[continuing chapter 2]
The next morning should have tasted of
honey. Wen Xia woke on a bale of very
old straw, and it didn't matter. The
straw had evidently once been used as a latrine by an incontinent bear, and it
didn't matter. He still had no idea why
those spectral old men had appeared around him, claiming to be his
grandfathers, and it didn't matter. At
least thirty men snored, hacked, or cursed in their sleep around him—and it
didn't matter. It had been a long time
since Wen had felt this happy to be waking up.
He was on the sea, the waves gently nudging him through the Jade Maiden's wooden hull; he was far
away from Judge Li and Number One Grandfather—whoever he really was—and he was
alive. I wonder what's for breakfast, he
thought.
A pot of millet porridge simmered on the foredeck, but what
attracted Wen's attention was the small group of men gathered near the entrance
to the captain's cabin, aft of the mainmast.
They were on their knees, and Wen thought he saw a dragon's-beard of
smoke rising from their midst. One of
the men was Chin Gwai—even kneeling he stood out like a pagoda amongst hovels—and
Wen wanted to know what the Green Turban leader was doing that commanded so
much attention from the other men.
When he made his way aft, though, he discovered that Chin
Gwai was also an observer. The man Chin
and the others were watching had his back to Wen, but from the color of his
hair he was likely the oldest man aboard the Maiden. Not another grandfather,
Wen thought. And what, he wondered, is
this old man burning?
He edged his way to the rain and moved around the
group. When he saw what was happening,
Wen nearly burst out laughing. Oracle bones? he asked himself. Who does oracle bones these days?
The older man—close up he didn't look quite as old as he
seemed—took an iron poker out of the brazier smoldering to his right and,
muttering something that couldn't have been what it sounded like ("chive
dumplings"?), thrust the pointed, smoking tip into the upper left corner
of a dried sea-turtle shell. After a
moment's pause he settled back onto his heels, sniffing his satisfaction. Then he returned the poker to the brazier, heedless
of the danger the still-hot metal posed to his neighbor, who squawked and
ducked out of the way.
"The omens are good," the man said. "Your ancestors are very pleased with
you, General Chin." He smiled,
showing yellowed teeth in a weak mouth.
"You will succeed if you attack the next ship you see."
"That will be good for the new recruits!" Chin
said in his customary bellow. "Give
them some battle experience even before their training starts." What if the next ship you see is one of the
big warships, with dozens of cannon? How
much will your ancestors approve of you if you've turned yourself into
fish-food, General Chin? Wen knew better
than to ask the question aloud, but he thought it very firmly.
What he did say aloud was, "What does it mean when your
ancestors talk to you directly rather than through cracks in bones?"
It made no difference.
The old shaman looked directly at him for a moment, but quickly turned
away as Chin continued to blast forth his opinion that swimming in the blood of
the unjust was exactly the sort of training new recruits needed to make them
real men worthy of the Green Turban—which was, Wen had noticed, more of a
pus-colored rag than anything you'd call a green turban, at least on most of
the men he'd seen so far on the Jade
Maiden. Wen resigned himself to a
strenuous few minutes of trying to protect himself from arrows and edged
weapons when the fight finally came, while pretending to be an eager
participant.
Why should I have to die to make your ancestors happy? Again, there was no answer.
Next Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2
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