There’s a book called The Question of Reception: Martial Arts Fiction in English Translation (1997) which is a collection of papers presented at a conference on translation. Included among these papers is a sample translation of about half of chapter 1 of Jin Yong’s Legend of the Condor Heroes, which the translators (John Minford and Sharon Lai) called Eagles and Heroes. At this time, John Minford had already translated two of the three volumes of Jin Yong’s The Deer and the Cauldron, and many of the papers collected in the book deal with that translation, either directly or indirectly. Eagles and Heroes was to be translated next, but for whatever reason it never came to fruition.
I first stumbled upon this book years ago when I was a graduate student at National Cheng Kung University. The recent official publication of Legend of the Condor Heroes made me think of this excerpt by John Minford and Sharon Lai, and I wanted to compare them. So I finally made it down to the library at NCKU after all these years to get the book, not being able to find it anywhere else. And I have taken the liberty to re-typeset the translation and present it here.
What follows is the entirety of the excerpt included in The Question of Reception, about half of chapter 1, about 10,500 words. I have kept the text as is, leaving the spellings and punctuations as they are in the original text. The one exception to this is the footnotes, which are just unnumbered paragraphs as the bottom of the page in the book. Here I have converted them to numbered footnotes. Other than that the text is the same as it appears in the book.
Before the transltion there is a title page on which is the following description:
This extract from the first chapter of Louis Cha’s novel Shediao yingxiong zhuan (1957-59) is the fruit of discussions held during 1996, in a Martial Arts fiction translation workshop funded by a grant from the Hong Kong University Grants Committee. Other members of the workshop, who contributed ideas and drafts, were Chan Oi-sum, Ko Ka-ling, and Tong Man. The complete translation will be published by Oxford University Press (Hong Kong).
Here it is, an early translation of the first chapter of Legend of the Condor Heroes:
Eagles and Heroes
translated by John Minford and Sharon Lai
Chapter One
In which past events are lamented; Tartars are execrated; and “flying” and other strange arts of kungfu are described.
The Storyteller
The mighty Qiantang River swept past Ox Village, flowing eastwards without rest, to join the sea some hundred miles south of that still mightier river, the Yangtze. It was autumn, and the red leaves of the tallow trees on the riverside blazed like flames. Around the village the long grass had already started to turn yellow. It was a sombre scene, made more so by the light of the setting sun. A small crowd of villagers, men, women, and children, had gathered beneath two tall pines, and were waiting intently for an old man to start telling a story.
The storyteller, a lean figure in his fifties, wore a long blue robe, washed so many times that its colour had begun to fade to a light grey. In his right hand he clacked two pearwood clappers, while his left hand beat a rhythm on a small deerskin drum. He began to sing:
“The peach trees, ownerless, untended, bloom;
The ravens, o’er the thicket, homeward fly.
Broken walls and ruined wells spell doom,
Where once dwelt many a thriving family.”
He clacked the clappers a few more times, and launched again into his tale:
“My song describes the terrible destruction wrought by war: everywhere homes ruined, whole villages reduced to piles of rubble. I have already told you of the sorrowful parting and joyful reunion of Oldie Ye and his family, how they were separated by the invading Jurchen troops, and how after many ordeals, they were finally reunited. Joyfully they returned together to their home town, only to find their house burned to the ground. Despondently they made their weary way north to Bian-liang, the old capital, in search of some new means of livelihood. But there an even worse fate awaited them. As the four of them entered the city, they ran into a detachment of Jurchen soldiers. The Tartar captain caught one glimpse of Third Maid, their lovely daughter, and his eyes lit up with lust. Down he jumped from his horse, laid his rough hands on her, and manhandled her up onto his saddle, laughing coarsely the while. ‘Little girl,’ he cried ‘come home with me!’
“Of course Third Maid would have none of it. She put up a desperate struggle, which only made matters worse. ‘If you won’t do as I say,’ he shouted, ‘I’ll kill your whole family!’
“Saying this, he raised his Wolf’s-Fang Club, a nasty great weapon with ugly iron spikes in its head, and brought it crashing down on her little brother’s head. The child’s brains spilled out onto the ground in front of him. He died that very instant. As the poem says:
Another ghost went down to the Nether World,
And this world lost a fine young man.
“For a moment his parents stood stunned with horror. Then they rushed forward and threw their arms around their dead son’s body, weeping loudly. Again the Jurchen captain swung his club, this time finishing them both off with a single blow. To the captain’s surprise, the girl neither wept nor sobbed. ‘Sir, I pray you, calm yourself,’ she said, with a strange air of detachment. ‘I’ll go with you, I’ll do whatever you say.’
“Overjoyed, the Tartar took the girl away with him. But as soon as they reached the lodgings she caught him unawares and leapt at him, drawing out the knife from his waist and lunging with it at his chest. It happened quicker than words can tell. This blow of hers, if successful, would have avenged the deaths of her parents and brother. But the captain was a seasoned fighter. He reacted smartly, pushing the girl away and throwing her to the ground.
“’Miserable slut!’ he cried. Even as he began to abuse her, the girl turned the knife upwards and slit her own throat. Ah, the pity of it!”
Once again the storyteller broke into song:
“A lass as bright as any moon, and flowerlike fair,
Goes down through Death’s door in sorrow and despair.”
Throughout the performance, his audience had been quite riveted, by turns gnashing their teeth in indignation and heaving heartfelt sighs of commiseration.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he concluded, “there is a wise old saying:
Do not deceive yourselves, my friends,
For every deed is known to Heaven.
Evil done rebounds upon the evil-doer,
Until the score of Fate is even.
“The Jurchen Tartars have invaded our territory, they have killed our people, burnt down our homes, raped our women and plundered our property. They have done every imaginable kind of evil. And still they have not been punished! For this we must blame the weakness of our own Emperors. We have a large army, but if they so much as set eyes on a detachment of Jurchen troops, our men turn and flee, every last one of them, leaving innocent civilians to suffer. Tragedies such as the one I have just related are daily occurrences, everywhere in the occupied territory north of the Yangtze River. Those like ourselves, whose homes are safely south of the River, are living in a paradise. Our only concern is that one day the Jurchens may cross the River. Alas, as the old saying goes: ‘Rather a dog in days of peace, than a man in troubled times.’
“Ladies and gentlemen, my humble name is Zhang Fifteen. It has been my honour today to come here and tell you the sad tale of the Virtuous Maid. My story ends there. I hope we will meet again.”
So saying, he clacked the clappers again by way of conclusion and passed round a wooden plate to collect donations. Most of the villagers put a coin or two in the plate, and he had soon collected a total of about seventy coins. Fifteen thanked them, put the money in his pocket, and was about to leave when a man in his early twenties came out from the crowd:
“Sir, are you from the North?” he ventured.
The villager was a tall, strongly-built man, with striking eyes.
“That I am,” replied Fifteen.
“Then allow me to buy you a drink!” the man proposed.
Fifteen seemed surprised and delighted by this offer.
“Why, we do not even know each other! It’s really very kind of you! Thank you very much!”
The villager laughed.
“Drinking is the best way to become acquainted! Allow me to introduce myself: Guo, Guo Xiaotian.” He went on to present a man with a pale complexion standing beside him.
“This is my sword brother, Yang Tiexin. We’ve just been listening to your story of the Virtuous Maid. You told it really well, and we would like to talk with you a little more.”
“You flatter me. I am very pleased to meet you both.”
The storyteller followed Guo to an inn at the entrance to the village, and the three sat down at a table.1
The innkeeper of the establishment was a cripple by the name of Chew, who walked with the help of two canes. He heated two pots of yellow rice wine, and set before them plates of broad beans, salted peanuts, dried bean curd and three sliced salted eggs. Then he went over to a bench by the door, and sat there gazing at the sunset and paying his three guests no further attention.
Guo plied the storyteller with wine, saying:
“In a small village like this, we only eat meat twice a month. You must forgive our simple fare.”
“Wine is better than food any day! Tell me,” asked Fifteen, “from your accents, I’d guess the two of you must be Northerners like myself. Am I right?”
“Yes. We hail from Shandong Province,” replied Yang. “We could bear the stench of those Tartar pigs no longer, so we moved here three years ago. The local people here are very friendly, so we decided to stay. Just as you said, we are lucky to be living safely in the South. Our only worry is when the Jurchens will come. What do you think? Will they come or not?”
“The South is such a wonderful place—such rich land, such beautiful women!” returned Fifteen. “They won’t be able to resist it. One day they will surely cross the River. But it is not they who will decide; it is our own Court.”
Both Guo and Yang seemed surprised by this remark.
“What do you mean?”
“Simply this,” Fifteen continued, “We outnumber the Jurchens more than a hundred to one. We have a hundred armed men to every one of theirs. We could defeat them by sheer numbers! But we don’t. Why not? Because men of conscience are not listened to at Court! Sixty years ago our Emperors surrendered the North to the Jurchens, and put corrupt men in positions of power. Any general who resisted the Tartars successfully was recalled or had his head chopped off. Did the Jurchens refuse to take the North then? Hardly. They’ll gladly accept a second prize when it’s offered them! Of course they will come south!”
“Exactly my own view!” Guo struck the table so heavily that bowls, chopsticks and plates all jumped into the air.
Fifteen went on.
“In those days, our Emperor Hui—the Imperial Taoist Mystic as he called himself—was obsessed with the idea of eternal life. His only thought was to become an immortal. Of the high officials he appointed, some were there to help him squeeze money out of the common people; some were eunuchs—boasters and flatterers every one of them; some were loafers, who went with him on his frequent visits to the pleasure-quarters. His Imperial Mysticity cared not at all for the affairs of state, but buried himself in his celestial pursuits and in such aesthetic diversions as collecting rare plants and precious stones. Once the Jurchen troops came, he just went to pieces and abdicated in favour of his son, who became Emperor Qin. At that time, the old capital Bian-liang had been strongly fortified by order of the loyal governor Li Gang, and a number of other generals had led their troops back from their posts to protect the emperor. At first the Tartars were unable to break through the lines of defence and had to retreat. Then, to everyone’s surprise, the new Emperor Qin was persuaded by certain traitors at Court to dismiss Li Gang and his valiant generals, and to appoint instead a charlatan, who boasted of his ability to summon heavenly troops down from the sky, and to control the wind and the rain. The emperor relied on this man to call down his ‘heavenly troops’; and since, of course, they never materialised, the capital fell into the hands of the Jurchens. Eventually, in the second year of the Jing-kang reign, both emperors, father and son, were led into captivity, together with all their courtiers and consorts. They deserved their fate. But we innocent civilians did not deserve ours.”
The more they listened to this old tale, the angrier Guo and Yang became.
“We had heard some of these stories,” said Guo, “but we thought they must be gossip. Was it really true then, about the ‘heavenly troops’?”
“Of course it was,” replied Fifteen.
“Even afterwards,” continued Yang, “when Prince Kang, Emperor Qin’s brother, was crowned in the Southern Capital, he had a chance to fight back. With strong generals like Han Shizhong and the Great Commander Yue, he could have launched an expedition northward. We might not have been able to take the Tartar stronghold of Yan-jing; but we should easily have recovered our own lost capital, Bian-liang. It was the fault of the traitor Qin Kui that we never did. He had set his mind on appeasement, and to achieve his ends, murdered the Great Commander Yue.”
Fifteen filled the cups for both Guo and Yang and a cup for himself. Tossing back the wine, he continued:
“The Great Commander wrote two stirring lines of verse:
We yearn to eat barbarian flesh,
Laughing we thirst for Tartar blood!
“He put into words what we Chinese all feel in our hearts. Qin Kui was a vile traitor, and it was lucky for him that we were born sixty years too late.”2
“What if we had been born sixty years earlier?” asked Guo.
“Why then, my two heroes,” replied the storyteller, “then we could have gone to Lin-an, caught the traitor, eaten his flesh and drunk his blood! And we wouldn’t be sitting here today, eating broad beans and drinking wine!”
At this, they all burst out laughing.
The pot of wine was finished. Yang ordered another and they continued to vent their wrath at Qin Kui. The lame innkeeper put out two more plates of broad beans and peanuts. As he did so, he pulled a face.
“What’s wrong, Chew?” asked Yang. “Don’t you think Qin Kui deserved what we were saying about him?”
“Of course he deserved it! But I have heard that the real appeaser, the man who really wanted to kill Great Commander Yue was not Qin Kui at all…”
“Who else could it have been?” they asked in surprise.
Chew continued:
“Appeaser or not, Qin Kui was still only Prime Minister. Great Commander Yue had vowed to destroy the Jurchen Kingdom and bring back the captured Emperors. But supposing they had come back? Who stood to lose the most? What would have been the fate of the young Emperor Gao?”
With these words, Chew limped back to his bench and sat down again, gazing up into the darkening sky, lost in thought. He was actually quite a young man, but from the rear, with his hunched back and graying temples, he looked old.
Fifteen, Guo and Yang looked at each other without saying a word. Finally, Fifteen broke the silence:
“Yes! What this friend of yours said is right! The real murderer was not Qin Kui, but the young Emperor Gao!”
“How?” asked Guo.
Fifteen went on to explain:
“The Great Commander Yue had already won several battles. He had defeated the Jurchens and driven them into flight—their blood was flowing in torrents, their corpses were piled high as mountains. There was a true Chinese resistance in the North, men willing to give the Tartars a run for their money. And just when terror and panic had gripped the Jurchen men, suddenly, what happens? The Emperor surrenders and pleads for a truce. Of course the Jurchen King was overjoyed: ‘We’ll give you a truce,’ he said, ‘but on one condition: you have to kill your commander Yue Fei first.’ So Qin Kui set the trap, and our Great Commander was murdered. It all happened in Ripple Pavilion, in the twelfth month of the eleventh year of Shao-xing. And sure enough, one month later, in the first month of the following year, the peace was made. The Huai River, not far north of the Yangtze, became the boundary between what was left of our Chinese Song Empire and what the Jurchen call their ‘Golden Dynasty’. Emperor Gao declared himself a vassal of the Jurchen Court. Have you ever heard the words he used in his surrender?”
“No—but I can well imagine how shameless they must have been!” replied Yang.
“Oh, but they were!” said Fifteen. “I still remember some of them:
Your humble subject declares:
By grace of Your Majesty, we, the humble Chinese house of Song, gladly consent to be your obedient subjects in the generations to come. Every year we will send a special envoy to attend your Honorable Court on the occasion of Your Majesty’s birthday and on the first day of the New Year. And we will bring an annual tribute of two hundred and fifty thousand taels of silver, and two hundred and fifty thousand bolts of silk.
“Not only did he declare himself to be a slave; he condemned future generations of Chinese to slavery too, forced them to follow in his shameful footsteps!”
Guo thumped the table again, splashing wine all over the place.
“The worthless knave! Did he know no shame?” he cried angrily.
“Every soldier and civilian burned with rage when they heard the news of the surrender,” Fifteen continued. “Especially those who lived north of the Huai River, since they were the ones who were to be abandoned into the hands of the barbarians. They wept tears of grief! But Emperor Gao was more than happy. He had kept his throne safe, and he rewarded Qin Kui by naming him Supreme Counsellor of the Realm. From then on, Qin the Traitor became the Emperor’s favourite, and they most powerful minister at court. Today’s emperor is the fourth since Emperor Gao. It’s five years now since he came to the throne. With that Prime Minister of his, Han Tuozhou, I hesitate to say what the future may hold.” Fifteen shook his head, and muttered something under his breath.
“Why hesitate?” cried Guo. “You can speak freely here. Everyone knows that Han is a traitor. He’s every bit as bad as Qin Kui.”
Fifteen was clearly reluctant to go this far when talking about the present.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, drinking up his win. “Let me offer you a piece of advice. You are both brave and upright men. Be more careful if you want to stay out of trouble. We live in difficult times! And we common people must survive as best we can. Alas! As the song goes:
Beyond the hills, blue hills, beyond the mansions, mansions—
Of singing and dancing on West Lake will there ever be an end?
Idlers fuddled on the fumes of the warm breeze forget
The lost city, the land they once called home.”3
“What’s the story behind that?” asked Yang.
“It’s not a story. It’s talking about the present: our emperors and their ministers, leading a life of dissipation on the shores of West Lake, devoting their days and nights to wine, women and song. They’ve forgotten that this Southern capital of ours is only a place of exile! They’ve lost the will to fight! They’ll never recover our rightful land; they’ll never go back to the old capital that is rightly ours.”
By the time Fifteen left them, he was blind drunk. He staggered off in an easterly direction, toward Lin-an City, mumbling to himself the words of the famous poem “Full River Red” by the Great Commander:
“The shame the Tartars heaped on us
has not been wiped away.
When will these sorrows end?
Oh, drive on my chariot, drive on…”
Guo paid for the wine and walked the thirty yards home with Yang, who was his neighbour. Guo’s wife was driving her chickens into their coop, and greeted them with a smile:
“So, I see you two have been drinking again? Brother Yang, bring your wife over and let’s have dinner together. We’ll kill a chicken.”
“My Xiruo keeps all those ducks and hens,” said Yang with a rueful smile. “But we just fatten them up for nothing! She won’t kill a single one. So we always end up eating yours!”
“She is too soft-hearted,” smiled Guo’s wife. “She says she’s had them since they were little chicks. She just can’t bring herself to slaughter them.”
“Even if I tell her to let me do it, she sobs her heart out!” said Yang. “Oh well! I’ll go hunting tonight, and treat you both to some game tomorrow.”
“Don’t be like that!” cried Guo. “We’re brothers. Let’s go together!”
A Lame Kungfu Master
So that night, at midnight, the two of them, armed with bows and hunting pikes, lay hidden on the outskirts of the forest near Ox Village, hoping to waylay some grazing beast, a wild boar or river-deer perhaps. For more than two hours they waited, and were beginning to grow impatient, when all of a sudden they heard a strange “tock-tock” coming from the forest. It was followed by the sound of voices shouting in the distance:
“Stop! Halt there!”
They noticed a black shadow flitting from tree to tree. By the light of the moon they saw that it was a man moving with the aid of two canes. Then to their utter astonishment they recognized it was Chew, the lame innkeeper from the village. There was another “tock” as Chew propelled himself high into the air with his left can, and disappeared behind a tree. Guo and Yang squeezed each other by the hand, marvelling at his extraordinary mastery of the kungfu of “flying”.4
“And to think that we have lived with him in the village these three years and never knew!”
They continued to lie hidden in the long grass. They heard footsteps approaching, and saw three men who had tracked Chew to the edge of the forest, and now halted to confer there for a while, before stepping cautiously in among the trees.
“Damned cripple!” cried one of them, threateningly. “I can see you. Come down! Kneel and surrender!”
But Chew remained motionless. The three men brandished their swords and closed in on the tree behind which Chew was hidden. In a flash the cripple lashed out with his right cane, striking the front man on the chest and sending him reeling backwards, to collapse with a groan on the ground. The other two raised their swords and moved into the attack.
Using his right cane to launch himself through the air, Chew now sprang leftward, sidestepping their attack and simultaneously thrusting with his left cane into the face of another of his assailants. The man was not a bad fighter, and he parried with his blade, But before the two weapons had even met, Chew had drawn back his left cane to support himself, and was sweeping across with the right cane at the other man’s waist. His canes served the cripple as crutches, as weapons, and as a means to propel himself through the air. This double-cane kungfu of his seemed truly invincible.
Chew was carrying a large cloth bag on his back, which hampered his movements. One of his assailants struck at the bag, and a number of objects clattered onto the ground. Chew caught the man off guard, striking him a deadly blow on the head. As the third man, the sole survivor, turned to flee in terror, Chew extracted something from within his gown, and threw it after him. In the moonlight they saw a round disk-like object hurtle through the air and embed itself in the man’s brain. He dropped his sword, threw his hands up, howling in agony, and gradually crumpled to the ground, where he writhed for a moment and then lay still.
Guo and Yang held their breath in awe at Chew’s superb kungfu. Their next thought was of fear for themselves. They had witnessed this man commit multiple murder; he might try to kill them next! Imagine their surprise when Chew hailed them, saying:
“Gentlemen, you may come out now!”
The two of them rose to their feet from their hiding-place in the long grass, still clutching their hunting pikes. Yang glanced anxiously at his friend Guo, and stepped a couple of paces forward. Chew seemed to read his thoughts, and smiled:
“Brother Yang, you are indeed a true and brave friend! Your weapon has always been the pike—as was your father’s before you, and your father’s father’s before that! But you are right—your friend Guo usually fights with the twin halberds—he may be at a disadvantage. Think for a moment, though: even if he had his preferred weapons, what chance do you think the two of you would have against me?”
Guo shook his head.
“None! To think that all these years we have lived with you in the same village, and knew nothing of your awesome kungfu. You are truly a master!”
Chew sighed.
“I’m just a cripple! Years ago I would have dealt with those three in half the time! I’m good for nothing any more!”
The two looked at each other, not daring to utter a word.
“Would you mind doing a cripple a favour?” asked Chew. “Bury the bodies for me?”
The two men busied themselves digging a large pit with their pikes, and dragged the three corpses into it. When they came to move the last one, Yang found the disk-like missile still deeply embedded in the head. He pulled it out and inspected it. It was an iron octagon of the sort used by Taoist mystics, inscribed with the Eight Trigram of the Book of Changes. Yang wiped the bloody disk clean on the corpse, and handed it back to Chew.
Chew thanked him and slipped the disk back in his pocket. Then he untied his gown, laid it on the ground and began collecting the scattered objects. Guo and Yang, still busy burying the corpses, caught a glimpse of glittering goldware and jade, and three long scrolls.
When he had finished, Chew presented them each with a present—one with a jug, the other a cup—both made of solid gold.
“This is treasure from the Imperial Palace. I stole it. Our Emperor has brought such suffering on the people—it is no crime to take these bits and pieces from him! Here—these two are for you!”
They were clearly afraid to accept the gifts.
“Scared?” asked Chew.
“What have we done to deserve them?” mumbled Guo. “But rest assured, we will not breathe a word of what we have seen…”
“Don’t worry, I know you would never betray me,” said Chew. “I know all about you both. You are children of brave and loyal heroes. You, Guo, are descended from the great Guo Sheng, one of the famous Outlaws of Mount Liang. You, Yang, are descended from the famous General Yang, who served under the Great Commanded, Yue Fei. When the Jurchen barbarians invaded China, the two of you were roaming on River and Lake; that’s when you met each other, became sworn brothers and settled in Ox Village. Am I right?”5
They stared at each other in silent disbelief. How could he know so much, when they knew nothing of him?
“Your own ancestors,” continued the all-knowing Chew, “were brave outlaws and heroes. They robbed from the rich. Do you still refuse my gift?”
They relented. A smile lit up Chew’s face.
“Come, why don’t we all go home.”
The three of them walked out of the forest together.
“I made a handsome haul tonight,” said Chew. “Two paintings and one piece of calligraphy by Emperor Hui. He was a poor emperor, true, but he certainly knew how to paint birds and flowers. And his calligraphy was outstanding.”
The other two had no idea what he was talking about, but murmured assent.
After a while, Yang asked:
“Earlier today, the storyteller was telling us what a bad emperor he was, how he lost us half of our land. How could such a man have been a great artist? Why did you risk your life getting into the Palace to steal these things?”
Chew smiled:
“It seems you understand little about art.”
Now it was Guo’s turn to comment:
“If he was so talented, more’s the pity he didn’t dedicate his talents to being a good emperor! My father always used to say, no matter what you are studying, whether it’s Literature or the Martial Arts, you must concentrate on one thing, and one thing only, or you will achieve nothing.”
Chew disagreed:
“For ordinary people, that may be true. But occasionally one encounters a true genius, a man who can master several arts at once—Literature and the Martial Arts, calligraphy and drawing, music and chess, mathematics and Taoist tactics, the medical arts and fortune-telling, astrology and alchemy! It’s just that you have never seen such a man.”
As he said these words, he gazed up at the moon in the sky and heaved a long sigh. In the moonlight, Guo and Yang could see tears glistening in Chew’s eyes.
The two brothers went home and buried their golden gifts deep in their backyards, keeping them secret from everyone, even their own wives. After that day, they went about their daily lives, growing rice and hunting, practising Martial Arts, going to Chew’s inn for the occasional drink. But never once did they refer to the midnight fight in the forest, even when the two of them were alone. When they went to Chew’s inn, the innkeeper would heat wine for them as usual, and serve dishes of broad beans and peanuts; then he would hobble to the threshold, sit down and gaze at the passing river, lost in his thoughts. It was as if that night’s encounter in the forest had never taken place. And yet there was always something in his expression that filled the two men with a strange sense of awe.
The Abbé
Autumn passed and winter came. The weather grew colder. One night, a strong northerly wind blew up, and the next morning the snow was falling heavily. The ground was soon covered in a glistening layer of white. Yang told his wife to invite their friends the Guos over that evening, to drink and enjoy the snow scene with them. After lunch he set off with two bottle-gourds to Chew’s inn to buy some wine, only to find the door bolted and barred and the inn-sign banner gone.
He knocked on the door several times, but no one answered. Peeping through the window, he saw that the tables were covered with dust.
“It is several days since I was last here. Chew must have left. I hope nothing has happened to him.”
He trudged a couple of miles through the deep snow to Plum Blossom Village, bought wine and a chicken, and returned home.
His wife, the soft-hearted Xiruo, was the daughter of a scholar who lived and taught in Plum Blossom Village. She and Yang had been married less than two years. That day she cooked the chicken in a large earthen pot with Chinese cabbage, bean curd, and green-bean noodles, and put out some preserved fish and cured meat to go with it. Then she walked next door to invite the Guos over.
Guo Xiaotian accepted gladly. But his wife was expecting a child and had been unwell for the past few days. She knew she would be sick at the smell of food, and preferred to stay at home. Xiruo had always got along well with her, and the two women chattered for a while, just like sisters. Before leaving, Xiruo made her a pot of tea. When she returned home, her husband and Guo Xiaotian had already set the table, heated the wine and were enjoying their meal.
“Sister-in-law, we’ve started. Come and join us,” said Guo.
Guo and Yang were close friends, and were both members of the free-thinking kungfu fraternity. In country districts such as Ox Village, people did not stand on ceremony. Women often sat at table with their menfolk—unlike their more formal city cousins.
Xiruo gave him a smile in response. She added some charcoal to the stove, then filled a cup of wine and sat beside her husband. She could see that the two men had been having a heated conversation.
“We’ve been talking about the shameful goings-on at Court,” explained her husband.
“Yesterday, I was in the Lucky Rain Teahouse and heard them talking about our rascal of a Prime Minister,” said Guo. “What I heard was all very plausible and convincing. Apparently nowadays every document submitted to the Prime Minister’s office has to state clearly what ‘gift’ comes with it; otherwise, he will not so much as look at it.”
“To know the Emperor,” Yang commented, “observe his Prime Minister; to know the Prime Minister, observe his underlings.”
He went on to tell his own story: “That fellow Huang who lives outside the Bubbling Gold Gate told me that, the other day, when he was chopping wood, he saw a crowd of important-looking people approach, led by Prime Minister Han, with a large escort of guards. He thought they must be sightseeing and paid no attention. Presently the Prime Minister sighed and said: ‘What a wonderful country scene this is, with all these bamboo hedges and cottages. All it needs to complete it is a rooster crowing and a dog barking!’ He’d hardly finished this sentence, when a dog could be heard barking in the grass.”
“Smart dog!” laughed Xiruo.
“Yes, very smart,” concurred Yang. “And shortly afterwards, it came trotting out of the grass. What sort of dog do you think it was? It was our very own pedigree pooch, Prefect Zhao himself!”
Xiruo laughed till she was bent double.
“After his pet performance as a dog, Prefect Zhao can expect instant promotion,” commented Guo.
“Of course!” agreed Yang.
The three of them sat drinking snugly. Outside, the snow was falling more heavily than ever. Suddenly they heard the muffled sound of footsteps coming from along the road east of the house, and then a strange-looking figure came into view—a Taoist priest wearing a long bamboo raincape, which was already white with snow, with a long-sword strapped to his back, its yellow silk hilt-tassel fluttering in the wind. He was gliding swiftly across the snow, as if his feet were not even touching the ground.
“Excellent kungfu!” cried Guo. “What a regular-looking hero! We must think of some way of making this man’s acquaintance!”
“Yes!” agreed Yang. “Why not invite him in for a drink?”
The two of them ran impulsively out into the snow. But by the time they had reached the door, the priest was already a hundred yards away. He was clearly another master of the advanced kungfu of “flying”.
Guo and Yang looked at each other in amazement, then called after him:
“Abbé, won’t you come in and stay a while!”
The priest stopped abruptly, turned and gave a barely perceptible nod.
“It’s so cold outside, and the snow is thick on the ground,” Yang continued. “Won’t you join us for a drink and warm yourself by the fire?”
At first the Taoist seemed to sneer at them. Then with a flash he was at the door.
“What’s going on here?” he snapped. “Come clean!”
“Truly!” protested Yang, finding the priest’s suspicions a little ungracious. “We just saw you out there in the blizzard, and thought you might like to come in and have a drink with us.”
“Just a drink, is it?” the priest almost shouted. “Very well! Here I come!” With a supercilious twitch of the eyebrows, in he strode.
Yang found the priest’s behavior more than eccentric—he thought it downright rude. He reached out his hand and seized him by the left wrist, intending to throw him out into the snow again. The man’s wrist slipped through his fingers like a fish. Yang began to have second thoughts and was about to step aside, when the priest twisted his own hand round and seized Yang’s wrist in turn. He felt an excruciating pain, as if his whole hand had been caught in a vice.
Guo could see that his friend was in trouble, and tried to placate the priest:
“Please be seated, Your Reverence!”
The priest let out a snort and, letting go of Yang’s wrist, walked haughtily to the table.
“You two are obviously Shandong fellows—your accents betray you. And anyway, simple country folk from these parts would hardly know kungfu.”
Yang was not both angry and humiliated. He went into his room, took a dagger from a drawer and concealed it in his gown before returning to the dining table. He filled three cups of wine and emptied one of them himself, all in total silence.
The Taoist priest just sat there, still sneering slightly, and starting out at the snow, neither drinking nor speaking. Guo could tell from his expression that he suspected poison in the wine. So he took the priest’s cup himself and drank it down, saying: “The wine is cold. Allow me to pour you a fresh cup, Your Reverence.”
He filled another cup, and this time the priest drained it dry, saying: “Even if you had put a potion in the drink, it would do me no harm…”
Yang could contain himself no longer.
“Why should we want to do you any harm? If you must insist on being so rude, I must insist on asking you to leave!”
The priest paid him no attention, but instead helped himself from the jug. He downed three cups, then threw his bamboo hat and raincape to the ground. His hosts now had a chance to observe him properly. He was a man in his thirties, with thick beetling brows, a florid complexion, broad features and a piercing gaze. They watched him as he untied a leather bag from his back and emptied its contents onto the table. Dong! Out rolled a gruesome, bloody object. It was a human head!
Yang and Guo started up, and Yang’s wife fled with a cry into the inner room. Yang put his hand to the hilt of his dagger, as the Taoist priest shook the bag again and emptied more of its contents onto the table. This time, out fell a dripping heart and liver, belonging no doubt to the same owner as the head.
“What kind of rogue priest are you?” cried Yang, taking out the dagger and dashing it at the man’s chest.
“Aha! So, finally you show your hand! I knew you for a trooper in disguise!” snorted the priest. He chopped at Yang’s wrist with the edge of his pal, snatching the dagger away from him with ease, and leaving Yang’s hand totally paralyzed.
Guo was shocked. Yang was descended from one of China’s greatest warriors, and his kungfu was of the best. But this strange priest, who could snatch weapons with his bare hands (a legendary kungfu skill, but one Guo had never witnessed with his own eyes), had made Yang seem as helpless as a child. His friend was probably badly hurt. Guo picked up the bench on which he had been sitting, preparing to use it to parry the dagger which was now in the priest’s hand.
But the priest seemed no longer interested. Instead, he began casually slicing the heart and liver into little pieces with Yang’s dagger. Then he gave a terrible roar which shook the roof-tiles, raised his right arm high into the air and chopped through the head with the edge of his palm, causing the plates and bowls to jump on the table. The skull was cleft clean in two; even the table was split straight down the middle.
“You pathetic little mice!” he shouted at his two dumbfounded hosts. “Your Taoist Father is going to kill every one of you!”
At this, Yang flew into an uncontrollable rage. He seized his spear which was leaning in a corner against the wall and dashed out in the snow, crying:
“Come out here with me! I’ll show you a thing or two of Yang Spearcraft!”6
“What could mice like you have to do with kungfu of loyal heroes!” sneered the Taoist priest, following Yang out into the open.
Seeing that a fight was unavoidable, Guo rushed home to fetch his twin halberds. When he came back, the Taoist priest was standing in front of Yang, his sword still in its sheath, his broad sleeves blowing in the strong wind.
“Draw your sword!” cried Yang.
“Bare hands will be enough against mice like you!” retorted the Taoist.
Yang adopted a staring posture, then circled his spear in the move called Venomous Serpent Leaving Its Lair, and tilted at the chest of his opponent. The red tassel on the neck of the spear trembled like a flower in the wind.
“Nice!” The Taoist priest was obviously a little surprised. He swerved leftward to parry this blow and reached out with his left hand to grab the spearhead at the same time.
Yang had worked at his family’s tradition of Spearcraft ever since he was a child. And it was a powerful tradition. Decades earlier, General Yang Zaixing, his great-grandfather, had led three hundred Chinese soldiers against forty thousand Jurchen troops at the battle of Small Shang Bridge. The General, with his own iron spear, had killed more than two thousand of the enemy, including the commander and over a hundred officers of various ranks. The Jurchens had rained their arrows down on him, but he snapped off their stems as they pierced his body, and just kept on fighting. In the end, his horse sank into the bog and he died fighting. Later, when the Jurchens burned his body, they found dozens of iron arrowheads in the cinders. After this fight, the Yang tradition of Spearcraft became famous throughout China, and was greatly revered both by the Jurchens and the Chinese.
Yang Tiexin was not his great-grandfather’s equal, but he too was a fighter with the spear: his dig, thrust, punch, pick-up, parry and block were of the best. His spearhead flashed and the red spear-tassel fluttered brightly against the dazzling snow. But despite the swiftness and agility of his moves, Yang could not so much as graze the robe of the Taoist priest, who dodged and darted and always seemed one move ahead.
After a short time, Yang had gone through all seventy-two moves of the sequence and was growing impatient. He turned around and pretended to leave. As he had expected, the Taoist priest followed him closely. With a mighty cry, Yang suddenly took his spear in both hands, swung round and thrust straight into the face of his enemy with every ounce of force and speed he could muster. This final move was the famous Turn-on-the-Saddle of the Yang tradition. General Yang and his man general-sons had killed countless Jurchen captains on the battlefield with this very move.
“Excellent kungfu!” cried the Taoist priest, surprised by this rapid move. Just as the spear approached his face, he clapped his hands together and clamped the spearhead tightly between them. The spear froze in the air. Yang tried with all his force to pull it back, but this proved futile. The spear was stuck as firmly as if it had been riveted to the side of an iron mountain. Yang flushed crimson and tried three more times to pull his spear back, all in vain.
The Taoist priest gave a laugh and struck the shaft of the spear in the middle with his right hand. Yang felt a searing pain between his thumb and index finger of his right hand, and let the spear fall to the ground.
“You really do know your Yang Spearcraft! My apologies! May I know your name?” said the Taoist priest, smiling.
Yang was still in a state of shock and replied mechanically:
“My name is Yang Tiexin.”
“Was the great General Yang Zaixing your ancestor?” continued the Taoist priest.
“General Yang was my late great-grandfather.” was the answer.
At this, the priest’s face took on an expression of deep respect:
“Accept my humblest apologies. I mistook you for traitors, and have caused you great offence. Please forgive me. I did not know you were descendants of loyal heroes.” He turned to Guo. “May I know your name?”
“I am Guo Xiaotian,” replied Guo.
“His ancestor was Captain Guo Sheng, one of the seventy-two Earth Stars of Mount Liang,” added Yang.
“Please accept my sincere apologies for my rash words,” said the Taoist priest with a bow.
Guo and Yang bowed together in return.
“Say no more,” said Yang when he had retrieved his spear. “Come in, Abbé, and have another drink.”
“Excellent! I should be delighted to have a good drink with you both!” laughed the Taoist priest.
Xiruo had been standing in the doorway watching the fight, worrying for the safety of her husband. She was greatly relieved to see that the three had become friends, and promptly rearranged the table for them.
After settling at the table, Guo and Yang asked the priest his name.
“My name is Qiu Chuji…” He had not finished his sentence when Yang sprang up with a cry.
“You mean to tell us you are the Abbé Juventus?” cried Guo.
“That is indeed my humble name in religion,” the man conceded with a smile.
“What an honour and a blessing, to meet the renowned Father of the Supreme Purity Sect!” exclaimed the two men, sinking to their knees.
The priest raised them up at once, explaining:
“I have killed a man today—a rascal, I hasten to add—and was being chased by some officers of the law when you invited me into drink. Since we are rather close to the capital, and you did not seem like ordinary country folk, my suspicions were aroused.”
“Especially since Brother Yang was so rash as to challenge Your Reverence when you came in,” added Guo.
“No ordinary country man could have had such force in his hand. So I thought you must be agents of the court, lying in wait for me in disguise. I am most embarrassed,” said Juventus.
“No harm done!” smiled Yang. And the three burst out laughing at the same time.
After several rounds of wine, Juventus pointed to the man’s head on the ground, saying:
“That once belonged to a man named Wang Daoqian, an unpardonable traitor. Last year, our Emperor dispatched him to the Jurchen Kingdom on the Tartar king’s birthday, and he plotted against our people, planning to cross the Yangtze River with the Jurchen and invade the South. I trailed him for two weeks before finally finishing him off today.”
There were many tales of kungfu and chivalry surrounding Taoist Abbé Juventus. He was a well-known figure in the Brotherhood of River and Lake, a legendary hero and patriot, and Guo and Yang were fervent admirers of his. They were also glad of this opportunity to learn new kungfu skills from their distinguished guest.
The Yang Spearcraft was a very powerful style of kungfu on the battlefield, but it was less effective in one-to-one combat. Yang had never stood a chance against Juventus, a supreme master both in terms of sheer inner force and of physical technique. Juventus had played with him, deliberately allowing him to demonstrate all seventy-two moves of the Yang Spearcraft, in order to ascertain whether he was truly a descendant of the great General. If he had wished to, he could have sent Yang’s spear flying after the first few moves.
Juventus now explained to Yang that this family style of his had originally been evolved for use on horseback. On the ground, many of the moves needed to be modified. Yang and Guo drank in his words of instruction. At the same time, since the Yang tradition had not been allowed to circulate outside the family, even Juventus knew few of its details, and Yang was happy to explain some of them to him in return.
The three chatted very pleasantly as they drank. Yang then proposed:
“This is really such a great honour for us. Would Your Reverence care to stay with us for a couple of days?”
Juventus’s face suddenly darkened:
“They are after me. You must not show yourselves, no matter what happens.”
The two of them nodded. Juventus promptly picked up the human head from the ground, and left the house, “flying” up into a big tree and hiding in the foliage.
Guo and Yang were puzzled. So far as they could tell, it was deadly quiet, except for the sound of the icy gale blowing through the cracks in the door, which was not closed. But after a while, they were gradually able to distinguish the muffled sound of horses’ hooves on the wind. Yang was impressed:
“The Abbé has extraordinary hearing!” he thought to himself. “In fact, the Abbé’s kungfu is altogether extraordinary,” his thoughts continued. “I wonder how he would compare with Chew the Cripple?”
The hoofbeats approached. A dozen riders in black could be seen galloping through the snowy blast towards Yang’s house.
The first to arrive reined in his horse sharply, crying:
“The footsteps end here! There was a fight at this spot not long ago!”
Several of the others vaulted from their horses to track the footprints in the snow.
“Search inside!” their captain ordered.
Two other men dismounted immediately and began beating on Yang’s door. All of a sudden, a heavy object thudded down from the tree beside the house, catching one of them on the head with enormous force, spilling his brains and laying him dead on the ground. Several of the horsemen cried out and surrounded the tree. One man picked up the missile from the ground and cried in dismay:
“The head of Lord Wang!”
The leader unsheathed his sabre and ordered all his men to encircle the tree. Then he ordered each of his five archers to shoot an arrow up into the tree.
Inside the house, Yang was about to rush out, spear in hand, but Guo stopped him, whispering:
“The Abbé asked us not to show ourselves. We must wait and see if he needs our help.”
Just then, they saw an arrow hurtling back from the tree. It struck one of the riders, sending him rolling dead from his saddle into the snow-covered grass. Clearly Juventus had dodged four out of the five arrows, and caught the last one to use as a missile himself.
Juventus then jumped down with his sword unsheathed and dispatched two more riders in a flash.
“It’s him! It’s the Taoist rogue!” their leader shouted.
He let loose three short arrows at Juventus, then galloped towards him with his long sabre raised. However, before he could get close, two more of his men were unseated from their horses.
Yang was watching in awestruck silence, thinking to himself:
“The Abbé’s sword moves so quickly, it is impossible to tell one stroke from the next! How could anyone hope to parry him? I have been training for over ten years, but I would certainly have been killed had the Abbé not chosen to spare me!”
Moving like the wind, Juventus now darted at the captain who was still in his saddle. The man was a good fighter, and wielded his long sabre ferociously. But the two onlookers inside the house had by now realised that Juventus was intentionally prolonging his fight with the captain, in order to be able to kill all the horsemen one by one, either with his fists or with his sword, whenever he got a chance. He knew that if he were to kill the captain at once, his men might escape and scatter in all directions. It would then become more difficult to catch them all.
After a quarter of an hour, only six of seven horsemen were still alive. Their captain now realised that he had no chance, spurred his mount around, and fled at full speed. As he did so, Juventus reached out with his left hand, grabbed the horse’s tail and leapt up onto the horse’s back, thrusting his sword deep into the captain’s the body down, Juventus then gave chase, galloping after the rest of them and killing them all. Horseshoes thudded in the snow, his sword flashed. It was all over in a matter of minutes, and the white ground was spattered with fresh blood.
Seeing his enemy annihilated and riderless horses bolting wildly in every direction, Juventus laughed aloud, brandishing his sword and crying out to the two men inside:
“Did you enjoy the killing?”
They opened the door and came out, still shocked by the bloody fight.
“Who were these men, Abbé?” asked Guo.
“See for yourself. Go and search them,” replied Juventus.
Guo went to the captain first and found an official document in his clothes, a secret decree issued by Prefect Zhao of Lin-an, the Prime Minister’s “pedigree pooch”. It stated that a Jurchen envoy, who was now in Lin-an Prefecture, was demanding that the murderer of Wang Daoqian should be apprehended urgently. So Prefect Zhao had dispatched his own runners to catch the murderer, with a Jurchen escort. Reading this document, Guo flew into a rage. Yang meanwhile was searching the other bodies, and cried loudly when he found several identification tablets, written in Jurchen script. It was clear there there were Jurchen officials among the men.
“These Tartars think they can arrest our people and kill them at will! They roam freely within our territory, and our emperor bows and scrapes to them!” cried Guo in anger. “What is the world coming to!”
“Since our emperor is their subject, so naturally all of our officials are their subjects too,” sighed Yang.
“It is the duty of my calling as a priest to show compassion to all living souls. But when I see a traitor or a Jurchen,” added Juventus bitterly, “I cannot suppress my impulse to kill!”
“You were right to kill them!” said Guo and Yang with one voice.
There were few inhabitants in that small village, and no one wanted to go out of doors in that snowy blast. If anyone had set eyes on the fight, he would certainly have rushed home, bolted his door tight, and not dared to inquire about what he had seen. Yang fetched spades from home and the three of them buried all the bodies in a pit.
Xiruo also fetched a broom to sweep away the blood stains left on the snow. The reek of the blood suddenly brought on a surge of nausea. A sensation of dizziness swept her off her feet and she fell to the ground. Her husband rushed to her side in alarm, held her in his arms and enquired tenderly: “Are you all right?”
But she just kept her eyes closed and gave no reply. Seeing her ashen face and feeling her ice-cold limbs, her husband was suddenly panic-stricken.
Juventus came over and took Xiruo’s wrist. He felt her pulse.
“Congratulations!” he laughed. “Congratulations!”
“What?” asked the bewildered Yang.
By this time Xiruo had come round. Finding herself surrounded by three men, she blushed and hurried back into the house.
“Congratulations! Your wife is expecting a child!” announced Juventus gladly.
“Really?” asked Yang, who was thrilled to hear this.
“Of all the things I’ve learnt in my life, there are only three arts that have brought me any comfort. The first is medicine. You know, as a Taoist, I’m supposed to master the art of alchemy. Well, I failed to make the pill of immortality, but I did learn some medicine in the process. The second art is verse composition, although my poems are not really any good. The Martial Arts only come third. I’m just a lame kungfu cat.”
“If the Abbé is a lame cat,” said Guo Xiaotian jokingly, “then we two brothers must be maimed mice!”
They joked to each as they buried the dead bodies. After that, they went back inside and started drinking again. Juventus was glad to have killed quite a number of Jurchens that evening, and was in an expansive mood.
The thought of his wife being with child kept Yang Tiexin grinning from ear to ear. Since Abbé Juventus had admitted that he could compose poems, thought Yang to himself, he must know as much about matters literary as he did about kungfu. So thinking, Yang requested of him:
“Since both my wife and my friend Guo’s wife are expecting children, would Your Reverence do us the honor of naming the two unborn children for us?”
Juventus pondered for a short while and said:
“Let’s call Brother Guo’s child Jing and Brother Yang’s, Kang. Whether they turn out to be boys or girls, these names will suit.”
“Good! Your Reverence hopes they will never forget the disgrace of the second year of Jing-kang, and never forget the shame inflicted on our two emperors!”
“Exactly!” answered Juventus. He reached inside his gown, extracted two short swords, and put them onto the table. They were identical in shape and length. Both had a gold-inlaid ebony hilt and a green leather scabbard. The Taoist priest then began to inscribe the characters “Guo Jing” and “Yang Kang” onto the hilts of the two weapons, using Yang’s dagger. Although it was a hard surface and he was working with a dagger, he wrote faster then an ordinary man with a brush. By the time they had figured out what he was actually doing, he had already finished.
“I have nothing but this pair of short swords to give to the babies,” he said, handing the man the swords with a smile.
Guo and Yang accepted the gifts with gratitude. They drew the swords from their sheaths: the blades were extremely sharp and shone with a cold, sinister aura.
“I acquired this pair of swords by chance,” said the priest. “Although the blades are sharp, they are too short for me. But they will be good for your children to defend themselves with. Should I still be alive ten years from today, I promise to visit you again and give the children some training in the Martial Arts. What do you say?”
Both Guo and Yang were overwhelmed with joy and expressed their profuse thanks to the Taoist priest.
“Our northern lands may be occupied by the Jurchens, but their rule cannot last long. They abuse the people too severely. You two will have your part to play when the time comes!”
So saying, Juventus raised his cup and drained it in one gulp, then opened the door to leave. Before they could ask him to stay, he had already stridden far away into the snow, and was lost to sight.
“These great masters come and go like the wind. How lucky we were to meet him today! If only we could have learned more from him!” sighed Guo.
“Brother, we should be content. The Abbé Juventus had a fine fight today, and gave us some satisfaction,” said Yang as he drew out one of the short swords and studied the blade with his fingers.
He suddenly thought of something:
“Brother, I’ve had an idea. I wonder what you will think of it.”
“What is it?” asked Guo.
“If both of our children are boys, we should make them brothers. If they’re both girls, let’s let them be sisters.”
“And if they’re a boy and a girl, we’ll marry them!” said Guo, completing the sentence for Yang.
The two brothers clasped hands and laughed heartily.
“What’s making you two so happy?” asked Xiruo with a smile as she came out from the inner room. Her husband told her what they had just decided. Upon hearing this, her face reddened. But she also liked the idea very much.
“Let’s exchange the swords now as betrothal pledges. Should they be brothers or sisters, we’ll exchange them again. But if they’re to be married…”
“Then I’ll be obliged to keep both swords—as the groom’s father! Sorry about that!” joked Guo.
“Maybe we’ll keep them both,” returned Xiruo agreeably.
So the brothers exchanged the swords. At that time, this sort of engagement was a very common practice, and many children were betrothed to each other by their parents before their birth.
Guo went home in high spirits with the short sword inscribed “Yang Kang” on the hilt. When he told his wife of the betrothal agreement, she too was delighted.
Notes
- Using numbers as names was a widespread custom in old China, as in “Third Maid” or “Zhang Fifteen”. The number represents the order in one generation of an extended family on the father’s side: that is to say, all paternal cousins were counted. That is why sometimes the number can be over twenty, or even over thirty. Such “number-names” were not necessarily a person’s only name and they could never replace formal names, but they were widely used between either close friends or strangers.
- Fifteen and Yang are here recalling the humiliating and traumatic events of the second quarter of the twelfth century (sixty years previously), when the Jurchen Tartars (ancestors of the Manchus) invaded the North of China, taking the old Northern capital of Bian-liang (in 1126) and establishing their own kingdom (and dynasty, which they named Jin, or the Golden Dynasty), with its capital at Yan-jing (on the site of today’s Peking). The aesthete Emperor Hui and his Court, more than three thousand prisoners in all, were led into captivity, beyond Mukden in the far North-East. The Great Commander, Yue Fei, in addition to being a national hero, was revered in later years as a Shaolin kungfu master, and as founder of the Eagle Claw style of fighting.
- Lin-an City, more commonly known as Hangzhou, was the Quinsay of Marco Polo, the scenic (and pleasure-loving) “temporary” capital of the Southern Song. “It is the greatest city which may be found in the world,” wrote Polo, “where so many pleasures may be found that one fancies oneself to be in Paradise.” West Lake is still a poetic place, even today. Marco Polo again: “Truly a trip on this Lake is a much more charming recreation than can be enjoyed on land. It is never without a number of boats, laden with pleasure parties; for it is a great delight of the citizens here, after they have disposed of the day’s business, to pass the afternoon in enjoyment with the ladies of their families, or perhaps with others less reputable.”
- The kungfu of “flying” in which Lame Chew excelled is a semi-legendary levitational branch of traditional Martial Arts, much in evidence in kungfu movies.
- The Outlaws of Mount Liang are the heroes of the great Sage All Men Are Brothers, ancestor of all subsequent Martial Arts novels. River and Lake was the expression for the whole underground culture of traditional China, with its own code of conduct, its concept of honour, its own language, its own hierarchy. Once individuals realised that they belonged to it, there was a tacit understanding and bond between them. This Chinese outlaw fraternity travelled about largely by water (river, lake, canal), hence the name. Their British counterparts were “gentlemen of the road”; in the Australian “bush”, bushrangers shared the camaraderie of country. In each case the place, the terrain, connotes a shared way of life, one outside the mainstream.
- What Yang refers to as Spearcraft is the whole series of techniques (fa) or spear-play handed down through the generations of his family. The technique of craft of kungfu consists in the forms of fighting; the successful practice of the craft depends on the practitioner’s level of skill or “force” (gong, or kung as it used to be spelt, as in the word kungfu).