The Blue Mountain (The Forbidden List Book 2) Read online

  At first, each stair was no challenge and his movements were smooth, one step to the next. However, after ten or so, the pain in his knuckles began and he noted little smudges of blood on the stair he had just left. At twenty, his arms began to tremble and the smooth movements became ragged. After thirty, the pain in his lower back changed from a dull aching warmth to red hot needles. Every few steps now, he had to stop and rest. Each time restarting became much harder. At forty steps, his legs trembled, his arms shook and the sweat dripped off his brow, onto the dry stone steps. At fifty, his arms gave way and he collapsed. The edges bit into his legs and abdomen, they scratched his face. He didn’t care. The hard stone felt as soft as his mattress at home. He drew in great gulps of air and closed his eyes.

  “What have you stopped for?” Shifu’s voice called up from the bottom of the steps. “You are only halfway. Get a move on.”

  Haung sucked more air into his lungs, rested on the steps for a few moments and let the fatigue wash out of his muscles. He lifted himself once again onto his knuckles, wincing at the stinging pain that shot up his arms, and began to move. Each shift of leg or arm was a torture for his body and mind.

  “I know it hurts,” Shifu called. “Block it out. Breathe through it. Let your unconscious mind complete the movements. Your conscious mind can dwell on something else. The pain is nothing, just your body telling your brain that it does not like what you are doing to it. Ignore the pain and push beyond. There will be times in battle when you must push beyond the restrictions your body imposes. It must become second nature.”

  Haung raised his right hand on to the next step, feeling another needle of pain. As his weight moved to rest upon that arm, he felt it tremble. He took a breath and focused his thoughts upon the chosen image. Each Taiji chose one image or object to be their focus. Something that did not change, was easy to recall and simple to imagine. An object that, even in the heat and confusion of battle, could be brought to mind without effort or thought. Haung had worried at choosing his. One night he had woken in a state of alarm, covered in sweat and his heart beating a rapid rhythm, the image fast in his mind. That image had been part of him for over a year, it was impossible to forget and all too easy to recall. Shifu had made for him, again as every Taiji had, a small medallion with the representation of an image upon it.

  He focused upon it. Bringing each shape and contour to the forefront of his mind. Creating it in exact detail. The effort of concentration numbing the pain in his limbs and joints. Focused upon the task, his body took over, pushing him up the steep stair case.

  He was still aware. The pain had not gone. The trembling was not forgotten. It was all still there in his mind, but the image took all of his concentration to maintain, his thoughts could not be distracted by the discomforts of the body. On and on he pushed and the shape in his mind never wavered. He moved it around in his mind, examining it from every angle. It was perfect and it hurt. It always did. A small price to pay for everything that had been done.

  “Let it go.” Shifu’s voice penetrated his thoughts. He pushed it aside. Nothing could distract his focus.

  “Haung,” the voice again and he let it drift from his conscious thought. The image demanded his full attention.

  There was a dull pain in his head, but the image would not let him go.

  “Wake up.” The voice was insistent and Haung could sense the urgency in it. He tried to listen more closely, but again his attention was dragged back to the image.

  “Now,” and Haung felt a burning pain in his nose. His arms collapsed under him and his chin struck the stone floor sending sparks and stars spinning through his head. The vision shattered, leaving him lost and bereft.

  “You have to learn to let it go,” Shifu’s voice said. “Go and rest. Come back later tonight.”

  Haung lay on the floor, gasping for breath, the remnants of the smelling salts, acrid in his nostrils, and blood from the cut on his chin dripping onto the top step.

  * * *

  Haung sat on the thin mat. His legs were crossed and his arms rested comfortably on his knees. His cupped hands held the object of his focus. In the four corners of the breezeless room, tall candles sent forth a steady, soft yellow glow. The rest of the room was bare of furniture.

  Breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, he concentrated on crafting the mental image.

  “No, no,” Shifu said. “It should not be an effort.”

  Haung opened his eyes and stared at the grey haired man sat, in similar pose, opposite him. “How could it not be an effort?”

  “Haung, you chose it.” Shifu gave a slight smile.

  “So?”

  “So it is yours. Once chosen it cannot be changed. It is yours forever. You were told to think of something that you could bring to mind without effort. Something you could see every time you closed your eyes. Something that has meaning. Such a thing should not be an effort to recall.”

  “But Shifu, you are asking more than that.”

  “Of course I am. Haung, being a Taiji is not easy. There are many challenges to overcome. Surely you are not afraid of a little effort?”

  “No, Shifu.”

  “Good, then try again. Create the image in your mind. Examine it from all sides. Make sure that it is flawless. You are finding it hard to let go of an imperfect image. The test of the stairs showed that. You must learn to create and destroy the picture you create, and do so without hesitation. Now, try again.”

  Haung stilled his breathing and listened to the beat of his heart, its steady rhythm marking time. When he could feel each pulse of blood race through his body he began to create the image. The hardest part was the beginning. His mind must be empty of all thought. Every time he felt that he was getting to the stage when he could begin, a stray thought would cross his mind. An image of Jiao, of his boy, a memory of the day, or just the thought that he was finally ready to begin.

  “The exertion of the tests, the mindless repetition of physical activity, the need to put your body beyond the pain, all aid process, but Haung, you need to be able to reach the same state whenever you wish it.”

  Haung rubbed his thumb over the object in his palms, feeling its contours and sought the dark place in his mind, the place where thought would not, could not, go. He felt his thoughts brush against the locked vaults where he had carefully contained his knowledge of the void. He could sense the cold that emanated from those thick doors. It called to him.

  “Leave the void alone,” Shifu said. “To be Taiji is look within, not without. To make the very best of your mind and body. Not to rely on outside forces for your power. Pass it by, Haung.”

  Haung dropped deeper into his mind, letting go the conscious effort. In the recesses, the dark places where men rarely go, there was power. He had felt it before. In itself it was not scary. What he could do with it was.

  “The choice is yours,” Shifu said. “Just know that you are a good man, Haung. You will make the right choices. Do not be scared of yourself. Create the key and take the power that is yours.”

  Haung let his conscious mind drift even deeper and there it was. In the dark corner of his mind and memory, the image he had to create. It was there all the time, but he had buried it beyond accidental memory, beyond the chance that it would creep into his waking mind. He did not have to create it, only allow it to be seen and understood. Half the task was letting it be seen, the other half to let it go.

  It rose from the mists and fog of memory, became clearer, the lines more defined and the colours refined. With the eye of his mind he gazed at it, drank it in and choked back a sob.

  “It is the key to your power, as much a part of you as your hands and feet.” Shifu’s voice sounded soft in his mind. “Now, let it go. Return to the now and rest. When you are ready we will do this again and again until you can find the key and unlock your power within a heartbeat.”

  Chapter 7

  “We have to find Boqin,” Zhou shouted as he stumbled down the worn path
.

  “Go. I'll catch you up,” Xióngmāo panted.

  Zhou turned around to see her leaning against the trunk of a tree, holding her ribs. “You're hurt?”

  “I'll be fine, Zhou,” she said, even as she sank lower down the tree, “just tired.”

  Zhou ran back up the path and crouched down next to her. In her eyes, he could see the pain she was trying to mask with a weak smile. “Just tell me where it hurts.”

  “Zhou,” her voice was just a whisper, “they have not hurt me physically, they have damaged and drained my Qi. I need to rest and recover.”

  “Not here you don't. I need to get you to someone who knows more than I do.” Zhou stood and moved a little way from her. He sought the thread in his mind, the tiny strand of blue that was his link to the spirit. Grasping it with both hands he allowed his own Qi to swell from his centre. The spirit rushed down the filament and swept through his being. Strength flooded his limbs and his exhaustion fled. With care, he maintained the link but limited the flow of Qi – too much and he would wear himself out, too little and it would not be enough for the task.

  “Zhou, no. You haven't recovered enough,” she raised a frail hand towards him.

  “Stop talking,” Zhou bent down, slipped his arms under her and lifted. She felt light, incredibly so. “I still have to get used to this.”

  “Be careful,” her voice fading and, when he looked down to check, he saw her eyes had closed. Her breathing, shallow but steady.

  He cradled her in his arms as he ran down the trail. The renewed power in his legs enabling him to skip over the raised roots and loose stones, swiftly eating up the distance.

  The land dipped and the trail widened. Underfoot the ground changed from dirt and grass to carefully laid rectangular stone slabs as he entered the temple complex.

  The maze of wide streets and narrow alleyways between the one storey buildings told of a time when the temple was more densely populated. During his time in the library he had never come across a scroll that dated the construction of the temple. It seemed as though it had always been here and to suggest anything else was heresy. There were, in some rooms, painted scrolls hanging on the walls that showed the hustle and bustle of the temple at the height of its power. Men and women of every colour, size and fashion, were depicted conversing, buying and selling in the market square, playing games. On the finest scrolls, ghostly images overlaid some of the figures, indications of the symbiosis of spirit and person.

  “Zhou, put me down. Save your strength,” she said.

  “It’s not far. Stop talking.” He smiled down at the small woman in his arms. In truth, the power in his arms and chest was intoxicating. He felt as if he could carry her forever. He recalled picking up his wife, swinging her around during the early days of their marriage, before Shui was born, when they had time to dance, planting a kiss on her welcoming lips. Zhou stumbled, his legs tangling, and fell to the floor, spilling Xióngmāo onto the stone slabs. She cried out it pain.

  Zhou’s hold on the spirit fled and a wave of tiredness swept through him. He dragged in a ragged breath and looked to Xióngmāo. She was lying on her side, her face towards him. Her eyes were closed. He scrambled on all fours over to her. Pressing his fingers against her delicate throat he checked her pulse, it was strong and steady. He sat back for a moment, gathered his strength and reached again for the thread of blue. It was there, he could see it in his mind’s eye and he sent his ghostly fingers towards it, to grasp and pull it to him. He could not reach it. He tried again. Picturing the thread and fingers outstretched towards it, making to grab it and missing. The thread remained out of reach.

  Zhou sighed and with no other options, slipped his arms beneath Xióngmāo’s unconscious form. Lifting her, he set out at a much slower pace in search of Boqin.

  * * *

  Zhou barged the door open with his back, shielding Xióngmāo, and staggered into the building.

  “What happened?” Boqin rushed over, reaching out to take Xióngmāo from Zhou’s arms.

  “We were attacked,” Zhou panted.

  Boqin laid Xióngmāo on the floor and bent over her. Zhou saw him check her pulse and then gently lift an eyelid. The great bear let out a sigh of relief.

  “Go and get a drink.” Boqin did not turn from Xióngmāo. “I’ll put her to bed. She needs rest. Then you can tell me what happened.”

  Zhou collapsed into one of the wooden chairs near the table and filled a cup with water from the clay jug. He was pouring a second cup when Boqin returned.

  “What attacked you?” Boqin asked.

  “Is she going to be all right?” Zhou said at the same time.

  “Yes, she just needs rest. She has expended a lot Qi and, from what she managed to tell me, some of it was drained from her. I didn’t get much else before she fell asleep again. What happened?” Boqin said.

  Zhou sat forward, pinching the bridge of his nose and started to explain.

  * * *

  “I’ve never heard of anything like this before.” Boqin sat back, a perplexed look in his eyes. “We must gather the others. Some of them may know what this means.”

  “Boqin,” Zhou said, “the horse creatures. They were the same. Can there be two of the same spirit?”

  “No,” Boqin shook his head, “there is only one spirit of each animal. One true spirit, at least. When you have travelled the Spirit World some more, you will see pale reflections of the Spirits. But of each animal, there is only one real spirit. All the animals of this world are born of that one. A Wu can only bond to the true spirit.”

  “Then how can there be more than one of those horse creatures?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t like it. Something has changed.” Boqin slapped his hands down upon the table. “I don’t like this at all. Come on. We have to find the others. Xióngmāo will be fine in a few days.”

  Boqin stood, his broad shoulders hunched with worry. Zhou followed suit and they left the building in search of the other Wu. As the door banged closed against its frame, the whole mountain shook.

  Zhou staggered and fell. The solid, dependable ground beneath his feet betrayed him. He steadied himself with a hand against a wall when the ground shook again. The rock below him bucked upwards, throwing him into the stone wall and depositing him face down on the path. The taste of blood in his mouth and the warmth of it against his face brought him back to consciousness. The shaking subsided and now, against the sky, great blooms of red erupted.

  He struggled to his feet, wiping away the blood from his face with the back of his hand. Zhou blinked a few times, fighting to rid himself of the double vision he seemed to be afflicted with.

  “What,” Zhou looked towards Boqin who was kneeling on the ground, “is happening?”

  Boqin turned back to Zhou who could now see that the great bear’s hands were touching the ground just as they had touched Xióngmāo’s neck earlier, seeking a pulse. “The mountain is under attack. I’ve summoned everyone. Stay here.”

  Boqin travelled. Zhou could not describe how he knew the bear’s spirit was no longer here. Maybe it was the way that the large man went as still as one of the bronze statues in the great hall. Or perhaps, the sudden chill on the air that brushed against the fine hairs on Zhou’s arms. Or the way the man’s body seemed to lose its focus, its solidity, to fade from view.

  “Not on your life.” Zhou spat the last of the blood from his mouth and reached for the thread.

  It seemed further away than ever before, but he forced himself to stretch further and further. His heart beat faster in chest and sweat broke out across his forehead. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. A ghostly finger caught the thread and hooked it. With great care he pulled it towards his palm and then closed his hand around it.

  Now, rather than pull it towards himself, he tried to do the opposite. He let the Qi swell from his stomach and pushed it along the thread. The blue filament grew brighter as his Qi surrounded it and began to rise. He could see it rise into
the far distance and he began to pull himself upwards. A creeping numbness rose from his toes and through his legs as he climbed. The thread widened into rope as he ascended.

  He climbed and climbed. Pulling his spirit body up, hand over hand, legs wrapped round the rope aiding when they could. His arms ached, his palms, pricked and scratched by the rope fibres, felt red raw. The air was becoming colder. It hurt to breathe as his ribs fought to suck in the thinning air.

  He climbed on, the numbness in his corporeal body now almost total and the pain in his spirit one growing beyond endurance. Like the stone steps, he had passed through the void, the coldest layer, the one closest to the earth, and into the next. He focused on the climb, ignoring the biting, the itching and the stabbing pain.

  Zhou passed into fire and wished for the cold to return. He pushed on. The rope blistering his hands and each breath was like swallowing burning lamp oil. He tried to blank out the smell of blackened skin, burnt hair, and closed his eyes to the cracked and weeping flesh on his hands. One hand over the other and pull. Grip the rope with charred legs and lift the next hand. Onwards, up and up.

  He was drowning. Water poured down his throat and into his lungs. At first, a blessed relief from the fire, quenching the flames and cooling his flesh. Then the instinctual panic and the rising fear, the heaving of lungs, the aching of ribs, as they searched for life-giving air and drew in only water. He clamped down upon the panic and forced his diaphragm to be still. His legs let go of the rope and kicked against the resistant liquid, powering upwards, hands on the rope as a guide.