The Dragon and The Giant

The Dragon and The Giant
Table of Contents
The Dragon and The Giant.....................................1
Collinson Fair....................................................2
Part I: Water..............................................................5
Chapter I...........................................................6
Chapter II........................................................15
Chapter III.......................................................25
Chapter IV.......................................................29
Chapter V........................................................41
Chapter VI.......................................................46
Chapter VII......................................................52
Chapter VIII.....................................................59
Chapter IX.......................................................65
Chapter X........................................................70
Part II: Fire..............................................................72
Chapter I.........................................................73
Chapter II........................................................80
Chapter III.......................................................87
Chapter IV.......................................................90
Chapter V........................................................93
Chapter VI.......................................................98
Table of Contents
Chapter VII....................................................107
Chapter VIII...................................................113
Chapter IX.....................................................116
Chapter X......................................................120
Part III: Air.............................................................125
Chapter I.......................................................126
Chapter II......................................................134
Chapter III.....................................................138
Chapter IV.....................................................143
Chapter V......................................................148
Chapter VI.....................................................153
Chapter VII....................................................159
Chapter VIII...................................................163
Chapter IX.....................................................169
Chapter X......................................................182
Part IV: Earth.........................................................187
Chapter I.......................................................188
Chapter II......................................................192
Chapter III.....................................................198
Table of Contents
Chapter IV.....................................................202
Chapter V......................................................206
Chapter VI.....................................................210
Chapter VII....................................................214
Chapter VIII...................................................218
Chapter IX.....................................................224
Chapter X......................................................229
Collinson Fair
This page copyright © 2006 Silk Pagoda.
http://www.silkpagoda.com
• Part I: Water
• Chapter I
• Chapter II
• Chapter III
• Chapter IV
• Chapter V
• Chapter VI
• Chapter VII
• Chapter VIII
• Chapter IX
• Chapter X
• Part II: Fire
• Chapter I
• Chapter II
• Chapter III
• Chapter IV
• Chapter V
• Chapter VI
• Chapter VII
• Chapter VIII
• Chapter IX
• Chapter X
• Part III: Air
• Chapter I
• Chapter II
• Chapter III
• Chapter IV
• Chapter V
• Chapter VI
• Chapter VII
• Chapter VIII
• Chapter IX
• Chapter X
• Part IV: Earth
• Chapter I
• Chapter II
• Chapter III
• Chapter IV
• Chapter V
• Chapter VI
• Chapter VII
• Chapter VIII
• Chapter IX
• Chapter X
Part I: Water
Chapter I
Nate leapt from junk rail to the dock of a city afire.

Around him the gutters retched, sewer mouths
overstuffed with animal carcass, human waste and
blood. Above, white leaflets hung down in narrow
strips, their writings an impassioned plea for justice,
here and there characters Nate could
recognize—“Tung Meng Hui,” one of the few phrases
he knew. Across the street, smoke arose from one of
many bonfires set inside or outside of buildings.
Screams could be heard everywhere, with the
occasional rifle shot and a blast vaguely reminiscent
of artillery shells.
Canton hadn't changed.
Nate looked back, dodged the thrown satchel that
nearly took his head off, waved to his ferryman as
the pilot whirled his craft around and sped down the
Pearl River. Clutching his bag between waist and the
giant forearms that'd earned him his most recent
stage of unemployment, Nate strolled along looking
for a seaman's mission, ignoring the shouts, pleas
and violence that flared up in his wake. It was near
nightfall, and he'd have to hit Shamian Island soon or

the gates would come crashing down.
That small city, a foreigner's enclave for over 50
years, was his destination. His goal. After having
been kicked out of every other coastal city in the
region for a litany of acts of insubordination,
dereliction of duty, and drunkenness, Canton, 30
years past its heyday as a trading port, was Nate's
only hope.
He kept himself focused as he walked. He didn't
pause at the ruckus emanating from a few seaman's
lounges he'd visited once on flush days and stayed
in through tapped nights. Girls at the windows didn't
tempt him. The teenagers forcing themselves his
way, offering any number of instant pleasures, flesh
or otherwise, he waved off with a nod. A new leaf
was turning, and he'd need to keep things together.
For a while, Nate thought wistfully as he forced his
gaze away from a particularly inviting tavern. Until
the kitty was big enough to send him home again.
One of Shamian's bridges now lay in his sight, at
the far end of the waterfront. Plenty of time to make
it, Nate told himself—barely time, he corrected as he
felt his feet turning away. He'd been out to sea too
long. The best thing now, given that pay dispute, was
to sit among the comforts of home.
Nate imagined himself settling in with the fine
crop of British ladies, who ran their houses in an
fashion as orderly as Canton was chaotic. They'd sit
for tea, then. He'd regale them with stories of brazen
adventures. They'd applaud his courage, cast sly
glances at the muscles in his arms. A blacksmith,
yes, but a well−read one. “Call me Pip,” he'd say to
the one who'd cast her eyes on him with thoughts of
marriage.
Not ready yet for tea, he thought to himself. His
clothing was tattered, grimy from the coal fires of his
engineering post. His face, he knew, carried as much
dirt. A bath, then, would be his first objective inside
Shamian. Then the laundry. He was sure they'd have
good laundry.
Musing this way, his great size and singleness of
purpose chasing away the last of the streetside
barkers, Nate almost missed the woman on the
pavement. But something brought his eyes to hers.
Perhaps it was the body she kneeled over, a man
injured somehow. Badly, no doubt. The one lying

down didn't seem like he just dropped off to dirt
whenever the mood hit. And anyway, it was too close
to the nice part of town to be that drunk that early.
Maybe it was the guards that drew Nate's eye.
Two dozen of them, standing around the woman, six
in a close circle, the rest holding a kind of formation
that kept a gathering crowd at bay.
No, it wasn't the guards, realized Nate when he
reflected on the incident. It was the woman
herself—lithe, youngish, the quality of her robe
indicating a measure of gentility to her station, if not
outright nobility. It was the way she carried
herself—none of the demure allowances he
expected from well−bred girls, whatever their
nationality. Something about that woman, the way
she stared down the fierce guardsman, their
bayonets out and pointed near her, the way she
glanced over in his direction briefly, and seemed to
catch his eye, caused Nate to deviate from the path.
He dropped his satchel to the edge of the dock
and strode over towards the woman as the
wrought−iron gates of Shamian Island's bridges
began to come down. He gave a backhanded growl

at the beggars who moved toward his satchel,
indicating that he did remember faces and would find
them. He'd nearly crossed the street as the debate
between lady and head guard reached some kind of
impasse and the two stood apart for a moment. He
was ready to shriek a cry of warning as the guard's
hands reached behind for some nefarious errand.
Nate stifled that shout as the woman leapt five feet in
the air, brought her legs out, and in a flash of
delicate silk gown and elegant slipper, nearly took
the head of the guardsman who'd been troubling her
with a flying kick.
It was a thing of wonder, her jump, higher than
anything Nate had seen outside the circus. As a
tactical maneuver, he considered it unprecedented.
The power of surprise and its resultant effectiveness
like something straight out of an old general's
manual or memoir.
However, there were still two dozen other
guardsmen who quickly moved to surround the lady,
forming a circle. Nate cringed as they swept closer,
saw her knock back one, another in a flurry of fist
and foot. None were incapacitated by her. They

proceeded cautiously. This event would have only
one outcome.
Nate watched as his knuckles connected with the
forehead of the guardsmen nearest. The fellow
crumpled. Two more came, Nate attempted to join
their heads together via fusion under heavy
pressure. They combine permanently, but separated
on contact with the earth. Nate sniffed. Three guards
now turned their full attention to his grubby
personage. They stood at 45 degree angles to each
other, organized now, connecting with blows.
Nate felt rather than saw the speed of their attack.
Pretty good, all of them. They pulled back as he
charged, moved forward as he stepped back,
connecting 20 times for each glancing blow he could
lay. Nate made like a log, rolled at their feet. All three
jumped over him. Then spun and quickly came
forward, aiming to kick a man while he was down.
Nate got lucky, grabbed a leg. Then, like an
overeager kid before Christmas, he broke his new
toy before he could play with it. The fellow howled.
His companions, stunned, moved again towards
Nate, 135 degree angle, fists punching, feet flying.

Nate bowed his head into the hail of jabs that rained
down. He caught one wrist, another. Arms twisted.
Men shrieked. Four down. He turned to the lady, saw
seven others lying incapacitated. Nate wondered if
his aid had been necessary. The remaining
guardsmen backed off from the two of them. The
woman smiled at Nate for a moment, pointed to the
differently dressed gent lying on the ground, shouted
“get him!” to Nate, in solid English.
Nate, stunned, obliged, pulling the unfortunate
into a fireman's carry. The woman took off at a run,
her gown whipping up and giving Nate an eyeful of
ankle. He trotted along quickly to the sound of rifles
being loaded, zigzagging over to the spot on the
dock where his bag lay. One life perched above his
shoulders, another clutched against his side, Nate
followed his newfound leader.
Not pausing a moment, she raced along the
docks, now and then glancing back at Nate, shouting
at him to hurry up. What little of the Chinese
vocabulary he knew he'd picked up from sailors and
cooks. She must have had the same teachers. Nate
sped up as much as he could. His companion was

hard to follow, now on the ground, now leaping over
the carts and vagabonds that marked Canton's
harbor. She waved out to something in the water,
hopefully a way out of this, Nate prayed.
This dream came true as Nate heard the woman
cursing someone else out for a change. He saw a
flag wave towards them, a craft veered in their
direction, keeping up its speed, tangent to some
point on the harbor where all would meet. Behind
Nate, rifles sounded. He felt a fly buzz along his arm,
saw blood, increased his pace, stumbled, considered
the move timely as a few iron insects soared by
where his torso had been.
He was too big a target.
Fortunately the boat was there. The woman leapt,
skirt of her robe sliding up gracefully as she landed
safely, ease of her motion concealing the difficulty
and impossible distance traveled. Nate hustled
along, tossed his satchel to one set of outstretched
arms, then gave a barnyard shotput to the man he
carried.
More shots. Nate felt stinging pain in his rear as
he leapt. He missed the boat, hit the water with a

splash, tried to swim, noted with curiosity that he
could no longer move his right arm.
Then he blacked out.
Chapter II
Nate awoke in a room draped with hangings,

silken tapestries depicting characters and images,
gold thread characters on hand−wrought fabric. He
understood none of it. Attempting to rise, he
discovered his right side didn't respond. Turning, he
observed pins emanating from his the shoulder.
Nate shrieked when a cursory glance located the
same pins spread all along his body, sporting little
ribbons in cheerful solid colors that only accentuated
his horror. They'd gotten him, he decided. That
woman had raced off with her burden, cast him aside
like an old mule, and now he'd be tortured until he
talked, though there was no information he could
offer to survive.. Nate looked for his feet, found he
couldn't move his legs either. He lifted his neck, tried
to discover where was bound, to see if he could do
something to loosen the ropes.
His captors were thorough; he couldn't even see
whatever it was that held him to the bed. Nate
dropped his head back, deciding he'd need time to
figure some way out of this.
Lying still, he noticed a mural on the ceiling. A

two−legged lion was there, travelling from one side
of the room to the other, impaling dragons with a
pitchfork, turning its hand into crazy fists, besting
everyone it saw, human and otherwise. Nate's eyes
glazed over as the creatures chased each other
round and round into his dreams.
***
Nate awoke to a pair of almond eyes, gentle in
expression, perched less than six inches from his
own. They belonged to a male, young, Asian
physique and hair wrapped in a Western orderly's
uniform, white pants, shirt, shoes. Disturbed by the
proximity, Nate raised his arms to shove the fellow
away.
Nothing doing; he was still tied down.
“Speak English?” Nate asked harshly.
The guy just nodded.
“Name?” asked Nate. “Name?” he said more
loudly, believing volume would eradicate the puzzled
expression on the other's face. The man stepped
back at least. Nate raised his head up, saw more of
the pins sticking out. Now his chest was full of them.
A vague hint of incense filled the air. Looking more

closely, Nate decided he was on fire.
“Water!” shouted Nate, disgusted and afraid. The
Cantonese looked back at him, dully. Nate wondered
why he wasn't in pain. Suddenly, he feared paralysis.
Guns had been fired, after all. He wondered about
gangrene. Maybe they were cutting him up. After all,
he couldn't see or feel his legs. Maybe that was it.
The damned river, dirty as hell. Country dirty too.
Dirty and rotten, all of it. All of them. He offered a few
choice words describing that woman who'd gotten
him into this. The orderly stood there. Puzzled, but
perhaps getting the gist through tone.
Nate'd been strong all his life. He'd boxed on
ships, smashed erratic boilers into submission with
his fists, sealed cracks in a hull with a torch in one
hand, sheet metal in the other, clinging the side of
great ships with leg strength and pride. He sank back
into oblivion imagining himself scuttling through
Canton, legless, on a cart. Begging change.
***
There were others in the room when Nate awoke.
Coyly, silently, they stared at him. Nate lifted his
head to get a better look, felt his torso accompany

the motion. Dully, Nate reached down, pulled the
cover off his legs. They looked in order, here and
there beset by scratches, particularly above the
knee. There was a bandage in his right calf.
“Who stitched me up?” he asked. Silence. Gabby
room, thought Nate.
“Who stitched me up?” he repeated. Then,
pointing more slowly to his leg, he looked around
and said, loudly: “who doctor?” Enunciating each
syllable in turn utilizing his well−developed personal
lingua franca.
Still nothing. They stared.
Nate looked to the closest one, stepped from the
bed, reaching over to grab one of them and enhance
conversation. The fellow pulled back a bit, and Nate
toppled with the discovery that his right leg wasn't yet
up to his weight. He fell to the floor with a crash,
upsetting a tray of food that lay there beside his
couch.
It was in this position, with lukewarm noodles on
his head and broth coursing down his right side, that
the woman walked in, accompanied by a man many
years her senior. Nate stared at her, wondering if this

was her father. Something about the walk they took,
almost side−by−side, not the right way, as Nate
remembered it. Distance was required. Respect.
Everything in its order, workers in their place, family
in single file, gweilo on the floor covered in with
soup.
His day was about to get worse, Nate knew.
The old man looked at Nate for a moment, barked
an order, and suddenly arms and bodies flew all
around as the assembled crew at once cleaned Nate
up, changed his soiled clothing, and thrust him back
into bed. The process was as gentle as it was
efficient. These were an army of medical staff,
competent in their way. Nate thought about getting
angry, decided if it'd been one or another ship's
doctors he'd known doing the caretaking, there'd be
a separate bit of Nate lying in another room, leg or
arm maybe that he wouldn't see again until the burial
time came. And that burial would be soon, Nate was
sure.
Nate nodded towards the woman's companion.
“Ni−hao,” he said in greeting. The companion
glanced back, nodded in return. Nate saw a flash of

pigtail behind the fellow's otherwise bald head. Bit of
white in the dark hair. Something you didn't see
much on the mainland anymore.
“That didn't work so good,” grumbled Nate,
staring down at the leg that failed him. “When will it
be better?” he asked more loudly.
Pigtail strode closer, lifted Nate's new gown,
stared at the leg for a moment.
“It should be ready for your weight in a few days,”
said the doc. “I apologize for my lack of skill. I've had
little experience with men your size. I ask
forgiveness for any discomfort these clumsy hands
have caused you.”
“Few days?” repeated Nate, brightening. “Doc,
forget about it. You've done well for yourself in giant
country.” Nate sat back, please with himself. “Out in
a few days,” he said, mostly to himself.
“I'm afraid you will not be able to leave us for
some time,” the doctor began.
“What?” said Nate, glancing down at the fists
which exploded from the sleeves of his too−tight
dressing gown like double−helpings of mashed
potatoes stuffed into a teacup.

“You are of course able to leave,” the doctor
continued, polite as all hell. “However the Canton
police believe you to be a dangerous foreign
revolutionary, an anarchist, and have issued orders
to shoot you on sight. There are posters with your
description around the city, and a large price for your
head.”
“Huh?” This information took some time to gel in
Nate's brain. “But I can still sneak out at night? Get
to Shamian...”
“The officials at Shamian have already spoken
with the Canton authorities concerning you,” said the
doctor patiently. “They've indicated no desire to
house trouble−makers on their peaceful island.”
Their was spoken angrily, Nate realized. “They will
not give you sanctuary, and have agreed to turn you
over to the authorities as an example should you
arrive there... for punishment and execution.”
“Brits,” said Nate. “Brits.”
“I'm sure this must be confusing to you,”
continued the doctor, his head very close to Nate's,
eyes full of sympathy. “My wife can better explain,”
said the healer, motioning insistently to the woman

that she come forward.
Nate looked over. Wife. She strode calmly, a bit
apologetically. The husband said something to her in
Chinese. She nodded. Turned again to Nate.
“I fear,” she began... haltingly.
“What are you afraid of?”
“I fear I have gotten you into trouble,” she said.
“How's that?”
“The police, they do not admit that I was there...
that a woman could beat them. The officers said
they'd been attacked by a giant. You saved our Gi
Fong,” she continued, but...”
“Yeah?”
“You saved face for the officers as well. They
cannot be expected to win in battle against one so...
large as you.”
“I'm just helping everybody today.” Nate was
silent for a moment. “So, since I can walk again, how
the hell do I get out of here?”
The doctor and his wife looked at Nate, then at
each other for a time. Finally she spoke.
“It is possible,” she began...
“Yeah?”
“Many things are... smuggled into Canton,” she
said. “We can perhaps smuggle something out.”
“What you been bringing in?”
“Another time,” said the woman. “You need to
rest.” And she, the doctor, and the bulk of their crew
filed out.
At the door, she turned to him.
“I want... to thank you for your assistance. It was
a very... decent thing you did. A favor I would never
have expected... from a foreigner. You saved that
man's life.
But not yours, thought Nate.
“Don't mention it,” he said aloud. “But one thing
you can do for me?”
“We are delighted to oblige you in anything you
might desire,” said the physician.
“Tell me, where the heck am I?”
“My apologies, sir. My name is Dr. Wong Fei
Hung. This is my clinic, Po Chi Lam. My wife, whose
acquaintance you have received already, is Mok
Gwai Lan. We welcome you to Canton.”
Some other names were mentioned, Nate
couldn't keep track of the bowing heads and their

relations to the doc. Then the troop filed out, leaving
him to rest.
Chapter III
Further recuperation took several days. Nate

gazed at his ceiling coliseum idly, changed clothes
with a sadly all−male nursing staff, met with the
doctor once each evening, and ate rice and
vegetables with chopsticks.
That last was a killer. He knew the use of
chopsticks, the little slips of wood fitting into his
hands like oversized toothpicks, but the food Nate
received after expending so much effort... a lame
reward.
“A better diet for better healing and the welfare of
the spirit,” said Dr. Fei Hung. “We must do all we can
to keep the weight off your injured leg. There is no
better way than to remove some of the weight. You
will benefit from this very much.”
The second morning, Nate awoke, gladdened to
find a few English books for his entertainment. One
was a sailing title that he read and re−read, the other
something called Dream of Red Chamber,
translation about a guy and a girl and a wicked
stepmother. Thing was hard to read, but his nurse,
seeing Nate about to hurl the thing across the room,

looked at it, at him, said “classic−uh,” so Nate stuck
with the title, its many precious characters, and their
blossoms.
Monotony ruled the day, save for a loud battle
that took place in the mornings. Nate would awaken
to shouts, clatterings, the hollow clacks bamboo
makes when whacked against flesh. There were a
few screams here and there.
When he felt well enough, he asked his attendant
if a windowed view might be possible. First few times
guy thought Nate wanted a toilet, but eventually he
was carted down the hall to a full−sized glass that
overlooked the clinic's courtyard.
Enormous place, Nate thought to himself. Before
him, down three storeys, were three dozen men.
Gwai Lan stood at their center, wearing a red robe.
Next to her, a young man in black balanced on one
leg, his other held upwards at an impossible angle,
while arms were spread out for balance or, Nate
thought, in an eastern sample of that magician's
move which showed no ropes.
She was pointing to the man's leg for a crowd of
onlookers. Dozens of men, in lines of four, staring,

some nodding politely, others as still as trained
soldiers. Nate saw their faces, men as old as 50, he
guessed, or young as 15. All standing there, taking
orders from a Chinese woman.
Fei Hung lay down at the courtyard's end, legs
and back flat against the ground, oblivious to all that
took place around him. On word from Gwai Lan, the
men spread into a circle, stretched arms and legs,
began fighting.
Nate watched, bemused, as the woman flitted in
and around the combatants, slashing at this one,
barking at that, a dainty shepherd that nonetheless
slapped thrusting hands aside, knocking down a man
who'd gotten too cocky and left himself exposed. The
lady could hold her own, a fact affirmed by session's
end, when all the men attempted to take her down
through the art. Unsuccessfully. Defeated, they lay
on the ground like excess railroad ties.
Last match ended, a new hour sounded, and the
whole crew left the courtyard, save Fei Hung, who
still lay sprawled on the ground. Nate stared at the
man, wondered how he dealt with it, a wife, younger,
yet so physically... vibrant. Be hard to come home

drunk if you had to face her, he decided.
Finally, bored with the man just sitting there, Nate
signaled the attendant, rode back to his bed, drank
more of the evil−smelling potion the doc had foisted
on him, and slept most of the day.
Chapter IV
Gwai Lan visited that evening. Nate awoke

sometime after her arrival. Her eyes, focused on him,
were an almond pool, with healing edges and a
mysterious center. Heck of a way to start the night,
those things staring down at you.
“Hello,” Nate said. His torso springing upright.
“Hello,” she said back. Then nothing for a
moment.
“Nice night,” said Nate, taking a deep breath and
inhaling the Canton air. It was peaceful, with a sweet
breeze from the river chasing away the stench of the
city.
“Yes... I suppose so.”
“Yeah.”
“I wanted to thank you.”
“You did already. You're welcome.”
“No, I wanted to thank you... and, explain to you...
what you did there.”
“Pulled a guy out of the fire, put myself in it.
Happens.”
“What made you come... to my assistance?” she
asked.
“I'm a sucker for a woman in distress.”
“Is it not... damsel?”
“Guess so. Couldn't tell you were married. Too far
away.”
“Yes. Yes, I was. You are strange, for a
foreigner.”
“You mean, a big nose? Yeah, I guess I am.”
“That island, it was... sanctuary to you. Home?”
“Don't have a home.”
“Family?”
“Pa died before I was born. Ma when I was
seven. I lived in orphanages in California. Learned
the engineer's trade. Shipped out at 13.”
“And no one... has been for you since?”
“Nope.”
“That's a lonely life you lead, Nate. I can't imagine
life without family. I grew up in a large family. When I
married Fei Hung, I joined an even larger one. And
this place, his patients, his students... they are my
family.”
“I saw you out there. You're a good mother hen.”
“A what?”
“Hen. A female chicken. Makes sure all the chicks

are doing OK. Bet you can give them a great pecking
if they fall out of line.” Nate, normally an animated
speaker, accentuated this last with a few motions of
his head.
Gwai Lan laughed at this. Then the two were
laughing together, staring at each other. Goofy, Nate
thought.
“That man you rescued. He was... from
Singapore.”
“Yes.”
“My husband didn't know about him.”
“Some friend of yours?” asked Nate. Very
interested suddenly in Gwai Lan's extracurricular
activities.
“Yes. No. Not friend. Not like that. He...”
“Yes.”
“I should not tell you. This is... not appropriate.”
“What? I'm a foreigner. Just think of us asking
rude questions all the time. I do anyway. Don't know
how to act with people.”
“Well, he was a friend, of my son.”
“Your son?”
“Fei Hung's Seventh Son.”

“Right. How many sons that guy have?”
“Counting our two... Fei Hung has 10 sons.”
“A base ball team. With a spare.”
“Yes. What?”
“Nothing. I'll explain some other time. OK, so your
son's friend is in trouble, you bail him out.”
“Right. No. I was...”
“Not your friend?”
“Not really.”
“And the Seventh Son? He couldn't be there?”
“He was there. He couldn't help. Not... not like I
can help. Not... like you can help. He left. To find the
boat. I stayed.”
“Fei Hung teach you to fight like that?”
“Yes.”
“He's a good teacher, with that stuff?”
“Yes,” Gwai Lan smiled. “He is a very good
teacher of that 'stuff'...”
“And you? You're a teacher?”
“Yes. I am teacher.”
“Are there a lot of women teachers like that in
Canton?”
“No. I am only one. Almost. Fei Hung and I have

had other students. Women students. It is not...
common.”
“Right. So you didn't need me there?”
“Yes. No. No, I needed you there. It was so kind
of you to help. And so... puzzling. Fei Hung has
never heard of a foreigner intervening here. Priest,
yes, they stand in middle when fight. But why
foreigner comes to help in Chinese dispute. We
cannot say.”
“Makes two of us. Fate. Or something.”
“Yes. Fate.”
“And your son? Where is he?”
“Seventh Son? He has left the clinic. He did not
return.”
“So you want to go and search for him?”
“No. I cannot. It would make Fei Hung... angry.”
“Why?”
“He does not like... what Seventh Son do.”
“And what does Seventh Son do?”
“Revolution.”
Nate stared at the woman for a moment.
“Sounds like a tough job,” he said.
“Yes... it. Seventh...”

“Yes,” said Nate, encouraging.
“Seventh Son is not able to make revolution well.
He was not taught by Fei Hung.”
“Why not? Heck, if I'd had a dad growing up, and
he could teach me to fight, Id a learned like nothing.”
“Yes. Fei Hung no teach Seventh Son. He only
teach three sons. First son, he teach. First son get
into fight. First son die. Fei Hung say, 'never teach
again unless need to.'“
“OK. So the other two?”
“They need it. They could die without teach. But
no revolution. Others, want to fight. Fei Hung, he not
always there. Fight for them. Boy must be man.”
“Right. But all boys... we all must be men...”
“You say. But Fei Hung say, other sons, they no
need to fight. He teach them to fight, they fight.
Every man, want to fight, son of Fei Hung. Earn...
honors. Come from far and way, Fei Hung say, to
fight son of Fei Hung. You understand?
“Yeah. OK. So he's not teaching them. What do
they—other sons. What do they do?”
“One teacher. One study. In America. He lawyer
some day. One learn building. Wood. Like that.”

“Kids are into the trades. Fine. Fine. And Seventh
Son?”
“Fei Hung think he smartest son. He no learn to
fight. He pass examination. Learn much else. Study.
But he no work. Not serve emperor. Say emperor
corrupt. Whole empire. Say it betrayed China. Let...”
She stopped. Looked at Nate.
“Seventh Son say empire weak. Old. Let the
foreigners in. Let them claim China. Say we are
servants to foreigner.
“Yeah. So he wants us all to go.”
“Yes. No. Not yet. Some day. Foreigners must go.
Can do business here. But not... not like Shamian
Island, Shanghai, concessions,” she enunciated the
syllables of the English word deliberately. “Not have
own law here. Everyone... China law.”
“We said that ourselves. Americans. Fei Hung
doesn't approve of this?”
“He say empires come. Get weak. New empire.
He... tradition. He keep the queue—the hair, you
know? Illegal now have long hair. I don't question
him. He great man. And my husband.”
“And Seventh Son?”

“He want to fight. Listens to Doctor Sun Yat Sen.
Singapore. Gets messages from there. That what
boy brought. That you saved. Boy was bringing
message from Singapore. They capture him.
“I'm in the thick of this. Ain't I?” She was staring at
him, puzzled. “Never mind. How'd you get in the
mix?”
“I knew—mother knows. I knew Seventh Son
going to do something. He not hide it well. I follow
him. I see him look for boy. See boy hurt by soldiers.
They were... found. Seventh Son try to help. I run,
tell him go, get Fei Hung. I protect boy. I am nurse.
Soldiers must let me... But they didn't.”
“And the message got there?”
“Yes.”
“And the boy?”
“He is fine. But he will not... revolution. Not for
some time. Seventh Son is missing. I cannot watch
him now.”
“What can Seventh Son do, without his father
teaching?”
“He can fire a gun,” said the woman. And both
were silent. Nate, calmly, seeing the maternal

instinct this one possessed, her brazen attachment
to her family, even her adopted children, mentally
lambasted himself, ever thinking the woman was
available. Gwai Lan's thoughts were unknowable.
Her eyes calm and trusting, however.
Nate sighed, bringing his legs together on the
bed. He could stretch them out now. They'd be ready
for his weight—his reduced weight—in a day or two.
“So what was the message?”
“I... not know. It is secret. All of it. Seventh Son
belong, secret society. Secret members. Secret
writing. Very dangerous, what they do. What he do.”
“And he doesn't know how to fight?”
“No.”
“Can he run?”
Gwai Lan laughed. “Very fast,” she said. “When
he was younger, Fei Hung say, no fight. Learn run.”
“That's a gift then.”
“Yes. But where he run too? For trouble? Or away
from trouble? I no think Seventh Son... has
direction.”
“Boys. They never do. What's your idea about this
'revolution'?” asked Nate, changing the subject.

“I...” she looked at Nate questioningly.
“It's OK. I can take it.”
“Canton has fought against the foreigners who
brought opium to China.”
“Yeah. That was the British.”
“And others,” Gwai Lan said fiercely. “Germans,
French, Americans... and they destroyed our
Summer Palace—”
“Wasn't me,” Nate said helpfully.
“And they take island from China,” the woman
continued. Say China island their island now. No
Chinese allowed.”
“Gets worse in Shanghai.”
“Yes. No Chinese allowed park. No Chinese
allowed some streets. I don't like this. No Chinese
likes this.”
“Got ya.”
“But it's not foreigner—it is foreigner. But our
emperor, he left us weak. His men, they take taxes.
They take bribes. But we cannot tell foreigner to go.
We are not advanced. Foreigner has guns. Ships.
Japan came.”
“Yeah.”
“I want China to be strong again. But I not think,
Fei Hung not think, we can... be democracy. Must be
patient. Seventh Son, he think we must have
democracy now, for China to be stronger. You, do
you like democracy?”
“Where I live, you need money to do things.
People with money get a better life. It ain't been all
that hot for me. But I guess it's better. They say so.”
“You are not sure.”
“Everybody talks great about their hometown,
right? I left that place a long time ago.”
“Yes, you are the one without a home.”
“And I'm not the best guy to tell you what a grand
place it is. Some good and bad. Right now, I'm not
that fond of it.”
“Fei Hung went to America.”
“Really.”
“Yes. He stayed at the—Hawaii—you call it?
Islands.”
“That's the place. He like it?”
“He came back.”
They stared at each other in silence. Outside, the
cacophony of the city stilled. Nate thought he heard

birds chirping from far beyond the din.
“So can I see that boy tomorrow? The one we
pulled out?”
“Yes,” she said. “I think he would like that.”
“Great,” said Nate. “Give me something to look
forward too.” As he watched Gwai Lan's flowing body
delicately exit his room, Nate felt the pain of two
bullet wounds for the first time since his stay at the
hospital again. Sleep came fitful that night.
Chapter V
Raucous shouts greeted Nate early the following

morning. All around him, the orderlies of the hospital
were milling, shouting at one another, carving up
space in the ground of what had been 'til then a
private room, bringing injured, soldiers by the look of
it, uniforms spattered with blood.
Nate waited, finally got the eye of one staffer to
let him know the original occupant was awake. Guy
came over.
“Much sorry, sir. Very big bandit strike outside of
town. Fei Hung has no room spare. Lot of works to
do.”
“No problem. I'll just keep out of the way.”
“Thank sir. Very good. Fei Hung be here soon.”
“Time enough for that.”
The rest of the morning Nate relaxed, his ears
getting an opportunity to catch the wonderful ways
Chinese people could curse. Compared against his
own budding lexicon the tones weren't that
comprehensible, but Nate did catch one thing about
dung−drenched water snakes, from a grunt who'd
gotten some shot lodged in his hindquarters, that

Nate figured he'd keep with himself always.
Fei Hung didn't hit the room during the day. But
others did, and he thought Gwai Lan came through
the haze, hard to tell. Though the noise was getting
on his nerves, Nate was somewhat glad of the
company, and he figured himself and his new
bunkmates could tell stories about the animals on
the ceiling.
Then one of the patients started staring at Nate. It
wasn't the staring that bothered, so much. Nate was
a big guy, China a land of curious, smaller people.
But there was something unfriendly about the looks
Nate was getting.
The patient began jabbering quickly, might not
have even been Cantonese he was speaking.
Suddenly two sets of eyes were on Nate. Then four.
Then a fifth, and this last one could walk.
Nate looked to an orderly, but among the milling
bodies around he didn't see any familiar faces. Two
were walking towards Nate now. One fingered the
area around his belt. Drawing a blade? Nate couldn't
be sure. A show of force was mandatory.
Nate pulled his torso upright, swung his legs over,

stood on his own two feet. The pain was
excruciating. He looked down at his two new
companions. They were jabbering loudly. Nate
couldn't understand. He picked one man up with his
left arm, held him high in the air, head of the human
obscuring the head of the lion on the ceiling in Nate's
vision.
Nate made a big show of puzzlement, holding the
guy there and treating him to a quizzical, childlike
expression, a gaze full of innocence and teeth. The
other fellow was closing in on Nate's leg, so he
picked this one up too. And stood there, holding both
men, until they became very quiet.
The room had become quiet. Nate holding the
two men, all activity outside ceased. Nate looked
over, saw Fei Hung had entered.
“Is this a typical greeting of foreigners?” the
doctor asked.
“They wanted a closer look at me. I thought I'd
'em the top side,” grunted Nate.
Fei Hung barked out a few commands in
Cantonese. Nate couldn't make it out, but he thought
the words “sanctuary” were uttered. The two men in

Nate's grasp managed to look even more
embarrassed and afraid, the blood rushing from their
faces.
“You may put them down now,” said Fei Hung.
“They remember the rules of my clinic.”
“Fair enough,” said Nate, and stepping forward
with his burden, he gently lay down the first man on
a bit of white floor padding that some orderly had
provided. A second padding was unrolled, and a
second man deposited. Both the suddenly supine
individuals stared in awe, captivated by Nate's great
strength.
But more, Nate realized, were they impressed by
Fei Hung.
Fei Hung was at the door. “It is good to see your
progress,” he said. “This evening—sometime—we
can walk together.”
“Sure.”
“And,” added Fei Hung as he moved down the
hall, “look to other accommodations for you, though
I'm sure you will have no further difficulties here.” Fei
Hung gave a meaningful glance to the soldiery on his
floor. They looked away. Abashed.

“Right.”
Nate spent the afternoon in silence, now and then
glaring at his temporary bunkmates.
Chapter VI
It was a cool evening when Fei Hung again

arrived. Accompanied by two hospital attendants, the
doctor visited his newest patients first, checking out
stitches, discerning body temperature, and making a
number of gestures and motions Nate couldn't
fathom.
After a time, Fei Hung strolled over. Nate was
sitting up, testing his leg gingerly. He stood on both
legs, wrapped himself in a makeshift garment
generated via a pair of silken sheets joined together
that one of the orderlies had left for him. They exited
in tandem. Not a sound could be heard from the
remaining occupants.
Fei Hung walked slowly. Nate followed as best he
could. Neither said anything for a while. Nate
watched his feet carefully on the wood floor. Left.
Ow. Right. Left. Ow. Right. He gave no indication of
the pain he felt.
Fei Hung was unimpressed with this show of
bravery. Instead he picked up the pace. Only long
strides kept Nate from falling further behind.
Confident with his stride, Nate snuck a glance at the

ornate tapestries which lay on either side of the
hallway. Wild pictures some, serene lakes others.
Couldn't figure a reason for the layout, but it all came
off organized somehow.
Maybe they put different patients by different
rooms... soldiers out back, businessmen in front,
gweilo on the roof. Fair enough.
The doctor looked over.
“Our medicine is strange to you, yes?”
“It worked.”
“I'm glad. But you must forgive my lack of skill.
The two bullets you absorbed were, as you say,
clean wounds. You should have been up much
sooner.”
“How long I been out, anyway?”
“Three weeks from the time of arrival until you
first spoke to us. It is now two weeks from that day?”
“Three weeks?” Nate was stunned. Canton was a
tropical city. Hard to tell seasons. And he hadn't seen
a moon.
“Too long? You must forgive us...”
“Nah, ain't a big deal. Nice enough to have people
watch over you.”

“Yes. Well, you will come to New Year, then. It is
our important holiday.”
“Ain't that the one that's a week after Christmas?”
“No, we have a different calendar from you. But if
you're lucky, we will let you dress as a goat.” Nate
looked askance at the physician. “It is a great honor.
There are only five goats.”
Nate began to wonder if the doctor was laughing
at him. Something in the man's eyes spoke of a
private joke with the world But there was sadness
there too, Nate realized. The hallway ended. They
were on a balcony, overlooking the courtyard Nate
had seen before.
“We will house you in the rooms across the way.
There are windows from which you can see the river.
And a corner view of the city as well. I hope you
forgive our modest accommodation.”
“Hey, no prob. I like the waterfront. Always stuff to
see”
“Yes. There are things happening there.” Fei
Hung, casually, descended a flight of stairs. Putting
as much of his weight on the railing as he trusted the
wooden banister to hold, Nate followed. Left. Ow.

Right. Ow. Left. Right. Ow. Ow. Then he stumbled.
Fei Hung, though a small man, turned, sent one
arm up, captured the bulk of Nate's body in his palm,
held him until Nate could stabilize himself.
Equilibrium restored, Nate realized he was drenched
in his own sweat. Fei Hung stood serene and
unaffected by the exertion, but looked at Nate
piteously.
“We will rest, then,” the doctor said. “I admire your
progress and courage.”
From his seat on the steps, Nate looked Fei Hung
over. “I admire your strength. And will never arm
wrestle you for money.”
“You are giving me too much respect. I am a
student of the principles of leverage,” laughed the
doctor. Nate caught his breath. The two began their
descent once more. Nate, thinking they'd gone miles,
looked back, gauged distance traveled at less than
200 feet. Once they reached ground he picked up
the pace, then realized he wasn't sure which end of
the compound he was headed to.
The doctor pointed towards a spiraling staircase
near the courtyard's edge. At that distance, Nate

wasn't sure he could fit his bulk inside its narrow
reach.
“Don't worry,” said Fei Hung. “Those steps are
iron. My grandfather built it using the forge here. It
will hold you nicely. And you can work your arms
lifting something besides Chinese guardsmen.” Nate
grunted. The stairs came closer. Nate oozed in, like
a slug between blades of grass. Despite his fears, it
was an easy ascent, with wary hands providing
additional acceleration.
The doctor led him to a chamber beyond the stair.
Rich hangings bedecked the walls, dragons,
warriors, palaces. High−class stuff to pass the hours
staring at. Numerous chests aligned the room, again
in some order. Nate saw the bed, fabric depicting a
giant, ugly soldier standing guard. Something about
the man drew Nate closer in.
“He will help you to sleep,” said Fei Hung.
In the corner were some old photos. One sepia
image caught Nate's eye. It was a group of men,
nearly a dozen, Chinese, all sporting the queue,
looking refined but tough somehow. Nate looked
closer at one man. Never want to say a Chinese

looks like another, but he turned to Fei Hung,
questioning.
“My father,” said the doctor. “He and the Ten
Tigers of Canton. The revolutionary seed of my
family.” Nate peered closely at the daguerreotype.
“This was his room,” the doctor added. “I hope
you will find it to your liking.”
“He was a warrior?” asked Nate.
“Yes.” Answered the doctor, leaving discreetly so
his patient could collapse onto the bedding in the
room's center. “A warrior and a healer. Good night.
Tomorrow we can discuss your situation further, and
see if the presence of my father can give us any
insights as to a proposed course of action.”
“Yeah. OK. Good night,” said Nate.
Chapter VII
It wasn't an evening for sleeping. Scratches below

Nate's floor told him that. The sounds were loudest
right beneath his waist. Rats, Nate mused. Doc ran a
clean ship, but they were right by the river...
He wracked his brain, trying to remember what
sort of rodent China was capable of. Were they big
rats, he wondered. Huge, giant Sumatran things that
not a few Javanese shipmates hinted were good
eating. Or perhaps the smaller rat. Domesticus
rattus, a pet like that old carpenter had had. Crazy
fool, kept it inside his coat, wanted to race the critter
against any and all.
Nate stood up, checked the desks for something
to be used as a weapon, but not so valuable it
couldn't stand the odd bit of animal. He was glancing
inside one of the chests when a trapdoor below his
bed opened, and a small Cantonese head poked out,
barely visible in the moonlight.
“Hello,” said Nate. And he picked the fellow up by
his shoulders and dragged him in.
The man beside him shrieked, horrified at the size
of Nate. For once, being called gweilo made sense,

as Nate was sure his appearance stunned the
interloper, much as a giant devil would freak a priest.
Nate covered the man's mouth with his hand.
“Shh!” he said. “People are sleeping. A whole
troop of soldiers is staying here. Some of them are
healthy.”
The man looked at Nate. Gave a nod that
acknowledged he understood, but otherwise kept
trembling.
“You are foreigner who assist aunt in fighting?” he
said in a staccato English.
“That's me. You the Seventh Son?”
“How you know that?”
“Anybody else I'd get to smack for waking me up.
Way my luck's been going, had to be you here. One
little sneak I don't get the pleasure of smacking. I
heard you down there, let you come up. I was
looking forward to a little smacking.” Nate added
“Sorry disappoint you,” said the man.
“Got a name?” asked Nate, changing the subject.
“I Ting Sen. Why move you here?”
“Why not? They thought I could use a better view.
The sea air is wonderful for my lungs here.”

“It river. Polluted.”
“It is? Well, I'll just have to ask your dad to move
me again. Say I want something closer to the
garbage drop. That'd be better no doubt.”
“You no should stay here.”
“Makes it rough on you, huh? What're you
sneaking in like that for anyway?”
“Father not happy with me.”
“Yeah, well, sons and dads are like that. Always.
How old are you?”
“Thirty−one.”
“Maybe it's time to think about leaving the nest.”
“No. You leave.”
“Love to. But apparently they're looking for me.
Everybody. And it's going to be a hard time hiding
someone of my size. Besides. I love the vegetable
diet.”
“You leave.”
“I don't think you can make me, Ting Sen. Not up
to you in any case. You looking to bed down
somewhere for the night?”
“Can't stay out there. Looking for me. Too.”
“And you've been crashing in here for a while,

right?”
“I... yes. How you know? I keep clean.”
“Too clean. Ought to have been thus. Nobody
stays in this room, right?”
“I not think that.”
“Yeah, well, it's hard to import dust with you.”
“I do next time. Make look unsettled. Like nobody
walk through.
“You mean climb through.”
“What you say.”
“Looks like we got us a standoff.”
“What that?”
“A draw. A stalemate. Two samurais on the
bridge.”
“Pfft. Japan.”
“Don't get along with them?”
“Japan. Bad. China bad lose to Japan. Dishonor.
Weak country.”
“I suppose you'll tell me more about that given
time.”
“Yes. Emperor of China not so strong as Emperor
of Japan...”
“I wasn't trying to encourage it. You got any

money?”
“I... yes. Have money. But no can stay safe place.
All places watched. They are looking. Everywhere,
they are looking.”
“But you can slip in and out at night.”
“Yes. I come and go. But can't stay. Be safe.
Sleep. Here. Sanctuary.”
“Right. So let's see, in your travels, you might, for
example, walk past a store. Or a restaurant. Right?”
“Yes.”
“And they can serve meat. At these restaurants.
Right?”
“Meat. Pork. Chinese eat pork.”
“I'm not Jewish. That's fine. How about chicken?”
“Yes. Of course. Chinese eat chicken.
Restaurants sell chicken. Want live chicken? Dead
chicken?”
“However. Just chicken. Or pork. Or meat. Bring
me some. And you can stay wherever you want.”
“Father no let eat meat?”
“Ting Sen, your father is a cruel, cruel man.
Adding insult to my many injuries.” Nate turned to his
new bunkmate with a sad−dog look.

“No say bad thing about father—so, you want
revolution too?”
“Don't got a horse in this race. I'm just backing
whichever side gives me the grub.”
“That how peasant think.”
“Yeah. Peasants are smart, ain't they? I think
tomorrow's meal should be a nice whole chicken,
simmered, braised ever so lightly, accompanied by a
half−dozen baby brothers. Boiled. And...”
“You too obvious. Father know. Must eat less,”
interrupted Ting Sen with a jab at Nate's belly.
“Yeah, always spend too much at the market if
you're hungry. OK. Just promise to get me what you
can.”
“Is deal. I sleep now.”
“Right. Take the spot by the door.” Ting Sen
looked longingly at the soft bedding. Nate put a
possessive foot on the fabric. “Blankets and pads are
mine and can't be separated. Father know!” said
Nate.
Resignedly, Ting slagged away, dropping his
body with an irritated thud on the floor of the quarters
they now shared. Nate chuckled to himself. He fell

asleep quickly, dreaming of roast chicken. And pork.
And beef. And fish. Even fish.
Chapter VIII
In the morning Nate awoke again to the echo of

scuffling through the floor. First he reached below,
wondering if this was another visitor. As his vision
cleared, he saw Ting Sen through the blur. The man
was performing some kind of martial arts dance.
Nate listened, heard Ting Sen mouthing words.
Realized the same locutions were shouted outside
by a multitude. He got slowly to his feet, discovering
along the way that the pain in his leg was markedly
diminished. Nate walked to the window, saw the
students outside. Gwai Lan led them through a
series of exercises. Chinese calisthenics.
Ting Sen was imitating the motions. Badly.
Nate watched his roommate with a mixture of
amusement and pity. Ting Sen stumbled over
himself on occasion, falling to the floor and cursing.
Nate moved once to help him up from a particularly
messy self−imposed tangle, got cursed out, stood
back and looked on the courtyard to see what Fei
Hung was up to.
The doctor had an active day. Off by himself with
one student in tow, he held a kind of pitchfork and

danced with it. Nate admired the grace of the doctor
who spun his farming implement around, behind,
above, launching into kicks, rolling on the deck,
leaping in the air. He even caught the doc juggling
his stick, shifting it, no hands, behind the back.
The student kept up as best he could, mimicking
the doctor. Their dance was elegant, like dragons at
play. Beside him, Ting Sen was sweating, a wingless
chicken copying the aerial grace of swans. Nate
could barely stand the contrast.
Suddenly a commotion at in the courtyard gate
put an end to Ting Sen's training. Horns blasted. A
troop of Chinese guards in full regalia walked in. Ting
Sen put his exercise on hold, raced to the window
where Nate stood.
“Can not be,” he said. “Him.”
Nate watched as behind the troop strolled an
elegant figure, confident of bearing, acting as though
the stunned gesticulations of Fei Hung's students
were appreciative salutes. The doctor ended his
routine with a flourish, the three−pronged spear
flashing high in the air, captured at the end of a long
somersault. Nate wanted to applaud, held himself for

fear any of the guardsmen, who seemed altogether a
different breed from the ones he'd run into twice now,
might glance up from their position in the courtyard.
“What's going on?” Nate asked Ting Sen.
“Him come here. Must be visit troop.”
“Who him?”
“General Yuan Shih. Worst man ever in China.
Corrupt. Evil. Can no believe father greet without
hand to throat.”
“It's sanctuary, right? All welcome?”
“Yes. But kill serpent in your garden. That man
worst serpent all China.”
Nate took another look at the guy. General was
older, Fei Hung's age, maybe. He'd kept in good
shape, really good, if that confident stride meant
anything. The guy walked toward Fei Hung. Neither
said a word at first. The doctor dropped his stick to
the ground, settled his clothing as he walked to greet
this new guest.
They met in the center of the courtyard.
“Kill him, father,” said Ting Sen. Kill him now.
The troop of soldiers beat their rifles to the ground
in a cadence, spun the weapons in a manner that

would make a fierce drill sergeant beam with pride,
rested their arms to the side and stood at ease.
“Kill him, father,” repeated Ting Sen.
Fei Hung and the general began speaking.
“What are they saying?” asked Nate.
Ting Sen was silent.
“Come on, I want to know.”
Laughing gestures from Fei Hung. The general,
too, cracked a smile. Then the men embraced each
other, stood apart, bowed and began stretching.
Nate reached over to Ting Sen, placed a vise−like
grip on his shoulder, pulled him off his feet and
pressed the man's face to the window.
“What are they saying?” he repeated.
“They to fight. I tell you all,” replied Ting Sen,
wincing.
“Fei Hung say, 'honored general, how come you
to visit our clinic?'“
“Yuan Shih say, 'I am here to pay attention to our
brave sons and defenders of China's honor. I also
wish to give respect to the finest man of medicine in
all Canton. I have heard much about this place.'“
“Fei Hung say, 'it is as the driest blossom of the

desert catches the eye of an emperor. I am too
humbled by your majesty, your brave deeds, to
speak. Forgive my shame at this sorry place.'“
“Yuan Shih say...”
“Forget that crap. Why are they fighting?”
“Is test. Skill. Yuan Shih want know who better.
His rank come from pass test. Only from test.”
“What? You promote the fighters here?”
“Is good way. If no can study. Can fight. Take
position. Make blessed list.”
“We put our champion boxers in New York
hotels,” muttered Nate.
“Long time China do this. Best fighter, he general.
Have great skill.”
“And your father's up to it?”
“Can no lose face. Look.” Yuan Shih had begun
to disrobe, stripping off his regalia and standing
before the crowd in a simple black tunic. Fei Hung
waited patiently, his attire already suited to the
matter at hand. The men began circling.
“If Fei Hung no fight, Fei Hung student fight.
Sometime father let student take place in fight. Or
aunt.” Nate looked over curiously. “Is simple,”

continued Ting Sen. “Fei Hung no want fight
unskilled man. He no fight any man no have to. Not
coward, but if man lose to wife or student, he no
come bother Fei Hung, and few his friends stop by
want revenge. Is loss of face.”
“Huh. Jack Dempsey fought every man in every
town...” began Nate.
“He no doctor with patients,” snapped Ting Sen.
“We hear of this boxing. Father no impressed. Quiet.
They begin.”
Nate gave a quick look around the courtyard. Fei
Hung's students formed a ring, quiet and dignified.
The general's entourage fell back, reclining. There
were jokes among them, a few enterprising soldiers
taking wagers. None of the Po Chi Lam crowd
followed suit, standing respectfully, patiently, silently.
Gwai Lan waited in the corner. Proud of her
husband, Nate saw. And completely unafraid for his
wellbeing.
The two fighters closed.
Chapter IX
Yuan Shih exploded at Fei Hung with a fury that

matched his previous gentility in the overdone
category. Hands, arms, feet swirling, the attack was
monstrous. Fei Hung parried all, standing with his
feet stuck to the ground, treelike. The doctor finally
returned the assault, softly pushing the general back
100 feet or more.
Neither was tired. Nate, watching, turned to Ting
Sen, removed his arm from the latter's shoulder,
indentation of his hand like a bear track in the fabric.
He apologized with his eyes. Ting Sen was
unmoved.
Below them the fight had taken to the air. The
general and the doctor soared above each in whirling
kicks and fists erupting from aerial somersaults,
strike and block with a coordination Nate felt
impossible. At times Nate wasn't sure if he saw men
in the courtyard below.
Fei Hung pawed the earth like a tiger. Yuan Shih
wove and shifted like a cobra. Their speed was
phenomenal and the fighting went on from any
angle. No boxing rules where a man down stayed

down. Fei Hung made a series of rolls toward the
general, now and then a foot emerged, threatening,
like a stick rolling in tumbleweed.
Nate gently straightened the fabric of Ting Sen's
shirt.
“Father no try,” said the younger man,
disgustedly. “He not work hurt general. Not take
chance. Bad.”
“You mean there's more.”
“Father have much more.”
Nate had a hard time figuring out what was going
on. Things moved too fast to pick out a winner or
loser. Glancing around the courtyard, he saw the
inhabitants of Po Chi Lam bearing smiling
expressions, still respectful and quiet. The general's
men grew increasingly morose. Nate decided Fei
Hung was in control.
The general slipped in the earth, caught the edge
of Fei Hung's ankle with his chin, fell down, grasping
a protruding foot from what was left of the imperial
garments. Fei Hung ceased immediately. Nate was
stunned to discover the man didn't even look winded.
“What's happening?”
“Coward,” muttered Ting Sen. “Coward general.
Only fight weaker.”
“Tell me what they're saying now!” said Nate in a
fierce whisper, overcome with frustration at his
inability to comprehend what was going on. Fei Hung
now crouched beside the general, his hands out,
massaging the affected limb.
“General say,” gritted Ting Sen through clenched
teeth, “his foot hurt. Is old injury. Why he go retire
from imperial service. He never would turn down
honor of battle with opponent so gifted as Fei Hung.
But he no can stand. Father now treat foot.”
“So he chickened out?”
“Father say general bravest of men for suffer pain
cause other men give up walking. He wonder why
general not visit clinic before. Say he can—his
humble skill, he can reduce the injury. Father say
bad, bad injury to foot. Like the arrow that bring
down dragon.”
“Nice guy, your father.”
“All the soldier, gather round, talk about general.
Fei Hung, he keep repeat, no can believe general
walk. Say bone was broken. Say set wrong.”

“Guy ain't move like his foot was broke,” Nate
said derisively.
“No foot broken, only Yuan Shih bravery,” replied
Ting Sen.
The troops surrounded their general. As the
conversation continued, with Fei Hung applying
treatments, their eyes brightened. This, then, was
the great courage of their leader. The men stood
straighter, beaming proudly. Fei Hung drew
something out of his pocket, began jabbing at the
general's legs.
“What—those—” said Nate. “He'll be killed.
Guns—rifles—”
“You no know acupuncture,” said Ting Sen. “It
what make big man like you walk again. I see mark
on you,” he continued, pointing at the pockmarks
around Nate's knees. “Block what coming through
want hurt, let what heal in.”
“I been pricked with needles plenty of times.
Heck, I asked for it when I worked Java. The fever
was everywhere. But that...”
“It work. Thousands of year. It work. It can kill. If
general stay here, I kill.” Nate turned and caught the

determination in the eyes of Ting Sen. He didn't
argue the point. The general, with his troop and Fei
Hung alongside, disappeared into a side door of the
clinic.
“Might get your chance,” said Nate.
“No, there no room there. General go visit bed.
Get treatment. Leave. I no have time plan now. “
“Probably good you don't knock him off under
your dad's roof. We're supposed to be safe here,
right?”
“Yes. I no dishonor father. But general should be
kill...” Ting Sen wandered away, talking animatedly
with himself in Cantonese. Nate didn't interrupt the
conversation further.
Chapter X
Food was dropped off surreptitiously by their door

that afternoon. Nate heard wood creaking, saw a pot
with veggies and broth slip in, and winced at the
racket when a peculiarly−shaped broomstick
smacked angrily at cobwebs and dustmites along
their balcony. He wandered slowly to the food.
Behind, Ting Sen came along as well. Nate
stirred the pot a bit, saw green stalks, green leaves,
orange chunks that he assumed were carrots, and
some clear material of a cellulose nature. His
stomach sighed.
“Is this medicine for me?” he asked, looking back
at Ting Sen. His roommate's eyes were wide.
“No. No medicine. Just special soup from cook.
Delicacy. Spiced perfect. Simmer perfection.”
“Well, if it's that great, too bad we ain't got no
bowls to share.”
“Yes. No bowl. One spoon.”
“Weren't you supposed to be getting something
for me?”
“Can not go out now. Troop guard. Go out later.
Get you food. Meat.” Ting Sen, his mouth open like a
hyena in site of dead prey, was on the verge of
salivating at the metal cauldron. Nate swallowed a
few spoonfuls, left the rest of the pot with a nod.
“You get me that food, Ting Sen.”
Ting Sen, occupied with devouring the meal,
grunted “yeah, yeah" through a mouthful of carrot.
Later they sat alone, staring at each, glumly
waiting for the sun to begin its decent. Ting Sen,
bored, began digging through the chests of his
grandfather's room. Hearing him curse, Nate looked
over.
“What are you searching for now”
“Grandfather have many friends when I was
young. Play game. Want find game.”
“What kind of game?”
“Mah−jong,” said Ting Sen. Then, triumphantly
pulling out a velvet case, he moved to the floor by
Nate, opened the box up, spilled a mess of
decorated tiles on the wooden surface. “You learn
play,” Ting Sen said, adding, “I get food after game.
When late.”
“Take a while to play?” asked Nate, his stomach
rumbling slightly.
“Can play mah−jong for hours. Days.”
“Great.”
Part II: Fire

Chapter I
Ting Sen emerged from the clinic tunnel, strode

purposefully through darkened alleys behind the
waterfront. From doorways the wild laughter of
prostitutes and their charges could be heard, as well
the shouts and furniture breaking of sailors passing
time, or thundering clamor of skills being tested and
manhood asserted. Here and there were solitary
movements in the shadows, danger for the unwary.
Ting Sen had nothing to fear from the shadows.
They knew him on sight, and his family.
Scowling to himself, he cursed the big nose who
occupied his father's house. What kind of creature
was that, two−legged pig, with snout to match? For
one such as Nate to soil the chambers of his
grandfather, one of the Ten Tigers, was horrifying to
Ting Sen. And not much of a warrior, despite the
size. Aunt, Ting Sen heard, had done most of the
fighting. The creature stood there.
But his bulk was an asset, Ting Sen realized.
Aunt had summoned him for shielding, he recalled.
There might be something to this foreigner,
something Ting Sen could use. Perhaps a boar, not

a pig.
Out of the alleys, Ting Sen paused. He glanced
right and left for any sign of the watch; none
appeared. He strode purposefully down Huan Shi
Rd., past the vendors of rice and meat. Towards one
end on the side was a butcher shop. The sign read
“Wing Butcher Shop,” and it looked open, but Ting
Sen strolled past to a second doorway.
He scratched three times on the wood, heard a
rhythmic answering knock, opened the door, and felt
his shoulder being grabbed, himself rudely thrust in.
“Idiot!” he shrieked to his would−be assailant. “It's
Ting Sen. I made right scratch.”
“Shh!” came the answer from the large man who
stood before. “The watch is all around us. They were
in my store today. You should not have come.”
“But I must...”
“You must be quiet!” answered the man. “I see
them all day. They are looking for us. And Yuan Shih
is among them.”
“Yuan Shih was defeated by father today. He is
too busy restoring his lost face to worry about us,”
replied Ting Sen, smugly.

“No. Fool. He will recover face by arresting us.
Everyone knows he lost today. Half of Canton was
there. By tomorrow, I will have been there too. Yuan
Shi cannot face the emperor again following his
humiliation and cowardice. He will come for us.”
“He is not with the emperor anymore!” Ting Sen
shouted. “He has retired from service. The guards he
keeps... we do not know how he pays them.”
“Much money to be money at court, it seems,”
came a soothing voice from inside the room.
“Brothers, let us sit down together and discuss these
strange events quietly. Wing, will you make the tea?”
The large man nodded, released Ting Sen.
“Excellent. And Ting Sen, will you sit with us?” Ting
Sen, abashed, walked over.
“Wonderful. And let us spend a moment in quiet
contemplation together before we discuss our
purpose here.
Ting Sen sat down, wrapped his hands around
the earthen mug of green tea set before his place.
The room was dark, with burning incense
everywhere. To cover, Ting Sen decided, the stench
of pork and meat all around. There were eight people

combined at this gathering. But formal introductions
were spared. It was in no one's interest that a leader
know every man of the group.
One figure was obvious. In the far corner, a man
nearly as wide as he was round, the laughing eyes
staring up from beneath a flabby cheeks. This was
the butcher, Wing, among his father's prized
students despite his bulk. Removing his thoughts
from the situation at hand, Ting Sen imagined the
butcher, at war with the foreigner, for who could eat
the most. Normally, he'd give the edge to Wing, but
of course the foreigner was hungry.
From behind a silken mask at the far corner, a
man spoke.
“So, we have the word.”
“When?” Ting Sen and several others asked at
once.
“Soon. The empire shall begin to fall.”
“How many?” asked Ting Sen, excitement
showing in his voice. “And from where?”
“A full six columns will present our cause,” said
the man. “They will arrive from the outside, and
converge in the center of the city.”

“Outside!” shrieked Ting Sen. “What about our
members here?”
“Our members are too carefully watched in this
city,” another man replied. “We cannot use the them
in the first strike. It must be a surprise attack.”
Nods of agreement. Or was it cowardice? Ting
Sen was spoiling for a fight. To not be present for the
assault, when it arrived in his own city...
“And they come from outside?”
“Yes,” came the answer from fabric−enclosed
lips. “The watched scorpion lulls the sleeper as the
serpent encloses. Our forces will be gathered from
numerous locations. By keeping the faction here at
rest, we will stun the enemy.”
“Ingenious!” said the butcher. “But... we will not
want to stay out of this fight.”
“There will be enough time for the strike to occur.”
“And when? When?” asked Ting Sen, agonized
expression on his face.
“The exact date will only be known to a few.
Secrets shared are no longer secrets.”
“This comes from top?” Ting Sen was obstinate.
Around him, eyes stared past teacups, engorged

with disapproval at his breech of protocol.
“From the highest portion of our leadership,” said
silken mask, patiently.
“Then it will be so!” said Wing, triumphantly.
“What can we do?”
“Stay calm this day. Go about your business. If
you are looking to buy weapons, buy them. If you are
looking to train recruits, train them. As normal as one
can be in this city that is not normal. Be ready to
come to the aid of China when the day arrives. Keep
the eye focused upon you. That is your objective.”
“And you can tell us nothing more?” asked Ting
Sen, only slightly mollified.
“There is much work for you to do here,” offered
the host. “You can keep your guests occupied.
Watch them as they watch us. Yuan Shih is a figure
to be reckoned with.”
“Indeed,” said silken mask. “It has come to our
attention that you have in your possession a
foreigner. One of such size, that the establishment
cannot but look upon with suspicion. Perhaps you
can employ him in certain circumstances. Far
removed from our main activities and objectives.”

“A wonderful idea!” said their host. “Accolades all
around.”
“I wonder,” continued silken mask, “you can
employ this man's size in transporting weapons,
necessary and vital for the second phase, but not so
important that we cannot cope without. Should the
government capture him, the loss will not be
substantial. And he will not know...”
“And I keep the hawk's attention,” murmured Ting
Sen, half to himself.
“Exactly,” replied silken mask. “Keep it... on your
foreigner.” A map of Canton was brought out, its
delicate graphs quickly stenciled in with probable
routes for Ting Sen to take. The conspirators
gathered in for a better look.
“Excellent!” said one.
“Send him there!” offered another.
Ting Sen smiled, said little. Glad of any role to
play.
Chapter II
Ting Sen lingered as the guests filed away. It was

bad form to analyze which direction the men chose,
even if the return home for all would wind through
multiple courses, unrelated to the travelers' actual
destination. Wing stayed and looked at him.
“Your father doesn't know,” said Wing. It wasn't a
question.
“He know much.”
“He not approve.”
“The son chooses his own path. The father points
the way...”
“He not help.”
“You know the reason for that, better than any of
us. You know him longer than I have.”
“Yes. Known him. But...”
“He is your teacher—
“He no teach me! He teach brother. He teach
many, say they learn defend. No teach me. I defend
not self he say. I tell him, I defend China. He no
teach me. You no teach me either,” Ting Sen added,
looking harshly at Wing.
Wing only laughed. What the boy didn't know or

wouldn't learn... at times Fei Hung had spoken of the
difficulties with this one. Wing had reminded his
teacher that they were all boys once... wanting to
learn.
“Little Phoenix,” said Wing, using Ting Sen's
boyhood nickname and throwing his vast arm around
the younger man's shoulders, “you have the task
now of a man. There isn't time to send you back to
school like a boy. You've been given a job. Haven't
you?”
Ting Sen looked back, embarrassed by his tirade.
“Yes,” he said meekly.
“Then hadn't you better do it?”
“Yes,” Ting Sen agreed. He walked toward the
door, opened it, then turned around quickly.
“Foreigner say he want meat!”
“Meat?” asked Wing, incredulously.
“Yes. Father say no meat for him. Foreigner say I
stay in grandfather's room if I get him meat.”
“Your father not be happy...”
“I no tell him where meat come from.”
“Your father knows.”
“Foreigner very big.”

“You think he eat you?” Wing laughed, made
several comments about barbarians and their ways.
Then he looked again at Ting Sen.
“OK, I give your foreigner meat.” With a flourish,
cleavers sprouted from within the butcher's vast
sleeves. He spun the blades around, sent them
circling in the air, turned again toward Ting Sen, said
“Smoke Room!”
Ting Sen followed to an inner chamber. Walked
with the butcher through a darkened hallway,
stepped down a concrete stair into a lamplit room
where meats, wrapped in animal intestine, stood
hanging.
The butcher looked over. “You can cook?” he
asked.
“Have no heat,” Ting Sen replied.
“I give you sweet sausage. He like that. Hold
this,” the butcher said, passing Ting Sen an open
sack. Patiently, Ting Sen waited. The butcher,
mumbling to himself, walked among the hanging
cylinders. Eying one crimson stalagmite, he looked
back, “can foreigner eat spicy?”
Ting Sen, remembering the celebrated flavors of

the Wing Butcher shop, and the distances
businessmen were expected to go, nodded.
“Think so,” he said. “Foreigner live Asia long
time.”
“Hokay,” said Wing. Then with a flourish he both
blades, looked back at Ting Sen, who was lazily
clutching his sack in one hand, shouted “hold open!”
with force.
Ting Sen, abashed, spread the mouth of the bag
wide. The butcher, with a speed that defied reason,
slashed his blades across the meat. Perfectly
symmetrical disks of pork and seasoning flew into
the air, one after another, gliding to a rest in the
carryall between Ting Sen's hands.
“Good,” said the butcher after he'd cut nearly a
foot off the spicy variety, and paused to tie the item
back up. “Now, don't tell Mrs. Wing, but in the pantry
there are specialty bun. We can give these to your
foreigner as well.” The butcher exited.
Ting Sen followed. Grateful to Wing, once again,
for helping him, and thinking that his behavior would
be an embarrassment if reconsidered later, he found
himself wanting to change the subject.

“You studied with father in Fujian?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“How old were you?”
“I had barely ten years when I first learned of the
tiger and crane. I was as proud as any of his
students when he won the competitions. Did you
know, Little Phoenix, of your father and Fujian?”
“He never talks about it. Nor about mother.”
“He was a government official then.”
Ting Sen was shocked.
“Under the provincial governor. He received his
position after winning several contests. This
governor did not like Qing.”
Ting Sen's mouth dropped open.
“Your father and this man began training. But the
people Fujian rose up, they demanded Tang, the
governor, step aside. They wanted your father to
lead them. It was... an interesting time.
“What...”
“Qing knew of these developments. Sent troops.
Tang, the governor, and your father, were too
outnumbered. Tang shaved his beard, his
moustache. He fled. Your father left for Canton.”

“He never took position...”
“His name was on the blessed list. He was sought
after. He chose otherwise.”
Ting Sen looked up in shock.
“Yes. Your father could have served the throne
directly. As governor, no doubt. The people wanted
it.”
“Why he not?”
“That's for him to decide. He had his reasons.
There is much of a family history you do not know.
Nor I either. Your ancestors were Shaolin. The
training of your father comes from the southern
temple. And you know, his father did not teach him,
at first.
“That I know. But where do I find such a traveler
now...”
“Ting Sen, any of your family would teach you.
Your father, your mother, I. But we will not teach you
to start a rebellion. How many uprisings have there
been in Canton?”
“Ten.”
“How many have succeeded?”
Ting Sen looked over glumly.

“How many would have succeeded if one more
martial artist were involved? And, Ting Sen, what if it
takes fourteen? Fifteen? Thirty−five? So many
chances to lose you...”
Ting Sen didn't answer.
“I think you know the truth of it, don't you?”
“Yes. But this time—”
“Perhaps. Or next time. Or time after. Empire will
fall. China grow. I believe this. Your father, I suspect,
believes it too, though as his student it's
presumptuous of me to say so. He may still want to
reform from within. Your father has already lost a son
to conflict and guns. Is it so wrong of him that he not
want to lose another?”
Ting Sen said nothing. Looked angrily at the
carryall in his hands. Nodded. Left without saying
goodbye. The butcher stared as he vanished into the
darkness of Canton.
Chapter III
A peculiar rasping sound greeted Ting Sen as he

entered his grandfather's room through the trapdoor.
At first he thought the foreigner was moving furniture.
A shocked expression emerged on his face when he
discovered it was the man's stomach growling.
Ting Sen stared at Nate for a moment, struck at
just how enormous this beast really was. Beside him,
even the Magnificent Butcher would appear small.
“I bring food,” said Ting Sen, opening the sack to
display the sausage buns.
“'Bout time,” replied the foreigner, his hands
already thrust into the bag, digging earnestly, his
wrists in pursuit of their task jabbing against the
smaller man's legs. Ting Sen watched as the
delicacies, fashioned with such loving care by Wing's
able spouse, were devoured, one after another, nary
a pause to sample the flavoring.
Surprisingly, the foreigner arrested his gorging.
“Whoa,” said Nate. “Gotta hold on or my
stomach'll roll these things back out. Get it? Roll?”
Nate laughed at his own joke. Ting Sen stared.
“Food bringer,” said Nate. “That's your role.

Whoo−hoo!”
Ting Sen stared for another moment. Looked into
the bag, pulled out another of the treats for himself.
He moved to the other side of the room, began
chewing softly at his meal. Warily, he eyed the
foreigner.
“Whoo−hoo!” shouted Nate. “Say, this is some of
the best stuff I've ever had. What is it?”
“Sausage pork bun. Specialty of the house.”
“Well, you're all right there, guy. All right.”
“Thank you.” Ting Sen remained by himself,
wondering idly whether there was anyway he could
convince the foreigner to come out as he'd been
instructed. Surely some subterfuge...
He watched as the giant resumed his meal, the
mandibles gnashing and rending through their prizes
like a bear during salmon season. How to convince...
Ting Sen agonized over the difficulties,
concocting and rejecting one scenario after another
in his mind. To bring this one along.... lure him...
“Nate!” he called out. The foreigner had crumbs
stuck in his face and down his shirt.
“Yeah...”
“Father no can visit you while Chinese guard
here. Get boring. Want go out on boat trip?”
“Hell yeah,” Nate offered. “Any time. Need
somebody to hold your back?” the foreigner
continued, offering a conspiratorial wink.
“Yes. Like that. Hold my back. Thank you. We
can take tunnel out to river tomorrow night.”
“Sure thing. Whoo. After that meal, I'll need to
sleep me for a while. Yes sir.” Perhaps regretting his
former conduct, Nate made a grand show of sharing,
seeing to it his Chinese companion had sufficient
pillows and cushion to last the night. Ting Sen
politely accepted, then listened to the big man lie
down and began snoring. Loudly. Rhythmically.
Unceasingly.
Barbarian, Ting Sen thought to himself. Gorilla.
Satisfied with his plan and the credulity of his dupe,
Ting Sen turned his head as far from the noise as
possible, went to sleep.
Chapter IV
Ting Sen roped the foreigner's wrists to his own

for the journey down to the waterfront. The clinic of
Po Chi Lam held many tunnels, holdovers from the
days of grandfather and the Ten Tigers of Canton.
They didn't bring light. Ting Sen knew the way, and
held secrecy to be paramount.
Beneath a drainage slot, where moonlight crept
in, Ting Sen caught a reflection of himself and the
foreigner in a thin pool of water on the ground. With
proper attire, they could be a Manchu and his trained
bear. Disgusting, Ting Sen thought. Himself, a
Manchu, wandering the frosty streets of Harbin.
Nate was quiet the whole trip, listening carefully
when Ting Sen said to watch his head. Only one
slip−up had occurred, the American cursing loud
enough to wake the clinic after a jutting beam caught
his forehead. Little possibility of damage there,
thought Ting Sen. But he offered apologies, and
warned Nate to be more careful.
Suddenly, beneath their feet, caked mud turned
to a soggy marsh. They were on the river in total
darkness. Ting Sen moved confidently ahead, made

a few turns, and behind heard a gasp as Nate's eyes
were stunned by the onrushing blaze of Canton at
night.
They emerged by a tiny inlet beneath the dock.
Ting Sen moved quickly, pulling dark canvas away
from a small river vessel. The boat had a
dragon−prow, seating for four, and a central area to
store fish or other cargo. Ting Sen smiled, blithely
passed off any mention of what the other cargo
might be, motioned to Nate for his assistance in
putting the skiff out.
“Quiet,” he snapped, as the clumsy foreigner
slogged into the water with a splash. “Many guards,
right above.”
“Right above?” asked Nate, incredulous.
“Watch river close,” replied Ting Sen.
Pushing off, Ting Sen caught the foreigner's look
of surprise as he discovered there were indeed
Chinese guardsmen right above the dock, but facing
the other way. These men, like all their regiment, had
been trained by Wong Fei Hung and would refuse to
look at even an explosion by an entrance to the
master's clinic, thereby maintaining the ability to

honestly say they'd seen nothing... but the foreigner
did not need to know that.
Ting Sen could barely suppress a smirk as he
noticed the foreigner attempting to slink down further
into the boat, like an elephant stepping into a circus
barrel. He let the man stew for a while as he
paddled, but as Ting Sen's arms quickly grew tired,
he turned to the foreigner, said “OK, is clear. You
paddle, I steer.”
And the two headed out along the river.
Chapter V
Ting Sen found travelling with the foreigner

interminable. Not only did his physical presence
upset the delicate balance of their ship, but the man
hummed continuously. At least he worked hard,
noted Ting Sen grudgingly, pushing their boat across
the water with stunning speed.
Not a trace of strain could be seen on Nate. No
sweat along his brow, nor the red, flustered skin Ting
Sen associated with foreigners laboring on the few
occasions when gweilo did work in China. This, then,
was no effort to Nate. Sturdy beast, decided Fei
Hung's seventh son.
The humming stopped suddenly. Noise from
insect life invaded Ting Sen's musings. He turned
back, curious. The foreigner made a slight gesture.
Ting Sen looked him over. Wondering. Had he
perhaps seen through the earlier ruse...
The foreigner made a slight nod, indicating Ting
Sen should glance sideways. Just below his line of
sight, ripples in the water. Ting Sen was unsure.
The ripples increased, but from where? Boat?
Fish? Nate indicated Ting Sen should look forward.

To the side were the ruins of a fishing village, in
front, some mild debris offering a spate of obstacles.
Ting Sen felt a hand on his shoulder, was suddenly
looking straight up at the moon.
“Watch out,” shouted Nate. Through the air,
hooks flashed down, trailing ropes. A pair bit into the
ship's prow. Ting Sen was afraid now. The foreigner
had a calm look about him. With a shriek, half a
dozen men sprung forth, jumping on their vessel with
unintelligible cries.
Nate raised an oar, smote three at one blow, the
bodies hitting water with a rousing splash.
“Cut the lines,” Nate shouted at Ting Sen. “We
can beat 'em easy.”
Ting Sen moved to comply, sawing at the ropes
with a small knife. Too slow, this work. One strand
cut; another.
Nate grabbed another of their uninvited guests,
tossed him aside. An assailant clambered towards
Ting Sen, knife at the ready. Nate hauled this one
back by the ankle, gave a blow to his face, flicked
him into the soft current. Disgusted at Ting Sen's
progress, the foreigner snapped the ropes in his

hands, sending their boat tilting precariously.
“Pull with the oars!” shouted Nate as the last of
the alien tethers were removed. “We'll speed up past
'em.”
Ting Sen offered a disbelieving glance at the
foreigner's resettled bulk. Nate slid his oars into the
water, slashing the paddle back and forth with
astounding speed. Ting Sen felt the prow of their
vessel rise with the foreigner's efforts. He grabbed
an oar, seeking to provide what assistance he could.
They pressed on. A quick glance back showed
the two putting some distance between themselves
and their pursuers.
“Don't look!” shouted Nate. “Row!”
Ting Sen obliged, nearly giddy with excitement
and the wild hope that his own arms—as well as the
foreigner's—were sufficient to best the enemy. He
laughed for a time, almost child−like. Triumphant.
“Look out!” shouted Nate. Ting Sen, awakened
from his brief stupor, turned.
“Starboard side,” said the foreigner. “More of
'em.... Port too!” Nate added.
Ting Sen looked forward, saw junks racing

towards them. From three sides now they were
beset. There was no way to outrun all the boats. Any
jump from the dragon's mouth would take them
straight to the tiger's den. Ting Sen stopped
paddling.
“Don't give up!” shouted Nate, splashing the back
of Ting Sen's as oars were brought into the air. “We'll
go starboard. That one's heavy in the water.”
“Heavy in the water?” asked Ting Sen, meekly,
noticing their direction shifting. “That means most
men, right?”
“Sure!” said Nate. “But that means hardest to
steer two. Straight for 'em now. Don't ease up. I've
worked boats like this around Java. As long as your
friends out there don't have blowdarts, we're fine.”
“Blowdarts?” asked Ting Sen, puzzling over the
term as their boat adopted a clear collision course.
“Blowdarts. Tube you spit through, sends out a
needle or poison dart.”
“No,” said Ting Sen. “No blow−dart. Gun!” A
popping sound from aft added credibility to this
statement.
“Glad to hear it. Always been afraid of them

blowdarts.” And the foreigner's oars splashed down
with a cadence born of desperation.
Ting Sen watched as the nearest ship grew ever
closer. The speed was uncanny. Save for a railroad
trip once to Fujian, he'd never gone this fast in his
life. The foreigner was unconcerned about their
impending disaster. The boat ahead was packed,
Ting Sen saw, with gangsters, druglords, pirates—he
knew not what.
At Wing's shop, nothing in their secret
discussions, which promised some form of difficulty,
had prepared Ting Sen for this level of enemy. The
foreigner didn't need to know that, however. They
were beset. He would protect. As the other ship
pulled to within 100 feet, Ting Sen saw what Nate
meant about low in the water. Packed to the rim with
fighters, Fei Hung's seventh son discovered. There
was some movement at the rear of the ship.
Collision imminent, the foreigner spoke again.
“Those were some great sausages you got for
me, Ting Sen.”
Chapter VI
With the painted brass dragon snout of the other

vessel in his eyes, Ting Sen felt his own boat move.
“Hard starboard, now!” shouted Nate. Ting Sen,
stunned, did nothing, but saw the serpent's head
shift quickly to the left as Nate concentrated the
rowing to one side. On board, dozens of figures
popped up. Ting Sen saw wood brush against wood
as the ships scraped each other. There was little
effect on either boat, but Ting Sen saw the would−be
raiders stumble, reaching against the deck for
support or crashing into each other.
A few that had already reached the ship's edge
fell awkwardly into the water, one smacking his head
off Ting Sen's oar. Puzzled, he turned to look at the
foreigner.
Nate had seized the other ship by the dragon's
neck, and though maintaining his balance by
remaining planted at the center of their boat, was
calmly and effortlessly bouncing the other vessel
with one arm, levering the ship through a reptilian
fulcrum.
Amazed, Ting Sen watched the greenish veins on

the foreigner's bicep pop. Nate's face showed little
effort, but the swaying of his arm caused their
opposition to twitch and fall like an earthquake had
hit. Wondering if they'd get through this, Ting Sen
allowed himself hope.
Those positive sentiments were shattered as, with
a crack, the dragon's head came off in Nate's hand.
Immediately, the other vessel stopped twitching. Men
regained their feet, nine shades of fury in their eyes
as they peered over the bow. Ting Sen looked at
Nate, but the foreigner, calmly, stuck his giant, meaty
paw where the dragon had lodged. Reaching over
slightly but maintaining his seat, he pulled a plank
from the boat, tossed it with a splash into the river as
the first raiders again sought to leap upon the pair.
That bit of wood rested high above the waterline.
But suddenly all movement stopped as the foreigner
grasped again the dragon, and casually wedged the
serpent's nostrils where before a plank had lain. With
every man on two boats watching, the foreigner
thrust the dragon up, splitting one timber, another,
another.
Ting Sen watched with glee as the foreigner

flexed the head of the dragon against timber. An
enormous gash, nearly two feet long and just above
the water, lay in the other ship. Casting his
serpentine crowbar aside, Nate leaned across,
disrupting the calm of their own vessel but somehow
not capsizing, and with his hand curved like a
fisherman's hook, pulled several chunks of wooden
treasure from the other ship's surface.
Immediately, the stricken scow took on water.
Ting Sen watched as the men scurried about, one
end of the boat rising calmly, but inexorably to the
air, the other shifting down with sickening speed. A
few men jumped towards them now, one landing on
his stomach by the foreigner, shrieking in terror as
Nate's eyes widened, and like a chastened rat
crawling off their ship with horror.
Nate looked at Ting Sen, smiled, began pulling
away with his oar as the other boat went down.
“Two to go,” he shouted.
And a look behind showed their pursuers still in
the hunt.
Ting Sen rowed with Nate, but his arms grew
tired. Behind, the trailing vessels had paired up for

the hunt, gliding along side by side. The plop of
bullets striking water could be heard. Nate, too,
pulled at the oars with less vigor. The big man had
not, after all, put his muscles to the test in weeks.
Ting Sen saw the pack gaining.
Nate looked at Ting Sen, at the murky darkness
along the shoreline.
“So what are we carrying in this tub?” the giant
asked.
Ting Sen cast a suspicious glance at Nate. The
foreigner's eyes were hopeful, guileless, expecting.
Scowling to himself, Ting Sen sent his arm to the
canvas that separated himself from Nate, lifted the
covering. In the middle of their boat were several
dozen boxes, labeled in Swedish and English,
“danger.” The giant's eyes spread wide. He was
reaching over even as Ting Sen muttered “fire
sticks.”
Nate opened a box, inspected the contents.
“Sweating,” he said. “You shouldn't have left them
out.” The engineer pulled two of the reddish cylinders
from the box, replaced the lid, and opened another,
smaller container.
“Blasting caps, dry.” Nate palmed several of the
tiny disks, reached again into the box and drew out a
spool of cord. He looked at Ting Sen. “You got a
match or something?”
Ting Sen sent his hands searching around his
body. Matches. No. He did not smoke. At home, with
lanterns, he would draw flame out of the oily pools,
now and then reigniting the incense that boosted his
studies. He looked at Nate, helpless and afraid.
The foreigner smiled. Both turned to the
now−fast−gaining ships behind.
“Hold these,” he said to Ting Sen, and passed
over the two sticks, now with dynamite, blasting caps
and cord in place. The foreigner reached down,
grabbed his dragon souvenir. He slid his hand along
the edge of the bow, wincing, Ting Sen noticed,
puzzled. When the foreigner withdrew his paw from
the boat's edge, there were small splinters inside.
Ting Sen stared as the foreigner rubbed these
bits of wood together, added some shards of timber
from debris that lay within their boat, and scratched
the whole thing against the dragon's head.
Furiously, the foreigner rubbed. Ting Sen

watched as the paint of the dragon's eyes flaked off
rapidly. No response, not a spark to be seen. The
other ships grew closer. Ting Sen heard the sound of
rifles being loaded. Nate, his hands moving together
furiously, looked to Ting Sen.
“Nope,” he smiled. “Ain't this a fix. Sure there ain't
some medallion or something? Bit of coin on ya?”
“No metal,” said Ting Sen, visibly shrinking as the
despair again crept in. “Not bring.” Behind, a row of
Chinese brigands lined the deck, each with gun
pointed at the smaller quarry. Several shots fired as
both travelers glanced over.
“Well,” said Nate, “let's hope there's enough
sweat on 'em.” And the giant lifted the cover again,
grabbed several of the red sticks, turned, and began
lobbing the explosive, unlit and uncapped, at their
pursuers.
Ting Sen listened, heard the stick rattling on
wood. The firing stopped as the pirates looked over
at this new foreigner's trick. Nate, beside, heaved
one stick in a high arc, attempted to bash the item
with another piece of explosive in mid−air. The sticks
did not collide. The giant's throws were strong, but

inaccurate in the night.
Ting Sen swore he heard laughter from the other
ship. The group of men on deck again raised their
firearms. Nate, frustrated, tossed a handful of sticks
at once. Ting Sen watched as a gunman, laughing,
fired at the red sticks as though they were claypots.
Another man reached over, tried to knock his rifle
away, but the shot went off.
Slowly, in the air above the two vessels, came the
most beautiful vision Ting Sen had ever experienced.
One of the sticks erupted into a white, smoky
blossom. Small bits trailed down like daytime
fireworks. Suddenly, another blossom, another. Each
one lower than the last. Ting Sen turned, saw the
foreigner complete another toss. Felt them explode
in the air, one just above the enemy ship.
The explosive Nate had sent earlier jumped into
the act. Half a flower sprouted up from the ship.
Then another. Another. Ting Sen looked at Nate,
who was now rowing, fast, bent down as far as the
giant could get. A concussive force emanated from
the blossoms upon them. Ting Sen felt a stunning
blow to his back, looked around, discovered he was

now lying on the floor of their boat.
The foreigner was paddling furiously.
Sitting upright, slowly, Ting Sen looked out at the
scene on the river. Two boats were in flames, the fire
jumping from the victim of Nate's one−man shelling,
to the smaller, companion vessel that had sailed too
close. All Canton province awakened with the blast;
lights blazed in the huts of many a fishing village.
Dimly, Ting Sen saw men, damaged by the red
flower, jumping into the water to extinguish the
flames on their bodies.
The spectacle behind, no one paid any attention
to the little boat which sped away from the scene,
propelled by a hunched−over gweilo and his
Cantonese friend.
Ting Sen gazed again at the foreigner with a new
respect, and a measure of awe. Nate finally saw the
gap−mouthed Cantonese in his boat.
“Yeah?”
“Father, one−time, beat drug gang. On Canton
harbor. Thirty of them. You did more.”
“Naw,” said Nate, idly fingering a blasting cap.
“Your dad wouldn't have risked everything. They

were idiots. We... were lucky.”
Ting Sen, thinking over these words, nodded, and
smiled for the first time in Nate's presence.
“Yes,” said Ting Sen. “Idiot. Who fire gun at
dynamite?”
Chapter VII
The rest of their trek down river was uneventful.

Here and there, Nate observed women drawing
water, men setting their boats out for a day's fishing.
The night was cool, the skies clear. At a small inlet,
marked by a wooden temple gate, Ting Sen pointed.
“Go here,” he said. Excited that he'd finally
achieved something. “They here.”
“OK,” replied Nate, already pulling their boat
towards the shore. “But I ain't unloading this stuff.
Too dangerous.”
“That fine. They help us.”
“Who?” asked Nate, as no motion could be
detected on the banks.
“They here,” Ting Sen repeated, insistent.
“Got ya,” replied the foreigner as the two reached
the shore. Ting Sen leapt from their boat, leaving
Nate to pull the vessel inland. Suddenly cautious,
Nate did not appreciate having to slide their tiny craft
over grating rocks. Nothing exploded, but with the
transport safely on shore, Nate stepped away.
Quickly, Ting Sen walked ahead, calling out in his
native dialect.
“Hello! Get here now. Ting Sen. I bring cargo.
Where?”
Ting Sen quickened his pace, leaving the
foreigner behind. Logs lay on their sides, half−sunk
in the earth and forming a natural stair to the
temple's main entrance. The way was marked with
torches, lit, their burning oil showing no motion
beyond Ting Sen's flickering shadow.
“You, come on!” shouted Ting Sen to Nate. “We
go together here. No good they find you without me.”
The foreigner shrugged, nodded, began to climb
the temple stair. Ting Sen cried out his terse
message of welcome to the bushes and trees, here
and there a nighttime avian called back, but no
human response could be heard.
Slowing, the two approached the temple. On each
side of the brick path, sculpted dragons were on
guard. Ting Sen stepped ahead, past an enormous
bell, towards the wooden entranceway. Behind, Nate
stared at the roof, looking for signs of life on the terra
cotta ceiling. Unaccosted, they passed the
entranceway.
Nate waiting by the door, Ting Sen entered the

temple, his eyes roaming along the walls as Hsuan
Tsang sped from the ancient capital of China to the
west, where, he'd been informed, some scripture
could be found. Along the way Tsang endured
hardships, the paintings indicated, but the old man
bore them well, helped to some degree by an odd
figure in armor, who stood by, loyally, when trouble
engulfed them.
Ting Sen ignored the artwork, save to dismiss it
internally for not arousing the proper degree of
feeling in the onlooker, but then, this location wasn't
chosen for its sacredness. The lack of anyone to
greet them was puzzling. Ting Sen moved past a
side altar, where a monkey god could be
worshipped, and headed towards the rear of the
temple, where a door led to a back courtyard, and a
monk or someone would appear. Halfway to the
door, Ting Sen turned.
Something was wrong about this temple. Incense
burned, the bell was there, but something... odd.
“We go back!” he called out to Nate. “Now! Get to
boat.” Turning, he raced out, as the doors opened
and dozens of warriors in imperial livery spilled out.

“Run!” shouted Ting Sen. But the foreigner turned
back just in time to catch two feet square on his
chest. Nate splattered back into the room, upsetting
a shrine to Monkey, and coating himself in ash from
the incense. Trying to rise, he found rifles pointed
square at his head.
Ting Sen spun around, looked for a leader, saw a
man wearing a silken mask giving orders from the
rear of the temple. Quickly two soldiers raced over,
seized his wrists and bound them with rope. Nate's
hands and feet were also tied.
“What's going on?” asked Ting Sen in Mandarin.
“Him, yes, why me?”
Silken Mask walked up to the smaller of his
captives. Smiling beneath his satin covering, he
waved a mailed fist in the air. Suddenly the men
surrounding Nate plowed in. Their oversized captive
resisted, shrugging off assailants like an angry bull
tossing aside junior ranch hands, but their numbers
were too great for the tired giant.
Ting Sen watched as Nate took a vicious blow to
the head. Bleeding, staggered, the crowd stood,
waiting as the giant swayed. Glancing at Silken

Mask, Ting Sen shouted:
“No good. No like this! He not supposed hurt like
this.”
At his tone Nate looked up at his friend and
companion, hurt and bewilderment intertwined in his
eyes, he caught the tone of it... or spoke the
language. Ting Sen looked away in shame as the
guardsmen resumed their beating. The fight drained
out. The giant fell to the floor.
“An interesting opponent,” offered the man in the
fabric cowl. Around Nate fully a dozen men lay
unconscious, some never to rise again. Those still
walking treated the foreigner to swift kicks all around
his body. Suddenly all leapt back as Nate, in an
unconscious stupor, rolled over on his stomach. At
this Silken Mask laughed.
“Yes, he has some qualities. Perhaps I shall fight
him to experience these qualities further. Leave him
alive!” Silken Mask shouted to a guardsmen who had
drawn his blade. “I will test this foreigner's skills
myself. For now, cart him away.”
“You are unfair,” shouted Ting Sen. “There is no
need for this action. I brought what you wanted. Did

what you wanted! Obeyed explicitly. Why are you
hurting us? Him? Why?”
Silken Mask sighed, loudly. Turning to Ting Sen
with a bored look in his eyes, he paused for a
moment, reached back, and felled the son of Wong
Fei Hung with one blow to his head.
“I find you very tiresome,” offered Silken Mask to
the fluttering, dilated pupils of Ting Sen.
Chapter VIII
Ting Sen awoke in darkness. A searing pain

coursed through his skull, obscuring his recall of
prior events. Dimly, he sensed a giant bulk nearby.
Nate was snoring, loudly, but without gusto. There
was something wrong with that sound, Ting Sen
knew.
They were moving, the pair. Ting Sen heard the
rattling sounds of a motorcar engine, a truck
perhaps. Now and then a backfire exploded. With a
sudden burst of effort, Ting Sen brought himself
upright. His legs were bound, he discovered, but as
his vision cleared and adjusted to the darkness, he
learned his own hands could move.
The foreigner, next to him, shifted his body
awkwardly as their conveyance went around a curve.
“Nate,” said Ting Sen in English. “Wake up. Wake
up now. Must get up.”
The foreigner was completely oblivious. Ting Sen
wondered if the man had been drinking. Realized,
from the bruises, that this man's unconsciousness
wasn't from any binge. Everywhere, the giant bore
the marks of a vicious assault. His fingers twisted

awkwardly. His legs bled. On his giant stomach,
protruding from the shredded robe, Ting Sen
observed horrific discolorations.
From somewhere, Ting Sen's father spoke.
“The fluid is damned. When the vessels are
damned, the body drowns. Let the blood flow out.
Ting Sen stared again at the foreigner.
“Let the blood flow out. Save the body.
With hidden reserves of strength, Ting Sen
shifted his body forward. Wriggling with the bonds on
his legs, he reached the foreigner. Desperately, he
tried to roll Nate over. It was no use. His arms had
not the strength in the best of times. In his current
condition, he couldn't move the giant one inch.
Nate's breathing grew more hoarse. Rapid. He
was choking in it. Ting Sen squirmed, got his mouth
next to the foreigner's ear.
“Roll!” Ting Sen whispered fiercely. “You turn
over. Or you die.”
The foreigner was oblivious to Ting Sen's words.
Vaguely, desperately, Ting Sen tried to recall more
of his father's teaching. Weightlessness, he
remembered. The hidden training.

Ting Sen tried to recall it then. Not from his father,
his grandfather. What the stranger from Shao Lin
had taught. Secret messages. The self. Focus. Ting
Sen again reached his arm beneath Nate's shoulder.
With his father and grandfather beside, in one hand,
he lifted the gigantic form, turning the giant 180
degrees.
Nate, choking, made gurgling noises. Ting Sen
crawled across the foreigner's body, stuck his fingers
between Nate's lips, induced vomiting. Nate spat
blood on the floor. A small puddle. Dangerous. Ting
Sen listened. The giant's breathing slowed, grew
more relaxed. Grasping for a pulse, Ting Sen felt the
heart rate decrease, become more normal.
Nate fell into a deep sleep. He would survive. For
now.
Chapter IX
As their conveyance lumbered ahead, Ting Sen

patiently removed the bonds from his legs. He found
he could pull the ropes, tight as the cords were, by
pressing thighs together, and working the strands
down with his thumbs. Blood was drawn here and
there along the calf, but Ting Sen wanted to bleed.
Turning his attentions once more to Nate, Ting
Sen discovered no limbs broken, bruises all across
the man, and a leg injury that had reopened. He
applied pressure as best he could, wondered if the
man had excess stores of blood to match his bulk.
Now and then during the ride Nate moaned. Ting
Sen wondered where they were going. What place,
and what reason. He must have been speaking
aloud.
“You'll find out soon!” laughed a voice above.
Others found this funny. They smashed their feet
down in mirth. Soldiers, Ting Sen decided after
additional crude humor.
Urine flowed in their direction, then the tattered
remains of a paltry repast swung down. Betimes their
rooftop companions shouted down with a supposed

jest. The trip was interminable; the distance traveled
unknown.
Ting Sen gave what aid he could to the foreigner,
drew strength from the hopeless plots for revenge
that whirled through his brain, ideas as stunning in
their force as their impossibility. Beside him, Nate
late dormant. Recovering, Ting Sen hoped.
Sometime the din above ceased. Ting Sen
pondered the man in the silken mask, who he was,
what he was working for. An imperial figure,
obviously, but who? And why?
Alone now, with the beaten giant lying on the
floor, Ting Sen considered the revolution he'd been
fighting. It was a goal, an objective, a dream, but
never had he considered the reality, the blood, the
possibility of despair.
Seeing this foreigner—he found it hard, even now
to call him friend—Ting Sen for the first time saw the
impact of battle. He felt, too, real defeat.
Desperately, inwardly, he began to crave revenge.
Revenge against the soldiers above, revenge
against the man who'd betrayed them.
But there was more to it. So many times in his

life, Ting Sen had wanted to fight, to hurt, to destroy
what he saw as wrong, period. Now, he needed to
understand it. Why had he and the foreigner been
taken in this way. Why had a simple plan, decoying,
taking eyes away, moving some arms when
weapons and moved flowed through Canton each
day—why a plan that caused the foreigner to be
seen in cities up the river, and outside Guangdong
Province, that little bit of mystery, the uncertainty of
an enemy—why all of this, for a son who did little,
and a westerner, who aside from eating, would do
much less.?
Ting Sen wondered if his aunt—his mother—her,
had picked up more information that day. If he'd
happened into something very large indeed. No,
impossible. He was not so young. He didn't think the
situation that special. Just a Canton revolt, an annual
occurrence, like lychee gathering or First Moon cake.
Why then. And who?
There seemed no good answer as the truck
churned its way through gravel and dirt roads, now
and then honking, driver cursing at a peasant,
knocking aside a cartholder.

Ting Sen wondered again where they headed.
Somehow, he slept.
Chapter X
Ting Sen's eyes recoiled as their resting area was

exposed to sunlight when a door opened. After he
adjusted to the blaze of day, he caught leering
glances from several dozen imperial troops. At his
side, Nate lay, moaning in agony, unaware of their
surroundings.
Rudely, Ting Sen's shoulders were grabbed, his
head bounced against the truck's side, he body
tossed onto the ground like vegetables in a sack.
Grunting, several troops pulled the foreigner out,
somewhat more delicately, but in a manner that
bespoke less than care.
In addition to the guardsmen, Ting Sen saw
various softer figures. Men in robes with hands that
had foresworn work, eunuchs and servants
abounding, and at their center a begowned
Mandarin, nails long, eyes, made up, body no doubt
perfumed.
Dangerous figure that he was, Ting Sen felt his
arms stretched behind, his bonds replaced more
tightly. Nate had kept his ropes, though as a
precaution the cord circling the giant's limbs was

tested. When everything was in order, a whistle
sounded, and the Mandarin and his entourage
moved forward.
They paid Ting Sen no mind, but the giant
attracted much attention and comment. “Disgusting,”
muttered the forum. “Revolting.” “A beast!” There
was laughter at both captives.
The closer the group came, the more silken
handkerchiefs went up, protecting sensitive nostrils,
actions suggestive of government onlookers at a
championship agricultural fair in Sichuan or Sinkiang.
Ting Sen found their presence, their gaze,
intolerable.
A few girls were among the Mandarin's group.
Ting Sen heard them twitter as portions of Nate's
arm were laid out in their hairy, bloodied majesty.
“Barbarian,” they whispered.
Some signs of life emanated from the foreigner.
Ting Sen watched, hopefully, as Nate stirred slightly.
Now it would begin, he decided. Now, some
retribution for what had been done. He'd only needed
a rest.
Nate's arm flopped back down, and he lay

insensate to redoubled acts of poking and prodding
as the crowd grew bolder. Finally, bored easily, the
group walked away, keeping a respectful distance
behind the Mandarin. One of the officials gave
instructions that Nate and Ting Sen were to be
placed in the horse barn, with water and some food
for Ting Sen, and hay or other as the foreigner might
eat.
Ting Sen shambled about as a soldier's foot
guided him to an upright position. Nate was placed
under a board and dragged through attached ropes
by half a dozen men. As he was pushed away, Ting
Sen looked about, thought he saw the Mandarin
speaking to the man in the Silken Mask. A fist to the
side of Ting Sen's head, coupled with curses,
impressed upon the son of Wong Fei Hung that now
was the time to abandon curiosity and step quickly.
Their trek continued, now and then a pause for
the unfortunates who had to move Nate around to
take a breather. Ting Sen was pressed into barn,
forcibly shoved up a bamboo ladder, had his wrists
chained, tightly against the wall, but at least there
was give enough in the links to let him sit down.

They dumped Nate to the ground, tied his hands
and feet to a pole at the base of the barn, and left
him there, face−down, Ting Sen saw from his perch
above. Calling out to the man produced no reply,
save mockery from guards left on duty.
No longer concerned with holding appearances,
Ting Sen thrashed angrily against the chains that
held. Nothing would let him slip out of these, he
realized. The steel clasps were so tight they cut into
the bones on his shins and forearms.
Perhaps if he starved, he could escape, but not
otherwise. An uncontrollable tirade ensued as the
son of Wong Fei Hung forgot all decorum, forgot all
shame, forgot the guards laughing, and merely
shouted, rattled his chains, kicked at the pole, fell,
raised himself, and continued his rant.
A few guardsmen had returned to the barn to
watch from below. Amusement in their eyes. Ting
Sen spat towards them. The men laughed harder.
Some threw hay and rocks at their prisoner above.
One kicked at their prisoner below. Nate rolled and
grunted a bit when feet came into contact with his
body, sending everyone a few steps back.

Ting Sen settled. The men left. Later that
evening, a meal was served. Ting Sen waited, alone
among many.
***
Inwardly seething and plotting revenge, Ting Sen
spent the next day sullenly observing his captors.
Anything for an advantage. Some chance to break
away. Or find out what was going on. None came to
speak with him. A few played games like placing
dishes out of his reach, hoping that hunger might
generate renewed outbursts from their wild pet.
Ting Sen stared at the men, watching their
twittering motions with a stone face. Quickly the
would−be tormentors grew tired of their game. That
night some rice was slid across to Ting Sen. He
stared at it, at the faces of those who served it.
A hint of furtive glances in his direction resulted in
Ting Sen kicking the food away. The soldiers
guffawed at this, slapping one of the larger members
on the back. Sheepishly, the object of their attention
drew some coins from his pocket, paying all.
There were several sets of guards, Ting Sen
noticed. A liveried sort, stiff with integrity, came into

the barn now and again. Pausing only to change
horses. Others, stronger, with bearings of confidence
and discipline, roamed about the periphery. These
men were tall. Northern. Manchu.
Around Ting Sen, the soldiers were smaller. Less
sophisticated. He watched them walk, saw the
uncertainty of their strides, the lack of discipline and
pride. Here, he thought was a chance. If only the
others could be made to leave...
He formulated a series of plans in his mind,
quickly casting them aside when he glanced down at
Nate's body, eyed the foreigner's massive chest
heaving with irregular breaths, but no signs of
consciousness. Grimly, Ting Sen began pulling at
the chains that kept him in place.
The metal bit hard into his flesh as he shifted his
wrists and scratched at his post.
Part III: Air

Chapter I
Mok Gwai Lan strode purposefully through the

archway of Po Chi Lam. Behind her, two attendants
from the clinic attempted to keep pace, wondering
why their mistress had so much vigor in her efforts to
supervise the morning's shopping.
New Year was coming. In a short time the streets
of Canton would be awash with firecrackers,
celebrants, families and revelers. With the drink
consumed, her husband's clinic would see no end of
customers after. But it was a happy time in an
unhappy year, and around many were determined to
see a change of luck.
Gwai Lan paid no notice to the people who
gathered, hawking wares, offering sweet cakes,
wines, treats. Turning smartly down Huan Shi, she
pushed past an aggressive vendor of live fowl.
Behind, her attendants slammed into the man,
upsetting his cart and launching his cages into the air
amid a clamor of curses and squawks.
“Mistress!” shouted Jan Juin, her main assistant.
“Wait!”
“Pay for his entire stock and take it back,” ordered

Gwai Lan, instantly shifting the vendor's eyes from
an angry red to a delighted gleam. “We'll have hens
for the New Year.”
Stunned, Jan Juin was about to question his
supervisor, thought better of it. With a nod, Gwai Lan
turned and continued down the road, glaring fiercely
at another man who tried to force a lucrative
collision. The fellow, a peasant from the rural areas
outside the city, considered, stepped back humbly.
Finally, she reached the door of Wing Butcher
Shop, entered.
Lan Hsing, Wing's wife sat behind the counter,
supervising her clerks, offering greetings, heckling
the baggers, and taking money. She smiled brightly
at Gwai Lan.
“Something for Po Chi Lam, Auntie?” asked Lan
Hsing.
“Later. I must speak with your husband.”
Concerned at this tone, Lan Hsing paused for a
moment, said “he very busy now. Can come later?”
“I must speak with him immediately,” retorted
Gwai Lan. Something about her manner brought Lan
Hsing to her feet.

“OK, OK, I take you to him. He with meat.”
“Fine. Thank you, Auntie,” replied Gwai Lan,
smiling as best she could and stepping behind the
counter into the rear of the shop.
Wing's hands were an orgy of motion as they
hacked into the stacks of viands all around. The knife
he wielded, covered in blood and entrails, would
have disgusted many an onlooker. Wing himself
looked little better, face and apron covered with
debris.
Gwai Lan waited impatiently for the man to look
up. She wanted to see his eyes before rushing to
any judgement.
Realizing a stillness in the room, Wing glanced
around, first at his assistants, then caught his wife
and the spouse of his master in the room. That
instant of surprise convinced Gwai Lan.
“Leave us,” she said tersely to Lan Hsing, a slight
that would not be smoothed over without many
afternoons of tea and sweetened delicacies.
Shocked, Lan Hsing filed out, Wing's assistants
exiting as well.
The room's two remaining occupants stared at

each other for a time. Gwai Lan impatient, Wing
thinking rapidly. He spoke first.
“What brings you to my humble shop this day?”
he asked with a hopeful, trilling note to his voice.
One, Gwai Lan reflected, that he must use when
coming home drunk from the pubs.
“I look for my son,” Gwai Lan replied.
“That little one,” smiled Wing indulgently. “Why,
he's always getting out, isn't he?”
“Not the little one. My other son,” replied Gwai
Lan. “Ting Sen,” she added angrily when it looked
like Wing might try to dissemble out.
“Why—why would I know where he is?” asked the
butcher. “After all, that young man has been known
to prowl in and out of Canton. He could be
anywhere.”
“Yes. And the foreigner with him. I owe a debt to
that foreigner. And something is not right.”
“Yes. The giant. I've heard of him. But... why
me?”
“Because,” replied Gwai Lan angrily, reaching into
her bag and throwing out bits of bun and sausage
she'd found in Wong Kai Ying's chamber, “these

wrappings could only have come from your shop.
And must have been given to Ting Sen by you....”
A few gasps could be heard from outside. Wing
cursed at the listeners, raced to the door to offer a
quick spate of discipline.
Despite her reluctance to touch a man so
encrusted with his work, Gwai Lan reached out,
stopping the much larger Wing in his tracks, and
nearly knocking him off balance.
“You will not get out of this so easily,” she said.
“Where is my son? You are the last to have seen
him... and the foreigner as well.”
“Was the foreigner with your son?” Wing started,
glancing humbly at the woman in his shop.
With a shout Gwai Lan pressed her fists forward.
“Wing! I have studied with Fei Hung, same as
you. Will you challenge me here? On this day?”
Changing tactics, Wing's eyes looked over his
would−be attacker.
“Perhaps,” offered Wing. “Yes, perhaps. But is
your Kung Fu as good as mine? I have been Fei
Hung's disciple for many years... this would not be a
proper duel.”
“Has he taught you his Shadowless Kick? Or the
fifth way? Or...” Gwai Lan's tone was shrill.
“Yes.” Wing replied. “All of them. He calls me his
best student when we train others. Would you really
like to try?”
“Well,” answered Gwai Lan, more calmly. “That is
so. And, perhaps, you would win. And it gets me no
closer to my son. Or the truth. But tell me, Wing the
Butcher, can you stop me from destroying your shop
on this New Year?”
And with a snarl, Gwai Lan spun, kicked a giant
hole in the wall separating the cleaning area from the
customers. The reaction came, loud, stunned.
Customers raced for the door. Gwai Lan turned,
smugly, to Wing, who stood in stark terror, not at the
wife of Fei Hung, but his own spouse, who was now
angrily looking at her husband and her friend.
“This is New Year!” shouted Lan Hsing, her head
peering through the opening. “One of the few days
good for business in these times. What have you
done to so antagonize the wife of your master?”
Wing started. Both women converged upon him
now. This situation was untenable. He sat down hard

to the ground, a rooster overrun by hens. Sighing at
the pair, he began to speak.
“Ting Sen, and foreigner, leave on boat.”
“Yes, I knew that,” answered Gwai Lan. “To go
where?”
Wing glanced at the hole in the wall, the
customers outside who had arrested their flight and
now peered over the counter for a better glimpse at
this early display of fireworks.
“I no can tell,” he replied sadly. His wife began to
harangue once more. Gwai Lan gently stroked an
another of the shop's barriers, glancing at the
butcher to see which wall held the roof.
“I show you!” he shouted finally. His wife,
annoyed at this defection, began to speak, but a
glance from Gwai Lan stopped her. Summoning
Wing's top apprentice from a place in front of the
counter where the boy cowered, Lan Hsing put the
fellow in charge of cutting, returned calmly the front,
cajoled and bullied the customers and onlookers into
purchasing, and said nothing more to her husband.
“A long trip,” Wing muttered to Gwai Lan, glancing
down at his soiled body. “I must get clean.”

“Hurry,” the wife of Fei Hung replied impatiently.
Chapter II
A foreign patron of Fei Hung's discretely provided

Wing and Gwai Lan with a steam−powered vessel to
achieve their destination. The donor, a prominent
individual with the expatriate community had
contracted a peculiar ailment sometime during his
revels in the City of Shanghai.
Luckily, the man's spouse and household had
returned to their home nation during this period, so
Fei Hung's delicate and time−consuming treatments
were both successful and unobserved.
Gwai Lan, who had provided the man his
medicines, finally took the gentlemen, a shipping
magnate, up on his offer of anything, anytime.
Their new vessel steamed along the Pearl River
with, to Wing, frightening speeds. Never had the
butcher moved this fast. Their captain, a Malay fluent
in Canton dialect, laughed heartily as Fei Hung's
student began to look sick. Four crew were aboard,
Javanese perhaps, in any event happy that they
didn't need to load cargo this day.
Wing stood near the prow, catching glimpses of
angry fisherman, junk owners trundling cargo, and

now and then a ferry operator taking his passengers
from one end to the other. The steamship set up an
enormous wake. Not a few boats were upset by their
passing, some literally.
Gwai Lan sat astern, watching intently. She
listened as two of the crewmen pointed to an area
near shore, where a load of debris had washed
along the riverbank. Their speculation was hard to
follow. Words here and there she understood,
bomb—firestick, something. Gwai Lan turned to
Wing, wondering if the butcher understood.
Wing listened intently, his face whitening. He
turned to Gwai Lan.
“They say a small boat was attacked by three
riverboat pirate ships. Only two men were aboard
this boat. A giant, and one other.”
Gwai Lan's eyes widened and she turned to the
crewmen.
“They say, the giant had fire, and he threw it at
the boats. And he destroyed all three with his fire.
Fire on a stick.”
“What?”
“Dynamite. The giant and your son were taking

dynamite down the river. They must have used it.”
“Did they survive?”
“The crewmen believe so.”
Gwai Lan turned back, staring at the scraps of
wood along the river. Many days, she considered.
Too long for the injured to remain. They'd either have
moved away, on their own power, or...
“We'll visit the temple first,” offered Wing
decisively, and not, Gwai Lan realized, all that
interested in seeing what lay between the planks
along the riverside. Perhaps this butcher had not so
strong a stomach.
“How far now?” asked Gwai Lan, changing the
subject.
“If we paddled, an hour or two, depending on
current, returned the butcher. Perhaps in this
machine, much faster.” Wing was somber.
“My son had best be all right,” said Gwai Lan.
“I hope so,” returned Wing. Their eyes locked,
Gwai Lan silently promising recriminations if anything
should happen to her family. Wing turned away first,
his head shaking slightly.
Chapter III
From a distance, Gwai Lan and Wing caught sight

of the bustling temple. This season was marked with
paper lanterns, crowds coming in to worship, fake
money offered as sacrifice to luck and prosperity.
Nearing, the dock was packed in with dozens of
small boats. Their steamship nearly caused several
to capsize as it approached. To angry shouts, Gwai
Lan and Wing disembarked, Wing offering matching
curses and an upraised fist to the small crowd that
gathered round.
Their reputation did not spread to these parts. AT
least not on site. Gwai Lan could have educated the
passersby quickly, but she was too much in a hurry.
Besides, it never worked to identify yourself verbally.
“Where would they go?” she asked Wing.
“Into the main temple,” answered the butcher as
his hand flared out to smash a threatening oar in
half. Their steamer pulled back from the coast, the
captain waiting and waving, indicated he'd be there
for as much time as Gwai Lan and her companion
needed.
Passing by the now−parting throng, Gwai Lan felt

for a moment the spirit of New Year. One vendor had
prepared the daintiest of rice confections. A specialty
of some nearby village, no doubt. For a moment she
paused amid the crowd, basking in the smells,
hearing the music in market chatter, watching a few
kites whirl in the distance. A quiet moment.
Wing halted, watching her. Gwai Lan looked up
from her brief gaze at the butcher. Turning to Wing,
she barked instructions to enter the temple, and the
two made their way through the revellers with little
incident.
Past the dragon statues several monks stood,
waving incense, clanging bells, smiles on their faces
but no words passing through their lips. They bowed,
moved up the trail and entered the temple.
Wing paused to look at the gold figures; he'd
always been a fan of monkey. Dropping a few coins
in, he fell back as Gwai Lan marched earnestly
towards the central altar. The monks bowed as she
passed, still none spoke. At the far end, a woman
selling incense sticks looked over.
“Buddha bless you,” said the vendor.
“And to you,” replied Gwai Lan. “I am here

seeking information.”
“They perhaps have that,” replied the woman.
“The way can be known. You must come for classes.
Are you new to the village?”
“I don't seek that information. I'm looking for
someone—two people—who came to this temple
several nights ago. I haven't heard from them since.”
“Several nights ago. But—why—they wouldn't
have come here. The temple—it wasn't open,”
answered the woman, somewhat flustered by Gwai
Lan's manner. “The monks made a short pilgrimage
to a mountain nearby, where this temple's founder is
buried. They do that every year.”
Gwai Lan turned to Wing, who was mimicking the
stances of Monkey King before that altar. By some
instinct, the butcher turned, became serious,
shambled through the temple quickly and moved to
her side.
“No one at the temple for several days,” said
Gwai Lan.
“Make sense,” began Wing, puzzled.
“Who is your contact here?” the wife of Fei Hung
asked.
“I don't have one,” Wing returned.
Frustrated, Gwai Lan turned to the woman.
“Is there anyone—someone we could speak
to—who would have been here while the monks
were away.”
“I—no—yes. They didn't have guards, but one of
the brethren did stay close at hand. I was with the
monks in their travel. My family has been associated
with this temple since its founding,” began the
woman, her hands spreading out unconsciously
around her little shop in its key position of the
temple.
“That man—not a true monk, you understand—”
she continued disdainfully, “but he does help out
here, and sleeps near the other brothers, a sort of
hut behind the official residences. You can find
him...”
The incense vendor was speaking to air. Without
so much as a polite “blessings to you,” Gwai Lan had
moved halfway down the temple towards the exit,
Wing in tow. In a huff, the seller sniffed in their
direction, bent down, and idly stacked cylinders of
incense.
Chapter IV
The road to the dormitories was humble, fitting.

Merely a dirt trail that led past small gardens, ponds
bristling with koi, and a few cooking pits scattered
about, managing a vegetarian diet for so many. Gwai
Lan saw koi rise to the surface as she passed, their
golden−red fins offering a cheerful greeting, and
almost lining up toward the far edge, pointing the
way.
At her side, Wing struggled to keep up, the short
legs of the butcher experiencing difficulty matching
her longer, forceful strides. The dormitory lay before
them, modest housing, with terra cotta shingles
stacked neatly together like clams in a seagull's
dream.
Gwai Lan stared a bit. This was the main
residence. But where did the help reside? A small
hut—shack really, like it would be used to store
garden implements, poked out from the rear edge of
the monk's housing. Gwai Lan glanced at Wing,
whose own gaze focused in the same direction.
“Must be there,” she said. And the butcher
agreed. The two moved past the dormitory, Gwai

Lan curiously peering inside windows as she passed,
unable to resist temptation to know what the men
might be up to. Most of the monks were out. A few
sat idly, tending to their sandals, mending a robe...
skillful handling of a needle, Gwai Lan thought. They
said nothing, even among themselves.
Ashamed of herself for invading their privacy,
Gwai Lan hurried ahead, Wing's breathing increasing
as he barely kept pace. Gwai Lan barely felt the
ground beneath her feet until by the entrance to the
worker's shack.
“Entrance” was the sort of polite compliment Fei
Hung taught Gwai Lan to make. Always decent, so
gentle and respectful. The worker lived in a hovel, a
dirty hovel, cracked on the sides. Disgracing himself,
Gwai Lan's mother would have said, showing
disrespect to the monks. Poverty was one thing,
unavoidable perhaps, but you carried yourself with a
measure of pride.
Gwai Lan didn't bother announcing herself,
stepping into the residence. A short man, face
pock−marked from a condition that might not be
treatable, sat in the center, amid numerous bottles of

rice wine. Wing, behind her, glanced at the
containers, looked at her in surprise. These
beverages were a bit much for a poor monk's
assistant.
Gwai Lan imagined monks drinking fermented
sweet potatoes, wallowing in filth, a ghastly, horrid
existence. She kicked the bottles aside, brought the
man to his feet with one toe wedged into his filthy
robes. Where a surly expression had lodged on the
workman's face, now Gwai Lan saw fear and
willingness.
“The men that were here. Where did they go?”
she asked, sternly. At the other edge of her leg, her
would−be informant didn't answer.
“Where did they go?” Gwai Lan repeated, flicking
her limbs slightly and drawing the worker above
ground.
“Up road. In truck!” The worker blurted out.
“Was a giant with them?” asked Wing, bemused
at this side of Fei Hung's wife.
“Giant? Yes. Big bear. He hunt down. They draw
him along. Into truck. He beat first.”
“Him beat?” shouted Gwai Lan. “They attacked.”

“Yes. Bear knock down. Many... soldiers,” said
the worker after a pause. “Soldiers beat down. Took
dozen. Two dozen. Other man, they catch. He not
take so many. One man bring him down.”
“Bring down? They're....”
“No dead, no dead,” said the worker, nervously. “I
help bear into truck. Both alive. But they beaten....
not good,” added the decrepit figure hopefully, “not
good beat those defenseless.”
“Even worse to set people up for a fall and not
warn them!” shouted Gwai Lan. “Which direction did
the truck go?”
“Up road. North.”
“North?” Gwai Lan looked at Wing. “What's north?
Fifty−100 miles away? In a truck...”
Wing paused. He wracked his brain, trying to
think of camps that distant. This temple was the
outer reach, he knew. A riverside base for troops
heading to Canton. Not sure of the exact direction...
“Maybe it's a decoy. They could have figured that
one,” and Wing pointed now at the worker, who had
slumped to the ground away from Gwai Lan's dread
limbs, “would talk. And drove off.”

“So, we follow a truck,” said Gwai Lan intently.
And she exited the hovel. Wing, hungry, reached
down for a handful of lychee as they exited. The
worker sighed to himself with relief, thankful that the
wife of Fei Hung considered him too disgusting to
chastise.
Wing gave a quick message of thanks to their
boat crew, and after the ship departed, the butcher
and Gwai Lan went off on foot, easily discerning the
ruts generated by a full truck's passage on a road
that seldom carried more than human−drawn carts.
Chapter V
Wing grew increasingly tiresome during their walk

together. The butcher, though he trained each day
with her husband or on his own, objected to the
exercise of a drawn−out hike. Enduring complaints
was something Gwai Lan did each day, but the
butcher's near−constant whining got on her nerves.
It didn't help that the tracks they'd so gleefully
begun following hours ago had faded, flattened by
seasonal rains, heavy foot traffic, and less−sandy
turf than the riverside trail that had looked so
promising. Gwai Lan found herself unsure. Was this
truly the way to go?
On one side of their route lay a small village.
Glancing in, Gwai Lan was excited to discover a
petrol stand, the only one either had noticed since
their trek began. She pulled Wing, who'd stopped to
point out, again, the damage his feet were suffering,
rudely toward this new destination.
The rest of the village sat in shabby disarray. On
rooftops, terra cotta shingles were cracked. A small
shrine at the center lay toppled. A few sellers in what
passed for the market glanced at them, hopefully.

One dirty child, wearing a tattered rag that covered
nothing, raced up to offer water.
Wing made a comment about New Year's finery.
Gwai Lan reached down and handed the boy a coin,
scowling at her companion, who immediately
became silent.
The petrol stand lay on the far edge of town.
Position deliberately, Gwai Lan thought, to generate
commercial traffic for the other inhabitants. This civic
initiative hadn't borne fruit yet, however.
She walked with the butcher through dusty
streets, catching snarls born of rage from those who
sat idly beside their hovels. Gwai Lan offered
understanding glances to these bestial figures; Wing,
beside her, growled back. They reached the petrol
stand.
It carried one pump. Marks in the ground
indicated something big had come by recently. Gwai
Lan looked for an owner, saw none, moved to the
front of the garage, where makeshift parts lay
scattered about. The faint whisper of a bellows
pumping reached her ears. She sniffed the air,
headed for the smell of wood and coal.

A man, with several assistants, looking better fed
than anyone they'd seen in this village so far, had
before him some metallic artifact of motorized travel.
One underling stoked the fire. Others pointed eagerly
at various aspects of the ferric wizard's prize on
display before them all. Gwai Lan walked over.
“What you want?” said the leader, alert to their
presence by the repositioned staring of his
subordinates.
“We are seeking information about a truck that
may have passed through here,” Gwai Lan replied
sweetly.
“Many truck pass through,” offered the man,
dismissively. He turned away from Gwai Lan, struck
the head of a young apprentice who'd smirked at his
remark.
“Surely not that many,” continued Gwai Lan in her
best clinic voice. “This truck was full of persons.
Soldier persons,” she added meaningfully. “They
likely would have needed the fuel your station
provides.”
“Soldier have own petrol,” said the man. Not
turning to face her. Wing, beside Gwai Lan, grew

annoyed, headed over and grasped the fellow by the
wrist.
“We know a truck came through here,” he said,
bringing the fellow's arm down, and the rest of his
body with it. “We want to know where they went.”
Grimacing, the man nodded, snatched his wrist
as Wing loosened his grip slightly. “You want know
about soldier truck,” said the man. Whistling a call,
he took a few quick steps away from the newcomers,
his underlings forming a protective circle around their
master.
At a side entrance, more than a dozen young
men from the town entered the little repairs area.
Wing looked at Gwai Lan. She smiled back, wryly.
The newcomers picked up tools and metal chunks,
staring back grimly.
“Soldiers no want people know anything,” said the
leader. “That why they left some men behind.”
The fighters closed in around the pair. Their
leader barked out orders, warning them to be gentle
with the lady. She might be high−born, and there
were to be no incidents that might embarrass their
masters.
Gwai Lan smiled again at Wing. She'd have her
training this day.
Chapter VI
Wing shifted closer to Gwai Lan, guarding her

flank. Before them, objects waved menacingly,
bonds uncurled to constrain the intruders and,
perhaps, deliver them. An idea formed in Gwai Lan's
mind, but got rejected as the last thing she wanted
was to wait in this horrible place for what might
come.
She flicked her wrist out aimlessly, severed an
iron bar that had gotten too close, and made quite a
mark on the chest of the man who'd been wielding it.
Around them, the presumptive glory she'd seen in so
many men's eyes faded, like morning haze prior to
the sun's ascent.
Wing dropped down, upset three, came about,
brought his leg into the chest of a man. Gwai Lan,
disgusted at the town, at the station, at the persons
here, decided her main enemy was the petrol stand
itself. Accordingly, she leapt up, feet splaying out, in
a whir punching toe−shaped holes in the roof,
forming an arc like machine gun fire, came down,
grabbed a bar, and went to it.
Moving swiftly, Gwai Lan floored one man; Wing

another. The crew facing them paused. Gwai Lan
advanced, her forearm knocking two aside. Wing
laughed, leapt above the fray, came down in the
direction of the leader.
Gwai Lan, bored with jumping, forced her way
straight through like a bull or crunch−time shopper.
Around men were unconscious. Here and there a
few attempted to swing their useless improvised
weapons. Gwai Lan caught the sticks, sent them
back at their owners, or flexed them against the walls
of the shop in passing.
Wing, seeing what she was up to, exited the
building, two or three men before. Outside, with more
room, and a crowd, the butcher flashed his dazzling
style, dropping opponents with a somersault,
bringing feet to rest against chin while executing a
backwards flip. As his part of the melee swept
towards the market, Wing leapt above two fighters,
brought his fists to their heads, dove behind a stall,
and re−emerged with breakfast between his lips.
The crowd applauded. The shopkeeper, not
receiving immediate payment from Wing, berated
him from her stand.

More than half the opponents who'd so
confidently faced the pair lay prone on the ground.
Those still standing paused to regroup, and consider
again their containment strategy.
Gwai Lan ended such discussion. With a crack,
the structure which so oppressed began to lean. The
wife of Fei Hung again brought her foot to a
supporting beam. Tumbling, the roof began to hove
in on itself. Wing shouted exultantly as she leapt
away.
The building fell, a stunning cacophony of dust
and debris. Gwai Lan shot an approving glance at
the butcher, a nearly unprecedented appraisal from
so severe a personage. Wing smiled in receipt.
The pair strode amongst the debris, looking for
the leader and former owner of a thriving petrol.
Gwai Lan brushed roofing shards off the face of one
failed assailant; Wing kicked idly at prone bodies.
The man they sought seemed improbably lost. Wing
made a comment about “too big to vanish,” when the
duo finally caught sight of someone running off
behind the fallen structure.
Smiling, Gwai Lan raced ahead, Wing trailing

slightly. Flight evidenced guilt. It was the one sought.
Gwai Lan narrowed the gap between herself and the
pursued, her long legs chewing distance like
champion jaws at a noodle festival. Sweating,
swearing, the man glanced back at her, attempted to
increase his speed, stumbled, picked himself up,
turned back, and she was upon him.
The man looked at her, his gaze a myriad of fear,
envy, and self−disgust. Despite his western
profession, Gwai Lan mused, this one had not begun
to appreciate foreign ideals concerning women. Had
he come to her clinic, she'd have been more
discrete, recognizing Fei Hung's insistence on
politesse within reason, and doing her utmost to
make the guests comfortable, even if it meant
signaling a less−skilled, male clinic worker over to
handle treatments that their guests wouldn't tolerate
from a woman.
In this circumstance, Gwai Lan did not need her
husband's approval, nor was his reputation on the
line. She reached down and slapped away the traces
of smugness that had appeared on the fallen man's
face.
“There was a truck that came through here,” she
repeated. “A truck full of soldiers. Where did it go?”
Silently, defiantly, the man stared back. His eyes
widened, however, as Gwai Lan curled her fingers,
the delicate joints erupting into cracks more
menacing than any verbal threat. She looked down
at him, but the man, catching sight of Wing behind,
began to speak.
Looking directly at the huffing figure of the
butcher, their captive blurted: “They no far. No far!
Truck can no go far.”
“Where?” repeated Gwai Lan. Silence.
“Where did the truck go?” asked Wing, recovering
his breath.
“It go. To villa. Palace. Pagoda. Three miles up
road. Turn. Many people follow trail. No can miss.
Behind... rice paddy, fish ponds. No one fish in
ponds.”
“Thank you,” said Gwai Lan.
“You welcome,” the man replied to Wing.
“We'll go now,” Gwai Lan smiled. “Before you can
get word to them. But if we're captured, don't worry,
we'll make sure to tell them how helpful you were in

all this.”
The man snarled at her, glanced back at the ruins
of his shop, sighed, and moved to the road, away
from the duo and away from the town.
“Mean,” said Wing to the doctor's wife. “You
weren't like this before.”
“I want my son back,” replied Gwai Lan. Wing
stood silent for a moment. Then moved quickly, his
shambling gait catching her stride, as they headed in
the direction of the villa.
Chapter VII
The villa lurked ahead with the kind of over−ripe

richness too common to late Qing China. Gwai Lan
and Wing kept glancing at the structure, vast
swathes of hand−hewn brick, adorned with
sculptures set by artisans, just right with the texture,
the countryside and the air. Giant gaping holes were
all 'round, visible from far away.
Gwai Lan marveled at the openings, wondering if
it was some new kind of defense. Perhaps this was a
way to prevent the foreigners returning. In her mind,
she credited whichever man had conceived of them,
of such an elaborate defense. They were not, after
all, at war with the foreigners currently, so far as
Gwai Lan knew.
Then a bird flew out of one particularly large bit of
blackness. The creature was joined in the air by
dozens of its friends. Gwai Lan saw a man pop out at
the edge of the hole where feathered creatures had
escaped. There was shouting. Curses. From the
grounds, guns fired.
A few birds fell. Most escaped. But perhaps they
nested there and faced these attackers each day.

Wing looked at Gwai Lan. They said nothing for a
moment, began climbing to the top of a hill across
from the villa. From its height, 400 feet above foot
path, they watched more closely the activities below.
An entire troop was on hand. Hundreds of
soldiers. Even with Fei Hung, and his school, this
was too much of a challenge. Gwai Lan sat down,
dejectedly. Sifted handfuls of dirt and rock between
her fingers. Wing continued his surveillance. Time
passed.
Wing abandoned his perch, finally. Settled in
beside her, but not too close. The butcher was
affected by her actions. The dirt in her hands. Her
looked at her for a time, but would not meet her
gaze.
“They can move him,” offered the butcher,
hopefully. “He won't stay here forever.”
“And what of the foreigner?” Gwai Lan shot back.
“I can not abandon him. I've caused this problem for
him. We can spirit my son away. Yes. But the
foreigner. We must take him too. He will not be so
easy.”
Wing nodded.
“There must be some way to get in,” he said after
a moment. “Disguise?” he offered.
“As what?” You no look like soldier. I no court
woman.” Gwai Lan's eyes flashed angrily, her teeth
bared in a tigress' snarl.
“Servant?”
“They live there. The people of the towns... they
don't work here. Probably bring eunuchs from court.
What can they need from outside here?” Gwai Lan
stared meaningfully at the front entrance to the
courtyard, where guards stood by, shooing away
beggars and searching the goods of farmers who'd
brought wares.
As Wing and Gwai Lan watched, a gaggle of
women came into view at the far edge of the path.
These ladies stumbled together, laughing at one
another. Raucous shouts could be heard from them,
unsuitable, Gwai Lan thought, to a woman of court
status. One damsel reached into the hem of
another's gown, snatched a comb, shambled away
on bound feet. The other followed, trudging delicately
after. The group erupted into laughter as pursuer
captured pursued, snatched back the ornament,

gave a loud slap in punishment.
Closer now, Gwai Lan could see the clothes
weren't so fine; ripped here and there, the bright
colorations faded. On the face of each woman,
makeup had been painted on, a few days ago, some
with deep cracks like the fissures near a steaming
ravine.
“They no court lady,” Wing began.
“They travel in packs,” Gwai Lan rejoined quickly.
“Can be straggler... is for your son.”
“I know. I know,” replied Gwai Lan resignedly.
“And Ting Sen will never thank me for this.”
“The foreigner might... and if you wore your
costume...”
“Shut up, Wing. “
Chapter VIII
Until that moment, Gwai Lan had considered

herself lucky not to know how a courtesan dressed.
She'd seen them in the clinic, wandering through
with a variety of ailments, some self−inflicted, some
opium−related, many suffering the batterings of a
rough trade, but at Po Chi Lam the women had one
and all found solace in simple garments.
Dimly, Gwai Lan remembered a few that came in,
poor folk from the countryside. There were elements
to their hair, tied a certain way, pinches of the cheek
to suggest rough. Wing watched her, saw her mind
working these things out. Embarrassed, she turned
to the man:
“Fetch me some straw, and do not hurry back!”
Wing agreed quickly, perhaps embarrassed
himself, or perhaps seeking to watch her struggles
from afar... no, not Wing. He knew Fei Hung quite
well as master, though the butcher would never be
allowed to repeat any of what he'd seen here, she'd
see to that if she had to rip out his tongue and serve
it at his shop.
Gwai Lan steeled herself, wondering for a

moment if it would be better to remove any traces of
naivete. Wrong. Wrong. Keep the shyness. A young
one, just starting out. That was the way. A coy
temptress, one the soldiers would see no point in
grasping after. Promised to the leadership.
She dabbed small specks of dirt onto her face to
create a look, then removed the earthen stain with
saliva indelicately applied to her fingers. All to
enhance the fresh look of a newly−desperate
peasant girl. Inwardly, Gwai Lan felt herself filthy.
Her efforts took shape. Gwai Lan remembered
the walks peasant girls took as they entered her
husband's clinic. Their strides weren't minced like the
professional women of the cities. It was a kind of
shambling gate they took, indelicate. How to practice
that... make it convincing? The guards they'd seen,
the good ones would be attentive to feet, observing
motions from a distance.
She stood up, thought of herself as a girl from
Anyang province, walking as they did, much like her
husband taught the styles of crane, and monkey, and
hyena. Walk like a peasant girl... what would it take?
How to stumble as they did?

Gwai Lan puzzled over the matter, shambling
about a bit, now a mockery of the stances. She'd
done that with Fei Hung when he'd begun giving her
private lessons, away from the students. He'd
indulged, seeing value in the over−exaggeration of
motions... though her future husband had dropped
pupil to the ground more than once when he felt she
wasn't taking the matters seriously enough.
Gwai Lan paused, remembering the time she'd hit
her head. Thinking of the man who'd so dominated
her, the skilled doctor, suddenly, desperately falling
beside her, dousing her face with cool water, the
anxious glance in his eyes as she came to. They'd
not kissed then. But the moment was there for both.
Falling. Why did they seem to fall? What about
the girls of the countryside? Why could they not walk
right?
Gwai Lan cried out. Somewhere in her pacing,
her toe kicked an oversize pebble from the hillside.
Of course.
The girls of the countryside wore no shoes. They
wrapped their feet in rags. But the city... required it,
with all the debris, and the fashions, the petty sense
of fashions. Gwai Lan tried to imagine herself
growing up without shoes. She stared at her feet,
visualizing an unbalanced, unfamiliar and rather
unwanted enclosure. Her whole body joined this
vision, of the girl, walking, who didn't walk, working at
an unpleasant task, calling to the men of the towns.
She shambled around the hillside, affecting this
walk. No. That wasn't it. Something else... Gwai Lan
briefly considered vulgar causes. Not that. No. A
fresh face, after all. Why did the peasant girls walk
so?
She considered again her feet. Sought to mimic
the outsized steps, the uncertainty. Did they lose that
walk? Gwai Lan considered, believed they did. The
girls who survived, they'd not stay so fresh for long.
They blended in, or perished. A brutal life.
The answer came to her suddenly as she
remembered treating animals. There were dogs that
came to Fei Hung's clinic, small creatures, carried in
arms. Their feet, without the calluses, nearly, from a
lifetime of being held. Then, too, the stronger dogs,
hunting beasts, creatures owned by foreigners,
mostly. These feet, scratched, battered, muscular

pads, even in the ones so young.
The girls of the towns, Gwai Lan realized, had
feet like the bigger dogs, patches of flesh that made
fitting into shoes difficult. So hard to imagine. Gwai
Lan paused, stared at the flesh below her ankle.
How to make it so? She pulled a few pebbles from
the dirt, pressed them into her skin. Walked. Yes,
that was—no, a half−dozen steps were
unsatisfactory. Better, but still not acceptable.
She had little time left. Stones were adjusted. She
strode again. The pebbles wouldn't hold over a long
trek, could fall out right before some guard, and the
pain was not abating. Gwai Lan stopped. Stared
down at the grass and dirt. In a flash of inspiration
she bound up the dirt and grass into tiny clumps,
pressed these upon the base of her feet, packed it
down, walked, packed again.
Better. And should dirt fall from a peasant girl's
feet? A subject of laughter, but hardly suspicion.
Little more was expected. Gwai Lan walked further.
Yes. That was it. Not perfect. No. But good enough.
With the walk, her eyes became those of the
eager would−be courtesan. Beckoning to the trees,

the sky. Come to me. A measure of pleading, of
desperation. Gwai Lan captured the peculiar
innocence so quickly lost.
Perfect.
She called to Wing.
The butcher's reaction as he neared told Gwai
Lan her efforts worked. This night she would find her
son.
Chapter IX
Beyond the walk, Gwai Lan found her most

difficult task was keeping humble. The girlish
combinations of innocence, fear and wonder were
abandoned prior to the commencement of her
courtship with Fei Hung.
Her husband believed very much that women
should walk with pride. While there were times, he
believed, that she should seem more
accommodating to men, it was only when they were
patients at the clinic, while the guests recuperated,
and only if it avoided trouble.
Like a shopkeeper or a matron, Gwai Lan yielded
to no one on the streets of Canton, offering respect
and demanding it in return.
There were no difficulties in passing herself off to
the soldiers. They saw her, her garb, and
immediately pointed the way to the main house, but
the gestures they made, the familiar hands on the
fabric of her torn costume, the catcalls and even
touches she bore as she passed through a gauntlet
of soldiers, were nearly impossible to abide.
Her debt to the foreigner would be paid.

At the entrance to the main hall an official, garbed
in traditional gown and face covered in plaster
makeup, greeted her with a bored expression.
“I going for leader,” said Gwai Lan in a sing−song
voice.
“Yes. You would be,” replied the official with a
bored expression. “Why so late? Who sent you?”
“Am special gift,” chanted Gwai Lan. She
stumbled over the words, offering a hint of
incomprehension, a girl with command only of the
rural dialects.
“Right. Yes. You would be,” repeated the
round−faced functionary. Gwai Lan stared at him, a
puzzled look on her face and eyes wide. Neither
spoke. Finally the man relented.
“Very well,” he sighed. Quickly, names were
called. Servants in livery appeared, bowed low
before the eminent one, turned to Gwai Lan.
“Shall we put her with the other girls?” asked the
oldest of the new arrivals.
“No, dolt!” replied the official. “Keep her separate.
It is the preferred treatment. You will need to clean
her up a bit—” catching a smile at this, the official

batted away at the men with a fan. “Send for one of
the maids—the older ones,” added the householder
to turned−away heads and seeking hands.
“You will entertain him this night, girl,” said the
official to Gwai Lan with a sneer. “Or you will
entertain every man in the barracks.” Gwai Lan's
face showed no comprehension of the words uttered,
but she allowed herself anxiety at the tone.
The official picked at her sleeve, felt disdainfully
the muscles of Gwai Lan's arms. “Right from her
village,” he said. “Pulling water each day. Disgusting.
Away with all of you!”
Gwai Lan followed as the uniformed servants
raced from management. Her eyes kept firmly on the
floor, she noted the decorations, tiles like the Uighur
people made, illustrating the rooms grandly.
Upstairs, patterns formed, telling stories, simple ones
in a few steps, then more complicated... then
obscene. Keeping in character, Gwai Lan tittered
slightly at the images of men and women.
The guards ahead heard her, one tapped her leg
indelicately, hands waving rapidly and indicating
forward. Gwai Lan looked at the man for a moment,

almost gave it away, stared back down and
quickened her pace. They brought her to a dressing
chamber, shoved her inside rudely, said “wait here,”
and left, bolting the door behind.
It was a small anteroom or temporary living
space. Cushions abounded. To the far side lay
another door. Gwai Lan tested it, discovered locks.
She sat for a moment, recalled herself, heard voices.
Two men were speaking, enjoying each other's
company and gossiping, as men would, about the
figures in their work life.
Behind the panel quiet steps of serving girls could
be heard, swishing about, opening one lid, closing
another, spooning food, refilling drinks. One voice
had a familiar ring to Gwai Lan, but the men spoke in
Beijing dialect, so she spent all her efforts trying to
comprehend the unfamiliar terms and
pronunciations.
With each course, Gwai Lan grew hungrier. On
the other side, they ate swallow's nests,
thousand−year−old egg and shark's fin soup. Gwai
Lan heard roaring approval for peculiar animal
concoctions outside even a Cantonese purview. The

men sample numerous wines, indulged in rice,
sucked the meat of fresh lychee, and onward.
All through this, the words, so hard for Gwai Lan
to understand, rewarded her improving
comprehension with banality. Who cared, really,
what one eunuch was like? How important was it that
this minister's daughter would soon marry that
upstart's son? And the high−ranking woman with the
top lieutenant of the palace guard? So irrelevant.
Not for the first time Gwai Lan considered the
argument Ting Sen made, that Beijing people were
lazy, incapable of working like their southern
counterparts. It was a sobering reflection to think of
Ting Sen. Gwai Lan wondered if she hadn't made a
huge mistake coming in here, wasting time, for this...
boring dialogue.
Hands were clapped. Gwai Lan smiled. A release
now. Dishes were quickly pulled away. In the
traditional banquet, all was over, the guests would
leave, perhaps to experience the newest girl arrival.
Or not.
The plates cleared, the swishing of feet at an end,
the two speakers remained. And kept talking. And

talking. But, suddenly, this conversation was less
dull. Indeed, for Gwai Lan's purposes, it became
downright interesting. Silently, Gwai Lan stretched
her neck, refocused, sat even closer to the panel.
“And your servants are gone?” said one. This the
man whose voice... but something wrong about it. So
familiar.
“Yes. They are quite disciplined. We shall not
hear from them for a time.”
“Good. We have much to speak of. Though this
sumptuous meal you have provided does me great
honor. That wonderful sauce on the duck...” inwardly
Gwai Lan groaned.
“Indeed,” replied the host, cutting his guest off.
“But we are not here to speak of cooked food any
longer. There is that raw beast you have brought into
my stables. What shall be done with him? Food for
that animal shall empty my larder.”
“Yes. But is he not amusing to watch?” replied the
guest. “I found this oversized barbarian, such a
helpless giant, fascinating to look upon. A fearsome
creature. Yet utterly ineffectual. His own
governments have abandoned the man. We can

parade him before the people as a sign of our own
strength.”
“Don't worry,” added the guest. “I will not take
much more advantage of your generous hospitality.
It was a matter of preparing some container for him
to be displayed. We shall tell the people we visited
the barbarian homeland and brought back a captive.
In the more rural areas I intend to visit soon, they will
flock to see him, and his weakness will serve to
enforce the opinion of our strength. It is nearly time.”
“So, your course of action is decided then?”
“It was decided long ago. When the barbarians
destroyed our Summer Palace. That none then could
stand before them is a tragedy. I will rectify this.”
“But you cannot face the white devils. Our forces
are not yet prepared... and it would be easier to play
them against each other.”
“No, first we must consolidate our power. There
are too many out there who would fight with us when
the emperor is deposed. And others who would fight
for the emperor. We must eliminate such difficulties.”
“And the democratic movement? This Sun Yat
Sen?”
“He is further from us than the Japanese
emperor. So far away. But that is part of my plan...”
“Is it?” asked the host. “And what will your plan
entail there?”
“We will let them have their invasion. And their
rebellion. They will take a city. Or part of it.”
“But... my friend,” said the host. “How can they
take a city? Their numbers are small. They have few
weapons. Why, your own men told me you'd taken
armaments from the little one that's housed here.
How will they enter the city?”
“Simple,” replied the guest. “All has been
arranged. The forces of Canton will not offer
resistance to them. Our forces. These men will enter
the city. They have plans to occupy a landmark. It
would cause much humiliation in Beijing... and
fear—”
“Yes. Fear. So they hold this landmark—which
one?”
“A few secrets. You will know in time. Then,
my—our forces, dear friend, will enter the city once
more. They will reclaim the landmark, cast the rebels
aside, humiliate them. Simple, no?”

“Excellent. Yes. I see, now. The emperor is
humiliated....”
“Our factions in court are humiliated.”
“But the people derive no hope because these
others are beaten so easily.”
“Are the people so hopeless? They crave
symbols. It is a difficult time.”
“The people crave a strong emperor. They see
the world outside, glimpses of it. The people want
not to be weak. We shall give them a symbol of
strength.”
“All right. Yes. It proceeds as we hoped. Why,
then, is the little one in my barn? I understand this
dancing bear, but why the little one?”
Gwai Lan's heart leapt into her throat. The little
one—Ting Sen. Both were here. Not the castle... the
stables. She was wasting her time. But... how to
extricate herself. Nothing, then, but to listen and
plan.
“It is not the little one that concerns me. So many
of our students now, their ludicrous ideas for change.
You would think they should study classics. Or this
Western science China could learn from. Industry,

perhaps. But no, it is not far more important to apply
the teachings of tiny nations, infant nations, to a land
as prized as ours. No, I care not for that little one.
But he is of a family...
“Him. Family? Who?”
“A doctor in Canton. A man they call Fei Hung.”
“So important? We've heard little of him in
Beijing.”
“Ah, yes. You would not. But had you been
stationed in Fujian province, like so many of my mine
were long ago, you would know of this Fei Hung.
There, he trained the military forces. The people
loved him. In a famine, they stormed the provincial
palace, chanting his name, demanding he be put in
as governor.
“Oh, so he looted the palace then. I've not kept
good track of Fujian governors. Dreadful province.
Well, there are many taels of silver available for
politically useful men. It is the emperor's treasury,
after all. I hardly see the need of holding one such
little boy.”
“Yes. Yes. Yes. You are correct. Were he an
ordinary man, it would be so. We would own him.

Or... we would eliminate him. That is not the case.
He is not so ordinary. He does no share our values.
It was his father, long ago an opponent, that made
him different. Or perhaps another teacher. When the
people demanded he take over, that he depose the
former governor, Fei Hung would have none of it.”
“None of it? What did he do?”
“He took the old governor away, protected him.
Ran to Canton. Entered his father's clinic. Never
again took part in politics.
“A strange man. Why—so many advantages he
passed up.”
“Yes. Very strange, and very dangerous. His kung
fu is unsurpassed. He trains the guardsmen of
Canton and holds sway over as many soldiers in that
region as myself... if he so chose. I would not wish to
face him in war.”
“Ahhh, his son keeps him out of the fray...”
“As he was before. This Fei Hung is very attached
to his family. So, I keep the boy. The hairy one we
exhibit as an artifact of our power. Our plans
proceed. And—”
“And China has a new emperor within the year.

Excellent, you have outdone yourself.”
Gritting her teeth, Gwai Lan tried once more to
place the familiar voice of the who'd lain out such
horrible strategies about her own family. But there
was much on her mind here. She'd leaned close to
the door too long. Her head ached, her legs
cramped. With a clap, doors in the other room
opened, servants reappeared. Gwai Lan heard one
man call, ask for new girls to be brought in. Gwai
tensed, flexed, readied. The door to her chamber
opened.
She burst out, knocked the palace official to his
side, raced down the hall, encountered servants,
fighting men, spear carriers, moved through, beneath
and above the throng with speed and surprise,
jumping on the shoulders of men through the giant
hall, and reached the staircase.
Wild shouts from all sides. Gwai Lan elbowed one
man who'd tried to claim the wife of Fei Hung, rolled
a few steps, sprang up, knocked back a
half−strength troop who'd risen to see what the
clamour was about, saw more focused guardsmen
emerge and flank the foyer of this building, sealing

the side exits, adopted a puzzled expression on her
face, charmed the room with the beguiling figure of a
wayward country girl, spun her legs around, in a
shattering kick burst through the pair at watch over
the front door, and raced through the grounds
outside.
Chapter X
In the courtyard, men fought to get into the palace

much as men had fought to get out. It was a general
alarm now. Someone grabbed Gwai Lan. She
turned, saw too many with more coming. Terrified
expression on her face, Gwai shouted the Anyang
word for master, shrieked out “murder” in
pidgin−Cantonese. Added, “inside, inside!”
The troop acknowledged her statements, raced
ahead into the fray.
Gwai Lan stared at the ground, saw the flattened
dirt of horse−tracks that led away from the palace,
followed these at top speed. By two trees the road
forked, one way leading out, the other towards a
giant, evil smelling structure. In the front were four
men, sullen. Lacking the time for a charm offensive,
she sped forward, introducing her girlish arrival to
one man with a fist−chop that knocked him
unconscious, dislodging the gunk in her right sole on
another man's forehead, clearing her left foot against
a reasonably clean stomach, and bouncing over the
forth guardian, from behind giving the man a gentle
push that sent him tumbling among the grass and

horse leavings.
Inside the giant lay on the floor. Gwai Lan
slammed the door shut. Two men protected. Gwai
Lan snarled at them, they snarled back. She grabbed
a pitchfork, whirled and struck one, then the other,
pole−end only, but with a shout that indicated where
she'd stick it if they didn't get out of her way. The
fellows ducked behind, offering apologies
On the ground was the giant. Prone there, his
breathing erratic, body an enormous mess of yellow
and black, with here and the trailing stains of dried
blood, like a map to the pain this man had suffered.
He wasn't conscious, this one. Gwai Lan looked
within the stables, saw two horses that appeared
fresh. She lashed these together, brought them
forward. Pleading, she begged Nate to waken.
Nothing. And this travel... but it would a fate worse
than death and he could survive shots. Foreign
physiology. Much risk. Gwai Lan pondered how to
waken him.
From above a shattering cry.
“Mother!”
Gwai Lan looked up. “Ting Sen.” The boy at the

top was unhappy.
“Mother, you must hurry. Must. There are two
troops. The good ones come. You cannot defeat all
of them. They are organized.”
“How do you know?”
“Look!”
And Gwai Lan, already halfway up the ladder,
peered closely at her son. The boy had managed to
free one arm and both legs from his bindings. At his
side lay a guard. Unconscious. She wasn't sure how,
but looked in at the boy with new respect.
“You learned without lessons,” she offered, eyes
brightening like any proud parent.
“No time for praise,” said Ting Sen to the young
woman before himself. “You get out of here. Take
Nate. Back door. I make noise.”
“But—but Ting Sen, you must come back to us.”
“No—yes. I will come back. They send me to
Canton. You watch for me. I be there. But you save
foreigner. We both... owe him debt.”
“I can't get him out alone,” said Gwai Lan.
“I know you cannot.” Here, Ting Sen brought
forward his last bound arm—Gwai Lan chopped and

in an instant her son was free.
“We get him up, I make diversion, you go free.
Must happen, they outside front now, surround
building soon.” Gwai turned toward the window, saw
the truth in her son's statements.
The two raced down the ladder, heaved Nate's
bulk upon the two horses there. Ting Sen pointed to
the back wall.
“Go fast. Not solid,” he said. And Gwai Lan
understood.
“I make noise,” added the son of Fei Hung,
picking up an oil lamp from the ground.
Gwai Lan rode between the two horses. As the
wall approached, she leapt forward, using her legs to
punch multiple holes in the wooden structure, holes
that widened enormously when the horses collided.
Only a few splinters and bits of timber rested in the
foreigner's hair.
Gwai Lan eyed her son one last time, saw in the
rising flames he was achieving his goal, aimed for
the wall and a rendezvous with Wing.
The guards pulled away from the gate and it was
little challenge to punch through. With Wing beside

her and Nate resting in a cart, Gwai Lan looked
back, watched as the fires engulfed several buildings
in the compound.
“What happened there?” asked Wing. “Ting
Sen—the boy?”
“My son became a man,” replied Gwai Lan. “He
insisted I repay his debt to this one,” she continued,
pointing at the foreigner in his rest. “I obey his
wishes.”
Wing stared at her for a moment, this strange
young wife of Fei Hung who'd carried him forward
this day. Muttering to himself, he pressed their
animals onward.
Hearing some of his complaints, Gwai looked
over, patted the butcher's cheek.
“They won't hurt Ting Sen,” she said knowingly.
But it is up to his father to get him from them.
This, at least, Wing understood.
Part IV: Earth

Chapter I
Fei Hung stood calmly in his armory. On the floor

at his side lay the head for this year's lion dance. All
around were weapons of great variety, implements of
destruction he'd sampled and, calmly, mastered. His
wife knelt before him, explaining as best she could
what had happened to the foreigner, the butcher and
their son.
Neither spoke after she'd finished. Gwai Lan kept
her eyes down, humbling herself in a way Fei Hung
could never recall her doing. Back in his private
room, the foreigner rested, his wounds not
life−threatening, though the man would always bear
scars.
Finally, Fei Hung nodded, turned away from his
wife and donned the great cat's head. His feet
moved with the peculiar rhythm of the animal, strides
sensuous and forceful. Not once did Gwai Lan look
up as her husband danced, spun and flew in this
practice celebration. Her eyes came up suddenly
with the sound of mache crashing.
Gwai Lan saw her husband's foot exit the head of
the lion. She turned a puzzled gaze to his eyes.

“Bad luck to keep unused,” answered Fei Hung to
the unspoken question, then the doctor turned and
left the room.
A brief stop to clean his body, then time for
evening rounds. The soldiers departed, Po Chi Lam
had a more typical set of occupants, farmers in from
the countryside with varying ailments, sailors who'd
suffered mishaps on the river, the people of the city,
packed and ill, working girls, aristocrats, side by side,
paying what they could afford, not a room empty...
Or one empty room. Completing his trip around
the upper courtyard, Fei Hung glanced up at his
father's residence. The lights of Ting Sen did not
appear here. Dimly, the son of a Canton Tiger
wondered what he'd thought, housing his most
intractable son with the giant. Ting Sen a sailor. Yes.
He'd wanted the boy to travel so... perhaps the
people would abandon Po Chi Lam were they to
realize the clinic's doctor was so fallible.
Fei Hung wanted to trust his wife's judgement.
Wanted to very much. From the first he'd met her,
something about Mok Gwai Lan had caught his
eye... a fire, a spirit, that roused him from his grief for
the loves he'd lost too quickly long ago.
Yet his wife was not of his age, she did not share
his view of many things. A gift, Fei Hung realized,
walking past the coal furnace and generator that he
alone would never have installed, but, alas, not
everything new was so wonderful.
The intensity of his meditation grew. Fei Hung lost
track of his destination, unsure, finally, if there had
even been one. Behind the kitchens he walked, still
abuzz with their cleanup, past the training grounds,
where students, stunned, bowed before the master
as he passed, into hallways, up stairs, Fei Hung
considered this dilemma.
No answers would come this night, Fei Hung
decided as, with a measure of surprise, the doctor
discovered himself in the room with the foreigner.
Idly Fei Hung wondered if he'd so lost control that he
spoke his thoughts aloud. But, no.. Fortunately, that
small embarrassment was saved him.
He glanced at the foreigner, walked closer, heard
the giant's raspy breathing, healthier, now, but, —
no. The foreigner was awake. And eyeing Fei Hung
slightly.
“Something on your mind, Doc?” inquired Nate.
Chapter II
For once in his life Fei Hung found himself without

words. He'd been so long keeping to his own
counsel. Yet a thing brought him here. An idea, a
geas, a pull. Something in Fei Hung's own being
decided the giant had answers and drew the pair
together in this room, awake and silent.
Idly, Fei Hung eyed his wife's work in repairing
broken limbs. The splint at the leg, built as it was of
numerous bamboo poles tied together, seemed
particularly inspired. And quite functional. Continuing
the charade, Fei Hung measured his patient's pulse.
Finally, the giant could stand the silence no more.
Acting the part of a wounded bear, he stretched as
much as his limbs and restraints would allow,
yawned boldly, and glanced at his physician with a
curious, open look in his eyes.
“Something on your mind, Doc?” he rasped again.
“Got bad news for me?”
“No, no, no, no,” said Fei Hung still out−of−kilter.
“I would have you know you will be with us, walking
around and taking blows intended for my family
when they go off on their strange errands.” Fei

Hung's smile as he said this last was a little nervous.
It was unusual for the son of Wong Kay−Ying, bred
to want nothing, to find himself in the debt of any
man.
Nate, however, adored the concept and offered
bold peals of laughter, though it was mirth through
the strains of chest agony.
“How many kids ya got, Doc?” The foreigner
asked, a twinkle in his eye.
“I have eight other children,” answered Fei Hung.
“But fortunately only one wife. So there won't be any
further difficulties there.”
“Oh, well, if'n I only gotta lie here eight more
times... you won't make me eat just the vegetables
any more, will ya Doc?”
Now it was Fei Hung's turn to laugh.
“Perhaps, Nate, you should consider a diet less
hazardous to your health. The food my son brought
back to you led you into difficulty, did it not?”
“Yeah,” Nate said. “But I felt so good walking into
it. Geeze, Doc, guys like me, we'll never eat that
rabbit food.”
“Right. I suspected as much. I fear, I placed you

in harm's way.”
“You mean I'd help your kid if he fed me? And you
knew he'd feed me?”
“It was not my intention that you... travel with my
son. Rather, that you'd, perhaps, give him insight into
other ways of life. I've much feared the isolation of
Ting Sen. He is... not fit for life here. Yet not
well−adapted to the world outside. I've been
uncertain how he would make his way.
“He held up fine, Doc. You'd've been proud.”
“My wife said the same thing. I hope so. I had
another son. One that... I trained in the ways of Kung
fu. He was — he would have been — better than me.
As good as my father or my teacher. But, he was
unused to the outside world.”
“What happened?”
“He bested a drug gang by the waterfront,”
answered Fei Hung. “Surrounded by a dozen
opponents, my young son rendered them all
unconscious.”
“That's pretty good.”
“Yes. It was wrong of me. But... I was proud of
this son. And of what he had done. There are,

perhaps, too many drug lords on the waterfront, but
he did not kill a one of them.”
“So?”
“So a few days later, again he found himself in a
melee, surrounded there.”
“And?”
“And they shot him from behind. He'd been lured
into it. Tricked. Perhaps had I been—but of course,
he could handle himself.”
“Your kid gets shot in the back, and you feel
guilty?”
“Yes.”
“Doc, nobody's perfect. You have no more
chance of predicting that than anyone. And come on,
I won my first fight against some punks, no way
anybody could keep me cooped up at home. Bet you
were the same way...”
“I... yes. No. You must understand, my father did
not train me in kung fu. I had to learn... secretly.
From another. It was only later.”
“After you'd fought somebody?”
“Yes. Worse than my son. In the streets. For
pride. You know of this?” The giant absorbed

information as he did food, Fei Hung thought. A
dangerous opponent, were they rivals.
“Caught a few details. Ting Sen wasn't sure
though.”
“Yes. A few details. Right... And my teacher, a
fine man... He was, they said, from the mountain.
Yes. Very good. Very fine teacher. But, of course, he
was angry. Taught me a certain style. A fighting
style. So I was a fighter. Yes. But my father, he had
more to teach me... more to give... things that
protected me.”
Fei Hung could not believe himself so animated in
his conversation. This abandonment of reserve—of
the famed reserve. Unprecedented in his own
experience. Before him, the foreigner sat quietly,
patiently... inscrutable. This was a complicated
situation. Fei Hung felt the need to recover himself,
sought to escape the room suddenly. Out of balance.
An explosion of shouts outside the room gave the
doctor a convenient excuse. Racing to the outside,
expecting a new batch of patients, Fei Hung saw the
licks of yellow and orange on the roof where Po Chi
Lam faced the street. Fire stalked his clinic.

Chapter III
In a daze, Fei Hung staggered. Beside him Gwai

Lan appeared, saw her husband upset, turned away
and summoned the entire clinic staff. Immediately
buckets appeared, a chain formed, small blaze in the
courtyard dissipated in an angry hiss. Black smoke
followed.
They were on the rooftops now. Had Fei Hung
noticed, he'd have been proud of their balance, their
poise, their calm in this disaster. But the doctor was
lost for a moment. Visions of his clinic erupted into
flame turned in his mind to the visions of his youth, of
Fujian province, and the flames he'd seen there.
Sadness struck his heart. Fei Hung walked out
the open gate as behind Gwai Lan barked orders. In
the streets lay pandemonium. The fires of Po Chi
Lam were localized, not spreading to neighboring
roofs, but all around were guardsmen, strangers.
Battles erupted in the streets of Canton. One
man, a looter, a guardsmen, a fool, turned to Fei
Hung, attempting to molest the teacher.
Disinterestedly, Fei Hung lay the chap on the
ground, continued his trek. What, then was

happening to his city?
His steps took a circular course, down to the
waterfront, back. Everywhere guardsmen, all kinds.
The people shrieked in terror, in anger, in rage. Fei
Hung had heard these shrieks before.
Another revolution afoot.
Turning, Fei Hung walked back to his clinic. In the
fires above, already more under control, he saw a
vision, not of a city this time, but of a country, riven
with strife, with war, with foreign invaders. The
dragon fell, the throne shattered, the old ways gone
in a horrifying blaze.
On a far rooftop and nearly out of his eyes, Fei
Hung spied a lurking figure. This man crept, slowly,
deliberately, away from Po Chi Lam. Away from the
fires. Away... from his crime.
Swiftly Fei Hung leapt, up an overturned cart,
onto a shop's leaning roof, feet barely touching a
drain pipe, rooftop achieved, quick sprint, and he
caught the man, smelled the gasoline, saw the
guardsman's face beneath the peasant's clothes.
Angrily, Fei Hung struck, once, again. Blows,
feebly, were returned, but an angry doctor cast them

aside. He grabbed the man by the ear, tossed him to
the ground, leapt behind, and led him back to the
clinic.
Gwai Lan was in control, her charges had the
blaze nearly in hand. A few paused, wondering at the
conduct of their leader. Fei Hung showed his
prisoner. Finally, triumphantly, the blaze
extinguished in a massive outpouring of water and
steam. Even in the newly dark clinic, everyone knew
disaster had been averted.
As heads turned to discuss the strange conduct
of their leader, a few looked down to Fei Hung with
his prisoner.
“Arson,” came the cry.
“Traitor,” was answered.
“Murderer,” shouted another, below and in pain
from burns.
Soon Fei Hung and his prisoner were surrounded.
Many wanted to enact justice. Fei Hung raised his
hand. The crowd silenced instantly.
“Hold him,” said the doctor. “We will tend to him
later. See to the injured, cover any holes in the roof,
and let us, this night, stand guard for further attacks.
The streets of Canton are in tumult. I fear this will be
a long siege.”
His followers nodded, seeing the wisdom. Men
drew pikes from the armory, stood guard at the gate,
by the water, and above. There would be no
surprises to this clinic.
Chapter IV
Fei Hung walked past his clinic staff, heading

straight for the armory. Word of the master's
destination spread. His most trusted students
appeared, begging for instruction, for the chance to
make their own stand in this chaos. The assault on
the clinic puzzled them; angered some. They felt
themselves a target. Fei Hung knew they were right,
but Gwai Lan's information about Ting Sen was kept
private, a matter between husband and wife.
A mishmash of reports were voiced. Imperial
troops... not from Canton, on the outskirts of the city.
Revolutionaries around, students mostly, in small
numbers. Additional forces not in place. Sun Yat
Sen, the leader of Teng Meng Hui, still in Penang.
The revolutionaries were marching on the capital
building. Riots in the streets affected the strength of
local guardsmen, everything confused, but the
strength of the revolutionaries estimated to be small.
“They'll be trapped!” Fei Hung said loudly. His
students and wife looked up. None could recall ever
glimpsing this much emotion from their master. In
nine previous uprisings, Fei Hung had never chosen

sides. It had been a source of conflict with a few of
the younger students, who on a few occasions had
left Po Chi Lam.
Was this the time, many eyes asked.
“Do we help them?” asked one, hopefully.
“Do we join them?” asked another.
“Master, do we fight?” several called out when Fei
Hung failed to answer immediately. They'd seen the
look in his eyes, that of a tiger or a dragon. Only a
few had ever seen him this way before. They would
rush to his aid, Fei Hung knew. But with so many
groups milling about, heading this way and that,
battling each and the people as much as any real
enemies—to Fei Hung this situation called for an
individual response.
“No. We stay here. But I will know more of this
revolution. My wife,” he continued with a smile, “will
remain in charge of Po Chi Lam. Here,” he added,
making sure with a glance that she understood the
message. Gwai Lan's eyes met his above the throng,
nodded, dutifully.
Po Chi Lam's staff were chattering to themselves,
wondering who would seek information, who would

guard, who would draw what weapon.
“Students,” Fei Hung called out, drawing their
attention. All eyes forward. They stood together,
forming rows as for lessons. “Students, we must be
careful. I fear an unknown enemy has brought the
fight to us, brought fire to a place of learning, of
healing. You know of the history, of the destruction of
Shaolin by treachery and fire...”
The students nodded, shouted to themselves at
this.
“We are not Shaolin, but it can happen again, in
these troubled times, anywhere the old learning has
passed on. We must be prepared...”
“We're ready, master,” shouted the students.
They were stunned at this change in Fei Hung.
Angry at what had happened. Ready and quite
willing to take to the streets themselves. Fei Hung
did not wish this. But he wanted them prepared for
anything that might come through Po Chi Lam's
gates.
“I don't know if anyone can be ready. But I trust
you all, my wonderful students.”
“Thank you, Master,” they shouted. “We will serve

you.” Gwai Lan alone was silent, looking at her
husband thoughtfully.
“I go to the chambers of Wong Kay−Ying. There
are documents there he would have me consult, and
I must meditate on the actions we will take. Listen to
Mok Gwai Lan. Those of you on guard, hold your
positions. Some of you must rest and prepare to man
the clinic. We will have many patients before long.”
With military precision, the students signaled to
Fei Hung that his instructions were understood. In
rows they filed out, some armed, others not, taking
their places, restocking the clinic, some to the roof
and walks with patching materials. Fei Hung nodded
to his wife. Both considered speaking. Neither did as
the pair exited separately.
The doctor strode purposefully to the room of his
father.
Chapter V
Fei Hung sat himself on the floor Nate had shared

with Ting Sen. Above, the Wong Kay−Ying and 10
Tigers of Canton stared down, judging Fei Hung, a
once−renegade student. His son, then, snatched
away in a plot. These Canton plots. Nine now. Ten?
And leaderless, it appeared. No order in the streets.
No coordination.
Fei Hung could not blame the revolutionaries,
then. Much was afoot to disrupt them. Briefly, he
considered the news he'd heard about Po Chi Lam's
former guests. He remembered the stories of
imperial troops in Sichuan Province, the disturbing
reports of dead bodies in a quantity not seen since
the boxers... and information Fei Hung erased from
his mind as he followed his doctor's oath to treat the
sick and injured, no matter their station.
The revolutionaries... this Teng Meng Hui, what
had it gotten them, Fei Hung wondered. People
dead. Soldiers dead. Farmers dead. Government
weak. Foreigners... good and bad, but foreigners in
his proud country. His strong country. Foreigners in
control. And everyone plotting. Wong Kay−Ying

looked down, in anger at what had happened to his
beloved land. More death now. Foreigners kill
Chinese. Chinese kill Chinese. On and on, the fight
rages through the body, leaving it weak, too weak for
the next coming of foreigners... or Chinese.
Wong Kay−Ying would not approve of his son's
actions, Fei Hung knew. Kay−Ying had only taught
him kung fu after Fei Hung'd begun learning secretly,
and only to use for the right reason. Indeed, there
was a struggle then. Fei Hung was unsure, in his
defiance, what price he would pay. That fear of his
father....
But then, in Wong Kay−Ying's day, there were
many great instructors in Canton, so many to teach,
one as good as the next. Now, with Fei Hung, there
were students, many, but, perhaps, only Fei Hung
himself could stand among the 10 Tigers, and then
off to the side, not attempting to overstate himself.
Yes. Only off to the side.
At the very least, Fei Hung decided, he should
have stood for election in China's new assembly. To
represent the people. But... no. Fei Hung saw little
purpose in that; in this democracy, and always he

feared the people chanting his name. Better to let
new blood handle this new way.
Idly, Fei Hung fingered the pictures in the room.
He wasted little time in his busy existence as
physician, teacher and father, but here he found
himself lingering, pawing one picture, another. And
there, at the bottom, a shocking photo. Wong
Hawn−Sum, Fei Hung's eldest. The boy he'd trained,
almost from birth, to be the best martial artist and
carry on the family's tradition into a new century.
Nothing Fei Hung taught this son prepared the
boy for an assassin's bullet. No move in
Hawn−Sum's repetoire could prevent a shot in the
back. Or perhaps something... Yes. Fei Hung was
not a good teacher. Not on the level of the 10 Tigers.
Nothing close. The people of Fujian, who long ago
had called his name, who had wanted him for their
governor, did not understand it. Fei Hung was right
to abandon politics for medicine.
The untaught move. The senses he should have
imparted. One cannot stop a bullet, but one can
dodge them. Hawn−Sum was his fault, then. For
what he had not done. Much that he had not done.

Before his father, Fei Hung stood upright, made a
solemn vow to 10 Tigers not to let another son fall
through inaction. Not to fail behind the walls of his
clinic. An oath escaped Fei Hung's lips. He bowed to
his father, turned to the floor, left the room via
tunneled exit, plans forming in his mind, actions
clear, but honoring the need for additional
information before he stepped into the swirling
maelstrom of Canton.
Chapter VI
Fei Hung took a circuitous route to the city center.

It was not a personal choice. Speed mattered this
night. But the people of Canton were uncooperative.
No two streets alike in a wild evening.
Down one avenue, celebrants lit fireworks, drank
rice wine, and sang their chants in the hope for a
better new year. Round another, students openly
fought with guards, townspeople, and one another.
Near the water, packs of looters contested with drug
gangs and each other for the contents of
warehouses. By the foreigner's island, turbanned
Sikhs stood guard, swords and guns at the ready.
Elsewhere, Canton's own protectors sat quietly
among themselves, drinking and playing at
Mah−jong while the city burned.
Nowhere in all this could Fei Hung ascertain order
or purpose. He didn't know, truly, if a fight was on in
the streets or anyone out there tried to stop it. But
nothing came from the water, he saw. And none of
the troops his wife mentioned could be seen.
Still there was something at the city center.
Emanating from it, crowds massed tighter, fires

burned brighter, leaving it near impossible to move
or even see what was happening. Fei Hung
wondered if the city's guards could make it through
to stop trouble, or if messages from trouble spots
could work their way out.
Abandoning the streets, Fei Hung took to the
roofs, his strides over terra cotta noiseless under
quiet conditions, himself entirely invisible in the
moonless night. Yes, something was happening at
the city center.
Fei Hung eyed a group, walking almost in unison,
nearly military in their precision, approaching the
government offices with shouts, threats, claps, and
the odd bit of gunfire. Their numbers were small, Fei
Hung realized. Less than a hundred. He leapt closer,
straining to see if his son was among them.
The troop formed a wedge before the offices. Half
a dozen guards, men who'd trained with Fei Hung,
appeared to face them. Fei Hung watched, fearful for
loss of life. His students, then, could hurt these men.
But the guard merely approached the
revolutionaries, calmly, obsequiously. Fei Hung was
stunned. Surely, even on New Year, reinforcements

could be obtained? How many men would it take to
defeat so few?
The assailants pushed forward. Fei Hung
watched, stunned, as men he'd instructed moved to
the side. Outnumbered, yes. But pride?
Responsibility? What would their masters say in the
morning? No signs of violence had been on display.
Idly, Fei Hung tried to remember the name of the
government captain. The one in charge. An−shi, the
man's name was. Perhaps a cunning fellow. No
doubt they'd prepared for such violence. Of course
when the students entered, they'd be at peace, but
behind them, weapons would be drawn, and the
invaders surprised, surrounded, arrested. Peaceably.
Yes. That was it. Fei Hung had leapt to conclusions.
He'd been wrong before, why not this time?
Of course there was a plan to deal with an
invasion such as this. Of course. Indeed, with the
many occurrences in Canton, officials must spend
their time preparing. Organized assaults required
organized resistance. No doubt a greater show of
force would have been required had there been
thousands of men, but less than a hundred... no, the

guardsmen were simply planning the best way to
deal with the problem, avoiding loss of life.
Fei Hung paused, full of admiration for the many
students he'd trained. Why, he'd have to single them
out for courage at his next session. Have Gwai Lan
explain the many ways of dealing with an enemy.
Suddenly within the courtyard of the government
complex, dozens of men in imperial livery appeared.
Shouting, they raced out, past the attackers, tossing
weapons aside and fleeing into the night.
Emboldened, the newcomers took up positions
inside the government building, hanging banners
proclaiming the Chinese Republic.
Fei Hung made a nest for himself among roof
tiles, stunned. He spent the night reconsidering his
opinions of imperial students and their courage.
Chapter VII
It was the silence that awakened him. Odd,

suddenly, the way the laughing cheers stopped, the
triumph quieted, the pistols that ceased to fire. Atop
his perch, Fei Hung listened for any of the previous
moments of joy that had marked the prior evening.
Dull, eerie silence this morning, as though Fei
Hung were on a tree in the countryside, rather than
by the scene of a battle in one of China's busiest
cities.
A veteran of many New Year's, Fei Hung knew
not to expect much early in the mornings after.
Barring some major accident, like a fire or a
collapsed building, even Po Chi Lam would be
subdued, until the sick and injured came trickling
through later in the day.
But not a sound could be heard from the
government center. Fearing the worst, Fei Hung
peered closer in, nearly abandoning the cover his
rooftop vantage afforded him in the bright morning.
A photographer stood by the government center.
Two men, one Fei Hung recognized as Huang Hsing,
a leader and former guest of Po Chi Lam, were

posing for pictures, with the flag of Teng Meng Hui
behind.
Reinforcements had not arrived for the troop. Nor
could Sun Yat Sen or others of his inner circle be
seen.
Fei Hung grew anxious. This number... an
imminent slaughter, even at the hands of Canton's
understaffed garrison. Perhaps the rebels knew
better, Fei Hung thought. Could they really, finally,
have the support of the people? Were Gwai Lan's
fears in vain?
Fei Hung thought not. But he did not see his own
son among them, only quiet faces, with the flush of a
surprise victory.
To their credit, the rebels did hold their positions
well. Despite exhaustion, men stayed at their posts,
watching over their conquered territory, wary of
anything that might come down the road.
They had not long to wait.
Finally, in the distance, Fei Hung heard the
tell−tale cadence of a marching force. Dozens of
men... hundreds. On horseback, on foot, carefully
ringing the streets around government center,

sealing the place off like a python squeezing its prey,
slowly, inexorably.
Fei Hung pitied the rebels then; their crimes
against the state would not go unpunished.
Wary shouts now from the government complex.
Men rose up. All stood their posts, waiting. Outside
the forces continued their march. Slowly taking up
positions, just outside of rifle range.
The photographer, pictures taken, was allowed to
leave. Fei Hung saw no purpose in this slaughter.
Idly, he wondered if he might convince the man in
charge to spare the poor students, their rebellion a
waste.
Little hope of that. As the troops outside neared,
Fei Hung saw the imperial livery. These, then were
not the forces of Canton.
Gwai Lan had been correct in her information.
The insurgents were in a desperate situation.
But where was Ting Sen?
Fei Hung waited for the drama to unfold, still
seeking that missing piece of information, when a
shout from Huang Hsing could be heard:
“Hold your positions. Do not falter. We will not

surrender. We are Teng Meng Hui!”
A rousing cheer met this cry.
Fei Hung prayed his own son was not among
them.
Surrounding the building, thinking little of the
architecture, or the folly of attacking cities, the
government forces opened fire.
Fei Hung's cries of anguish were drowned in the
explosion of rifles from each side.
Chapter VIII
The battle ended quickly. Defenders of the

government building were unable to hold positions
for long against overwhelming force. Fei Hung
estimated they were outnumbered 5 to 1 in the
streets, but there waves to the imperial forces.
Few causalities were taken by the organized
soldiery below. They merely shot, and shot more,
peppering the building with tiny blasts, and removing
one infiltrator after another.
Fei Hung was disgusted by the violence.
From inside, the shots decreased in number. Too
few bullets as well, Fei Hung decided. An obvious
weakness for anyone who relied on weapons. The
cry of cease−fire filled the streets. Weakly, a few
men called out in surrender from behind the walls,
asking only to be taken alive.
The troops formed ranks, stood at attention,
waiting, rifles put aside for smaller arms. Messengers
sped off on foot with their tale of quick victory. Some
soldiers approached the gates of the city building,
planting hooks in the brick fence, preparing for the
final onslaught.
From one end of the street, a palanquin
approached, carried by four swift runners. From the
other side, a masked man on horseback came down
to earnest salutes. Meeting at the center, the
mounted rider spoke quietly to the palanquin's
occupant. From inside the government building, cries
for mercy grew louder and more desperate.
The two men continued their speech, the
mounted rider nodding agreement. Another
messenger sped off. Reforming, the troops massed
before the gates. At a signal, soldiers began
climbing. No words were spoken to the building's
inhabitants. Fei Hung watched, horrified, as a
wounded assailant before the gates dropped his
weapon, knelt down in obeisance, and received a
knife to his back.
With the sight of blood, the soldiers raced
forward. Fei Hung stared more closely at the mass of
men entering the gates. Among them a non−soldier.
A man, dressed in rags, bound at the wrists, was
pushed through with a squad.
Fei Hung recognized his own son just as another
screech signaled a halt in the life of a surrendering

rebel. “Ting−Sen,” Fei Hung shouted. Below the
entire troop glanced up as the son of Wong Kai−Ying
abandoned his shadowy perch, and without so much
as a stretch leapt to the ground below.
More than a thousand soldiers stood between Fei
Hung, the masked rider, and his son, now pushed
inside the gates.
Fei Hung sped forward, his wrists flashing,
shattering the pikes of the first soldiers to approach.
One man fired a rifle, was struck by a member of his
own troop, signaling the danger an errant shot would
pose to their leaders.
Still Fei Hung advanced, nearer now to the man
at the palanquin. A brief communication with the
leader, yes. Inside more death could be heard,
deaths of the weak and wounded. Outside, Fei Hung
held his own, besting opponents in a circle, leaping
over lines of men, moving with a speed that inspired
awe.
All the skills acquired by the Doctor during his
years of training were used. One man felled by the
crane, another the lion's roar. Fei Hung leapt up
against an entire column that stood before the

palanquin, knocking down 20 men with his daylight
Shadowless Kick.
The numbers of fallen and unconscious grew as
the doctor advanced. But his opponents were too
many. Strategy must be employed. Fei Hung danced
past outstretched pikes, kicked up, landed on top of
the palanquin, upset the box's inhabitant by slapping
away his carriers. The troop paused. The doctor
rested. Before Fei Hung stood the man with the
silken mask. Inside the palanquin, a man banged,
demanding to be let out.
Silken mask dismounted. Fei Hung eyed him
carefully. No words were spoken between the two.
Inside the government building, violence ceased.
Only the cries of the palanquin rider could be heard.
Fei Hung silenced these, stomping his foot against
the wrought wood below his feet.
The standoff continued, silken mask not
speaking, Fei Hung silent. The soldiers grew
restless, eyeing the doctor. Some drew out their
rifles. Fei Hung knew no fear, stared straight into the
eyes of the cowled leader of these forces. Finally,
the masked one spoke.

“Kill him,” he said calmly. And soldiers drew up
arms, aiming carefully at the doctor, away from the
palanquin. Fei Hung stood calmly. Hammers were
cocked. From inside the palanquin, muffled shrieks
emitted as the occupant rested, terrified.
Silken Mask brought his hand up. Armed men
waited for the wrist to drop.
Suddenly a cry from the mysterious leader. Eyes
shifted away from the doctor, focusing on the cowled
figure, and the meat cleaver that stood out from his
palm.
The disturbance spread among the guards. Fei
Hung watched as flashing silk brought down man
after man. Suddenly in the air Wing could be seen
above the throng, before retouching the ground and
knocking men back with force and fury.
Fei Hung seized the moment, branching forward
with his legs, grabbing a rifle, and swinging it about,
knocking his firing squad onto their backs. He stayed
by the palanquin, calling out to the butcher and
whatever of his students were along.
“Wing, inside,” shouted Fei Hung. “Bring the
others,” he continued, then stopped abruptly as the

identity of the second man became clear.
It was Gwai Lan, his wife. Infuriated, Fei Hung
kicked the palanquin into the air, raced over the
heads of stunned guardsmen, and with a flying leap,
knocked the box into the unprotected gateway,
following its path with choice heels and toes into the
faces of any man foolish enough to stand in the
doctor's way.
Behind, Wing moved through the crowd, Gwai
Lan beside. The pair fought their way through.
Shortly after, what few of the imperial troops to
have taken position inside the government complex
emerged. Head first.
Chapter IX
Within the government complex, a family reunion

ensued, as tender as it was short−lived. Fei Hung
embraced his son, stepped aside so the boy and his
mother could be together. Wing rested apart, kicking
idly at the sideways palanquin with his boot.
Together, the group surveyed what remained of
the rebels forces. Most were dead, Fei Hung saw.
But he and Wing moved among the fallen, here and
there finding a man still alive. By some miracle, a
dozen of the inhabitants could walk out under their
own power. The rest, more than 70 souls, including
some women, would never walk again.
Fei Hung looked to his son again. Ting Sen,
battered and bruised, stood near the front gate,
eyeing the doctor silently. Fei Hung spoke first.
“Hello, Ting Sen,” he offered cheerfully.
“Hello, father. I am sorry to have gotten you into
this...”
“Nonsense. I am proud to be here with you. Your
mother has told me of your bravery and courage.
Though, Ting Sen, I would ask in the future...”
“Yes?”
“If you start a revolution, please, include more
men. China has lots of people. Use some of them.
Don't be selfish. There is glory to be shared the New
Year.”
Ting Sen stared at his father. This sort of humor
was a new thing. Fei Hung continued his jesting,
pointing at the box on the ground.
“I fear, dear boy, that I must impose on the
hospitality of your friends.”
“What do you mean?”
“The palanquin contains one official of high
standing at the imperial court. We may have to feed
him for a time.
Ting Sen stared at his father with a mixture of
awe and love, such as Fei Hung hadn't seen since
he first took the boy kite−flying.
“I consider him a house−warming gift for the
Canton government building's new occupants. A
humble offering for your friends, to be sure, but the
best I could do on such short notice. Sadly the
masked one was out of my reach, or I'd've brought
him as well.
Ting Sen's jaws dropped further as he eyed his

father.
“You should be flattered, my son. It is not often
that distinguished personages of Beijing officials
make great efforts to ensnare a man of Canton. They
must value your intellect greatly. Perhaps,” continued
Fei Hung, “we can interrogate that fellow there on
the ground a bit more, and find out what all this was
really about.”
Ting Sen stepped forward and opened the
palanquin. The eunuch who had guested with Silken
Mask spilled out onto the dirt, eyeing the doctor and
his son warily while at once sputtering curses and
asserting his own importance. Fei Hung and Ting
Sen waited patiently. Behind them, a few of the
surviving defenders, curious, marched over.
Fei Hung again led.
“Why were you so interested in my son?”
The eunuch glared at the doctor for a moment,
saw no reason to keep quiet, and began speaking.
“Because he was a potential obstacle. As were
you. Our strategy was brilliant. Keep the family of
Wong Fei Hung occupied, Teng Men Hui
undermanned, the empire uninformed. This rebellion

has occupied a government building. It has been put
down. Soon, we will attain our own place.”
The eunuch rose, proudly, as he uttered this. Fei
Hung and Ting Sen stared at one another, puzzled.
“You wanted them to take the building,” asked the
doctor.
“Of course!” replied the eunuch. “So many
rebellions in Canton. The cry at court is for a
stronger man to rule. The two of you rabble wouldn't
know; there is a struggle... This matter in Canton
only seals the need for a greater force... and shows
who has that force. It was quite successful.
“So, this—all this,” began Fei Hung angrily,
pointing to the many bodies that lay around, “to get
you a better seat, some paltry gain.”
“Paltry? Fool. A high seat within the imperial court
of China, the Middle Kingdom, paltry? Have you no
ambition? Can you not see what is of value? What is
most precious on earth? You understand nothing. “
Ting Sen, appalled, watched this man speaking.
Vaguely, he wished the foreigner were in place, the
better to crush the skull of this one. Nate would no
doubt enjoy the task, Ting Sen decided. Fei Hung

had grown silent.
His mother and Wing came and joined them.
“Yes?” asked Fei Hung.
“There's something you should see outside,” said
Gwai Lan.
“What?”
“Come see,” offered Wing, grimly. “Bring him too.”
Ting Sen was tasked with escorting their visitor to
the edge of the fence. Stunned, he watched as the
imperial forces brought the dynamite he and Nate
had boated down the Pearl River.
Here and there, soldiers moved bundles of the
explosive to the walls of the government building.
Behind, torches were lit in preparation.
Fei Hung stared at their official guest.
“It seems,” said the doctor, “your people have
other concerns than for your ambition. Unless you
can move closer to the throne via martyrdom.”
Chapter X
Fei Hung waited as Wing, Gwai Lan and his son

gathered round. The eunuch stood behind the group,
shouting at the people outside. Wing was for fighting
their way out. Gwai Lan stood silently, awaiting
instruction from her husband. Ting Sen looked at the
eunuch, listened to the sounds of the dread
explosive being planted, and eloquently cursed the
Manchus who ruled his country.
Fei Hung looked hard at his son until the tirade
ceased. Ting Sen, abashed, met his father's eyes.
“You know, my son,” said Fei Hung, “both your
grandfather and I were taught by a Manchu. A great
teacher,” Fei Hung continued, smiling vaguely to
himself as the taunts from outside the compound
grew more shrill, like vultures shrieking as they
circled closer to dying prey.
“We cannot all fight,” Fei Hung said finally. “Wing,
you take the survivors over the back wall. Gwai Lan,
Ting Sen, go with him. You three may have to battle
your way to safety, but it's likely to be token
resistance.”
Objections were shouted from all three members

of Fei Hung's party. Fei Hung silenced these with a
gesture.
“No, all of you... Wing, you are my best student.
Gwai Lan, my wife and mother of my children. I am
an old man. Should anything happen, I can most
easily be lost. Ting Sen must go with you,” said Fei
Hung with a twinkle in his eye. “He has not yet
completed his schooling.”
“What will you do?” asked his son, ashamed for
what he had gotten his father into.
“I will teach them the ways of Hung Gar Kung Fu.
The Tiger and the Crane. The five animals and the
five elements. You need not worry for me. I don't
plan on dying today. But I will distract them while you
return to Po Chi Lam.”
“And the eunuch?” asked Wing, a puzzled
expression on his face
“He stays with me. Go to the back now. Climb the
fence. I'll start when you leave. And this time, you
three, obey me.”
The troop filed out as ordered, a lonely, woeful
bunch. Fei Hung eyed the eunuch, whose cries for
justice had faded, now asking only for mercy from

the world outside.
“I wonder about your friends,” said the doctor. “Do
you, now?”
“Yes. I wonder.”
“Perhaps you should go to them.”
“I—what?”
“It is not my interest to cause the death of so
important an administrator to the well−being of
China. When my followers have gotten far enough
away, you may walk out the front gate.”
The eunuch stared at Fei Hung.
“But then... they—without me, you'll—” The
eunuch, stunned, made a throat−slashing gesture.
Fei Hung eyed the man shrewdly.
“With you, I'll... as well. There has been enough
death today. Think this night of your role in it. Ask if
China has benefited from your administration.”
“Yes. I have been wrong—I...”
“Perhaps you should find another career then.
One where no harm comes to others.”
“I...”
“But not yet. First, my friends will to leave this
compound in one piece.” Fei Hung stared at the back

fence, saw the last of the stragglers exit, then his
son, then Gwai Lan. His wife had an sorrowful,
hopeful glance for husband. Fei Hung met these
eyes with a promise. Then she was gone.
Fei Hung listened, then, for sounds of struggle or
gunfire. He heard nothing in the air, no trace of Gwai
Lan's shouts or Wing's fists.
“And now,” said Fei Hung to the eunuch, “watch
closely.”
“Why?”
“I would teach these imperial forces something of
Po Chi Lam and the Ten Tigers. You are free to go.”
Fei Hung leapt once more to the wall. Stunned,
the eunuch glanced up at this man, puzzled by such
self−destructive behavior, then raced through the
front gate.
“Escaping! They are escaping!” shouted the court
official and guardian of the public trust. “They let me
go—they are escaping...”
The eunuch's tirade was cut short by a bullet to
the throat.
Fei Hung looked for the shooter, saw several
troops holding rifles by the man in the silken mask.

Below, the dynamite at the base of the wall was
being lit.
Fei Hung stood on the wall, began the basic
motions of Tiger and Crane. Soldiers backed away
from the scene, fearful of explosions. Silken mask
stood calmly, his bandaged hand waving them on.
The steps Fei Hung made on the wall, despite
their elegance and skill, elicited catcalls from the
troops. Some asked whether the great doctor would
dance away an imperial troop.
Fei Hung held his place, focusing his body and
mind. Seconds before the first dynamite exploded he
leapt from the wall, thinking not of the tiger nor the
crane, nor the leopard, nor even the snake. When
Fei Hung came to earth his mind was focused on the
most difficult of teachings, that of The Dragon. The
Iron Fist.
Rubble from the explosions cascaded outward
behind Fei Hung, leaving chunks of scorched earth.
Fei Hung paid no heed to the devastating blasts
behind when he faced the first guardsmen. Their
stunned gazes and blurred vision from the debris
would normally earned solicitations and

encouragements to lie down and sip tea from the
doctor.
But not this day. Behind the ruined walls lay 70
men, needlessly dead. In front of them was a court
official, murdered. Somewhere his family and prized
student were rushing away. Fei Hung would see
something good of this horrid day.
He charted a course through the soldiers, who
flopped aside like reeds as he passed. One man fell,
another, a dozen. Rifles were snatched up and
tossed behind, would−be combatants had arms and
legs broken while the son of Wong Kai−Ying strode
forward.
The guardsmen, though as well−trained and
focused as any in China, pulled back from Fei Hung,
more afraid of him now than even of the blast. A look
in his eyes, one not seen since the emotional days of
Fei Hung's youth and the devastation of Fujian,
forced men back.
Quickly Fei Hung reached the masked man's
outer circle of bodyguards. These, the most trusted
soldiers, held their ground.
It mattered little. Fei Hung cut through the

protective circle like a scythe through sorghum cane.
A second circle formed. The silken one was
shouting, demanding. His troops looked behind at
their leader, wondering now at his courage.
Silken mask saw the question in their eyes—was
their leader a coward? All was silent as the masked
man ceased his clamor, gazing down at Fei Hung,
motioning his soldiers aside.
Fei Hung stood before the silken one. The two
stared at one another for a time. Troops, those who
could walk, formed a casual second circle. Fei Hung
leaned forward suddenly, his voice a whisper that
only silken mask could hear.
“Tell me, General,” said Fei Hung. “Must I spare
you again this day, or has your foot healed enough
that we might continue our contest?” Suddenly the
doctor's hand shot forward, ripped the fabric away.
Once again, Fei Hung stood before General Yuan
Shih.
“There is much you do not know of this,” the
General began.
“Nor do I want to,” replied Fei Hung. “I saw this
world of courts, intrigues and power long ago. I

turned back from it then.”
“It could be yours,” said Shih. “A man such as
you... why...”
“What, aiding you in your quest? No. I would not
have come this day. I care nothing for rebellions.
Nothing for governments. Everyone who knows me
knows this.”
“Yes. Perhaps bringing Ting Sen was a
mistake...”
“And the patient under my care.”
“Yes.”
“And the eunuch you've just killed. Why did you
do that, I wonder?”
“A nuisance. More useful as a martyr in the
streets than as an ally in the chambers behind the
throne. He would not have lived to return to Beijing,”
continued the general. “Killed by the rebels in
passing.”
“Of course. A man such as you... always
calculating. I confess I cannot understand it. But if
you promise to stay out of Canton, I will let you leave
this day.”
Here the general laughed.

“Let me leave. Let me leave! I have a thousand
men here. You are but one.”
“Yes,” said Fei Hung, hands outstretched to within
inches of the general's person. “But none stand
between us now.”
The General looked again at Fei Hung, saw the
doctor was serious. Suddenly, the man looked afraid.
Not much. A little bit. Some of his soldiers saw.
“And what's to stop me from...”
“Shooting me in the back? Your own men,
general. They follow you because of your courage in
an insecure time. Would you have them think you
weak? Too weak to take on an old doctor?”
“I... no,” said the general. “I—you would—I think
of you as an excellent tactician, Dr. Fei Hung.”
“Perhaps I am. Remember that the next time you
involve my family. Good day.”
And with a nod to the surrounding forces, Fei
Hung turned, body tight with iron fist, and walked
away through corridor of soldiers who gave the
doctor a respectful, wide birth.
Behind, the general began shouting.
“Very well, men. We've won this day. The rebels

shall trouble Canton no more. We'll leave this mess
for the city authorities, such as they are.”
But something forced to the language. Some
small quality lost.
Fei Hung was not surprised to discover the
General went back into retirement in a southern
province, staying away from Beijing... and Canton.
Epilogue
Fei Hung, Gwai Lan and Wing stood at the rear of
a group that approached the ruins of the Canton
government building. Around stood guards, men
from the city, now. Workers began to clear the rubble
from the dynamite.
In front of their entourage, Ting Sen stood with a
leader of Sun Yat Sen's party. Respectfully but
firmly, they received permission to enter the complex
and remove the bodies to a garden some distance
away. Fei Hung and his wife marvelled at the
diplomacy their son employed in his advisory role.
In Po Chi Lam, Nate began to heal, eating his
vegetable diet and reading what books he could find,

waiting for the ship that would take him home.

The Dragon and The Giant

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The Dragon and The Giant

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• Part II: Fire

• Part III: Air

• Part IV: Earth

Nate leapt from junk rail to the dock of a city afire.

nightfall, and he'd have to hit Shamian Island soon or

injured somehow. Badly, no doubt. The one lying

began to come down. He gave a backhanded growl

and foot. None were incapacitated by her. They

Nate, 135 degree angle, fists punching, feet flying.

sped up as much as he could. His companion was

he leapt. He missed the boat, hit the water with a

Nate awoke in a room draped with hangings,

Lying still, he noticed a mural on the ceiling. A

A vague hint of incense filled the air. Looking more

head to get a better look, felt his torso accompany

years her senior. Nate stared at her, wondering if this

glanced back, nodded in return. Nate saw a flash of

potatoes stuffed into a teacup.

said the healer, motioning insistently to the woman

couldn't keep track of the bowing heads and their

Further recuperation took several days. Nate

seeing Nate about to hurl the thing across the room,

onlookers. Dozens of men, in lines of four, staring,

yet so physically... vibrant. Be hard to come home

Gwai Lan visited that evening. Nate awoke

“Hen. A female chicken. Makes sure all the chicks

“Fei Hung's Seventh Son.”

“No. I am only one. Almost. Fei Hung and I have

“Yes... it. Seventh...”

some day. One learn building. Wood. Like that.”

“And Seventh Son?”

were silent. Nate, calmly, seeing the maternal

'revolution'?” asked Nate, changing the subject.

cacophony of the city stilled. Nate thought he heard

Raucous shouts greeted Nate early the following

gotten some shot lodged in his hindquarters, that

Nate pulled his torso upright, swung his legs over,

the words “sanctuary” were uttered. The two men in

floor. They looked away. Abashed.

It was a cool evening when Fei Hung again

Confident with his stride, Nate snuck a glance at the

watch over you.”

wooden banister to hold, Nate followed. Left. Ow.

near the courtyard's edge. At that distance, Nate

closer at one man. Never want to say a Chinese

It wasn't an evening for sleeping. Scratches below

of Nate. For once, being called gweilo made sense,

The sea air is wonderful for my lungs here.”

“And you've been crashing in here for a while,

“I wasn't trying to encourage it. You got any

new bunkmate with a sad−dog look.

they now shared. Nate chuckled to himself. He fell

In the morning Nate awoke again to the echo of

one student in tow, he held a kind of pitchfork and

somersault. Nate wanted to applaud, held himself for

in a cadence, spun the weapons in a manner that

“Fei Hung say, 'it is as the driest blossom of the

aunt.” Nate looked over curiously. “Is simple,”

Yuan Shih exploded at Fei Hung with a fury that

angle. No boxing rules where a man down stayed

walk. Say bone was broken. Say set wrong.”