FIFTEEN LI north of Tongjiang, at the edge of the T'ang's great estate, were the ruins of an ancient Buddhist monastery that dated from the great Sung Dynasty. They stood in the foothills of the Ta Pa Shan, three levels of cinnabar-red buildings climbing the hillside, the once-elegant sweep of their gray-tiled roofs smashed like broken mouths, their brickwork crumbling, their doorways cluttered with weed and fallen masonry. They had stood so for more than two hundred and forty years, victims of the great Kb Ming purges of the 19605, their ruin becoming, with time, a natural thing—part of the bleak and melancholy landscape that surrounded them. On the hillside below the buildings stood the ruin of an ancient moss-covered stupa, its squat, heavy base chipped and crumbling, the steps cut into the face cracked, broken in places. It was a great, pot-bellied thing, its slender spire like an afterthought tagged on untidily, the smooth curve of its central surface pocked where the plaster had fallen away in places, exposing the brickwork.
In its shadow, in a square of orange brickwork partly hidden by the long grass, stood a circular pool. It had once been a well serving the monastery, but when the Red (guards had come they had filled it with broken statuary, almost to its rim. Now the water—channeled from the hills above by way of an underground stream— rose to the lip of the well. With the spring thaw, or when the rains fell heavily in the Ta Pa Shan, the well would overflow, making a small marsh of the ground to the southwest of it. Just now, however, the land was dry, the pool a perfect mirror, moss on the statuary below giving it a rich green color, like a tarnished bronze.
The sky overhead was a cold, metallic blue, while to the north, above the mountains, storm clouds were gathering, black and dense, throwing the farthest peaks into deep shadow.
To the south the land fell away, slowly at first, then abruptly. A steep path led down into a narrow, deeply eroded valley through which a clear stream ran, swift yet shallow, to the plains below.
At the southern end of the valley where the sky was brighter, a horseman now appeared, his dark mount reined in, its head pulling to one side as it slowed then came to a halt. A moment later, a second rider came up over the lip of rock and drew up beside the first. They leaned close momentarily then began to come forward again, slowly, looking about them, the first of them pointing up at the ruined monastery.
"What is this place?" Fei Yen asked, looking up to where Tsu Ma was pointing. "It looks ancient."
"It is. Li Yuan was telling me about it yesterday. There used to be two hundred monks here." "Monks?"
He laughed, turning in his saddle to look at her. "Yes, monks. But come. Let's go up. I'll explain it when we get there."
She looked down, smiling, then nudged her horse forward, following him, watching as he began to climb the steep path that cut into the overhang above, his horse straining to make the gradient.
It was difficult. If it had been wet it would have been impossible on horseback, but he managed it. Jumping down from his mount, he came back and stood there at the head of the path, looking down at her.
"Dismount and I'll give you a hand. Or you can leave your mount there, if you like. He'll not stray far."
In answer she spurred her horse forward, willing it up the path, making Tsu Ma step back sharply as she came on.
"There!" she said, turning the beast sharply, then reaching forward to smooth its neck. "It wasn't so hard . . ."
She saw how he was looking at her, his admiration clouded by concern, and looked away quickly. There had been this tension between them all morning; a sense of things unspoken, of gestures not yet made between them. It had lain there beneath the stiff formality of their talk, like fire under ice, surfacing from time to time in a look, a moment's hesitation, a tacit smile.
"You should be more careful," he said, coming up to her, his fingers reaching up to smooth the horse's flank only a hand's length from her knee. "You're a good rider, Lady Fei, but that's not a stunt I'd recommend you try a second time."
She looked down at him, her eyes defiant. "Because I'm a woman, you mean?"
He smiled back at her, a strange hardness behind his eyes, then shook his head. "No. Because you're not that good a rider. And because I'm responsible for you. What would your husband say if I brought you back in pieces?"
Fei Yen was silent. What would he say? She smiled. "All right. I'll behave myself in future."
She climbed down, aware suddenly of how close he was to her, closer than he had been all morning; and when she turned, it was to find him looking down at her, a strange expression in his eyes. For a moment she stood there, silent, waiting for him, not knowing what he would do. The moment seemed to stretch out endlessly, his gaze traveling across her face, her neck, her shoulder, returning to her eyes. Then, with a soft laugh, he turned away, letting her breathe again.
"Come!" he said briskly, moving up the slope, away from her. "Let's explore the place!"
She bent down momentarily, brushing the dust from her clothes, then straightened up, her eyes following him.
"You asked me what monks were," he said, turning, waiting for her to catch up with him. "But it's difficult to explain. We've nothing like them now. Not since Tsao Ch'un destroyed them all. There are some similarities to the New Confucian officials, of course—they dressed alike, in saffron robes, and had similar rituals and ceremonies. But in other ways they were completely different."
She caught up with him. "In what way different?"
He smiled and began to climb the slope again; slowly, looking about him all the while, his eyes taking in the ruins, the distant, cloud-wreathed mountains, the two horses grazing just below them. "Well, let's just say that they had some strange beliefs. And that they let those beliefs shape their lives—as if their lives were of no account."
They had reached the pool. Tsu Ma went across and stood there, one foot resting lightly on the tiled lip of the well as he looked back across the valley toward the south. Fei Yen hesitated, then came alongside, looking up at him. "What kind of beliefs?"
"Oh . . ." He looked down, studying her reflection in the pool, conscious of the vague, moss-covered forms beneath the surface image. "That each one of us would return after death, in another form. As a butterfly, perhaps, or as a horse." ("Or as a man?"
l"Yes . . ." He looked up at her, smiling. "Imagine it! Endless cycles of rebirth. Each new-born form reflecting your behavior in past lives. If you lived badly you would return as an insect." "And if well, as a T'ang?"
He laughed. "Perhaps . . . but then again, perhaps not. They held such things as power and government as being of little importance. What they believed in was purity. All that was important to them was that the spirit be purged of all its earthly weaknesses. And because of that—because each new life was a fresh chance to live purely—they believed all life was sacred."
A path led up from where they stood, its flagstones worn and broken, its progress hidden here and there by moss and weed. They moved on, following it up to the first of the ruined buildings. To either side great chunks of masonry lay in the tall grasses, pieces of fallen statuary among them.
In the doorway she paused, looking up at him. "I think they sound rather nice. Why did Tsao Ch'un destroy them?"
He sighed, then pushed through, into the deep shadow within. "That's not an easy question to answer, my Lady. To understand, you would have to know how the world was before Tsao Ch'un. How divided it was. How many different forms of religion there were, and every one of them 'the truth.' "
She stood there, looking in at him. "I know my history. I've read about the century of rebellions."
"Yes . . ." He glanced back at her, then turned away, looking about him at the cluttered floor, the smoke-blackened walls, the broken ceiling of the room he was in. There was a dank, sour smell to everything, a smell of decay and great antiquity. It seemed much colder here than out in the open. He turned back, shaking his head. "On the surface of things the Buddhists seemed the best of all the religious groups. They were peaceful. They fought no great holy wars in the name of their god. Nor did they persecute anyone who disagreed with them. But ultimately they were every bit as bad as the others." "Why? If they threatened no one . . ."