“Do not open the gates,” Peng Yeh was saying to the servants, “for these men who knock should be stragglers from the battle, and to let in one side is an invitation to the other to follow.”
Father Peng went towards the bolted doors. “Let me go out and see who they are,” he said, “for I am an old man and they will do no harm to me. Besides, you can bolt the door again after me and only open it when I tell you to.”
When the sound of the bolt behind him had ceased, Father Peng looked at the two men. He could see now that his first guess had been right, for the man on foot was undoubtedly a priest. The other, he saw, was quite young, and there seemed about his face something familiar. Nevertheless, Father Peng could not call to mind the name that ran with that face.
Bowing, Father Peng said: “If indeed, you come bent on peace, what proof have I of that? This is the house of Peng. What is your business?”
The young man replied: “My name is Kuen Ah Lai, and I certainly come with peaceful intentions. That you should not recognise me at once I put down to your honourable years, but I would recall to you a certain poem of which you wrote three lines and I the fourth.”
He recited:
Father Peng cried: “Open the gates!” Then he turned again to Ah Lai, saying: “You are both very welcome.”
Inside the gate Father Peng did not invite Peng Yeh to meet his guests, but led them, bowing, towards his own room. To Mooi-tsai, who had not held herself at such a distance as courtesy dictated, he said: “Child! Tell one of the servants to bring some clear wine and then go to your mother and ask her to instruct you on the correct behaviour of the younger female members of a family when their senior greets a guest.”
When the old man had seen Ah Lai seated to his own satisfaction, and the priest had taken up his position sitting on the floor, enough time had passed for the servant to bring the wine.
Father Peng began: “I sent for wine rather than for tea first because I have the privilege of knowing you and second because I am sure that you have a story to tell, since you came from the direction of the fighting.”
Ah Lai replied: “I am much honoured. This priest is a friend of mine—so much of a friend that I have not asked his name. His title is The Guardian of the Hidden Spring. After all, his profession is more informative than his name, and in the absence of more priests than one there is likely to be no confusion.” He went on to the priest: “This is the honourable Peng Lao, the father of the house.” Father Peng demanded eagerly: “What is the progress of the fight?”
Ah Lai replied: “We have taken no part in it ourselves, as you may see, but it is sufficiently true to say that the rebels are everywhere beaten and that the loyal soldiers of the Bright Emperor and of his son have triumphed. Our forces are now pursuing the enemy towards the city, and it is not expected that An Ching-hsu and his associates will try to hold it.”
Father Peng rose to his feet and, turning towards the north, made a profound obeisance. Then he said: “One must achieve the right direction, though the Emperor in Cheng-tu is to my left and his palace throne to my south-east. However, the formalities are complied with.” He filled Ah Lai’s cup with wine and then hesitated as he turned towards the priest.
The priest said: “It may seem unorthodox to you, but I have always believed that one may seek The Way of Tao as well through a cup of wine as through any other way.” He rose to his feet and held out the cup for Father Peng to fill.
When they had all seated themselves again and Father Peng had given the signal to drink, the priest observed: “Had I known what sort of wine this is, I should have been even more definite in my approval of it.”
Ah Lai said: “The business on which I have come is twin. One half of it, however, immediately concerns you, sir, and that is the intention of the Bright Emperor, who justly foresaw that Heaven could not deny him this victory and his return, to pass through this place when that return has been arranged, and to remain here long enough to relive and enquire into the events of the last fateful day when he was here, when danger and duty alike conspired to make him hasten along the forbidding trail which leads through the Western Mountains to his present temporary palace. He wishes this for a reason which will readily occur to you.”
The priest put in: “Steps may be retraced, but moments never.”
“That sort of sentence,” Ah Lai told Father Peng, “is the sort of sentence to which I have become increasingly accustomed since my meeting with this priest. It is just as well that this should be so, for otherwise the rigours of the life which I have lately been leading, a life of short phrases and shorter orders would have rendered me totally unfit for the company of people as cultured as yourself, sir.”
The priest quoted: “If language is lucid, that is enough.”
“But,” Father Peng replied, “the first thing is to get the words right.”
“I see that I need not teach you,” the priest said.
Father Peng replied: “It is pleasant to persevere in learning.”
“Give up learning and you will be spared much trouble,” the priest said.
Ah Lai contributed: “Every building starts from the ground, and I am still young.”
Then they all laughed.
“Drink up, fill up, and then get up and come with me to see the rest of my family,” Father Peng said. “It will be good for them all. You, sir, have already done so.”
Ah Lai replied: “I have had that honour. But it is an honour that can readily bear repetition.”
“I must warn you,” Father Peng said, “that my eldest granddaughter has suffered the sad affliction of silence since the abominable rebel An Lu-shan seized her and took her to the Capital. Since she was brought back later by a pair of very pleasant girls called Honeysuckle and Clear Rain, who seemed from their conversation to have heard of you, my granddaughter has spoken precisely two sentences. We do not know if she will recover.”
The priest said: “That is my province. Let me see her.” By saying this he drew Father Peng’s attention away from the undoubted surprise and other, deeper emotions which Ah Lai’s face did not succeed in concealing. The old man, however, insisted on their seeing Peng Yeh first.
“My wife,” Peng Yeh said, “is unfortunately occupied at the moment. Later, perhaps . . .”
The priest said: “Show me an empty room and send me your eldest daughter.” He signed to Ah Lai to follow him into the room which Father Peng indicated.
“But this is the room where the woman hanged herself!” Peng Yeh cried.
The priest replied: “So much the better.”
The priest had seated himself with his back to the wall opposite the door which opened in the middle of the opposite wall. Winter Cherry and Ah Lai each faced one of the remaining walls, sitting on mats on the floor. The priest saw that the light through the paper window was failing. He took from inside his robe a small pellet of incense which he placed upon a stone upon the floor in front of him. Then he took out flint and steel, coaxed a tinder spark to flame and kindled the corner of the pellet, which he then put back upon its stone. He put away the flint and steel and sat without sound, without moving.
Ah Lai, as a good Confucian, felt that he should have protested at the use of supposedly magical devices so far out of their proper place, but waited, wondering what the priest’s next move might be.