Barry Hughart - Eight Skilled Gentlemen

Seldom have I seen the old man so frustrated. As his right forefinger danced over the rubbings he quickly and surely interpreted ancient symbols and placed them in the context of a story, yet his hand chops and roars of profanity testified to lessons he might have learned at the Celestial Master’s knee uncounted years ago; lessons that the saint might not now be able to repeat. He started with something other than pictographs, however. One rubbing was of ancient writing at the very beginning of the frieze, and the old man pointed to the brief inscription.

“The story is clearly a solstice myth, based to some extent upon historical events, and this written title was added by a scholar or priest perhaps a thousand years after the actual carving.” He turned and winked at Yen Shih. “A bit gaudy, but rather prettily descriptive, don’t you think?”

The puppeteer glanced up sharply. Knowledge of ancient scripts was the province of the privileged, and never before had Master Li directly alluded to Yen Shih’s upper-class origins. Then the puppeteer shrugged, and translated the symbols for my benefit.

“ ‘Sky-flame Death Birds Ghost Boat Rain Race,’ and the only language other than Chinese given to fashioning poetic lines from strings of unmodified nouns,” Yen Shin continued in a marvelous imitation of a pompous scholar’s lecture voice, “is barbaric Latin.”

Master Li took over, and this is the sketchy outline of the solstice story he was able to decipher from ancient symbols and images.

Long ago, before writing had evolved to record events, invading barbarians who were to become the Chinese battled aboriginal settlers of the Central Kingdom for earthly supremacy, and at the same time a battle was waged in Heaven between gods of the old people and those of the new. Somehow the earthly combatants managed to infuriate both celestial sides. As a result the gods who normally controlled the physical operation of earth rode off to Heavenly battlefields and left men to manage as best they could, and in no time the world was in chaos. It was clear that men must establish harmonious accord with the powers of nature if they were to survive, and to this end the warring kings finally united and humbly petitioned the greatest of wizards and shamans, Pa Neng Chih Shih, to come from the corners of civilization and take charge.

“The Eight Skilled Gentlemen began by ordering the kings to build something,” Master Li said. “See the large square? That means ‘earth’ or ‘of the earth.’ It has a squiggle carved inside to indicate it’s hollow—a cave, for example—and these little lines sticking through the top—”

“Pipes!” I exclaimed. “They had the kings build them the musical instrument of the Yu!”

“I sincerely hope so, since it’s a lovely idea,” Master Li said in a gentle voice. “They also commissioned two marvelous boats, one yang and one ying, and to seal a pact—this isn’t clear to me, but it seems to have been a covenant to bind men and nature in harmonious accord—the Eight Skilled Gentlemen ran the most spectacular boat race in history.”

With the most deadly stakes, it seemed. Somehow the Yu was used to form a path of magical water to race on, and the air above the boats was filled with flames, indicating the sky was so hot it was catching fire, as in the days before Archer Yi shot down nine of the ten suns. Obviously the yang influence was grotesquely strong, and when nature is unbalanced disease moves in, and the terrible Ravens of Pestilence wheeled above the boats. Water boiled beneath the Eight Skilled Gentlemen, waves threatened to capsize them, hideous monsters reached out from the banks and sea serpents threatened from below. The yang boat was shown moving ahead, and the death birds of disease swooped down—

“And just when it gets really exciting we lose the thread,” Master Li said disgustedly.

The stone hadn’t escaped time’s ravages where the last panels were. It had worn so that ink from the rubbing gathered in little puddles, smearing and distorting, and in some sections there was nothing but a ridge here and a gouge there to suggest what might have been carved. Then, at the very end, the soft worn area gave way to firmer stone and the frieze became visible again.

“Yin has won after all,” Master Li said. “See the slanting lines? Rain is falling, the generating force and symbol of renewal, and the boat has reached some sort of dock crowded with kuei, ghosts. What’s happening isn’t clear. The flames of the sky have been extinguished and the death birds of disease are fleeing, so one must assume that ghosts have joined forces with the Eight Skilled Gentlemen and tilted the balance. After all, the unknown commentator called the crafts ‘ghost boats.’ If only the Celestial Master can regain his wits for a few hours!” the old man cried passionately. “He’s capable of tying this to the demon-deities connected with the cages, and maybe even to their brother Envy, and above all he might be able to tell us why portions of a solstice tale three thousand years old are popping up today, and why certain monsters aren’t myths, and, in short, what in hell is going on.”

“Good luck,” said the puppeteer.

Yen Shih was delighted with the “interesting morning,” as he phrased it, and placed himself at Master Li’s service day or night, but for the moment he excused himself to attend to some work at home. He was being tactful. Master Li’s next stop would be to give a full report to the Celestial Master, and there might be details he wouldn’t want the puppeteer to know about, so Yen Shih simply bowed out before anyone got embarrassed. Master Li insisted upon hiring a palanquin for the puppeteer, and we took another one, and not long afterward we entered the Forbidden City and went straight to the Celestial Master’s office. He wasn’t in, but he had left a note for Master Li in a sealed pouch, and Master Li took it back to the palanquin and opened it as we started back toward the Meridian Gate.

Kao,

I’m tired and stupid and senile. I confronted a mandarin who had to know about that cave in Coal Hill. I got him to produce his cage and explain they’re for communication. Then I used it to do some shouting, but then my mind stopped functioning. All I could think of was to hit the bastard over the head with the thing. I’ll have to leave more constructive approaches to you. I’ve tracked a cage to Yang Ch’i. He keeps it in a case in that damned greenhouse of his, and you can handle the guards if anyone can. I’ll send word when my brains are up to something tougher than pre-chewed baby food.

Chang

“How do I look?”

“Sir… Sir…”

“Ox, not over my robe!”

“Sorry,” I managed to say between retches.

Civilized readers will be familiar with Ink Wang’s famous portrait of Master Li, and I was there when Wang painted it. After examining the sage’s face from all angles the artist pitched his brushes into a corner, unbound his long lank hair, dipped it into the inkpots, and jumped around swinging his head in front of the silk as he sprayed ink all over the place. The end result was a pattern of incredibly complex interwoven lines. Ink Wang then sketched a head-shaped outline, blacked out everything outside the perimeter, painted in a pair of bright eyes, and there was Master Li, so lifelike I almost expected him to walk from the surface and call for wine. Ink Wang said it was the only way he could reproduce the landscape of wrinkles that constitutes the sage’s face, and the reason I mention it is to suggest something of the effect when the wrinkles were filled with green phosphorescent Cantonese clay. (Neo-Confucians who have been left behind are invited to think: incredibly old man, bony, labyrinthian wrinkles packed with clay that glows in the dark.)