Li Kao snatched one of the torches from the brackets and went over the painting inch by inch. The peddler's robe was covered with colored pearls and lotus blossoms, and he was supported by a crutch beneath his left armpit. His hands were extended to the maidens. In the left hand he held three tiny white feathers, and in the right hand he held a miniature flute and crystal ball that were precisely like the ones in Li Kao's belt, as well as a tiny bronze bell. The painting was very ancient, but what did it mean?
“The emblems on the lame peddler's robe usually signify Heaven, in which case this might be a painting of T'ieh-kuai Li, the Fourth Immortal,” Master Li said thoughtfully. “But two things are wrong, and one of them rules out such an interpretation. He should be carrying a large calabash on his back, and he could not possibly be leaning upon a wooden crutch. After all, the name means Li with the Iron Crutch.”
He went back over the painting, with his eyes no more than an inch from the surface.
“On the other hand, the emblems on the robe can signify the supernatural, and that includes the evil supernatural,” he muttered. “We know that two of the girls were murdered, and I am willing to lay enormous odds against the possibility that the third girl died peacefully in bed. The maddening thing is that I can find no trace of something that should be included.”
I looked at him inquiringly.
“Ginseng,” he explained. “Ox, for some mysterious reason our quest for the Great Root and the ghosts of the handmaidens are linked together, and so are the games of children, the village of Ku-fu, Dragon's Pillow, nonsense rhymes, feathers, birds that must fly, the Duke of Ch'in—all of the dukes, come to think of it—and Buddha knows what else.”
He straightened up and shrugged.
“If we ever figure it out, it should make a marvelous story.” he sighed. “Let's go see if those monks can tell us something useful.”
The three monks in black had disappeared, but the little monk in crimson was more than helpful. “No, we have never been able to grasp the meaning of the trinkets and the feathers,” he said. “The feathers are particularly puzzling, because there is another painting deeper in the cavern that depicts feathers. It is so old that most of the paint has worn away, but one can clearly make out feathers and the symbol of the constellation Orion. Again I have no idea what it means.”
Li Kao's eyes were sparkling. “Ox, in ancient times a roof, three beams, and the number three formed the ideograph for Orion. It was also used to signify ginseng, particularly when the symbol for heart was at the point of the beams, and that would mean the Heart of the Great Root of Power,” he whispered.
I was beginning to catch some of his excitement myself, and we eagerly followed the little monk to the opening of another tunnel. He offered us torches from the wall brackets.
“You will find the painting at the end, and in the meantime you will learn why we are certain that the Peddler is divine,” he said. “Fortunately you have arrived during the rainy season, and the water has begun to rise in the Peddler's cavern. Soon it will strike the bell stones, and only Heaven could produce such music. The stones are deep beneath the tunnel, but there are side passages that will enable you to hear the music clearly.”
Miser Shen's previous visit had been during the wrong season for bell music, and he was rather skeptical about it. As we moved down the low dark tunnel the slap of our sandals was joined by the sound of water lapping against rocks, far below us and to the left side. Then the water rose high enough and we knew that the monk had not lied. This was the music of Heaven.
A stone bell chimed. Just as the echo was fading away it was answered by a second bell that was soft and sweet and slightly blurred, as though the sound were sifted through honey. Another bell answered, higher and clearer and perfectly in harmony, and then bell after bell chimed in: big bells, small bells, loud bells, soft bells, clear bells, cloudy bells, and we walked along in enchantment while our torches cast immense shadows upon the stone walls. I cannot describe the beauty of the stone-bell song. Then the water reached the soft rocks and began to rush through tiny holes, and the bells were joined by the sound of a thousand silver lutes being stroked by a million murmuring bees. The combination of sounds was lifting our souls right out of our bodies, and ahead of us was a side passageway that was large enough to enter. The music poured from it, and we turned as one and trotted down the passageway toward the ravishing song. Tears were streaming down Miser Shen's cheeks. He began to run, with his arms spread wide to catch and embrace the music, and we were right at his heels while our shadows leaped and jumped all around us. A rock moved beneath Miser Shen's foot, and I heard a harsh metallic whang.
Miser Shen lifted into the air and flew backward into my arms, and I stared stupidly at the iron shaft of a crossbow bolt that was protruding from his chest.
21. A Prayer to Ah Chen
We dived to the floor, but no more bolts flew. I laid an ear against Miser Shen's chest. His heart was still beating, but faintly. “The painting is a trap,” Master Li whispered in my ear. “The acoustics of the tunnel permit the monks to hear what's being said, and when they heard that we recognized the maidens and linked them to the Duke of Ch'in, the monks in black slipped ahead to cock a crossbow and set the trigger.”
He cautiously lifted his torch and waved it around, and finally we spotted it. A single crossbow, fixed in a wall bracket and aimed at the center of the passageway.
“Why only one?” Master Li muttered. He carefully felt beneath the stone that Miser Shen's foot had pressed. There was a metal rod which ran back beneath the surface of the path. “Ox, do you see that large flat white stone?” Master Li whispered. “It has raised slightly, and I rather believe that we are supposed to step on it as we run for our lives.”
I picked up Miser Shen and we carefully inched around that stone as we made our way back to the main tunnel. Li Kao picked up rocks and hurled them, and on the third try he hit the raised white stone. With a horrible crash a good fifty feet of the roof collapsed, and a great cloud of dust and whining splinters of rock shot from the mouth of the passageway. Anyone in there would have been crushed like an ant beneath an elephant's foot.
“We can't trust the acoustics,” Li Kao whispered in my ear. “If we go back, they'll probably be ready for us. We have to follow the tunnel and trust to luck.”
He led the way with a torch in one hand and his knife in the other. The tunnel was sloping up, and the beautiful bell song was growing fainter. The only other sounds were the hiss of the torch and the slap of our sandals, and then Miser Shen groaned. His eyes opened, but they were feverish and puzzled and he did not seem to recognize us. We stopped and I set him down, with his back propped against the tunnel wall, and his lips moved.
“You are the priest?” he said hoarsely to Li Kao. “My little girl has been murdered by the Duke of Ch'in, and they tell me that I will feel better if I burn a prayer and send it to her, but I do not know how to write.”
For Miser Shen it was forty years ago, when the death of his daughter had begun to drive him insane.
“I am the priest,” Master Li said quietly. “I will write down your prayer for you.”
Miser Shen's lips moved silently, and I sensed that he was rehearsing. Finally he was ready, and he made a terrible effort to concentrate on what he wanted to say to his daughter. This is the prayer of Miser Shen.