[story] notes of discontent
author: eve
e-mail: stormofblossoms [ at ] gmail dot com
The old musician shuffled into the restaurant, one arm curled around his weather-bleached guzheng, followed by a boy of about six years old. Something about the boy caught Xuan's attention, although she could not immediately put her finger on what it was. Sipping her tepid wine, she watched the pair as they seated themselves at the table near the door. The waiter came over and asked the old man if he would like to order something. He sounded unenthusiastic, which was perfectly understandable - musicians often expected their food and drink to be free in exchange for their songs.
"Roast beef and pickles, hot tea, and persimmons if you have them," the musician said. "My grandson loves persimmons." Next to him, the boy squirmed, as if finding his seat too lumpy.
Out of the three other tables, one was vacant and two were occupied by a group of men and women who seemed to be relatives. They chattered among themselves, ignoring everyone else. Having observed them, Xuan decided that they knew no martial arts, although she was not sure yet about the musician. After all, it would be too easy to disguise steps disciplined by years of hard practice with a slow walk.
She drained the last of her wine, picked up her double swords - swathed in a sheet of black cloth, as usual - and dropped a silver coin on the table. The musician was sitting with the guzheng on his lap, picking at the strings, while the boy continued to fidget. A burst of laughter erupted from the other two tables, and Xuan saw the boy stare at the family with stark longing.
"Excuse me, Uncle," she said to the musician. "Are you going to play a song?"
He looked up. "I might." At first she had judged him to be in his fifties, but he was at least ten years younger than that. His eyes were bright, although the left eyelid drooped a little. "And I'll pay for my food, too," he added, his smile that of a good friend sharing a joke. "Any particular song you have in mind, Miss?"
"Let's see," she murmured, glancing at the boy. He was now scratching at his neck and jaw. His fingernails were pink with health and neatly manicured. She also noticed that his scratching was slow but relentless, his fingers moving from spot to spot with restrained agitation. "Little brother," she called, and his head jerked toward her. "Does your skin itch?"
"My grandson has just recovered from a rash," the musician cut in. His smile remained pleasant and genuine, alarming Xuan even further. "The heat is making it worse, that's all." As he spoke, his eyes swept over her clothes - the blue dress overlaid with a yellow robe - and sudden recognition flared in his face.
Xuan, who was never fond of games and pretenses, raised the swathed swords so that they were directly in the musician's line of vision. "Yes, I'm a disciple of the North Wutai School. My name is Zhao Xuan. Pardon my insolence, Uncle, but is this boy really your grandson?"
The boy turned his head away, while the musician gave a quiet laugh. "Why, Miss! One would think you suspect me to be a kidnapper."
"Are you?"
He strummed the guzheng's strings, and the conversation at the other tables came to an uneasy halt. Xuan felt it too - the vibration of the man's internal energy, which pierced her flesh and into the marrow of her bones. "Miss Zhao, this is none of your business." Even his voice had grown fuller, more insistent. "There's an old debt between me and the people who brought the boy up, that's all I can tell you. Please leave."
"Sir, if you call yourself a pugilist, you should know that you mustn't torment the weak, including children, to get what you want."
The laugh again, not so quiet this time, and another strumming. One or two people from the nearby group began to moan. "You're still very young. What are you, seventeen? The ways of the world are not as simple as you think. Leave."
"Only if he leaves with me."
Before the sentence was halfway finished, the double swords, already unsheathed, slid out of their wrapping and were in Xuan's hands. Seeing this, the group at the other tables exclaimed in alarm and scrambled away toward the door, overturned chairs in their wake. One arm outstretched, the other pulled back at shoulder level, she pointed the swords at the old man, who was unperturbed.
"Do you really think you can win against me?" he asked, fingertips resting on the strings. Behind the table, the boy was pale and tight-lipped.
"I'll try my best so I won't disgrace my School. Watch out for my swords!"
She charged, and the guzheng bounced off the musician's lap; with both hands he swirled it around, both to block her swords and hit them. The impact traveled down Xuan's arms, jarring her all the way to her teeth. She swung higher, but the guzheng was already there and this time she nearly hit the strings.
"Miss, you're much younger than me, and a girl besides," the old man said sharply. "If this fight continues, I'm going to be a laughingstock whether I win or lose. Just walk away, please."
"Sorry, I can't - that's not how we of the North Wutai School were raised. Next attack!"
Changing her tactics, she started to aim for his legs. This way he was forced to exert a slightly greater effort in maintaining his balance, since he had to stoop. Keeping her head at a safe distance from the guzheng, Xuan concentrated ferociously on her every move: her swords flashed every which way as they slashed, stabbed, and banged against the musical instrument.
The duel went on; her opponent was mostly on the defensive, but no less formidable for that. Once he half-clawed at the strings, filling the restaurant with a high-pitched tune that made Xuan's eye sockets ache. To prevent him from doing more of the same, she doubled her own efforts. Beads of sweat were flying from her temples. She was faster and he had a much sturdier shield and weapon - this could take a while, to say the least. Which had been her intention all along.
"Little brother, run!" Xuan shouted, but the boy stayed frozen to the spot. "Run!"
A nimble leap, and the musician was out of her striking range. To her surprise, he put down the guzheng on the table. "That's enough. I don't want there to be a grudge between me and the North Wutai School."
"No grudge," Xuan panted, irritated that she was out of breath already. Did she practice less diligently than she ought to? "This is just between me and you, nothing to do with my School."
"Miss, this fight is pointless. You're not going to win and I'm not giving up the boy. So please, let us just part ways. He and I are going to leave this restaurant, and so are you."
The boy spoke up for the first time. "Can we eat first? I'm starving. And the man said they have persimmons."
The musician smiled. At the unadulterated love in his eyes, Xuan's heart gave an unexpected twist. "Yes, he did, didn't he? Tell you what. We'll bring the persimmons with us and you can eat them later. How does that sound to you?"
"That sounds great."
Xuan shifted. "Uncle - "
"Now, Miss, if you'll excuse us - oh, and you're right. He isn't my grandson. He's my son."
For a moment Xuan stared, then her ears grew warm. Her grip on her sword hilts tightened, as did her chest. The musician went on, his tone detached.
"All these years his mother's family had kept him away from us, his parents. Now I finally found him and am taking him to his mother. My son's not used to me yet, nor to the life of a traveling musician. That's why he's still uncomfortable around me."
He went to the kitchen, apparently to talk to the staff, who had hid themselves during the duel. Soon he returned with a bundle, which could only be the persimmons. Behind him, the waiter was peering out of the kitchen door. Settling the guzheng in the crook of one arm, the musician took the boy's hand and nodded at Xuan.
"Your swordplay isn't bad. In a few years you'll do the North Wutai School proud. Well, good day." He and the boy disappeared through the front door.
Xuan stood in the middle of the restaurant, somehow feeling cheated. No, she decided, not cheated. Patronized. The musician might or might not be telling the truth about the boy, but that was not the problem. The problem was that Xuan had listened to him meekly, without even challenging his story. If the man had lied and the boy met a terrible fate, the blame would be on her.
Her master would have scolded her for being so woolly-headed.
Putting her swords back inside their wrapping, Xuan strode toward the doorway. Hand-to-hand combat, she told herself. That way, no difference of weapons to distract her. Or a battle of internal energy, perhaps? Would she be able to hold her own then?
"These martial society folks are such troublemakers," the waiter grumbled aloud, which did not detract from Xuan's now sanguine mood at all.
e-mail: stormofblossoms [ at ] gmail dot com
The old musician shuffled into the restaurant, one arm curled around his weather-bleached guzheng, followed by a boy of about six years old. Something about the boy caught Xuan's attention, although she could not immediately put her finger on what it was. Sipping her tepid wine, she watched the pair as they seated themselves at the table near the door. The waiter came over and asked the old man if he would like to order something. He sounded unenthusiastic, which was perfectly understandable - musicians often expected their food and drink to be free in exchange for their songs.
"Roast beef and pickles, hot tea, and persimmons if you have them," the musician said. "My grandson loves persimmons." Next to him, the boy squirmed, as if finding his seat too lumpy.
Out of the three other tables, one was vacant and two were occupied by a group of men and women who seemed to be relatives. They chattered among themselves, ignoring everyone else. Having observed them, Xuan decided that they knew no martial arts, although she was not sure yet about the musician. After all, it would be too easy to disguise steps disciplined by years of hard practice with a slow walk.
She drained the last of her wine, picked up her double swords - swathed in a sheet of black cloth, as usual - and dropped a silver coin on the table. The musician was sitting with the guzheng on his lap, picking at the strings, while the boy continued to fidget. A burst of laughter erupted from the other two tables, and Xuan saw the boy stare at the family with stark longing.
"Excuse me, Uncle," she said to the musician. "Are you going to play a song?"
He looked up. "I might." At first she had judged him to be in his fifties, but he was at least ten years younger than that. His eyes were bright, although the left eyelid drooped a little. "And I'll pay for my food, too," he added, his smile that of a good friend sharing a joke. "Any particular song you have in mind, Miss?"
"Let's see," she murmured, glancing at the boy. He was now scratching at his neck and jaw. His fingernails were pink with health and neatly manicured. She also noticed that his scratching was slow but relentless, his fingers moving from spot to spot with restrained agitation. "Little brother," she called, and his head jerked toward her. "Does your skin itch?"
"My grandson has just recovered from a rash," the musician cut in. His smile remained pleasant and genuine, alarming Xuan even further. "The heat is making it worse, that's all." As he spoke, his eyes swept over her clothes - the blue dress overlaid with a yellow robe - and sudden recognition flared in his face.
Xuan, who was never fond of games and pretenses, raised the swathed swords so that they were directly in the musician's line of vision. "Yes, I'm a disciple of the North Wutai School. My name is Zhao Xuan. Pardon my insolence, Uncle, but is this boy really your grandson?"
The boy turned his head away, while the musician gave a quiet laugh. "Why, Miss! One would think you suspect me to be a kidnapper."
"Are you?"
He strummed the guzheng's strings, and the conversation at the other tables came to an uneasy halt. Xuan felt it too - the vibration of the man's internal energy, which pierced her flesh and into the marrow of her bones. "Miss Zhao, this is none of your business." Even his voice had grown fuller, more insistent. "There's an old debt between me and the people who brought the boy up, that's all I can tell you. Please leave."
"Sir, if you call yourself a pugilist, you should know that you mustn't torment the weak, including children, to get what you want."
The laugh again, not so quiet this time, and another strumming. One or two people from the nearby group began to moan. "You're still very young. What are you, seventeen? The ways of the world are not as simple as you think. Leave."
"Only if he leaves with me."
Before the sentence was halfway finished, the double swords, already unsheathed, slid out of their wrapping and were in Xuan's hands. Seeing this, the group at the other tables exclaimed in alarm and scrambled away toward the door, overturned chairs in their wake. One arm outstretched, the other pulled back at shoulder level, she pointed the swords at the old man, who was unperturbed.
"Do you really think you can win against me?" he asked, fingertips resting on the strings. Behind the table, the boy was pale and tight-lipped.
"I'll try my best so I won't disgrace my School. Watch out for my swords!"
She charged, and the guzheng bounced off the musician's lap; with both hands he swirled it around, both to block her swords and hit them. The impact traveled down Xuan's arms, jarring her all the way to her teeth. She swung higher, but the guzheng was already there and this time she nearly hit the strings.
"Miss, you're much younger than me, and a girl besides," the old man said sharply. "If this fight continues, I'm going to be a laughingstock whether I win or lose. Just walk away, please."
"Sorry, I can't - that's not how we of the North Wutai School were raised. Next attack!"
Changing her tactics, she started to aim for his legs. This way he was forced to exert a slightly greater effort in maintaining his balance, since he had to stoop. Keeping her head at a safe distance from the guzheng, Xuan concentrated ferociously on her every move: her swords flashed every which way as they slashed, stabbed, and banged against the musical instrument.
The duel went on; her opponent was mostly on the defensive, but no less formidable for that. Once he half-clawed at the strings, filling the restaurant with a high-pitched tune that made Xuan's eye sockets ache. To prevent him from doing more of the same, she doubled her own efforts. Beads of sweat were flying from her temples. She was faster and he had a much sturdier shield and weapon - this could take a while, to say the least. Which had been her intention all along.
"Little brother, run!" Xuan shouted, but the boy stayed frozen to the spot. "Run!"
A nimble leap, and the musician was out of her striking range. To her surprise, he put down the guzheng on the table. "That's enough. I don't want there to be a grudge between me and the North Wutai School."
"No grudge," Xuan panted, irritated that she was out of breath already. Did she practice less diligently than she ought to? "This is just between me and you, nothing to do with my School."
"Miss, this fight is pointless. You're not going to win and I'm not giving up the boy. So please, let us just part ways. He and I are going to leave this restaurant, and so are you."
The boy spoke up for the first time. "Can we eat first? I'm starving. And the man said they have persimmons."
The musician smiled. At the unadulterated love in his eyes, Xuan's heart gave an unexpected twist. "Yes, he did, didn't he? Tell you what. We'll bring the persimmons with us and you can eat them later. How does that sound to you?"
"That sounds great."
Xuan shifted. "Uncle - "
"Now, Miss, if you'll excuse us - oh, and you're right. He isn't my grandson. He's my son."
For a moment Xuan stared, then her ears grew warm. Her grip on her sword hilts tightened, as did her chest. The musician went on, his tone detached.
"All these years his mother's family had kept him away from us, his parents. Now I finally found him and am taking him to his mother. My son's not used to me yet, nor to the life of a traveling musician. That's why he's still uncomfortable around me."
He went to the kitchen, apparently to talk to the staff, who had hid themselves during the duel. Soon he returned with a bundle, which could only be the persimmons. Behind him, the waiter was peering out of the kitchen door. Settling the guzheng in the crook of one arm, the musician took the boy's hand and nodded at Xuan.
"Your swordplay isn't bad. In a few years you'll do the North Wutai School proud. Well, good day." He and the boy disappeared through the front door.
Xuan stood in the middle of the restaurant, somehow feeling cheated. No, she decided, not cheated. Patronized. The musician might or might not be telling the truth about the boy, but that was not the problem. The problem was that Xuan had listened to him meekly, without even challenging his story. If the man had lied and the boy met a terrible fate, the blame would be on her.
Her master would have scolded her for being so woolly-headed.
Putting her swords back inside their wrapping, Xuan strode toward the doorway. Hand-to-hand combat, she told herself. That way, no difference of weapons to distract her. Or a battle of internal energy, perhaps? Would she be able to hold her own then?
"These martial society folks are such troublemakers," the waiter grumbled aloud, which did not detract from Xuan's now sanguine mood at all.