A Lone Wisp of Smoke Rising

Treading Snow

1

Vast and desolate grasslands. Undulating hills stretching unbroken in the distance, the dark red wheel of the setting sun hanging over the end of the Sangda River. The meandering surface of the water suffused with a golden shimmer, contrasting with the magnificent rosy evening clouds on the horizon.

Amidst the rosy evening clouds, a wisp of singing drifting about, accompanied by a matouqin,¹ chanting a remote, disconsolate melody:

The halcyon green grasslands are the white sheep’s home.
The fountainhead of the Sangda River, where the powerful eagle spreads its wings.
The distant chimney smoke, the place where horses gallop toward.
The rosy clouds of dawn high in the sky, that’s my hometown…

“Old Wei, don’t always sing that; today is a happy day, sing something else,” Suhe Balu said to the to old man sitting cross-legged playing the zither behind him. He ordered the troops to make fires and barbeque meat. Today really was a great day; they should sing a song of celebration! He looked satisfyingly at the loot loaded onto the horses, plundered from the Han settlement, at the same time admiring the Han girl huddled up by herself, crying. Meat, wine, women. Such a life, what more could one ask for?

“Alright, Ferocious Tiger of the Grasslands, as you wish.” Old Wei adjusted his matouqin and opened his mouth to sing. No sound came out, however. He stared blankly into the distance.

Following Old Wei’s line of sight, Suhe Balu saw a person on horseback galloping toward them at full speed. Red horse, red man, bloodcolored clothing rising in the wind, racing directly out of the midst of the setting sun like an arrow. “Who is that?” The person’s clothing suggested a Han person rather than his own people.

The multitude of bandits stopped what they were doing, watching the rider approach closer and closer.

“That’s…” Old Wei, as if lost in thought, squinted into the distance, the lines at the corners of his eyes forming deep fish tails. He mumbled, “A Han constable.”

2

“I’ve come for her.” The young constable pointed to the cowering, sobbing girl.

The woman raised her head in shock, her hair already a mess. Her eyes, swollen from crying, were needless to say a wreck as well, within an expression of hopeless despair giving way suddenly to a flash of hope, blazing at the constable.

“Oh?” Suhe Balu assumed a stout posture, sized the constable up with his eyes, his men behind him glaring ferociously. “Who are you?”

“I’m the constable of Three Sophora Town, Gu Zhaolu.” He was about thirty years old, dressed in red, carrying a sword, a black belt around his waist. He wore a black hat, the ordinary constable garb. He looked like he hadn’t passed twenty years.

“Ha!” Suhe Balu threw his head back and laughed, his men joining in, roaring with laughter. “The entire Han army couldn’t handle us, yet one single constable dares to come and provoke us Ferocious Tigers of the Grasslands?”

Gu Zhaolu cocked his eyebrows and sneered, “You all harass the border, but that’s not my jurisdiction. We have troops to take care of that. But right now that woman is both a victim and a witness. I must bring her back.”

“Hmph! What do your Han laws have to do with us?” Suhe Balu chuckled and sized up the constable: he cast a thin and weak stature, with delicate and pretty features like a woman. Han people! Including men, all were weak and frail. He shook his head and said, rather arrogantly, “She’s part of my plundering booty. According to Mongolian custom, if you have the ability, come and take her.” His Chinese was lousy, so it took a moment for Gu Zhaolu to understand.

He asked, “By what method?” He couldn’t help but grasp the grip of his sword.

Suhe Balu laughed, untied his sabre and tossed it to his men, then slipped out of his upper garment and tied it around his waist, exposing his strong chest. All around, his men saw his demeanor and cheered him on, forming a circle at the edge of the campfire, enclosing the two men within. They hooted and called out loudly. Gu Zhaolu’s eyes swept across the crowd, his brows wrinkled, unsure of Suhe Balu’s intentions.

Old Wei came forward to explain. “This is bökh, a kind of wrestling.² According to Mongolian custom, if you demand something, and the other party doesn’t consent, you can have a bökh competition to settle the matter.” His voice was husky, his Chinese actually rather good.

Gu Zhaolu nodded and likewise took off his sword and put it to the side. The campfire light projecting off his red clothing cast a deep black shadow. He concentrated, raising his qi, and stood by the fire, his right hand stretched out before him, waiting for his opponent to attack.

The woman stopped crying, her heart caught in her throat.

3

Suhe Balu gave a loud shout and took two quick steps forward, wheeling his arms powerfully in a circle, and advanced on Gu Zhaolu. The crowd of bandits at once whooped up and called out in mighty voices. Gu Zhaolu leaned to the side to let Suhe Balu pass, and gave a light push outward with his right hand, warding off the attack. Suhe Balu seemed rough and rash, but he was very nimble, his arms turning over and coming down on Gu Zhaolu’s shoulders, grasping them tightly and vigorously twisting to one side, a Mongolian wrestling move. This kind of rough hand movement Gu Zhaolu had never encountered before and it surprised him, but he controlled his breath and turned his arm to resist the blow.

The two men grappled by the campfire. Suhe Balu set himself, taking up a firm, stable stance. Gu Zhaolu, though was a light and graceful Central Plains martial artist, warding off blows without using much power, lightly hopping out of the way to escape and attack, very refined and graceful. The two men’s methods were not at all the same, the differences in style making for a fresh kind of match. The crowd spared no effort in hooting and hollering.

The two men were deadlocked. Gu Zhaolu was watching for an opportunity, feinting, suggesting left then attacking right, accomplishing much with little use of force. With a thump, Suhe Balu toppled over by the fire, the flames licking out and singeing his hair and giving off a burning odor.

“The Han man cheated!” several of the bandits shouted.

“Do you submit?” Gu Zhaolu twisted tightly Suhe Balu’s arms.

“No!” Suhe Balu said, facing the dirt and struggling fiercely to turn and look up at his opponent.

Gu Zhaolu loosened his grip. Suhe Balu rolled away and jumped up, shouting. “The Han man is cunning! Again!” The words were barely out of his mouth before he charged Gu Zhaolu again. He had always been skilled at bökh. Plus, he was burly and proud of it. He had lost face by losing in front of his own men, so he couldn’t help being furious.

The two men once again grappled. After several rounds, Suhe Balu was again thrown to the ground. Red eyes, his whole face excited, he didn’t wait for Gu Zhaolu to open his mouth, instead cutting in with “I don’t submit! Again!”

Gu Zhaolu didn’t object. He released Suhe Balu and the two men again fought. After two rounds, Gu Zhaolu was getting the hang of Mongolian wrestling, and it wasn’t but a few more rounds before Suhe Balu once again was thrown to the ground.

“Do you submit?” Suhe Balu lay on the ground panting heavily, but he grinned and laughed and sprang to his feet.

“Great form. Today I was defeated by your hand. My ‘Ferocious Tiger of the Grasslands’ sobriquet need never be used again!” He pointed at the girl. “The woman, she’s yours!”

The woman’s heart jumped suddenly. Gu Zhaolu went over and untied her. When her hands were free her heart was free also. Tears rolled down her face, but her throat suddenly constricted and she had no words.

4

Roasted meat, good wine, matouqin.

Old Wei sang in his old, hoarse manner, echoing throughout the vast and peaceful grasslands. Cow dung crackled in the bonfire, the flickering flames lighting up the shiny dark faces of the bandits gathered around.

“To travel so far for just one unimportant case—if all Han people were like you, we wouldn’t dare steal from you.” Suhe Balu was already half drunk. He threw back his head and laughed and passed the wineskin to Gu Zhaolu. “You guys’ kungfu is really weird. If your men were all like you, we would definitely not dare to take your women.”

Gu Zhaolu smiled faintly and declined Suhe Balu’s wineskin. “I don’t drink.”

“You’re no fun!” Suhe Balu took back the wineskin and took a big drink. “I respected you, took you for a man… Turns out you don’t drink!”

“Actually, just finding the woman is unusually lucky.” Gu Zhaolu sighed and poked the fire with a stick. “This case seems small, but it involves the grand preceptor… Going back won’t be easy either.”

The sound of the matouqin paused imperceptibly before continuing on.

“You Han people are more troublesome than women! Even an obvious, simple matter you have to go and make all complicated!” Suhe Balu grabbed a leg of mutton and gnawed at it, chewing as he spoke. “We’ve all heard about your treacherous grand preceptor. Put that kind of villain on the grasslands, one hack of the blade will decide it. No need for it to be so troublesome. These past ten years, what have you constables done? It’s not as good as banditry.”

Gu Zhaolu shook his head. “Have you heard about Wei Yang, who caught criminals ten years ago in the Central Plains?” He stared into the flickering flames and chuckled, the corners of his mouth turned up as he recalled the past. “When I was young he was my role model.”

“Ha!” Suhe Balu laughed. “Stealth Sword” Wei Yang, Criminal Nabber of the Central Plains, solver of countless cases. Just give the case to him and, whether bandit chieftain or high official, he dealt with them all the same, impartially, and using irrefutable evidence. Even Mongolians held him in high esteem. He clapped Gu Zhaolu on the shoulder. “I also admired him, but he’s been dead ten years, and all because of the grand preceptor!”

Gu Zhaolu was silent. He raised his head and looked out into the night sky, and said softly, “I would rather believe he’s not dead.”

The matouqin struck up as before, and the hoarse old voice again sang that old ballad, “The rosy clouds of dawn high in the sky, that’s my hometown…”

The twinkling stars in the night sky, deep and profound, enveloped the grasslands.

5

The sound of horse hooves, red clothes fluttering in the wind, Yanmen Pass before his eyes. Through the pass, and then into the rich and populous, tranquil land of the Han, that magnificent, vast expanse of rivers and mountains… Land of that old, dictatorial, shifty grand preceptor.

Gu Zhaolu glanced back at the horse behind him, the woman doing her best to keep her grip on the saddle. Looked like she was having a hard time of it. He slowed his horse to a walk for a time; once they were through the pass, there would be no hurry.

The Three Sophora Town case, wherein the people were killed and the woman kidnapped, had already been under investigation for a long time. The details of the case were quite clear. It was only because the culprit was the grand preceptor’s grandnephew that the judge turned it around and falsely accused the woman and sent her into exile to the border region. The case was settled, however an official in the capital wouldn’t let it go, and used the case as a pretext for toppling the grand preceptor. Gu Zhaolu, as constable for Three Sophora Town, was sent to the border area to retrieve the girl, but he unexpectedly encountered some mishap—maybe it was no accident—the victim was kidnapped by bandits.

Gu Zhaolu was lost in thought when he suddenly heard the whistling of arrows coming from the forest. He didn’t have time to think, he just jumped up and flipped over, the arrows soaring past beneath him, just grazing the saddle. Gu Zhaolu unsheathed his sword and hacked down the arrows heading for the girl, and with his left hand lifted her from the saddle, using his remaining energy to roll over and dropped to the ground. The second wave of arrows came. The horse brayed as they hit, sending it toppling to the ground, kicking up a burst of dust. Gu Zhaolu pulled the woman behind the dead horse. The woman began to shake, unable to hide her fear.

“You hide here and don’t come out. I’ll be back.” Gu Zhaolu used the dust kicked up when the horse fell as cover as he jumped to his feet. As fast as a meteor he sprang into the forest, from the spot where the arrows had shot out from earlier.

The woman hid behind the horse as instructed, scared stiff, only able to curl up tight in a ball on the ground, her face pressed to the ground, her hands shaking uncontrollably. From the forest came a shout, then the sound of swords clashing, a scream of pain, a person cursing, and withered branch stepped on and broken… The woman could only press herself firmly to the ground, not able to tell which sounds came from Gu Zhaolu, not knowing when this horrible torture would be over.

Everything was suddenly deathly quiet.

From the forest came a light sound of footsteps heading her way. The woman didn’t dare raise her head to look, only cowered, her hands white-knuckled around the reins, shaking incessantly.

“Shit, that little constable almost killed all of us, all for that damn bitch!” The sound of the man cursing was coming from just above her. The “shing” of a weapon drawn from its scabbard filled the air with a sharp whistle, and without hesitating came down with a chop.

The woman felt giddy, and she unexpectedly felt the weight on her heart lift. Death! She was finally going to die! Blood thundered in her ears, a feeling like it was all unreal.

The light sound of a matouqin, as if it were coming from a long way away, desolate and helpless.

The woman let out a sharp breath, blowing up a puff of dust from the ground… Was it possible that…she was still alive? She opened her eyes and raised her head.

Old Wei sat beside the dead horse playing his matouqin. Several black-clothed corpses lay nearby. “The assassins are all dead, you can go.” Old Wei nodded at the woman. “When you enter the pass, don’t forget to tell the local authorities that the constable of Three Sophora Town Gu Zhaolu died in the line of duty at Yanmen Pass… Also, Constable Wei Yang died in the line of duty as well…at Yanmen Pass.” The woman was shocked when she saw Old Wei’s chest—a long sword pierced through, the hilt sticking out of his chest.

Old Wei acted as if he were fine, tuning his matouqin. He pointed in the direction of Yanmen Pass and said mildly, “Go. The path home is that way.”

She looked where he pointed. The view was deep and vast, and she heard the matouqin, accompanied by that familiar tune, “The rosy clouds of dawn high in the sky, that’s my hometown…”

Behind her the sun was setting over the vast expanse of grassland.

A lone wisp of smoke rising……

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Originally published, along with other short stories on this site, such as Flickering Flame, A Walk in the Rain, and Whirling Snow, in an issue of the Chinese wuxia magazine 《今古传奇·武侠版》 (Legends Old and New: Wuxia Edition).

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