For a moment longer they stood there, while ten thousand blue-cloaked servants waited silently about the foot of the mound, the seven gold-clothed figures forming a single burnished eye at the center of the dark circle of earth, and then it began, the pure tone of the bell sounding in the silence, followed by the low, monotonous chanting of the officials.
As one they bent, moving outward, pushing the plows before them, seven black furrows forming in the earth like the spokes of a giant wheel.
Turning, Li Yuan looked across the circle of the mound, seeing his fellow T'ang spread out along the rim, their dark, silhouetted figures like pillars holding up Heaven itself, their yellow-gold silks fluttering like banners in the early morning breeze. For a moment the illusion was perfect. For the briefest moment he was back a thousand years, at the very center of the ancient Middle Kingdom, the offerings made, the harvest guaranteed. But then, raising his eyes, he looked beyond his cousins, beyond the pleasant arbors and orchards of the Temple grounds.
The veil fell from his eyes. There, like a vast glacier dominating the skyline, lay the City, its pearl-white walls surrounding them on every side, towering over the lush greenery of the ancient gardens. For a moment he felt almost giddy. Then, checking himself, he stood straighter, listening to the chant, to the ancient words that spoke of the harmony between the ruler and the earth and of the balance of forces that must be maintained if the Kingdom was not to fall. For a moment he let himself be comforted by the ancient formula—by the thought that they might yet keep that age-old bargain and maintain the threefold link between Earth and Man and Heaven. But it was hard to concentrate. His eyes kept returning to the whiteness. To the giddying whiteness that encircled the tiny, earthen mound.
It was like death. Death on every side. And when, for the briefest moment, he let his attention stray, he grew conscious of the lie that lay behind their apparent unity. For in that moment of vertigo he had seen the Great Wheel break and spin aimlessly, like a cartwheel tumbling down a cliff face.
He shuddered and closed his eyes momentarily, wishing it were over, then looked down, noting the earth that clung to his boots and stained the hem of his silks. As on another day, eleven years before, when they had laid his brother, Han Ch'in, in his tomb.
Later, in the sedan returning to the Chi Nien Tien, the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests, he thought of all that had happened since that day. Of the War-that-wasn't-a-War, of his father's death, and of the failure of his marriage to his dead brother's wife, Fei Yen. All had left their scars. And yet he had come through; had endured all that pain and suffering, to reach these calm heights from which he might look back. This hilltop of contentment.
Yes. And that was the strangest thing of all. For there was no doubting how he had felt these past few weeks. His child, his wives— these, more than anything, had become his comfort, his delight.
Outside the small circle of his family the storm clouds were gathering. There would be War again. Or worse. And yet he was happy. When he sat there, bouncing Kuei Jen on his knee, or carrying him against his shoulder, feeling his soft warmth and hearing the soft pattern of his breathing close by his ear, he would feel his cares fall from him. For a while there would be nothing but himself and the child, as if all else were a dream. And even afterward, when he had to go out from that magic circle and face the problems of his world, he* would carry that warmth—that light—within him, like a charm against the world's darkness.
The sedan swayed gently, tilting slowly backward as the carriers climbed the broad, white marble ramp that led up to the great three-tiered tower.
Happy. Yes, he was happy now. And yet it was not enough.
Climbing down, he looked about him, attending closely to all he saw, as if this were the last time he would witness all of this. It was that thought—that strange and frightening glimpse of finality—which made him look away as Wu Shih came across.
"What is it, Yuan?" Wu Shih said softly, speaking to his ear.
He turned back, smiling, taking the older man's arm. "It's nothing, cousin. Just a fleeting thought."
Wu Shih nodded, understanding. "Then come. Let us make our sacrifices."
The Seven stood in line before the great altar, their offerings held out before them. A bell sounded, high and pure in the silence, and then the chanting began again. Candles flickered in the shadows. New Confucian officials came forward, their saffron robes whispering against the stone floor, and took the offerings from the T'ang, turning back to lay them before the statue that crouched, thrice life-size, on the altar.
Shang Ti, the Supreme Ancestor, looked down on his seven sons with blind, impassive eyes. He was Yang, Male, the personification of Heaven itself and the great arbiter of the weather. Appeased by sacrifices, he would provide good harvests; would look after the black-haired people. Neglected he would spurn them. Would bring plague and desolation. And death.
Or so it was said. So the officials chanted.
Li Yuan, standing there, was conscious suddenly of the great line of kings and emperors who had preceded him. Of that ghostly throng who stood with him, in his person, before the altar. Had they felt as he felt now? Or was he alone in doubting the efficacy of laying paper offerings before a blank-eyed statue?
It was not the first time he had questioned his beliefs. Often, in the past, he had looked squarely, critically at the rites and customs he, as T'ang, was obliged to perform. Yet this morning the ritual seemed more hollow than before, his actions sheer pretense. And though he had questioned things before, he had never experienced so profound a mistrust of his own words and actions.
What, after all, did they mean? What did any of it mean?
Oh, he could see the beauty in it. Could even feel some part of him stir, responding to the powerful sense of tradition, to the great weight of years that the rituals evoked. But beyond that—beyond that simple, almost aesthetic thrill—there was nothing. Nothing at all.
He watched it all happening, distanced from himself, and tried to fathom why. These three things—the darkening clouds of circumstance, the great, enduring chain of tradition, and the bright yet tiny circle of his own, individual happiness—how did they come together? Where did they meet and make sense?
As they bowed and backed away, he looked to either side of him, but on the faces of Wu Shih and Tsu Ma, of Hou Tung-po and Chi Hsing, on the broad moon face of Wang Sau-leyan and the Regent Wei Chan Yin, there was nothing but a solemn certainty. Whatever they thought of this, it was hidden from him behind the walls of their faces.
They descended the steps in silence, slowly, almost casually now that the ritual was over, making for the great tent and the breakfast that had been laid out by their host Wei Chan Yin's servants. It was there, beneath the golden awning, that Wang Sau-leyan came across to Li Yuan, addressing him for the first time since his son had been born.
He faced Li Yuan, smiling, seemingly at ease, a tumbler of ch'a cradled in the palm of one hand. "Well, cousin, and how is the child?"
It seemed an innocuous question—the kind of politeness one might have expected from a fellow T'ang—yet it was as if a shadow had fallen over Li Yuan. He felt a sudden tightening in his chest and—briefly, absurdly—experienced a powerful, overwhelming fear for his son. Then it passed. He was himself again. He forced a smile, lowering his head the merest degree, acknowledging his cousin's query.
"Kuei Jen is fine. He is a strong and healthy child. Heaven has blessed me, Wang Sau-leyan."
Wang smiled, no sign of calculation in his face. "I am pleased for you, cousin. A man should have sons, neh?"
Li Yuan stared back at the young T'ang of Africa, surprised by the almost wistful tone in Wang's voice, thinking to see something in his eyes, but there was nothing. Wang nodded and turned away, his business done. And Li Yuan, left to watch his back, stood there a moment, wondering, that small, hard nugget of fear returning, like a stone within his flesh.