slowly his expression changed to one of horror. He sighed and groaned and rolled about as though he were possessed.

On Yuhan, too, the effect of the writing was magical. The old necromancer was afraid, afraid to speak because her future was concerned with affairs of the Court. No longer was the small room cold. Warm blood rushed through her veins. Her valor flamed anew. Her curiosity heightened. She shook the grotesque, shriveled, groveling old form on the ground before her. He was mumbling prayers.

"Can you read it?" she cried.

"Yes, yes," he rasped.

"Speak, what does it say?"

His inflamed eyes seemed to be bursting from their sockets, like snakes about to strike. With a shriek, he tore down the bamboo pen, and it was amazing how strong was the silken thread, though probably it was only relatively so because of the weakness of Visram. But snap it did. Then he danced on the drum-top to scatter the writing in the sand, his feet beating a mournful tom-tom like rumbling thunder. He was gasping as he ceased. Tossing the cash on the ground before Yang Yuan-kuei he cried, "Get out! Get out! Get out!" but his voice issued from his throat in only a whisper, the frenzied, fear-drenched voice of a man attacked by a blue tiger, from which there was no means of escape.

Never had Yuhan glowed more beautifully, like a peony in full blossom. Her lips were the red glory of hibiscus flowers. In her words there was a soothing quality, and yet at the same time a sensual persistence.

"Be not afraid," she murmured. "We are with you. There is nothing to fear. Tell me, what was the meaning of the strange characters written in the sand?"

"No, no," he declared, and she was surprised at his stubbornness. Though his body were tossed into a blazing fire until only ashes remained, even the ashes would tell nothing. "No one shall know! The sand is scattered in the wind, the characters are written on air. I will not speak. I like to breathe without a slit throat, for with a slit throat a man cannot breathe. My poor old head must not roll from my body by the stroke of the executioner."

He did not wait for an answer, but turned and rushed in anger from the tent-room. And though they loitered for a while, he returned no more.

Yuhan stifled her anger with difficulty. Her curiosity was beyond control. She felt like weeping. But that would be a sign of weakness. No one must see her weep. After all, of what use are anger or tears against an enemy who had disappeared even as characters written in the sand?

2.

No wonder Yuhan was excited. Her future had been arranged, thanks to the clever manipulations of her venerable uncle, Yang Yuan-kuei. Fortunate indeed was she that he had not married her off to the jade merchant who had offered so many rolls of silk in exchange for the privilege of being her husband. The jade merchant was ugly and old. When he laughed, he looked like a toad. No, she could not have esteemed such a husband, who always would have appeared an object for derision in the eyes of her heart.

A Mandarin from Loyang, too, had desired her. He had hired a go-between to broach the delicate matter. He wished to make her his Number Two Wife, which was honor indeed, for his old First Wife was wrinkled, shriveled and worn out. Yuhan might bear him a son. His offer was as tantalizing as pomegranates, but her uncle had only smiled. Yang Yuan-kuei was a great statesman, for he was able to handle the heart of Yuhan, even as he handled certain affairs of the Imperial Court where he occupied a dignified position.

He was tolerant, master of etiquette and a lover of grapes from whose spirit a new type of wine had been squeezed. True, it was not as good as rice wine. It did not tickle the palate. But the fresh fruit was a passion with him. He listened, munched grapes, spat out the seeds and all offers. His rejections were not decisive. A woman grows more alluring when dangled before covetous eyes.

Yuhan was thankful, curious and satisfied. Though her uncle consulted her about nothing, she had contrived to make known to him her wishes. With artful suggestion, she had conversed with him and he had absorbed her thoughts.

Yuhan was fair to gaze upon; her beauty was celebrated throughout the Province. Secretly, she vowed, her fame would rise so greatly that it would sweep over the whole of China like the Yellow River in flood. Now she was glad that since childhood she had devoted so many hours to study. She knew the Classics, the works of the Master, wrote so beautifully that her grasswriting brush strokes were written pictures. She played the lute as sweetly as Ling-lun who invented music. When Ling, in the Kwen-lun Mountains, cut a reed of bamboo and blew upon it, birds gathered 'round him. At first he imitated the birds, but when he had perfected his talent, birds imitated him. Yuhan, too, liked to imitate birds. Nightingales flying in the blue dome of heaven, so far away their small bodies were not discernible. They never came to her, but other birds of gay plumage hopped about near by. And once a pet parrot had been so affected by her song that he fell down as though he were drunk.

She was a slender, graceful dancer, not slender enough to satisfy herself, but few about her could find fault with the gentle curves of her body. Sometimes, however, when she was sure she was not observed, she had burned tapers to her joss, bowed her head penitently, and chanted words of solemnity and devotion. But she could not help adding a supplication,—"And, please, Honorable God, do not make me too fat." She was troubled about something that was not a trouble.

Today, however, she was happy. An oriole perched on the low branch of a near-by tree. She saw his reflection in the water. He nodded approvingly. She broke off a red hibiscus blossom and placed it in her hair, her long blue-black hair, with the sheen of a starlit night in autumn. She unfastened her hair and let it fall in gentle waves about her shoulders, making sure that the hibiscus blossom remained in place beside her small pink ear. It was good to be sixteen, no longer a child.

She smiled at her own reflection in the water mirror. She had put away childish things. In her smile there was all the allure of legendary goddesses who had charmed men. Above all else, that was the work of women. Her teeth as she smiled had the sheen of pearls. Her mouth was provocatively red, and as strong as wine. Men who drank of her beauty were captivated.

It was good to appear fragile, and yet have a will that could conquer generals. Thankful, she was, to be born in those enlightened days of the T'angs when women were powers at Court. Within the lifetime of her uncle, a masterful woman had seized the reins of government and assumed the title of Empress of China. Perhaps—She was afraid to complete the thought. However, she did not banish it from her heart, but hid it away in vermilion silk to speculate upon in secret.

She would be the most envied woman in Changan, for she was to become the concubine of Prince Shou, son of Ming Huang, the beloved Emperor. To be sure there would be other concubines. Prince Shou perhaps had a First Wife. She looked at her slender hands, expressive hands. On the fingernail of each finger she had tied a balsam flower petal. Slowly she began to untie the strands of silk. Yes, the petals had been on long enough. Her nails were an exquisite pinky red that was indelible.

Perhaps someday she would be a Princess, later still—She hesitated to go on. It was true that Prince Shou was only the eighteenth son of the Emperor, but fortunately, in China succession did not of necessity go to the oldest son, even if he survived the mysterious diseases of Empire. So many had died from choking on their own blood. It was not always healthy to be an Emperor's son. A knife in the throat was a disease for which the cleverest doctors had not been able to find an antidote. Succession went to that fortunate person whom the Emperor had designated his heir.

The hibiscus blossom in her hair seemed to take on new color, reflecting the glow in her eyes, and the petal softness of her lips. She had a part to play that was intricate. Each move must be carefully drought out. She sighed. What a pity it was that she was not as small as that legendary princess who was so tiny she was able to dance on a man's hand. She watched the young larches, swaying gently in the breeze. Even though she was not able to dance upon a man's hand, she could dance upon his heart.

Yuhan, in truth, was a graceful dancer. She rose to her feet. She tried to imagine the garden was the Imperial Court. The flowers were her subjects. In reverence they swayed toward her. As she walked slowly along a marble path, a red rain of peach blossoms fell about her shoulders. She was walking toward the Yellow Crane Pagoda where her lord and master was waiting impatiently for her. It was a rendezvous he would never forget. Once a woman had been Empress of China, a hard, cruel woman. But China could be ruled peacefully.

She walked with half-closed eyes. The Court was so dazzling she could scarcely stand the light, a court of jewels and fragrance, carpeted with grass-green rugs in designs of cassia flowers, the emblem of immortality. This dream must live as long as the Yellow River flows to the sea. In the shadow of a windswept tree she paused and gazed at the sky, clear as blue tiles. The small white clouds might be white egrets flying.

A pet monkey, from somewhere near by, chattered mournfully. She shivered. Why was the monkey's cry so sad? And why should he inject sadness into a garden that suddenly glowed like a pearl-orchid? Was it to remind her that the concubine of an Emperor's eighteenth son is, after all, merely a concubine?

Momentarily, her thoughts reflected the monkey's cry, but not for long. The fragrance of the flowers in tensified, as though they were trying to tell her with voices of perfume that they were still her subjects. Yes, in the flowers there was comfort. Once there had been an Empress… The monkey was departing. She watched his tiny figure go skipping down the path. With this vexing enemy gone, her dream blossomed anew.

3.

Some time later, Yuhan followed in the footsteps of her uncle to the section of the garden hallowed by the Hall of Ancestors. Once each month, a family gathering took place within its reverenced shelter. It was by far the most gracious and dignified of all the buildings surrounding the garden. Here pomp and simple ceremony blended. To breathe deeply of the peaceful air was a privilege. The longest wall was given over to an altar of hardwood upon which small lacquered tablets were arranged according to precedence. For centuries, the greatest calligraphists of the province had recorded the names of Yang ancestors, the earlier ones with round symbols, the later ones with brush strokes as light as fleeting clouds.

On such occasions the family wore their finest clothes. Yang Yuan-kuei took his place before the altar, beside his wife. The four daughters and two sons of his elder brother, and therefore his own children, grouped about them. A scene that had been re-enacted over and over again, millions of times, since the beginning of China, the beginning of worship.

The service began with "The Hymn to Ancestors" in which the family joined. It was a chant, soft, gentle, so that the air might not be disturbed. The service was symbolic. They knew that the souls of their ancestors did not dwell in the tablets. Nevertheless, in reverence they were there. Offerings of fruits, wine and rice were laid upon the altar, after the mother had handed them to the father, who held them above his head for a brief interlude before setting them in place. Yang Yuan-kuei repeated the names and inscriptions from the tablets. They were imprinted in his memory. Now and then he paused a moment to relate some notable achievement. This done, he returned the fruits, the wine and the rice to the mother who in turn distributed them among their children, who were also the children of his brother.

However, on this occasion there was no family gathering.

"Today," Yang Yuan-kuei said, "we shall worship at the Hall of Ancestors, you and I alone. Set it down as a whim, though a whim with a good foundation. When a task has been nobly accomplished it is better not to puff out the chest. Men might be affronted. If, however, one walks humbly, what cause is there for dismay? You become the concubine of a prince. Today it is well that we give thanks for the good fortune of which we are possessed."

Pausing for a moment, he sat down on a marble bench. Yuhan remained standing. Sweeter than honey were the ripened fruits of ambition. Her uncle was blessed with far-sightedness. He had attained wealth and tranquillity. Although he could not decipher the characters which the lightning wrote upon the sky, he knew that it must be a blessing for the house of Yang. There was no discord in thunder. The superior man is without fear. In its place is abiding surety that all will be well. Because of his foresight, his position at Court would be enhanced. He might be raised to the rank of Duke, honored with insignia of "The Riding Cape" and placed in charge of a province.

From the sleeve of his jacket, he drew a few almonds which he munched contentedly. The wind had stilled in the willows as though to bid Yuhan adieu. The trees stood on tiptoe to catch a last glimpse of her. The flowers wept. It was a somber parting. Since childhood, she had played in the garden. In that garden she had studied dancing, recited the Classics, painted figures on fans with graceful brush strokes, while the wind ruffled her hair, and the trees swayed in rhythm—the rhythm of life and peace and glowing health. For subjects, she chose the dwarf pine trees near the edge of Pavilion Lake, the bird-houses of the orioles, the moon bridge at Lotus Pond. And sometimes she painted mountains, mountains of dream and slumber shadows, mountains with lofty peaks and snow-winding roads. Yes, the wind would miss her as he tore through the garden on mysterious quests.

As Uncle Yang munched almonds, he quoted Mencius: "Which service is greatest? The greatest is to serve our kin. Which watch is the greatest? The greatest is to watch over our life What else do we do but serve? But serving our kin is the root of all service." He paused. For a moment there was disharmony. One of the almonds had turned out to be a small stone. It grated upon his teeth unpleasantly. His cook's helper must be flogged for this, though it was the cook's fault. But if the cook were flogged with bamboo his meals might be temporarily less satisfying. Uncle Yang's feelings were hurt. The cook was at fault. But as long as somebody suffered he would feel satisfied. He would eat no more almonds until this session with Yuhan had drawn to a close.

"Given this opportunity," he said to Yuhan, "I know that you will do honor to the house of Yang."

"By my being selected as a concubine for Prince Shou," she whispered, "the family of Yang is already honored."

He was gratified by her meekness. He risked having his feelings ruffled by slipping another almond into his mouth. It was delicious to the taste. His anger passed. Why have anybody flogged? Later he would reflect upon it. Truly, he had a most excellent cook, a priceless possession when one treasures one's stomach.

"Since you are aware of the supreme honor, you are worthy of it. Come!" As they mounted the few steps that led to the Hall of Ancestors, he added, "Perhaps in the annals of Yang, your name will be written in vermilion ink."

Yuhan's heart beat faster. She felt exalted. As though she were walking on a mountain top in the rainbow flames of sunrise. Nevertheless, nothing of her thoughts was reflected in her appearance. Humbly she bowed her head. She smiled cryptically. There was an Empress once who had ruled China with the strength and power of a man. Perhaps…

And so they entered the Hall of Ancestors.

4.

When they emerged, the sun had departed. It had gone over the far hills to die. Yuhan was enveloped in a cloak of maiden modesty, a costume which she believed fitting for the occasion, but she was well aware that it was lightly woven so that she could slip out of it gracefully. Yes, she had honored her ancestors, because some day she wanted her descendants to venerate her. She wanted them to say, "How lovely was Yang Yuhan, who walked with the grace of willow flowers. For her beauty, men would build cities, or lay them low. She was the most artful woman of China."