Beneath the Tree of Heaven

True Virtue

The night is our mother. She comforts us. She tells, us who we are. Mother sky is all. We live, we die, beneath her. She sees all. Even the darkness deep within us.

OSU FOLK SAYING

You have heard of the knowledge that knows, but you have never heard of the knowledge that does not know. Look into that closed room, the empty chamber where brightness is born! Fortune and blessing gather where there is stillness.

chuang Tzu, “In the World of Men”

Hans ebert sat on the table rock, perfectly still, like a shape carved from the ancient stone, looking out into the star-filled blackness of the Martian night. Beyond him, squatting among the rocks near the entrance, the boy watched, mimicking the Walker’s stillness. The ndichie—the elders—had gathered. Tonight, here before the table rock, they would meet to discuss the way ahead. Right now, however, they slept after their long journeys across the desert. Only the Walker kept vigil, communing with Mother Sky, talking silently with her. The boy shivered, awed by that still and silent figure. Tsou Tsai Hei, they called him: “the Walker in the Darkness.” And so it was. When the accident had happened and his parents had died, who had come from the darkness to save him? Who had shimmered into being from the air and plucked him from the burning half-track? The Walker . . . And so he watched, molding himself, learning all he could, awaiting the time.

“Nza?”

The boy scuttled across, then settled beside the seated man. “Yes, Efulefu?”

“Tell me. What do you want?”

Nza hesitated. How many times had he greeted him this way? How many times had they had this single conversation? A hundred? More? He knew the correct answer. Nothing. I want nothing. But it wasn’t true.

And the Walker wanted the truth from him.

“I want to be like you, Efulefu. ...”

There was no movement, no sign that he had heard, only silence. Then, when he had begun to think he would not answer, his answer came. “You must want nothing. You must learn to row as if the boat were not there.”

He frowned. Boats ... He had never understood it, nor had the Walker chosen to explain. Eventually he had gone and asked Aluko, but Aluko had murmured something about earth, and about seas made of water, and he had laughed and told him he must be wrong, because a sea was made of sand. . .

.

“Nza?”

“Yes, Efulefu?”

“Are you happy, Nza?”

Happy? Was he happy?

“I am content, Efulefu.”

“Good. Be content with the moment.”

Again he did not fully understand. Sometimes, like now, he was content. But there were times when he would wake from dreams of the burning half-track and see the broken visor of his mother’s helmet clearly and he would cry out, the pain so deep, so rooted in him. . . . “Nza?”

“Yes, Efulefu?”

“Do you miss your mother?”

ebert took off his helmet and hung it on the rack beside his bunk, then turned, facing the tiny square of mirror. His room was tiny, like a cell, but it was enough. He had no need for more. “Well?” he asked himself.

Two years he’d lived among them now. At least, two years by the measure of his old life back on Chung Kuo. Here on Mars only a single year had passed—one long, cold circuit about the distant sun. He smiled, then spoke the words that had come to mind. “When the wheel turns, all things become their opposite.” A year back they had sent ships from Chung Kuo to assess the damage. Now more had come, this time with a complement of settlers. They were to rebuild Kang Kua City ... to start again. Which was why they met tonight. Why all the ndichie of the fifteen tribes had gathered, here at lapygia where the first settlement had been built. And what would they decide?

“Efulefu?”

He turned, facing the doorway. The boy stood there, his eyes like two tiny moons in the perfect blackness of his face. “Yes, Nza, what is it?”

“Chief Echewa wishes to speak with you. In his quarters. He asks . . .”

“Yes?”

He saw how the boy swallowed, his eyes taking a fearful little glance at the black case that lay on his bunk.

“He asks if you would bring it—you know, the Machine.”

“Ah . . .” He nodded. “Tell him I’ll come. And, Nza?”

“Yes, Efulefu?”

“You must not be afraid of it. It is but a way of seeing things. The world of men is full of such artificialities. However strange they seem, they are all part of the great Tao.”

The boy bobbed his head. “Yes, Efulefu.” But Ebert could see that he was far from convinced. For him, as for many among the Osu, the Machine seemed like some kind of powerful sorcery and he was certain that, were he not there, they would have destroyed it at the earliest opportunity. And yet without it...

He turned and picked it up. It was so light. At times it seemed almost weightless.

“Go on, Nza,” he said, knowing the boy was still waiting there. “Tell Aluko that I’m coming.”

“Yes, Efulefu . . .”

Ebert smiled. Nza—“tiny bird”—was a good boy. In time he might become a Chief, even perhaps ndichie. That was, if they had any time. If the new settlers didn’t seek—like those before them—to destroy the Osu. He went out, following the narrow passageway that had been cut from the solid rock, until he came to Echewa’s quarters. Aluko was sitting on his bunk, alone in the four-man cell.

“Where are the others?”

“They’ve gone to eat,” the big black man answered. “Besides, I thought it best that we spoke alone.”

“Ah . . .” He turned, closing the airtight door, then looked back at his friend. “There’s something you want to say that you don’t want them to hear, right?”

Echewa nodded. His eyes went to the case. “And then there’s that. . . .”

Ebert sat, facing him, the case in his lap. “They’ll ask you,” Echewa said. “They’ll want to use that. You know they will.”

“I know.”

“So what will you say?”

“That the greatest power—te—can only be grasped by those who do not seek it. That force cannot be used to attain it.” Echewa sighed. “That may be so, my brother. But for once wise words won’t do. There is a new threat. . . .”

“You’ve lived with such threats before.”

“That’s true. Yet things have changed. The tribes expected—“ “—that the Seven would leave them be? To live in peace forever? No, old friend. It is not in their nature to let things be. They must meddle all the while. And so now.”

“Then what will you do?”

“Me? I will do nothing. I am not ndichie. I cannot decide your fate, Aluko Echewa. You forget. I am Efulefu, the ‘Worthless One.’ “ “Acch ...” For a moment Echewa’s dark face creased with frustration, then, seeing how Ebert was watching him—calmly, a small ironical smile on his lips—he laughed. “Okay. What are you really going to say?” Ebert’s smile broadened. “You will have to wait and see, brother Aluko.”

He patted the case. “You and I both.”

the old han sat across from Ebert, looking down at the wei chi board and stroking his neatly trimmed beard.

“You are improving,” he said without looking up. “Even so, I would place good odds on Nza beating you each time.”

Ebert laughed. “That bad, eh?”

Tuan Ti Fo looked up. “Bad? Did I say that was bad? No ... in fact the boy is very good. He has a natural aptitude for the game. He watches and learns. Have you not noticed how closely he watches?” Ebert nodded, sobered by the thought. “Yes . . . but I didn’t know he played.”

“I play him often.”

“Really?” Ebert frowned. “You mean . . . without the Machine?”

The old man laughed. “You think I live in there?”

“No, I”—he looked down—“I don’t know where you live.” “Behind it all,” Tuan Ti Fo answered, placing a white stone in Bhang, the south, “among the unnamed.”

“Ah. . .”

The old Han’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Sometimes I think you take it all too seriously, Hans Ebert. You have come far these past two years, yet you are still only at the beginning of the path. It is as you said to young Nza. You must learn to row as if the boat were not there. Knowing is but the half of it. Now you must learn to forget. And to laugh. You have forgotten how to laugh.”

He stared at the old man a long, long time, then nodded. It was true. He laughed, yes, but it was the laughter of politeness or surprise, not the full belly-laugh of enjoyment. Darkness ... all he’d known these past few years was darkness, yet that, too, was only half of it. He placed a black stone on the board, in the north, in Tsu. “Ah . . .” Tuan Ti Fo said, chuckling to himself. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you do have a sense of humor after all.”

it was some while since he had used the Machine other than to talk to the

Old Man and for once he felt ill at ease as he spoke to the glowing

screen.

“Machine . . . Show me the newcomers. Show me their leader.” At once an image formed. A big, corpulent man—a Han, naturally—looked on as two servants filled an ornate-looking bath. Ebert stared, surprised by the wasteful use of so much water.

“Focus on his face. I want to see ...”

His voice faded as the Han’s fat-jowled face filled the screen. It wasn’t a perfect image, for the camera viewpoint was above and to the right, yet it was good enough. He could see, as clearly as if the flesh were labeled, that this was a vain man, a cruel man—one who would not hesitate to carry out his orders, whatever they entailed.

Ebert narrowed his eyes.

“Who is he?”

“His name is Liang Yu and he is Hsien L’ing, Chief Magistrate, of the new settlement. Would you like his past record?” He nodded. At once a summary of Liang Yu’s career appeared on the screen.

“Would you like to know his vices?”

He smiled at the Machine’s understanding. “No. That’s all I need. By the way . . . are you still in touch with Chung Kuo?” “Chung Kuo, Titan, the Asteroids ... As long as the satellite links are open I can go where I wish.”

“I see.” Ebert hesitated; looked away. “The Marshal’s daughter . . . did she get back safely?”

“Jelka Tolonen? You wish to see her?”

He looked back at the screen, surprised. “Is that possible?” There was a moment’s delay, and then the image of a young, blond-haired woman appeared on the screen. The room she was in was almost dark, the only light coming from a small glow-lamp that hovered near where she sat at a desk, writing. He studied her awhile, fascinated, his eyes filled with pain and a longing that the years had not purged from him; then, satisfied, he nodded. The Machine, sensing the movement, blanked the screen.

“You want to know what she’s been doing?”

“No. I—I don’t want to pry.”

“And the meeting tonight. Will you go to it? Will you take me there?”

Ebert frowned. “Should I?”

“What does the Old Man say?” “He says be patient.” “Ah ...” The Machine seemed to pause, as if considering the mat-ter, then spoke again. “Perhaps this once the Old Man is right.”

at the midpoint of the night they gathered beneath the table rock, the Eldest of the ndichie standing on the ledge above them, one hand raised, facing the umunna, the gathered elders of the Osu. In their old-fashioned, heavy suits they seemed like ghosts, or like the crew of some long-abandoned ship, the metallic strips of their helmets glinting in the faint light of two glow-lamps. “Brothers . . .” the Eldest said, his voice carried on their suit mikes—a low, gruff voice, heavy with ancient inflections. “They are here. They are back. What are we to do?”

“Destroy them,” said one.

“Hide,” said another.

“Greet them,” said a third.

They turned, looking to the one who had spoken last. It was Ebert.

The Eldest took a step toward him, then beckoned him up onto the rock.

Ebert climbed up, then turned to face the ndichie.

“Speak. . . .” murmured a dozen, twenty voices.

“What do we fear?” he asked.

“That they will hunt us down,” one of the ndichie to his left answered.

“That they will kill our wives and children. That the Osu will be no

more.”

“And how might we prevent this?”

“Destroy them,” the same voice answered.

“Is that the only way? Is ochu the only answer the Osu have?”

Ochu . . . Murder. There, he had said it.

“Self-defense,” the same voice answered him. “We kill to live.”

“Ah ...” Ebert nodded. “And that is right, neh?”

“Not right. But necessary. Us or them.”

“And if I could prevent them from hunting the Osu?” There was a low murmur from among the ndichie. It was clearly what they had been hoping for.

“Tell us, Tsou Tsai Hei,” one called to him. “How can this be done?” “Listen . . .” he said, and as he did, a figure appeared at his side— the figure of an old and wizened Han, his gray hair flowing in the bitter wind, his eyes twinkling in the airless atmosphere.

liang yu, Hsien Ling of the new settlement, sat up with a start, spilling water over the side of the bath.

“Who the hell are you?”

Tuan Ti Fo bowed, a faint smile on his face. “Forgive me, Magistrate Liang. I did not mean to frighten you. But you are such a busy man. You are so seldom alone. I thought—“ Liang’s face was dark with anger. “Who the fuck let you in?” “Ah . . .” Tuan Ti Fo turned, looking about him, then shrugged. “I . . . seem to have let myself in. I am told I am good at that.” “A thief! . . . ahh, I understand.” Frowning fiercely, Liang sat right forward, gripping the edges of the bath. “So where in the gods’ names did you come from? Were you a stowaway?”

“Goodness, no. I live here.”

“Here? What... in Kang Kua City? But I thought—“

“Oh, no. Not here. Or rather, here, but not only here. On Mars, I mean.” Sticking out his chin Liang stood and stepped out of the bath, scattering water everywhere. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around himself, then turned, facing Tuan Ti Fo again.

“This is outrageous, laojen. . . . Bursting in here without an invitation and—“ He stopped, his mouth open. He had put out his hand to prod Tuan Ti Fo in the chest and had seen it pass through the old man. “Aiya!” he cried, his voice trembling. “A ghost!” “Not at all,” Tuan Ti Fo said, and, raising his right hand, pushed Liang back firmly with the palm.

Liang Yu stared at where he’d been touched, astonished, then looked up again, his left eye twitching.

“Who are you?”

Tuan smiled, then bowed. “Forgive me, Magistrate Liang ... let me introduce myself. I am Tuan Ti Fo, Citizen of Mars and a friend of the Osu. . . .”

echewa shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve arranged it. ... What do you mean, you’ve arranged it?”

“It’s done,” Ebert answered him, smiling.

“But how do you knowl Have you been to Kang Kua?” “No. But there will be no trouble. Not now. We shall live in peace from here on, the Han and ourselves. They shall live in the Cities and we on the Plains.”

“And the settlers know of this?”

“We have their word.”

Echewa shook his head. “Are you certain they won’t come for us?”

“I am certain, brother Aluko. There will be no trouble now.”

When Echewa had gone, the boy slipped back into the room.

“Well?” he asked. “Did he believe you?”

Ebert smiled. “Not yet. But he will. As the days pass.” He laughed, imagining how it had been. When Magistrate Liang had switched on his comset to talk to his duty captain, there had been Tuan Ti Fo. When he had tried to patch in to the interplanetary satellite link, there once more was Old Tuan, grinning back at him. Wherever he looked, there would be Tuan, staring back at him.

The new settlement was effectively isolated. Were they to send a message back to Chung Kuo, trying to warn them about what was happening here, it would be intercepted and changed . . . instantly. They could say nothing, do nothing, without the Machine knowing. And what the Machine knew, Tuan Ti Fo also knew.

For a time they would be resentful—would feel themselves prisoners, perhaps—yet as time passed and no harm came to them, they would realize that the “ghost” of the old Han was a benevolent spirit and there would come a day when they would step outside their Cities and greet the Osu. A day of reconciliation.

He turned, looking at the boy, then pointed to the wei chi set on the corner shelf.

“Would you like a game, Nza? I’m told you play quite well.”