The Warning Voice (64 page)

he copied out the text in a neat
kai-shu
hand and carried it with him into the Garden. The little maid who had told him about Skybright's transformation had to follow him with some things for the offering on a tray: a cup of tea, some autumn flowers in a vase of water, and some charcoal in a little burner for starting a fire with. When his solomn bowings and kneelings were over, he hung the silk up on the branches of a hibiscus and began tearfully to read out the words:

The year being one in the era of Immutable Peace, the month that in which the sweet odours of hibiscus and cassia compete, the day, a heavy and doleful day, I, most wretched and disconsolate
JADE
of the House of Green Delights,
having with due reverence prepared and got together buds of flowers, silk of mermaids, water of the Drenched Blossoms stream and Fung Loo tea (all things of little value in themselves, yet sufficient to attest the devotion of a true believer) do here offer them up in sacrifice to her that has now, in the Palace of the White God, become
SPIRIT OF THE HIBISCUS
, having power and dominion over the flowers of autumn.

It is now sixteen years since the
BLEST SPIRIT
descended into the world of men. As to her native place and the lineage in which she was born, they were long since forgotten; but for five years and eight months of that time she was, in my rising up and lying down, in my washings and combings, in my rest and play, my constant close companion and helpmate.

It is to be recorded of her that in estimation she was more precious than gold or jade, in nature more pure than ice or snow, in wit more brilliant than the sun or stars, in complexion more beautiful than the moon or than flowers. Who of the maidens did not admire her accomplishments? Who among the matrons did not marvel at her sagacity?

But if baleful scritch-owls that hate the heights can cause the kingly eagle to be taken in a net, and rank and stinking weeds, envious of another's fragrance, can cause the sweet herb of grace to be uprooted, it is not to be thought that a shrinking flower could withstand the whirlwind's blast, or a tender willow-tree be proof against the buffetings of the tempest. When the envenomed tongue of slander was wagged against her, she pined inwardly with a wasting sickness: the red of her cherry lips faded and only sad and plaintive sounds issued out of them; the bloom of her apricot cheeks withered and none but lean and haggard looks were to be seen upon them.

Slanders and slights crept from behind every curtain; thorns and thistles choked up the doors and windows of her chamber. Yet truly she had done no infamous thing. She entered a silent victim into the eternal, a wronged innocent into the everlasting: a more notable martyr (though but a mere girl) to the envy of excellence than he who was drowned at Long Sands; a more pitiable sufferer from the peril of plain dealing than he that was slain upon Feather Mountain.

Yet since she stored up her bitterness in silence, none
recognized the treasure that was lost in her, cut off so young. The fair cloud dispersed, leaving no means to trace the beauteous outline of its former shape. It were a hard thing to hunt out the Isle of the Blest from among the multitudinous islands of the ocean and bring back the immortal herb that should restore her: the raft is lost that went to look for it.

It was but yesterday that I painted those delicate smoke-black eyebrows; and who is there today to warm the cold jade rings for her fingers? The medicine she drank stands yet upon the stove; the tears are still wet on the garment she once wore. The phoenix has flown and MUSK's vanity-box has burst apart for sorrow; the dragon has departed, and
RIPPLE
's comb has broken its teeth for grief. The magpie has forsaken my chamber: it is in vain for the maidens to hang up their needles on Seventh Night and pray for nimble fingers. My buckle with the love-ducks is broken: the seamstress is no more who could repair the silk-work of its girdle.

And this being the season of autumn when the power of metal predominates and the White God is master of the earth, the signs themselves are melancholy. I wake from dreams of her on a lonely couch and in an empty room. As the moon veils herself behind the trees of the garden, the moonlight and the sweet form I dreamed of are in the same moment extinguished; as the perfume fades from the hangings of my bedchamber, the laboured breath and whispered words I strove to catch at the same time fall silent. Dew pearls the pavement's moss; the launderer's beat is borne in unceasingly through my casement. Rain wets the wall-fig; a flute's complaint carries uncertainly from a near-by courtyard.

Her sweet name is not extinguished, for the parrot in his cage under the eaves ceases not to repeat it; and the crabtree in my courtyard whose half-withering was a foretokening of her fate stands yet her memorial. But no more shall the sound of her lotus feet betray her at hide-and-seek behind the screen; no more will her fingers cull budding orchids for the game of match-my-flower in the garden. The embroidery silks are thrown aside in a tangle: never again will she cut them with her silver scissors. The sheeny silk lies creased and crumpled: never again shall her hot-iron smooth out its perfumed folds.

In her last hour, when I might else have gone to her, I was called in haste from the Garden by a Father's summons; when, grieving, I sought to take leave of her abandoned body, I could not see it because it had been removed by a Mother's command; and when I was told that her corpse had been consumed, I repented of my jesting vow that we should share the same grave-hole together, for that were now impossible, and that our ashes should commingle, for ash she is already become.

In the burning-ground by the old temple, green ghost-fires flicker when the west wind blows. On its derelict mounds, scattered bones gleam whitely in the setting sun. The wind sighs in the tall trees and rustles in the dried-up grasses below. Gibbons call sadly from tombs that are hidden in the mist, and ghosts flit weeping down the alley-ways between the tombs. At such times must the young man in his crimson-curtained bed seem most cruelly afflicted; at such times must the maiden beneath the yellow earth seem most cruelly ill-fated.

The tears of Ru-nan fall in bloody drops upon the wind, and the complaint of Golden Valley is made to the moon in silence. Vengeance is for demons and baleful bogles; the gentle spirits of maidens are not wont to be jealous, though wronged. Natheless shall the backbiters not lightly escape her; their mouths shall be squeezed in vices; the hearts of those cruel harridans shall be ripped: for her anger is kindled against them.

Though the bond between us was a slight one, yet can it not easily be broken; and because she was ever close to me in my thoughts, I could not forbear to make earnest inquiry concerning her. Thus it was revealed to me that the God had sent down the banner of his authority and summoned her to his Palace of Flowers, to the end that she who in life was like a flower should in death have dominion over the hibiscus. At first when I heard the words of the little maid touching this appointment, I thought them fantastical; but now that I have pondered them in my heart, I know them to be worthy of perfect credence. How so?

Did not Ye Fa-shan compel Li Yong's sleeping spirit to compose an epitaph? And was not the soul of Li He summoned in order that he might write a memorial in heaven? The circumstances may differ, but the principle is the same. God chooses his ministers according to their
capabilities, else how could they discharge the duties that are required of them? And who more fit and meet than her to be given this charge that has been laid upon her? Truly, here at last she has a work that is worthy of her.

And because I would have her descend here in this place, I have composed these verses to invoke her with, fearing that the common speech of mortals might be offensive to her immortal ear.

All's clearest azure above
where her team of white wyverns through the welkin wends,

And the world in a haze below
as her chryselephantine car to the earth descends.

Her awning's relucent splendour
outshines Antares and his starry band,

Her guidons and gonfalons go before
and the stars of Aquarius guard her on either hand.

Cloudcleaver follows as escort
Moondriver gallops to clear the way ahead.

I can hear the creak and trundle of chariot-wheels
of her phoenix-figured car's majestic tread.