He turned, looking at the child, seeing how the boy's chest now rose and fell gently, as if soothed by his voice, then turned back, smiling, beginning to mop up the spill.
"Meng Tzu, of course, disagreed. He felt that if what Kao Tzu said were true, then the act of becoming righteous would be a violation of human nature—would, in fact, be a calamity. But I have my own reason for disagreeing with Kao Tzu. If it were so—if human nature were as Kao Tzu claimed—then why should any goodness come from evil circumstances? And why should evil come from good?" He gave a soft laugh. "Some men are water drops and willow sprouts, it's true; but not all. For there are those who determine their own shape, their own direction, and the mere existence of them demonstrates Kao Tzu's claim to be a misrepresentation."
He finished mopping, then carried the towel to the basin in the corner and dropped it in. Returning, he set the two large pieces of the broken bowl to one side then began to sweep the tiny slivers of porcelain into a pile.
"Of course, there is another explanation. It is said that shortly after the Earth was separated from Heaven, Nu Kua created human beings. It appears that she created the first men by patting yellow earth together. She labored at this a long time, taking great care in the shaping and molding of the tiny, human forms; but then she grew tired. The work was leaving her little time for herself and so she decided to simplify the task. Taking a long piece of string, she dragged it to and fro through the mud, heaping it up and turning that into men. But these were crude, ill-formed creatures compared to those she had first made. Henceforth, it is said, the rich and the noble are those descended from the creatures who were formed before Nu Kua tired of her task—the men of yellow earth—whereas the poor and the lowly are descendants of the cord-made men—the men of mud."
He laughed quietly and looked up, noting how restful the boy now was.
"But then, as the Tien Wen says, 'Nu Kua had a body. Who formed and fashioned it?"
He turned, taking the thin paper box in which the ch'a brick had come and put it down, sweeping the fragments up into it; then he dropped in the two largest pieces.
"Ah, yes, but we live in a world gone mad. The bowl of righteousness was shattered long ago, when Tsao Ch'un built his City. It is left to individual men to find the way—to create small islands of sanity in an ocean of storms." He looked about him. "This place is such an island."
Or had been. Before the child had come. Before the bowl had been broken, his peace disturbed.
For a moment Tuan Ti Fo closed his eyes, seeking that inner stillness deep within himself, his lips forming the chen yen—the "true words"—of the mantra. With a tiny shudder he passed the hard knot of tension from him then looked up again, a faint smile at the corners of his mouth.
"Food," he said softly. "That's what you need. Something special."
He stood, went across to the tiny oven set into the wall on the far side of the room, and lit it. Taking a cooking bowl from a shelf, he partly filled it from the water jar and set it down on the ring.
Tuan Ti Fo turned, looking about him at the simple order of his room. "Chaos. The world is headed into chaos, child, and there is little you or I can do to stop it." He smiled sadly, then took up the basin, carrying it across to the door. He would empty it later, after the child had been fed.
The boy had turned onto his side, the fingers of one hand lightly touching his neck. Tuan Ti Fo smiled, and taking a blanket, took it across and laid it over the child.
He crouched there a moment, watching him. "You know, the Chou believed that Heaven and Earth were once inextricably mixed together in a state of undifferenti-ated chaos, like a chicken's egg. Hun tun they called that state. Hun tun . . ."
He nodded, then went back to the oven, taking a jar from the shelf on the wall and emptying out half its contents onto the board beside the oven. The tiny, saclike dumplings looked like pale, wet, unformed creatures in their uncooked state. Descendants of the mud men. He smiled and shook his head. Hun tun, they were called. He had made them himself with the things the girl Marie had brought last time she'd come. It was soy, of course, not meat, that formed the filling inside the thin shells of dough, but that was as he wished it. He did not believe in eating flesh. It was not The Way.
As the water began to boil he tipped the dumplings into the bowl and stirred them gently before leaving them to cook. There were other things he added— herbs sent to him from friends on the plantations, and other, special things. He leaned forward, sniffing the concoction delicately, then nodded. It was just what the child needed. It would settle him and give him back his strength.
That precious strength that "Gweder" spent so thoughtlessly.
He turned, expecting to see the child sitting up, his face transformed again into a snarl, but the boy slept on.
He turned back, for a while busying himself preparing the food. When it was cooked, he poured half of the broth into a small ceramic bowl and took it to the boy.
It was a shame to wake him, but it was twelve hours now since he had eaten. And afterward he would sleep. The herbs in the soup would ensure that he slept.
He set the bowl down, then lifted the boy gently, cradling him in a half-sitting position. As he did so the boy stirred and struggled briefly, then relaxed. Lifting the spoon from the bowl, Tuan Ti Fo placed it to the boy's lips, tilting it gently.
"Here, child. I serve you Heaven itself."
The boy took a little of the warm broth, then turned his head slightly. Tuan Ti Fo persevered, following his mouth with the spoon, coaxing a little of the liquid into him each time, until the child's mouth was opening wide for each new spoonful.
At last the bowl was empty. Tuan Ti Fo smiled, holding the boy to him a while, conscious again of how insubstantial he seemed. As if he were made of something finer than flesh and bone, finer than yellow earth. And again he wondered about his presence in the dream. What did that mean? For it had to mean something.
He drew a pillow close, then set the boy's head down, covering him with the blanket.
"Maybe you'll tell me, eh? When you wake. That's if that strange tongue is not the only one you speak."
He went back to the oven and poured the remains of the hun tun into the bowl, spooning it down quickly, then took bowls and basin outside, locking the door behind him, going to the washrooms at the far end of the corridor. It didn't take long, but he hurried about his tasks, concerned not to leave the child too long. And when he returned he took care in opening the door, lest "Gweder" should slip out past him. But the boy still slept.
Tuan Ti Fo squatted, his legs folded under him, watching the boy. Then, knowing it would be hours before he woke, he got up and fetched his <wei chi set, smoothing the cloth "board" out on the floor before him, placing the bowls on either side, the white stones to his left, the black to his right. For a time he lost himself in the game, his whole self gathered up into the shapes the stones made on the board, until it seemed the board was the great Tao and he the stones.
Once he had been the First Hand Supreme in all Chung Kuo, Master of Masters and eight times winner of the great annual championship held in Siichow. But that had been thirty—almost forty—years ago. Back in the days when he had still concerned himself with the world.
He looked up from the board, realizing his concentration had been broken. He laughed, a quotation of Ch'eng Yi's coming to mind: "Within the universe all things have their opposite: when there is the yin, there is the yang; where there is goodness, there is evil."