He staggered, then clenched his teeth against the sudden memory of Han's mother, his first wife, Lin Yua, sitting in the sunlight at the edge of the eastern orchard by the lake, her dresses spread about her, Han, only a baby then, crawling contentedly on the grass beside her.
Bring it back, he begged, closing his eyes against the pain; Kuan Yin, sweet Goddess of Mercy, bring it back! But there was no returning. They were dead. All dead. And that day no longer was. Except in his mind.
He shuddered. It was unbearable. Unbearable. . . .
Li Shai Tung drew his cloak about him and began to make his slow way back across the grass, leaning heavily on his staff, his heart a cold, dark stone in his breast.
They were waiting for him in the courtyard beyond the wall; all those he had asked to come. The Sons of Heaven and their sons, his trusted men, his son, his dead son's wife and her father, his brothers, his own third wife, and, finally, his daughters. All here, he thought. All but Han Ch'in, the one I loved the best.
They greeted him solemnly, their love, their shared grief unfeigned, then turned and waited for the litter.
The litter was borne by thirty men, their shaven heads bowed, their white, full-length silks fluttering in the wind. Behind them came four officials in orange robes and, beyond them, two young boys carrying a tiny litter on which rested an ancient bell and hammer.
Han lay there in the wide rosewood casket, dressed in the clothes he had worn on his wedding day. His fine, dark hair had been brushed and plaited, his face given the appearance of perfect health. Rich furs had been placed beneath him, strewn with white blossom, while about his neck were wedding gifts of jewels and gold and a piece of carmine cloth decorated with the marriage emblems of dragon and phoenix.
At the foot of the coffin lay a length of white cotton cloth, nine ch'i in length, Han Ch'in's own symbolic mourning for his father—for tradition said that the son must always mourn the father before he himself was mourned.
Li Yuan, standing at his father's side, caught his breath. It was the first time he had seen his brother since his death, and, for the briefest moment, he had thought him not dead but only sleeping. He watched the litter pass, his mouth open, his heart torn from him. Merciful gods, he thought; sweet Han,
how could they kill you? How could they place you in the earth?
Numbed, he fell into line behind the silent procession, aware only vaguely of his father beside him, of the great lords of Chung Kuo who walked behind him, their heads bared, their garments simple, unadorned. In his mind he reached out to pluck a sprig of blossom from his brother's hair, the petals a perfect white against the black.
At the far end of the long pool the procession halted. The tomb was open, the great stone door hauled back. Beyond it steps led down into the cold earth.
Most of the bearers now stood back, leaving only the six strongest to carry the litter down the steps. Slowly they descended, followed by the officials and the two boys.
His father turned to him. "Come, my son. We must lay your brother to rest."
Li Yuan held back, for one terrible moment overcome by his fear of the place below the earth. Then, looking up into his father's face, he saw his own fear mirrored and found the strength to bow and answer him. "I am ready, Father."
They went down, into candlelight and shadows. The bearers had moved away from the litter and now knelt to either side, their foreheads pressed to the earth. Han lay on a raised stone table in the center of the tomb, his head to the south, his feet to the north. The officials stood at the head of the casket, bowed, awaiting the T'ang, while the two boys knelt at the casket's foot, one holding the bell before him, the other the hammer.
Li Yuan stood there a moment at the foot of the steps, astonished by the size of the tomb. The ceiling was high overhead, supported by long, slender pillars that were embedded in the swept earth floor. Splendidly sculpted tomb figures, their san-t'soz glazes in yellow, brown, and green, stood in niches halfway up the walls, candles burning in their cupped hands. Below them were the tombs of his ancestors, huge pictograms cut deep into the stone, denoting the name and rank of each. On four of them was cut one further symbol—the Ywe Lung. These had been T'ang. His father was fifth of the Li family Tang. He, when his time came, would be the sixth.
A small table rested off to one side. On it were laid the burial objects. He looked up at his father again, then went over and stood beside the table, waiting for the ritual to begin.
The bell sounded in the silence, its pure, high tone like the sound of heaven itself. As it faded the officials began their chant.
He stood there, watching the flicker of shadows against stone, hearing the words intoned in the ancient tongue, and felt drawn up out of himself.
Man has two souls, the officials chanted. There is the animal soul, the p'o, which comes into being at the moment of conception, and there is the him, the spirit soul, which comes into being only at the moment of birth. In life the two are mixed, yet in death their destiny is different. The p'o remains below, inhabiting the tomb, while the hun, the higher soul, ascends to heaven.
The officials fell silent. The bell sounded, high and pure in the silence. Li Yuan took the first of the ritual objects from the table and carried it across to his father. It was the pi, symbol of Heaven, a large disc of green jade with a hole in its center. Yin, it was—positive and light and male. As the officials lifted the corpse, Li Shai Tung placed it beneath Han's back, then stood back, as they lowered him again.
The bell sounded again. Li Yuan returned to the table and brought back the second of the objects. This was the tsung, a hollow, square tube of jade symbolizing Earth. Yang, this was— negative and dark and female. He watched as his father placed it on his brother's abdomen.
Each time the bell rang he took an object from the table and carried it to his father. First the huang, symbol of winter and the north, a black jade half-pi which his father laid at Han's feet. Then the chang, symbol of summer and the south, a narrow tapered tablet of red jade placed above Han's head. The fcuei followed, symbol of the east and spring, a broad tapered tablet of green jade, twice the size of the chang, which was laid beside Han's left hand. Finally Li Yuan brought the hu, a white jade tiger, symbol of the west and autumn. He watched his father place this at his dead brother's right hand, then knelt beside him as the bell rang once, twice, and then a third time.
The chant began again. Surrounded by the sacred symbols the body was protected. Jade, incorruptible in itself, would prevent the body's own decay. The p'o, the animal soul, would thus be saved.
Kneeling there, Li Yuan felt awed by the power, the dignity, of the ritual. But did it mean anything? His beloved Han was dead and nothing in heaven or earth could bring him back. The body would decay, jade or no jade. And the souls . . . ? As the chant ended he sat back on his haunches and looked about him, at stone and earth and the candlelit figures of death. When nothing returned to speak of it, who knew if souls existed?
Outside again he stood there, dazed by it all, the chill wind tugging at his hair, the afternoon light hurting his eyes after the flickering shadows of the tomb. One by one the T'ang came forward to pay their respects to his father and once more offer their condolences, the least of them greater in power and wealth than the greatest of the Tang or Sung or Ch'ing dynasties. Wang Hsien, a big, moon-faced man, T'ang of Africa. Hou Ti, a slender man in his forties, T'ang of South America. Wei Feng, his father's closest friend among his peers, T'ang of East Asia, his seemingly ever-present smile absent for once. Chi Hu Wei, a. tall, awkward man, T'ang of the Australias. Wu Shih, T'ang of North America, a big man, built like a fighter, his broad shoulders bunching as he embraced Li Yuan's father. And last Tsu Tiao, T'ang of West Asia, the old man leaning on his son's arm.