(2)
I heard He-man sing a second time during another banquet.
Then, she was gone, disappeared without a trace from Chang-An.
Some said she had earned enough money and had returned to her home village with her aging and ailing father; others said she was bought by a wealthy merchant who made her one of his many concubines, promising to take care of her father for all his remaining years; some said she had eloped with a lover, a swordsman, a paladin who took her round the country; some even said she had fallen ill and perhaps had died.
None of these rumors was confirmed.
In time, the name of He-man became a past memory. She was not forgotten. She was just regarded as a legend, a lost treasure that one would miss and shake one’s head in despair with no hope of recovering one day.
Then, suddenly, she made her come-back.
I listened to her sing again.
And I was so worried for her.
No, it was not that she had lost any of her singing talent and skill.
Rather, she had reached an even higher level of accomplishment.
Three years ago, everybody was touched by the beauty of her voice.
Now, her singing was stunning.
And almost immediately I realized her singing was dangerous.
I was no longer a common doctor. The gods had smiled on me during the past three years. My medical skills had earned me connections with the higher echelons: officials of the court, courtesans rivaling for privileges using their beauty and wits, powerful eunuchs who had the ear of the emperor, and twice, even the favourite one, Yang Guifei, the woman the emperor found inseparable, had used my service. I was bestowed with the golden carp medallion which I wore at my waist, a symbol of favor denied to ordinary folks and access into the palace for urgent treatments.
And I had learned much from the inside. Besides the dazzling wealth and splendor that met the eyes, I had witnessed the corruption, the cruelty, the under-current of rivalry for power, of mercilessness, of the mortal risk of dropping a seemingly innocent comment. I had witnessed the rise and fall of powerful ministers. There were quite a few executions that turned my stomach upside down and I had felt the talk of distant rumbling of discontent that hovered at four corners of the empire whispered behind silk screens.
And I had woken up sometimes, sweat all over my body, after a nightmare of a failed treatment to the emperor, to Guifei, to a prince or princess, or to one of the princesses’ puppies! I knew what wealth and glory I could reap and the dire price I might be forced to pay. And even worse, I knew there was no turning back. To quit without imperial permission was never an option.
And He-man, in her innocence seemed oblivious to the lurking danger.
She seldom sang songs like Shui Xian Hua now. Instead, she sang of great tragedies that could strike at common folks out of the blue; she sang of despaired lovers taking their lives together; she sang of the stark contrast between the squandering of the rich and powerful and the plight of the down-trodden; she sang of left-over meat rotting on golden and silver plates and the corpses of the famished poor left lying in the snow; she sang of corruption among the mandarins, the injustice of the law courts, the seizing of land from the powerless peasants by the nobles and their minions; she sang of the riders on speckled horses that brought lychee, a kind of delicacy fruit from the south of the empire to Chang-An for the pleasure of Guifei who adored it; she sang of the juicy fruit as ivory teeth sank into its translucent flesh, of the joy of the emperor seeing that his love-of-a-lifetime laugh with delight; she sang of the vacant eyes of the little girl tramped under the hooves of the riders, uncaring for what they had done as the case they carried had to reach the table of the emperor while the fruit was still fresh; she sang of the despair of the father, the shrieks of torment of the mother; she sang of non-stop drafting of soldiery for wars at the fringes of the empire, to bring in more glory, more tributes, more beautiful women to fill a palace already housing three thousand of them; she sang to rumbling of minority tribes forced to bow low, of oppressed peasants left on the brink of starvation; she sang of dangers that could threaten the empire that could terminate the years of apparent opulence and peace.
She brought comfort to the under-dogs, tears to the common people and rage to the powerful.
My heart trembled at every song she breathed out of her lips, every line, every word.
She could not be so innocent to think all these would go unreported.
Somehow, she no longer cared, or she had learned to care so much that she could no longer remain silent and complacent.
What had happened to her during the past three years?
Had she suffered so much? Or had she simply seen too much?
The rich no longer invited her to their banquets, fearing complications.
She no longer wore rich silk from adoring affluent clients.
Instead, she always dressed herself in plain white dress, with hardly any personal ornaments other than her turquoise hairpin.
When she sang in the market to a quiet audience who would stop whatever they had been doing to listen to her. They said even the birds stopped their chippings when she sang as if they too, were eager to listen.
The powerful called her a traitor, the common people called her “He-man-ji”, the last word an honor address to a maestro.
She must be living a simple life as now the people, though appreciative, could only put down a few coins which were all they could afford. She would pick them up one by one and nodded her gratitude showing from that pair of emerald green eyes.
In three years’ time, she had grown to be more mature, more radiantly beautiful. If she had looked like a little princess three years ago, she now looked a goddess, a goddess full of mercy and compassion.
I was moved beyond words and I dug my fingers into my pocket, which was deep enough and put down a heavy tale of silver and was about to turn my back when she stopped me.
“I do not need this from the rich.”
There was a kind of coldness in her voice.
I did not feel offended.
“Maestro, I offer this as real appreciation, and my silver is honestly earned. I am a doctor and I do not only take care of those who can pay me well.” I said.
She was a bit surprised and after a while, she bowed to offer her apology.
“I misjudged you, kind Sir. But I cannot accept your silver. Since you are a doctor, can you do me a favor and take a look at my father?”
“Is he not well?”
She became quiet. There was a deep sorrow in her eyes.
“Very well, lead me to him.” I said.
Her dwelling was in a back alley, neighboring families for whom she had offered her songs.
The room was dark, with a single oil-lamp. But otherwise, it was orderly and clean.
The old man who had been playing the pipa three years ago was lying on a mattress.
I took his pulse.
There was little I could do for him.
I told her so and she sobbed silently.
“I will subscribe some medicine to help your father ease his pain. My servant would come and bring that to you. Do not be too sorrowful. It is just a cycle of life.”
She nodded and thanked me. There was sorrow in her eyes, but there was pride too. And courage.
I should have warned her of her placing herself in danger with her kind of singing. But somehow I kept my lips tight. It would hardly make any difference as she would probably go on with what she had been doing. I knew from her determined look that she knew the consequence and she would not dodge it.
Three days later, the old man died.
I secretly arranged to pay for his funeral.
(3)
I leaned of her arrest a month later.
Though I had expected it to happen sooner or later, it still gave me the shudder.
What would become of her?
I called my connections and their replies confirmed my worst fear
Treason!
The punishment was always death!
I wept for her the whole night before her execution was to take place.
When dawn broke, I reluctantly dragged my feet towards the execution ground, which was in the market place.
I had prepared some flowers, to be placed in front of her after what was to happen. Once in the street, however, I discovered I was not alone. Hundreds of people were moving in the same direction, flowers in their hands.
When I reached the place, it was nearly packed. It was with great difficulty that I managed to get to the front row. There, fifty paces or so in front of me, knelt the famous singer He-man-ji. Dressed in pure white, hair let down her back, her arms bent to have her wrists tied.
There was no fear I could detect.
She was calm in the morning air, pure as a drop of dew in her dazzling white dress.
My heart raced, pained and fell into the deepest despair.
Was it true that nothing could save her from such fate?
I was a doctor and my duty was to save life and this was a life I would be willing to give up anything to save, including my own life.
I turned around and see an equally distraught crowd. There was sorrow; there was anger and then, out in the distance, I saw a tint of hope.
A palanquin
I could recognize it even it was disguised like one used by commoners. The eight bodyguards surrounding it betrayed the identity of the one who was inside. It was not for nothing that I had served the emperor and his loved one for all these years.
The emperor was an artist himself, priding on his achievement in composing and his drum skills. He must have heard of the case and would not wish to miss attending this and not seeing for himself the singer who had shaken the base of his empire.
A thought flickered across my mind.
“Let her sing!” I shouted and it was echoed by the crowd.
The soldiers became uneasy and the mandarin who was presiding the execution was just about to order clearing the place when a runner came up to him and whispered something into his ear. The face of the mandarin paled and immediately, he gave order that the condemned was to sing one last song.
Hope flared up inside me.
If she would be allowed to sing, there was a chance the emperor, appreciative of such a rare talent, might even grant her a pardon! It was not unheard of before. He had granted pardon to much graver crime when he read a poem by a condemned man, and there were thousands of poets in Chang-An whereas there was only one He-man-ji!
The order was relayed to her. She turned her head and looked at the messenger. Finally, composing herself, she began to sing her last song:
好一朵水仙花 (What a nice Shui Xian Hua)
鮮花啊落在我的家 (Beautiful flower settling in my home)
鮮花啊落在我的家啊呀 (Beautiful flower settling in my home)
邦有道, 民安樂 (When the land is ruled justly, the people are content)
家家齊唱太平歌, 太呀平歌 (All sing in celebration of peace and bliss)
We were all stunned!
The voice was crystal, powerful and haunting.
The emperor could not fail to be touched.
And I was right. Another messenger came running, carrying a small basket and had it placed in front of her.
Even from a distance I could see what it was: a basket of lychee!
I knew what it meant. It was a sign of favor and just one step from a full pardon.
We held our breadth and waited.
She shook her head, refusing it!
“Why? Why?” I almost shouted out my disbelief. Was she so foolish, so blind to a given opportunity to save her own life?
Then, it struck me.
She fully understood the meaning.
It was the same kind of fruit she had sung against, the same kind of fruit that had cost so many acres of farmland that the peasants had tilled and toiled, only to be tramped under the hooves of the rushing riders; the same kind of fruit that the little girl lost her life for, the mother wept for. To accept it would make her a collaborator to such injustice; it would feel like sucking the blood of the dead girl, the sweat of the peasants, and becoming part of the ills of the empire!
She knew the price of refusal and she was willing to pay it!
“No!” I rushed forward.
Two soldiers shouted at me and pointed their spears at me. Then, they saw the medallion of carp and immediately bowed politely, lowering their weapons.
I ran towards the slightly raised wooden platform on which she knelt.
“Maestro, please, take a bite, a tiny bite, I implore you.”
She looked at me, smiled and once again, shook her head.
She was stubborn, and so brave!
I refused to give up.
“Then, at least sing. Sing a song, a line, in praise of the emperor. I will speak on your behalf and get you his pardon.”
She stared at me long and hard.
Then smiling, she sang.
“ Mother River, nourishing me since I was born
How I love thee tender and warm
I have life’s share of pleasure and pain.
I have travelled to Hell’s dungeon and flew on a bird’s wings.
How tempting life can be, how frightening is death
How does it feel to enter the unknown
How much I long for a safe and warm home
But tell me, how can I forget those who have been wronged?
How can I give up dignity
And bow to the strong?
I love the land, the people and leave them my songs
And hope these will sooth their sorrow after I am gone.”
I felt tears rolling down my face.
She had just sung her own death sentence.
When I looked into the distance, I found the palanquin was no more.
Two soldiers helped me to a chair at the side.
I saw the executioner, naked waist up, walked up the platform with his ugly weapon: a huge cutting sword.
He-man-ji remained calm, she looked at the crowd whom she knew loved her dearly, bowed once to thank them and then closed her eyes and offered her swan-like neck.
The blade sang.
When her head hit the ground and rolled to a stop, the crowd uttered its cries of anguish. Everyone could feel the silent anger. They, and I, witnessed the body toppled forward, blood spurting out from the truncated neck, dyeing the front part of the platform crimson red. When the head was picked up and shown to the crowd, there was no cheering. The uneasy executioner hurried backed away and after presenting it to the officiating officer, beat his retreat as if in fear of his life. Even before the head was hoisted up the prepared pole, a sea of flowers covered the place.
We all knew someone precious in our lives had died; something valuable in the empire had died, the empire was dying itself.
When the voice of justice was silenced, evil would creep in, rotting the base, changing the world we knew forever.
Being an old man, I had no wish to see how all these end.
I prayed that my remaining days would not be that many and if it was more than I could endure, well, there were always a way out for a medicine man.
I did not fear death anymore.
My heart had died on this day.
May be a new era would come one day, a happier one than the one which was imprisoning us.
But there would be no He-man-ji, not for a hundred years, or a thousand, or ten thousand.
Ever.
(Postscript)
The golden age of the Tang Empire ended two years later. In AD755, nation-wide rebellions broke out. Warlords fought imperial armies and against each other. Foreign tribes invaded the land. Millions of people were slaughtered. Somehow, the Empire lingered on for another one hundred and fifty two years, but only as a shadow of its former self.
He-man-ji was not forgotten. Many poems were written to honor her after her death. A melancholic tune was named after her and it was said that whenever this tune was played, people could not stop their tears running down. There was a story of a consort of a late Tang emperor who died of heart-breaking when she was about to sing this song in front of her husband’s deathbed before she had a chance to go to her voluntary death to accompany her husband in the next world.
There was no other singer who could come close to her since.
Perhaps, there never will be.