The priest stood and drew fresh breath and stuck his blade into a crack in the rocks so that it angled toward the lake. Mah Lin gazed sadly out over the horizon. “It is time,” he said to himself as he held the burning incense in his hand.
The priest pushed the burning ember tip into the hole. With a mighty crack and a flash of smoke and flame, the barrel emptied and the world forever changed. The wondrous symphony of morning songbird was instantly silenced, as the echoes of the explosion dimmed and faded. The cloud of blue grey smoke momentarily wrapped the priest, then drifted and disappeared. Mah Lin's features remained stern and unshakeable. In his hand he held a new weapon, and he felt the need for haste.
More than a mile away the sharp-eyed raven saw the small splash far below him. Swooping low it watched the rings spread concentrically over the polished surface, as the silver steel thunderbolt sank quietly beneath the dark lake waters.
After a time of wandering the countryside during a period of great famine a young Daoist priest settled at the sacred Mogao grotto complex in Dunhuang. Wang Yuan-lu (1849-1931), was determined to restore the site which had fallen into disrepair. In 1900 his accidental discovery of a sealed up cave (Cave 17, presently known as the Library Cave) revealed the priceless treasure of an ancient library perfectly preserved by the dry desert climate.
Most of the manuscripts dated between the 4th and the 11th centuries are Buddhist, as well as Daoist, Manichean, and Nestorian Christians. The manuscripts, on paper, silk, wood, and other materials are paintings, printings, and writings in many languages, including Sanskrit, Tibetan, Tangut, and even Hebrew in addition to Chinese. Their contents cover religion, history, literature, astronomy, and astrology.
Dunhuang, once a thriving outpost, lies at the gateway to the Silk Road, which in ancient times was the primary entrance and exit to all of China. Scholars still speculate as to why the Library came to be hidden there, and by whom.
When I was a young man I lived with my Aunt Evelyn on her small farm in Ireland's rugged County Mayo. By the hearth's turf fire she spoke of Irish culture and history. She talked often of the Storytellers, “mighty men who once walked the whole width and breadth of Ireland for a buttered slice of thick soda bread, a drop of whiskey, and an audience.”
“They are rare now,” she said, “disappearing like the Old Ways, replaced by this modern age.” It was her opinion that “stories surround them like the air, and the dying art of the teller is rooted simply in their ability to inhale and remember the language of their dreams.”
Many years have passed, and I am forever grateful for that time, hopeful that now I may finally have learned to listen, to breathe, and to remember.
The journey from story to book has been a wonderful one, and I owe a debt to many along the way. I would thank my friend Jody Amblard who told me I can write well, for belief is the beginning of magic. My children also had an important role. My son Umojah sat spellbound while I read aloud to him chapter by chapter, and at the end of each would kindly share his thoughts and feelings. My daughter Naomi who loves to read said only that she will wait until it is a real book. If magic is kindled by belief, it is fueled by faith, and hers was unwavering.
Finally, I want to acknowledge the people of YMAA publishing, for without them there would be no book. In this time of economic uncertainty, David Ripianzi was brave enough to publish the first novel of a relatively new writer. David Silver generously shared his wealth of martial arts knowledge with me; it was his insight that added depth and dimension to the bones of my tale.
My editor Leslie Takao's work on this project will never receive the full recognition that it truly deserves. If the reader enjoys a turn of phrase or the clear expression of a complex thought, there is a great chance that she is behind it. Without her unwearied and prolonged effort, this work would be like armor that is dull in the bright sunlight, or a sword that has not been well sharpened for the battle ahead.
From my heart I thank you all.
Vincent Pratchett was born to an Irish mother and English father. The Irish tradition of storytellers on one side, and accomplished writers on the other. He is related by blood to renowned fantasy novelist Terry Pratchett. Vincent's writing includes novels, screenplays, children's storybooks, and numerous magazine articles.
He began training in the martial arts at age ten. He has taught martial arts at the University of Guelph, and Qigong at the Ontario College of Traditional Chinese Medicine.
As a young man Vincent traveled across Asia, walking in the footsteps of Alexander the Great, Marco Polo, and Genghis Khan. He settled eventually in Hong Kong where he worked as a bouncer for a prominent nightclub until breaking into the Hong Kong film industry as an actor and stuntman.
Returning to Canada, Vincent became a professional firefighter and continues to teach and train in martial arts. He resides in Toronto, with his two children.
Dedicated to my ancestors with respect,
and to my descendants with love.