He pointed down. "Sand the floor. Make motions like this," and he swept his arms around in two semicircles. "You understand?"

"Well... yes, I understand the motions. But..."

"No but. No question," he said sternly. "Show me sand-the-floor."

"But... it's a dirt floor," I pointed out.

"No matter."

"Master, I'm not exactly a carpenter, but even I know that sanding something usually involves wood."

He folded his arms and gave me that same intense look that he had the first day we'd met. "Who is master here, and who is student? Show me sand-the-floor."

"It's a dirt floor!" I wailed.

"Show!" So I sanded the dirt floor.

It worked out about as well as you might expect. Dirt flew everywhere. I got it in my eyes, my lungs.

To this day, I think I still have some dirt beneath my fingernails. By the end of the day, the only parts of me that weren't covered in dirt were the parts where little channels of sweat had trickled down my skin.

The only area of the floor I didn't touch was near his personal effects. I prepared to move some of them, such as his trunk, but he told me to leave them where they were. So I simply sanded around them.

And all during that time, Ali--standing just outside the door so that none of the clouds of dirt could bother him--spoke of the various philosophies of Zennihilation. He spoke of the two different techniques of meditation, Rinsai and Soako. He talked about containers, and how I should envision myself as an empty cup, because only then could I be filled with knowledge. He discussed the beginnings of Zennihilation, which apparently had their start with temple priests who allowed themselves to be subjected to incessant taunts and torments by soldiers, specifically so they could allow their focused rage to build to a point where they would be unstoppable.

He spoke of many things. Fools and kings. Ultimately, though, it all came back to the fact that I was sanding a G.o.dd.a.m.n dirt floor until every muscle in my body was aching and crying out for rest.

Finally he strode into the hut and stared at the floor, filled with hundreds upon hundreds of swirl marks. "All right. Stand up," he said, gesturing for me to rise.

Slowly, my body screaming in pain, I got to my feet, favoring my right leg even more than I usually did. I stared woefully at my dirt-encrusted clothes. All I could think about was throwing myself in the river to cleanse myself and, if I was really, really lucky, drown.

"Now," he said, "you will instinctively be able to use the sand-the-floor technique to defend yourself against an attack."

"I will?" I asked.

"Yes."

And then he was glaring at me, and a low growl was coming from his throat like that of an angry mongrel.

That was when he let out an earsplitting howl and drew back his fist, clearly ready to hit me.

I did the first thing that came to mind: I brought the two sand blocks up, both still in my hands, and started smacking them together repeatedly. Naturally this caused a huge cloud of dirt to rise from between my hands. Chinpan Ali staggered back, coughing violently, trying to ward it off and not succeeding. He lurched out into the open air, leaned against the hut, and continued to cough until his lungs were clear.

"Is that what you had in mind, master?" I called to him.

There was a pause, and then he said, "Yes. Exactly. Very good."

I couldn't have been happier. All right, yes, I could have been. I could have been not covered with soil and not aching in every joint. Aside from that, though, I was in relatively good spirits. Once more we sat and meditated. This time he said to me, "What is greater than the G.o.ds, more evil than the devil. The poor have it. The rich need it. And if you eat it, you'll die."

I thought about that one a good long time. I drifted deeper and deeper into my musings, letting my thoughts wander far afield, hoping that sooner or later they would drift back to the question at hand and I would eventually know it. Nothing seemed to be coming, however, nothing at all, nothing at...

My eyes snapped open.

"Nothing," I said. "Nothing is greater than the G.o.ds or more evil than the devil. The poor have nothing, as well I know, and the rich need nothing. And if you eat nothing, you will die."

"Come back tomorrow," he told me as he nodded in approval.

And so it went, day after day.

Every day riddles, and lessons, and various tasks and exercises he set me to. Unfortunately, none of them ever seemed to make any d.a.m.ned sense. He had me spend an entire day counting individual stalks of wheat. An entire night counting stars. One afternoon was pa.s.sed quacking like a duck. A morning was consumed with seeing how many grains of rice I could fit in my navel.

Once he had me water an entire field of brown gra.s.s by taking one mouthful at a time from a bucket and spitting it out upon the gra.s.s. Then he had me sit and watch the water as the sun baked it out of the ground and it dissipated. "You must understand the transient nature of the water cycle if you are to understand the transient nature of man," he said. Fortunately I didn't understand either, so I had achieved some degree of consistency.

And on and on it went, each task or challenge seemingly more nonsensical than the one before. And while these went on, he would continue to talk to me about Zennihilation. How I could take down entire armies if properly trained. I would be able to break trees in half with one sweep of my hand. True Zennihilation masters, I was told, could levitate. I asked Ali if he could do so, and he said that he indeed could, but only when no one was watching. He a.s.sured me, though, that if I was a good and devoted student, at some point in the future I could not watch him do it.

There was one time in particular when I felt as if I was simply not getting it. That the teachings of Ali were beyond my ability to grasp. I confessed to my teacher, while in his hut, that I could almost sense comprehension and enlightenment, as if they were hiding just around a corner, tantalizing me.

"You cannot obtain nothing if you strive for something," he intoned.

"But how can one achieve absolute nothingness?" I asked him.

"If one sets aside all concerns, all possessions, all self-awareness, all of it... then how can there be motivation to do anything? Rather than being able to harness nothingness, if someone achieved the level of no level at all, why would anyone care about anything enough to do anything about anything? Instead of saying, 'I will fight,' it would be just as easy to say, 'I don't c--'"

But immediately he put a finger to my lips. "You were going to speak of not caring," he said. I nodded. "Do not do so. You are not ready." "I'm... I'm not?"

He shook his head. "That is the ultimate level. You have not come close to achieving it. When you do... then you will be able to master Zennihilation. Now... I want you to stick this wheat up your nose..."

I know it sounds like madness. And yet, for the first time in my life, I had faith. Faith that it would all make sense. Faith that the pieces would come together for me sooner or later, and I would comprehend how it all related.

Because Chinpan Ali really was a good man. A good, decent man. A little strange, G.o.ds knew, but certainly there had to be some allowances made for the oddities that invariably accompanied advanced age.

And here was the other thing: As I spent time day after day in training and learning and exploring the various ramifications of Zennihilation, it left me precious little time to dwell on all the negatives that were so routine for me. My lameness of leg, my a.s.sorted failures, my burning frustrations, all faded into a sort of distant haze of obscurity.

There was always in the back of my mind the concern that more swordsmen would come. It might well have been that the Skang Kei representatives had gone around to a.s.sorted villages at random, leaving no schedule of their visitations behind. If that was the case, then quite possibly no one would realize that the tiny village of Hosbiyu was the last known whereabouts of the Skang Kei strong-men.

And even if someone suspected it... what then? Without bodies or any sort of evidence, nothing could be done.

I began to relax more and more. My confidence grew. Inner peace beckoned me and I greeted it with open arms. I finally began to hope that everything was going to be all right.

I should have known better. Particularly the night when, after a long day of training, Chinpan Ali put a hand on my shoulder and said, with a winning smile, "You have endured much, Po. In many ways, you are the son I never had."

Even as I grinned in appreciation, my inner voice--which had not been speaking to me for quite some time owing to tremendous annoyance with my recent actions--piped up and said, Well, that's it for him, you realize.

I hate my inner voice.

Chapter 7.

The Shadow Worriers The night that I had dreaded for some time, and then was foolish enough to stop dreading (which naturally was more than enough to bring it upon us), was an inclement affair. A storm had been brewing for the last few days, and now the rain was coming down, splattering on the rooftop. But the hut was well constructed and no water was leaking in.

As the rain fell, I tried to imagine myself years from now, in exactly this same place. Would such a thing be possible? Could I truly wind up spending my life in this one small village? Certainly the villagers didn't seem averse to my continued residence there. Perhaps, at some point in the distant future, I might actually come to think of the place as "our village" instead of "their village."

In the twilight moments before I fell asleep, I habitually flashed upon images in my life that were typically distressing. Cities burning, or people being stabbed, or beheaded, or riddled with arrows, or falling, or being torn to bits.

This night, though, I saw myself, quite old. Perhaps as old as Ali himself. Children were ringed around me, listening intently to my every word as I imparted wisdom to them. They were smiling, and I couldn't help but smile in return.

It was a charming image, and one that sent me gliding peacefully into slumber.

I didn't know what time it was when I awoke. All I knew was there was trouble afoot.

There were soft footfalls outside. So soft, so delicate, that under ordinary circ.u.mstances even I, with my keen hearing, might have missed them entirely. But the rain was falling, turning the dirt road to mud, and I detected a quick splas.h.i.+ng about. Faster than a heartbeat, gentle as a falling feather, but it was enough to reach my oversized ears.

I am not someone who wakens by degrees. I come to immediate and total awareness. It is a trait that had saved my life on more than one occasion. In the world that I live, if one does not develop a talent for waking up instantly, one can chance waking up dead.

It was a cool evening thanks to the rain, so I was dressed in loose-fitting breeches and a robelike s.h.i.+rt that came to just below my hips. Even in the darkness, I knew where my staff was. I never left it more than arm's length away. Next to it was my sword. It was sitting out of the scabbard, for I had freshly oiled it earlier that evening. I was glad for that, lest the pulling of metal from its casing alert whoever might be out there.

It was intruders. I was sure of it. I knew the comings and goings and schedules of the townspeople as well as I knew my own breathing patterns. This time of night, none of them were going to be out and about. Which meant that someone who wasn't supposed to be here... was here.

Naturally my first a.s.sumption was that more burly representatives of the Skang Kei family had arrived. That they would come looking for their missing fellow, and not leave until they had found him.

Which quite possibly meant they weren't going to be leaving ever, if Ali had to end up doing to them what he'd already done to their predecessors.

My first impulse was to hide. This was quickly followed by my second and third impulses, which were also to hide. Unfortunately, my hut was somewhat spa.r.s.e in its furnis.h.i.+ngs, as were just about all of the huts except Ali's. There was nowhere handy that I could secret myself. So I settled for simply lying as still as I could upon my sleeping mat. However, I angled myself so that I was facing the door, rather thanbeing turned away as I had been. I closed my eyes to narrow slits, hoping I might be able to make out any intruders who entered. My hand rested lightly upon the hilt of my sword, just in case.

The slight sounds of splas.h.i.+ng had tapered off, as if the intruders--realizing they were making noise--had ceased doing so. Had they stopped moving altogether? Or were they so superbly trained that they were able to walk about lightly enough on sodden ground without giving themselves away? I was quite accomplished in techniques of forest craft, particularly considering the physical limitations I had to bear. But even I couldn't proceed noiselessly given the ground conditions.

At that moment, the loosely hanging door of my hut opened. It did so noiselessly, which was amazing considering the d.a.m.ned thing always made a racket whenever I opened it.

A figure peered in.

Since it was dark outside, and clouded over to boot, light was not plentiful. And the intruder's method of attire did not help matters. I was reasonably sure it was a female, based on the stunningly graceful way in which she moved. But she was dressed entirely in black, head to toe. I thought, although I could not be sure, that there was a sliver of open area around her eyes, giving her un.o.bstructed sight. Other than that, though, not a square inch of her flesh was visible.

She was of medium height and slender, and she eased herself into my room as intrusively as a ghost.

The door closed behind her, still making no noise. Just before it did so, however, I caught the briefest glimpse of similarly clad figures moving about outside. Obviously she wasn't alone.

She had the hilt of a sword protruding from over her shoulder, indicating she had a sword strapped to her back. Of even more concern was that I was able to make out what appeared to be a dagger in her right hand. If she was coming toward me with that, I wasn't about to simply lie there and let her gut me in my "sleep."

She paused several feet away, afforded me a brief glance, looked around, and obviously didn't find what she was seeking. I remained still. With any luck, she'd be gone in no time.

But then she took another look at me, and stared more fixedly. Naturally she would. The odds were that she'd never seen anyone (or anything, for that matter) quite like me before. Silently she approached.

She then crouched down, tilting her head. Clearly she was trying to get an even better look at me. It was really quite remarkable. Were I not looking right at her, albeit with a very narrow field of vision, I would not have known she was there at all. Her stealth was masterly, and I found myself more interested in knowing where she'd learned to move like this than in discovering why she was here.

And then, to my utter astonishment, she came in behind me and began to run her fingers along my body. I thought she was searching me for weapons at first, but no. She was probing my muscles, my flesh. She was panting softly, as if receiving increasing s.e.xual gratification from doing so. And she murmured to herself. Even though her voice was m.u.f.fled by her mask, I could still discern what she was saying.

"His face, effulgent, glowing, s.h.i.+ning, unique in all the world in its singularity. I look upon it and my breast heaves, a soaring, cras.h.i.+ng wave like the floating zephyr of an evening star. A woman's head upon a woman's breast is a woman placing her head upon her own breast, to be one with herself, and to know the soaring rapture of o.r.g.a.s.mic release. But to look upon him is to look upon myself, and see the strangeness and wonder that is within me, within all women, in all the secret places above and below the world, locked within our wombs, like ripe, bursting--" "What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

It was not, in retrospect, the brightest way I could have handled the moment. Certainly I won no major points for subtlety. The woman was clearly a loon, and I might have learned more had I simply lain there and let her babble. But I could feel my brain beginning to dissolve within my skull just from thirty seconds of listening to her. If she'd gone on much longer, my gray matter would have begun leaking out my ears.

Curiously, she didn't seem to care that I'd just revealed that I was awake, or that I'd had an impatient outburst thanks to her blather. Instead she shoved me onto my back, straddled me, and began running her hands under my s.h.i.+rt. One would have thought I was still sporting the magic ring upon my member that had given me unparalleled control over the libidos of all females.

"He speaks to me, his words like great waves cras.h.i.+ng against the oozing sandiness of my sh.o.r.es. I feel in my b.r.e.a.s.t.s the current of liquid fire..."

"Right! That's enough of that!" I snapped, having no desire whatsoever to have her b.r.e.a.s.t.s oozing anything on me, much less liquid fire. I shoved her off me as hard as I could, knocking her knife away.

She landed on her back and then, to my amazement, scissored her legs about in a rapid circular motion that brought her immediately to her feet. I never even saw her hand move, but suddenly she was holding the sword she had pulled from the scabbard on her back.

"Now... hold on," I said, regretting I hadn't kept my big mouth shut and just let her have her way with me. I had gotten to my feet, favoring my right leg as always. I had my sword in a defensive posture, but I didn't fancy going up against the whip-fast blade she was holding. "This isn't really necessary. I'm sure it's a misunderstanding..."

"His voice sings to me like a heavenly choir as my heart thuds, fair to bursting against the milky softness of my skin," she said. Even as she spoke, she brought her sword slicing back and forth in the air in front of me. "I hear him and the death of my beloved goldfish no longer tortures me. To the birds! To the birds!"

Well, that more or less settled it: She was completely demented. Unfortunately, she was a demented woman with a blade, and she charged at me with the grace of a shadow. The speed of her sword made it so impossible to follow that I did the only thing I could: I threw myself backward, hitting the ground flat on my back as her sword hissed through the air where I'd just been standing.

I remembered the lessons of Chinpan Ali at that moment, grabbed up a handful of dirt from the floor, and threw it as hard as I could.

Fortune was with me. The dirt took her square in the eyes just as she leaned in toward me to try and cut my throat. She staggered back and I was on my feet, bringing my sword about.

How in the world she parried my thrusts, I hadn't the faintest idea. She was blinded, desperately trying to get the dirt out of her eyes, and yet no matter how quickly I tried to strike home with my sword, she deflected it.

Quickly I backed up. As I did so I bent and scooped up my staff. She was blinking furiously, still trying to clear her eyes, still unable to see a d.a.m.ned thing, and I threw my sword against the bamboo wall. It clattered against it and the sound was enough to distract her. She turned, sweeping her swordaround, cutting at where she imagined I was, and I lunged forward with my staff even as she turned away from me. The sound of the blade sniking out from the carved dragon head snapped her attention back, but even she wasn't able to calculate quickly enough what angle I was coming in at, or what the sound portended. So it was that even as she brought her sword up high, I thrust my walking staff from a safe distance and slashed across her torso.

She let out an alarmed shriek and reflexively bent over to clutch at the blood welling from around her shoulder, and I swung the staff around again. It cut high across her face, barely missing the skin but shredding some of the cloth on her mask, and she stumbled back. Even as she did so, more insanely poetic words about pa.s.sion, l.u.s.t, throbbing bosoms, and heaving sighs of glorious ecstasy spilled from her lips, splas.h.i.+ng about like loose stool. None of it made any sense. One moment she was talking about her emotions, the next she was painting grand pictures of nature and stars and skies and internal organs and penetrating gazes and gazing penetrations. It was madness, like the rantings of an overheated madwoman who hadn't had s.e.xual congress in decades.

"My love, my hate, my s.e.xual mate of fiery pa.s.sion and pa.s.sionate fire, I shall remember you even as I forget you!" she called out, grabbed up her knife, and turned and crashed through the door, silence apparently a thing of the past. I was about to follow her, and suddenly realized that probably wouldn't be the brightest idea. She had friends with her. But then I just as quickly realized that she might well come back with them to finish me off. If I stayed where I was, I was in danger, and if I left, I was in danger.

Better to be a running chicken than a sitting duck.

I shoved my sword into my scabbard and strapped it across my back. Holding on to my walking staff, I slid sideways out the door and into the rain. The ground was thick with mud, the rain still coming down. Immediately I lay flat on the muddy ground and rolled about in it as quietly as I could. It took almost no time at all for me to be covered head to toe in mud. I even smeared my face with the stuff.

Then, keeping flat to the ground, I flattened myself against the ground on the far side of my hut, keeping a view as to what this lunatic woman and her a.s.sociates were up to.

There was no movement. Nothing. All was silent. Silent as death.

Then I heard the sounds. An outcry, something breaking, a struggle, all coming from Chinpan Ali's hut.

My master, my teacher, the man who had befriended me and tried to bring me a measure of inner peace--even if he had chosen to do so in a rather bizarre manner--was in trouble. These black-clad women had singled him out. They were attacking him.

And I lay there. Unmoving. Unwilling to push my luck against the women. I kept telling myself that my master did not need my help. He had, after all, disposed of the brigands handily enough. These women, silent and deadly as they were, certainly could not prove a real threat against...

"Where is it?" I heard a female voice call from within his hut, and more cras.h.i.+ng, and suddenly the sound of a sword yanked from a scabbard, and a slash of metal cutting through air, and a noise of finality that I'd come to know all too well. The sound of a death rattle. "Where is the tachi?"