From the Editor:

One muggy nigh in Pearl City (this was years and years ago) I met Cat for a game at Lucky Tile Teashop. In true Cat style he brought along a couple of courtesans from the Imperial Palace – moneyed, honeyed and sharp as a pair of knitting needles, the two of them were.

“Greetings, foreign interloper,” Cat grinned. He gestured at his companions. “We needed the extra players.”

“I’m sitting North,” the tall one said.

“And I’m sitting South,” said the curvaceous one.

“Well,” I said, as Cat slid into the dealer seat, “I guess that makes me West. Figures.”

Three hours later we were all losing badly to Number Seven. She had a full pout, which she used to great advantage on Cat. And a very pointy shoe, which she used to great advantage on me.

“Ow!” I scowled in her general direction, a little reluctant to engage head-on with anyone whose wits had been sharpened in the grindstone of Pearl City’s Imperial Court.

“What’s wrong, dear?” She smiled, “Is Pretty Cloud kicking you again?”

“Never mind Number Seven,” said Pretty Cloud. “She’s sour tonight because someone very important didn’t applaud her zither performance of ‘Gilded Girl’ quite as enthusias- ow! Ow, ow, ow!”

“That’s right and you’ll get another if you go on yammering my private affairs in public –“

“Ha! Hardly private given your penchant for chatter, Pudgy. By now absolutely everybody down to the cellar keeper knows you’re angling for a very important marriage-“

“- because of scrawny old gossips like you!”

“- because of your own indecorous babbling! You’re as bad as a bored salt chicken!”

It might have come to blows, albeit blows between two rather delicate females with gold-lacquered fingernails, had the conversation not been interrupted by a silver-y ting, ting, ting.

The sound drifted in from the cobblestone streets through Lucky Tile Teahouse’s open windows, and it had the most extraordinary effect.

For me it was as if someone had punched the pause button on my TV’s remote control: the sing-song girls froze mid-chorus, the tile players froze mid-clatter, the tea boys froze mid-pour. Nobody said a word, and nobody stirred. (Except the teahouse proprietor, who tripped over his robes shuttering the windows and securing the stout oak doors.)

“What?” I hissed. “What is going on?” But even Cat was silent, eyes watching the door and hands still; waiting for something.

A moment later it came – through the shutters a chilling call, a long “maaaake haaaaaay, maaaake haaaaay!” Ting, ting, ting. “Maaaaaaake haaaaaaaay, maaaake haaaay!”

Pretty Cloud dove under the table followed quickly by Cat and I was left alone with Number Seven, who was eyeing my tiles with what struck me as a very wily eye.

“Make hay?” I was bewildered but I didn’t budge, not wanting to abandon my innocent sparrow tiles to the tricks of this seasoned player.

“It’s ‘make way’, silly.” She tugged an earring. “You know, for a blood-sucking corpse.”

A few seconds later I was elbowing Cat and Pretty Cloud for more space under the table. “Did you hear that,” I panted. “There’s a blood-sucking corpse outside!”

“Not likely,” said Cat, who had managed to bring along a bowl of sunflower seeds. “Nowadays a priest wouldn’t take a corpse through the city. The Emperor doesn’t like it, you see. In fact, the Emperor officially doesn’t even believe in blood-sucking corpses. I would put it up to a rather un-funny joke someone is playing on the neighborhood.”

Ting, ting, ting. “Maaaaake waaaaay!” The sound drew ever closer, and from my vantage point under the square tiles table I could see that every last patron, performer, and tea boy had found similar shelter. All but one.

“Why is she still up there?” I hissed, gesturing at Number Seven’s pointy shoe.

“I don’t believe in blood-sucking corpses, either,” her clear voice drifted down, as did the clacking sound of tiles being moved around on the table. “Dead people can’t hop.”

“Hop? There are dead people hopping?”

“No,” said Number Seven.

“Yes,” said Pretty Cloud. “Yes, there are. Pudgy up there doesn’t know because she was raised inside the palace, but I grew up in the countryside and we used to hear them plenty. Well, we heard the priest and his bell, at least.”

“But you didn’t actually see them?”

“Course not! The corpses are hungry, you see. They’ve been drained down to the last drop, they can be quite fierce if they spot someone live and plump and full of blood. If they catch that person they’re likely to suck them dry. So, if you hear the priest and his bell that’s your cue to hide.”

“Nonsense,” said Number Seven. “By the way, I’ve got 2 east winds, 3 stones, 3 white dragons, 3 green dragons and 3 red dragons. You owe me a silver tael, each.”

“Why do they hop, though?”

“Haven’t you seen a dead person before?”

“No.”

“Well, they’re stiff as dried rhubarb so walking naturally is difficult on account of their knees not bending. The priest trains them to hop so he can return them back to their hometown for a proper family burial. Mostly it’s masons and poor merchants and caravan pullers and the like. Believe it or not, it’s cheaper to hire a priest to hop your dead relative along back home than it is to rent a body cart.”

I tried to imagine a priest with a bell hopping a corpse down the streets of my hometown, past the well-clipped lawns and bicycles with training wheels parked in the drive. No, it probably wouldn’t go over very well.

“Cat?”

“Hmmm?” He bit down on a salty sunflower kernel.

“So, you don’t believe it?”

“And who says I don’t, my little note-scribbling friend?”

“But you just said –“

“I said I didn’t believe a priest would hop a corpse through the streets of Pearl City, that’s all.  As to whether it actually happens in other places,” he shrugged and tossed a shell onto the floor, “why not?”

“Are they all moldy and rotting and stuff –“

“By the Jade Lord’s moustache!” Number Seven’s pointy shoe swung impatiently at my head. “You’re all no better than a bunch of dirt buns from the countryside. I’m going after that so-called priest and his so-called blood-sucking corpse. And I will report to you in person about whether it is ‘all moldy and rotting and stuff’!”

With that Number Seven’s pointy shoe made contact with the ground and before the three of us could protest (or grab it) it had clicked out the door of Lucky Tile Teashop.

To make a lengthy story briefer, Dear Reader, I will tell you that we never saw Number Seven again.

Yes, we ran after her. Yes, Lucky Tile Teashop organized a ‘rescue’ party of three terrified sing-song girls and a tea boy to comb the streets and alleyways. And yes, the City Guard made an earnest effort. They littered the city with more public notices than had been seen since the Emperor’s 25^th birthday when Secretary Spangle commissioned 10,000 copies of the ‘approved’ birthday announcement:

His Imperial Majesty the Emperor of the Great Purple Dynasty, Son of Heaven, Lord of Ten Thousand Years has turned 25 years of age today. But that does not mean he is mortal. (Nor does it mean he is a god.) Happy Birthday Emperor!

But nobody turned up anything substantive. Pretty Cloud is convinced her friend was drained and disposed of, but Cat chalks it up to just more bizarre court intrigue.

I’m not sure what I think. But to this day I don’t like the sound of a bell, however tinkle-y and cheer-y.

Our Story Ends:

It was her last moment as a rebel. And it all came to a cracking end when the leather thong curled around her neck, yanking her off her feet and dragging her along the scrub until her eyes bulged. And that was that.

But Before it Ends, Let’s See Why it Ends That Way

Ting, ting, ting. “Maaaaaaaake waaaaaaaay!” Inkstone’s eerie warning wound through the scrub oak lining the towpath to their left, carried across the steady Paragon to their right. Farmhouse doors shut tight against the sound, late evening foot traffic diverted hastily to higher ground. Even the bravest fish in the river gave the party of two a wide berth.

It was slow and unpleasant going for the priest and his hideous corpse. Battle Axe was stripped down to her underclothing and covered in river mud from head to toe.

“I’m dried out like a dead codfish,” she puffed, trying not to think about the itchy spot below her right eye where a mosquito had just landed and casually drunk its fill. “And that stupid bell is driving me crazy.”

“Keep hopping!” Inkstone hissed. Whether funery priests wore long sapphire robes was a matter of debate the fugitives took rather opposing views on. “It’s not exactly blue anymore,” he paused between breaths. “I gave it a good rub on the grass. I would call it more…green.”

“You look like a girl,” Battle Axe was starting to lose feeling in her arms, held out in the best imitation of ‘dead’ she could muster. “Why did I have to be the corpse?”

The oilskin bag lashed tight to her waist bounced with every hop. She imagined Fire Fade on the floor of Broken Talon’s chamber, a thumb-sized measure of incense at her side inexorably burning down, down, down to a heap of grey ash. “Do you think we’re being followed?”

“Don’t think so. Southerners are all superstitious, superstitious to a man, the Whistling…whatever included. My guess is they wouldn’t dare track a funery priest.”

“So let’s stop now, get us a horse cart. Otherwise we’re not going to make it back in time –“

“No! We need to get clear of this place. Just hang on for another hour or so, then we can wash up and start looking around for some transport.”

Were their calculations correct? One stick of osmanthus incense = two days’ burning. And Long Spring had lit it up yesterday mid-morning…or was it the day before?

Battle Axe felt sick. She stopped and dropped her aching arms.

“No more hopping, I’m serious. There’s no time for this, we got to be back by mid-morning tomorrow. And besides, the cavalry’s well behind us –“

It turned out that there was no whistle, none of the weeeweeewee sound Coriander had talked about. Only a sudden rustle of foliage, a sibilant breeze, and then the bullwhip curled out of the treeline and grabbed her by the throat.

Thwt, thwt, thwt the thong wound round her neck like an iron collar and a sharp yank sent her flying, lungs straining, feet flailing. Her ears filled with the sound of rushing blood and the muddled victory shouts of a hunter who’s caught his prey.

Oh Jade Lord, have mercy…. Battle Axe fought the instinct to claw at her throat. She forced her hands down, down to where a string bound her sister’s life to her waist, and tore at the knot with all her might. With a twang and a snap the oilskin bag flew off and landed on a patch of grass.

And where was her brother in arms? Where was Inkstone while she bounced along the ground dragged by her leather choker? She tried to focus her eyes on the towpath where they had been standing just a moment earlier.

Inkstone was moving quickly in spite of ten yards of blue-green silk twisted round his arms and legs. She saw him scrabbling on the ground after the oilskin bag. He scooped it up and bit down hard on its stiff drawstring neck. Then he peeled off the robe, shed his shirt and boots and…a dark flash, a stygian splash. He leapt into the Paragon.

The whip-bearer called out to his men fanning out along the bank.

“And the other?”

“Nothing here, Captain.”

“The goods?”

“No.”

“Check the river, then. I heard something.”

“It was nothing, just a river turtle. Saw it myself.”

“Damnation. You two come along with me and bring that mess with you. The rest of you, keep looking. I can’t imagine it will be good for us if we show up empty-handed.”

Battle Axe gave up her struggle with the leather thong and dropped into a dead faint.

It was her last moment as a rebel. At least, for some time.

A Resurrection

Fire Fade woke up three swallows into a cup of what tasted like a very bitter cinnamon tea. The young man holding her upright looked vaguely familiar. His eyes were the color of the blackest ink, but their expression was tender.

Through the mouth of Broken Talon’s chamber she could see the sun was nearing its zenith, golden beams bouncing merrily about the room. She had never felt so good.

“Where’s my sister?” she said. “Where’s Fire Flash?”

In Exile

I’ll pick up my remote control and fast forward to a sweaty summer night in Hong Kong. On the pavement outside a neon-lit noodle house two women picked over a ten-dollar dinner. One of them looked like me. The other had long tangle-y red hair and a sob that broke my heart.

I looked away as Battle Axe choked into my handkerchief. Then she sat up, rubbed her eyes and leaned over to toss the last soup dumpling onto my saucer with a flick of her chopsticks. She grinned a half-convincing grin, “I like the food here better, though. Really, I do.”