Lee Ayi reveals a disturbing secret, and Darius is pushed to demonstrate his abilities.

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

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Training Ground

When the clothes were stacked in a hamper and the lines had been taken down, Lee Ayi said, “Wait here.” She disappeared into the house and returned with a wooden training dao that I had not known existed, as well as my own spear.

I froze, remembering my father’s ruthless training. What was this? Like brother, like sister? The blood rushed to my head, and my face turned hot. I was not that little boy anymore, and even my father had stopped abusing me eventually. My entire body tensed. In that moment, I could hear the cowbells as the animals grazed in the far field. I smelled the faint, sweet musk of the safflowers, and could feel my own heartbeat in the wound on my shoulder.

Lee Ayi handed me the weapons. “Yong trained you, yes?”

I stood mute, one weapon hanging limply in each hand.

“You don’t have to answer. I can see it in every step you take. Even the way you work. Your balance, poise and economy of motion. The subtle flourishes you add when sweeping the floor. The way you shift your weight. Well, my father trained me as well, though not as thoroughly as Yong.”

I swallowed. “Okay, so?” The words came out dry and hoarse.

She waved to the circle of clear earth where the clotheslines had hung. “This is my training ground. I need to practice.” She clenched a fist, a gesture so unlike her that I shifted my weight to the back foot. “It’s part of me,” she continued. “It’s in my blood. But Husband does not approve of martial arts, nor any form of violence. So every Friday I wait until he goes to Jum’ah and I practice alone. This is my secret. Maybe the farmworkers see but they mind their own business. But you are here now. Will you keep my secret?”

“And what do you need me to do?”

“What?” She shook her head. “Nothing. Just keep my secret. Will you do that?”

A Negotiation

“What is the real reason Ma Shushu did not take me to town?”

Lee Ayi tipped her head back, regarding me. A slow smile appeared. “You’re a negotiator, eh? My brother taught you many things.” The smile vanished, replaced by a serious expression. “Can we just say that he wants your shoulder to heal, and leave it at that?”

“Is that the truth?”

“Part of it.”

Lee Ayi looked down, spotted a small stone that had found its way into her training space, picked it up and chucked it. Then she stood straight and looked me in the eye. “Your Ma Shushu does not want the Shahs to know you exist.”

I frowned. I didn’t know what answer I had expected, but this wasn’t it. “Why?”

“Nur was Shah Zheng’s only daughter. He married three wives, but he apparently lost his fertility and could not sire another child. He is an old man now, and you, as his grandson, are his only surviving descendant. You are thus heir to the family fortune. But Zheng has a younger brother, Osman. He now runs the family business in all but name. He is a ruthless, unprincipled man. Husband is afraid that if Osman knew about you, he would kill you.”

The thought that my mother’s family, instead of being happy to know me, might want to kill me, made me feel empty inside. I walked to the washing basin and sat on the stone rim, putting my chin in my hand.

“I’m sorry,” Lee Ayi said. When I did not reply, she said, “And my secret?”

I waved to her to go ahead and practice.

A Single Step

She began with empty hands, and at first I barely watched.

My thoughts were still tangled in what she had told me about the Shahs, about my mother’s family and the danger attached to my very existence. I sat on the stone rim of the washing basin, my chin in my hand, staring at nothing in particular while Lee Ayi stepped into the cleared circle of earth.

Her movements were confident enough, practiced, familiar. She knew the basic Five Animals stances, strikes and forms. Tiger, Crane, Snake, Praying Mantis, Dragon. The transitions were there, but sometimes incomplete. One time she flowed from one posture into the next and forgot the intervening strike entirely, leaving a small emptiness in the form that my eye snagged on instinctively. Her stances were serviceable but shallow, her steps sometimes too short, as if she were reluctant to fully commit her weight.

I watched without comment.

When she stretched a hand and requested the wooden dao, and I tossed it to her, something changed. Her posture straightened. She turned her hips fully into the cuts, using her whole body rather than her arms alone. The blade whistled softly as it passed through the air. She was not elegant, and her repertoire was limited. But she was effective. There was intention behind every strike.

With the spear, however, she struggled. Her grip was too far down toward the end, and her hands did not slide smoothly enough on the wood as she changed grips. She overextended on slashes and used her muscles to slow the spear down at the end of the movement, rather than using her body to bounce it back or whip it around, which resulted in slow recoveries. A couple of times I winced involuntarily. My father would have beaten me if I’d done that.

When she finished, she stood in the middle of the circle, hands on her thighs, breathing hard. Sweat darkened the collar of her tunic and ran down her temples.

“Well?” she asked. “What do you think?”

I gave a half shrug. “You’re strong. And fit.”

She gave me a sharp look. “That’s not an answer.”

“You’re pretty good with the dao.”

“And the rest?”

I threw up my hands and blurted, “Why are you asking me? I’m just a kid.”

She snorted. “You are that. But you know more than you reveal.” She wiped her face with her sleeve and regarded me steadily. “Show me something of your own.”

I felt my shoulder throb in warning. “What do you mean?”

“Something small,” she said. “One form. Slowly. We can’t risk you opening that cut.”

I should have refused. Every lesson my father had drilled into me screamed that this was a mistake. We kept our skills secret, we did not show them off. But something in her gaze held me there, not challenging, not pleading, simply certain. And anyway, she was family.

I stepped into the circle.

Dragon Surveys His Domain

The earth felt different beneath my feet, packed and bare. I took one wide step forward and dropped into a deep stance, sweeping my hands down to one hip, then drawing them up in a wide arc. The movement finished with my hands snapping back into a tight guard, balanced and ready.

I straightened and saluted, one fist against an open palm. The hand of war and the hand of peace.

“Dragon surveys his domain,” I said.

Lee Ayi stared at me. Her face had gone very still. “You are highly trained.”

I did not answer.

She extended the dao, handle toward me. I pursed my lips and grimaced. “You know I’m injured.”

“Your left shoulder is injured. Use your right hand.”

My nostrils widened as I inhaled deeply, then let it out. “Why?”

“I want to see.” Her tone was deadly serious.

I swallowed. “Only a little.” I took the dao and twirled it easily in my hand, closing my eyes, warming up my muscles.

I saluted with the dao, raising it above my forehead and parallel to the ground, then stepped slowly to my left, bringing the dao up in a number one roof block that flowed into a slash to the neck of an imaginary enemy. I continued with this slow motion dance, reaching around with my hand and pulling, slashing, then spinning away into a thrust that was only a feint that turned into another slash.

I stopped and faced Lee Ayi. “Crane circles the hill.”

She regarded me solemnly. “You killed two men.”

Shock widened my eyes as I remembered the two robbers I’d killed and buried in the peanut field. But how could she know? My brain raced, then I realized – feeling like an utter fool – that she meant the movement I had just done. It was a form, a prearranged sequence in which I killed two imaginary opponents.

“Yes.”

She gestured. “More.”

I twisted my mouth to one side. “Why?”

“My father taught me that sequence, but I forgot it. I want to see more.”

River Flow

I let out a breath that was almost a sigh. Then I took a long diagonal shuffle step one way then the other, attacking with a series of slashes from different angles as my feet danced lightly across the dirt.

As I moved, I fell into River Flow. There were no more cowbells, no afternoon sun heating my face. No Lee Ayi, even. Without plan or awareness, my movements sped up. I leaped up and came over the top with a thrust, but it was a feint that pivoted into a cutting diagonal slash at the last instant. My body had missed this. I was a flame of fire, my movements too fast for an untrained eye to follow. The dao was a part of me. Anything I could envision, I could do.

Many mediocre fighters fought with nothing but the blade, but I was better trained than that, and I threw kicks that snapped out and back, punches that made my wounded shoulder ache, and hits with the pommel of the sword that flowed into elbow strikes that flowed into short-range slashes and thrusts. Never was I out of balance, never did I hesitate or falter.

The dao was a shadow that darted behind my back and around my head, surged high and dropped low, and struck from unexpected angles. In River Flow my parents were not dead, and Far Away was not lost. There was only the movement and my imaginary enemies, and I was in harmony with them. When they pushed forward I slipped to the side to let them pass. When the enemy charged I parried and let him run into the point of my sword. When he slashed I side stepped and matched his slash, cutting along the length of his arm. There was no opposition, no clash. My father had repeated this many times: “The enemy tells you how to kill him.”

I forgot that my aunt was there. My movements became more dramatic. I moved as I used to in my solitary practice sessions, after my father had gone. At one point I did a forward somersault in the air, coming down with a vertical slash, which reversed into an upward slash intended to catch the enemy’s hand. These were movements my father could no longer perform himself, but had coached me through, and some were movements I myself had invented when I practiced alone, after he had gone.

I stopped when the pain in my shoulder reminded me where I was. I stood in the circle, breathing deeply but comfortably. I did not know how much time had passed. Perhaps enough to lower a bucket into the well twice and pull it back up.

Turning, I saw Lee Ayi’s face. She looked stricken. I knew immediately I had done the wrong thing. Stepping forward, I bowed deeply and offered her the sword with both hands, the edge facing me.

Not Gentle

She snatched the dao out of my hands. Her face was pale, her jaw tight. “You shame me.”

I looked away, my gaze alighting on the tall elms that sheltered the house. “That was not my intention.”

“I know.” She exhaled once, sharply. “I have never witnessed such skill. Not even from Cai Lee, and he was a grandmaster. How did you learn that?”

I met her eyes. My gaze was uncompromising. “My father trained me from the time I could walk. He was not gentle.”

“Fathers are sometimes not gentle. That doesn’t mean they -”

“Haven’t you seen my scars?” I nearly shouted. My nostrils flared as I yanked my sleeves up, showing her the many scars on my arms, from cuts my father had given me with the spear, the wooden dao and even the live dao. Some were pale and faded, while others were pink and raised.

She blinked. “I thought from the rough peanut vines, or the hoe.”

I pulled my shirt up and threw it on the ground. “And these?” My stomach and chest also bore long scars.

Her anger was gone, replaced by dismay. “Yong did that?”

“I told you. He was not gentle.”

Her lower lip trembled, and a pair of tears rolled down her dusty cheeks, leaving clean tracks. “I’m sorry.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

“Your cut has reopened.”

I looked at my shoulder and indeed she was right. The bandage was stained deep red.

Gently, my aunt took my hand, led me into the house, washed my wound and re-bandaged it.

“You rest,” she said. “I will finish today’s housework. Don’t tell Husband about what we did today. Or about your wound.” She began to leave, then turned and said, “I’m sorry.”

When she was gone I lay in my bed, wishing that Far Away was here to cuddle up next to me and purr. I knew I had hurt Lee Ayi in more ways than one. I felt like my past was a heavy chain around my neck. It would always be there. I would never be free.

Moon Cake

In the late afternoon a man came to the house on horseback. He was perhaps thirty, dressed in a merchant’s jacket with brass buttons. His face was pale and slick with sweat. Lee Ayi ushered him into Ma Shushu’s treatment room and had him lie on the padded table and wait.

Ma Shushu and Haaris returned not long after. Haaris said he had a surprise for me and handed me a small box. Opening it, I found a round pastry of some kind.

“What is it?”

Haaris gaped. “You never had a moon cake? It’s filled with sweet bean paste and nuts.”

I wasn’t in the mood for Haaris’s unsullied, childish enthusiasm. I thanked him, deposited the moon cake in the pantry, and went back into the bedroom to lie down. This was not to be, however, as Ma Shushu popped his head into the room and asked me to come to the treatment room.

I found Haaris there as well. Ma Shushu was tending to the merchant. He had long, very thin needles that he heated in a candle flame, then inserted with quick, steady hands into the man’s scalp, neck and the backs of his hands.

The man on the table had his eyes squeezed shut. “My head,” he muttered. “Like a drum being beaten from the inside.”

Ma Shushu glanced up at me. “How was work today?”

“It was fine, sir,” I said, tucking my chin into my chest, feeling the weight of secrets bearing down on me. “How was Jum’ah?”

“Good, alhamdulillah. The masjid was full.”

“I have never been to a masjid, or a Jum’ah. I would like to go.” I waited to see how he would respond.

“Oh. Well. Let’s focus our attention on the patient for now. Darius, what I do is called acupuncture. It is an ancient method of healing. You may watch, but you must remain silent.”

I retreated a few steps, put my back to the wall, and watched. How strange this household was. My father had been a dangerous, half-broken man who abused me, drank, stole, and gambled away what little money he had. But he had never lied to me about anything. I was quite sure of that. Yet here in this beautiful, wealthy household, populated with kind and talented people, everyone lied. They lied to me and to each other, and I lied to them.

Did that mean that I was becoming less like my father, and more like these people? I was very confused.

“Darius, are you paying attention?” I heat the needles first to make sure they do not poison the blood.”

I refocused my attention. For good or ill, this life was my future. I must learn, work hard and do my best to fit in.

“Yes, Ma Shushu.”

* * *

Come back next week for Part 7 – Refugees At The Door

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See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

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Zaid Karim, Private Investigator, Part 1 – Temptation

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