TUN-HUANG Page 4

“When barbarians begin to expand their territory, they immediately imitate other cultured nations and make a big display of themselves. The Hsi-hsia are just such barbarians. They are not a very superior race.”

  “I beg to differ with you. I think the Hsi-hsia are a people which has the potential for becoming a very great nation. As Ho Liang predicted, someday Hsi-hsia will present a great threat to China,” said Hsing-te. He felt no compunction about expressing his thoughts. He felt more weight and substance behind his present words than he had felt in his dream. Even the common woman he had met at the market place had possessed that certain characteristic which would make Hsi-hsia a great power. That strange composure even in the face of death—certainly that attitude could not be hers alone. Just as her deep, dark eyes were a racial trait, so, too, that mysterious quality must be universal among the Hsi-hsia.

  “In any case, I’m busy now.” The official spoke coldly and dismissed him. Hsing-te realized that he had offended the man. For all his efforts he left the office only with the knowledge that Hsi-hsia writing was still unknown in China.

  The director had shown little interest in Hsi-hsia writing, but Hsing-te could not easily dismiss the mystery of those letters which had come so unexpectedly into his hands. Asleep or awake, he was haunted by the enigma of those symbols.

  Hsing-te had no reason to remain any longer in the capital, but somehow he could not bestir himself to prepare for his trip home. He was not depressed because he could not return with glory, nor was he discouraged because of his failure in the examination. The wish to take the examination again was gone; he had a new goal.

  The fascination of the strange writing grew in him, and frequently he would pull out the cloth fragment. As he stared at the symbols, he wished that he could somehow read them. From what the woman had told him, he guessed that it was the official document required in Hsi-hsia—either an identification card or a travel permit. The words on it were probably of little significance, but to Hsing-te they seemed to contain some profound, hidden meaning not found in any Chinese classic. Whenever he studied the characters, the sight of the brazen, naked Hsi-hsia woman came to his mind.

  Hsing-te decided that he must somehow learn to read those thirty characters, and he was willing to do anything to accomplish this. Until now, passing the civil service examination had been the center of his existence. Now, that dream was gone. In its place was this overwhelming preoccupation with the country of the Hsi-hsia. He wanted to read their writing and to tread their land. He wanted to live among them.

  To Hsing-te the Hsi-hsia were a mysterious people. In that northern country there must exist some vital, powerful element, a quality that defied definition. He wanted to go there and experience it for himself. His inherent singlemindedness had been unwittingly transformed by the woman into this obsession with Hsi-hsia, and the course of his life was completely altered. His desire to go there was unsuppressable.

  CHAPTER II

  In January of the following year, 1027, Hsing-te reached a walled town near Ling-chou. Nearly half a year had slipped by since he had left K’ai-feng in early summer. The town was a frontier garrison of the Sung army, but until a few years before, it had been a nameless group of twenty or thirty houses. Now it was a bustling walled town, overflowing with troops and newly arrived natives. About twenty miles to the north was Ling-chou, which had once been a frontier base, established during the T’ang period under the regional commander of the north. However, Ling-chou had fallen into Hsi-hsia hands twenty-five years before.

  West of the garrison were the Four Commands of the West and the Wu-liang territory, which had originated during the reign of Emperor Wu of the Han dynasty and served as the corridor connecting China with Central Asia. Since the Han era, China had administered these western territories from this frontier garrison. Years before, there had been a regional commander in Liang-chou who controlled this corridor. Later, when the office of Regional Commander of the Mercenaries was created in Sha-chou, the administration was transferred to him. In both cases, this area had been under Chinese domination. Later, there were periods when the Turfans and the Uighurs occupied this land, after which it never again belonged to China. At present, various tribes had gathered together in their own respective groups and formed numerous small kingdoms. The tribe which prided itself most on its strength was the Hsi-hsia, which had its main garrison in Hsing-ch’ing. Besides the Hsi-hsia, there was a tribe of Turfans based in Liang-chou, a tribe of Uighurs with its base in Kan-chou, and a Chinese, or Han, tribe based in westernmost Sha-chou.

  Hsing-te could hardly believe that he was still on Chinese soil in this northerly garrison. There were very few Chinese living here, and they were overwhelmingly outnumbered by the various tribes who had formed settlements within the walled city.

  On the way to this garrison, Hsing-te had passed through several of the seven fortified towns under its jurisdiction. There were so many foreign faces among the defense troops in each that he felt he was in a foreign land.

  During the past six months, Hsing-te had picked up some of the languages of the various tribes. He made the acquaintance of young Chinese who spoke languages of Turkish and Tangut origin, and traveling with them had given him the opportunity of practicing these languages. He was not yet fluent, but he could speak enough of the Uighur, Hsi-hsia, and Turfan languages to get by. But he still had not once seen the writing of the Hsi-hsia. He could not even establish whether or not the Hsi-hsia actually did have characters. The Hsi-hsia who lived in Chinese territory could not be considered true Hsi-hsia. One could not deny that Tangut blood flowed in their veins, but they were not the native Hsi-hsia who had recently formed a new nation and were fast becoming a great power. These Hsi-hsia, living outside of their own country, were only ignorant peasants—the overflow and out-casts of Hsi-hsia who could not be absorbed. They were, in fact, neither Chinese nor Hsi-hsia.

  Hsing-te rented a room in a temple in the northeast corner of the walled town and made a living as a scribe, writing reports on the annual tribute and compulsory military service. In spring he planned to journey on to the Wu-liang territory. It snowed for four days in January, six days in February, and three days in March.

  Although it was winter, the garrison was still in utter confusion due to the continuous arrivals and departures of troops. The soldiers were a mixture of many different races.

  Hsing-ch’ing, the Hsi-hsia base, was about forty miles from here. This was the “Urgai” the Hsi-hsia woman at the marketplace had spoken of. For some years Hsi-hsia troops in Hsing-ch’ing had shown open enmity toward the Chinese army, which also returned the feeling. But Hsi-hsia was busy subjugating the tribes around it and did not want war with China. China, in turn, feared that in case of open conflict with Hsi-hsia, China’s greater enemy, Khitan, might wish to intervene. Despite these fears, the situation was so tense that a large-scale conflict between the two powers appeared imminent.

  One early spring day when the sun was beginning to warm the fertile plains surrounding the town, Hsing-te applied to a public official in the garrison for permission to enter Liang-chou. During the winter he had negotiated with different Uighur caravan leaders to take him with them and had secretly decided to enter Liang-chou with one of them. But three days after he had made his application he was notified that permission had been denied.

  In Liang-chou there was a small Chinese clan with the surname Chêpu, who were regarded as a race apart from the Turfans. This clan had formed a small nation within the walled city. About five hundred of these Chinese families lived in and around the city, farming the land together with the other tribes. This was in the eastern part of the area called “West of the River,” an important trade route. It was also said that “nowhere in the world are animals as abundant as in Liang-chou.” From ancient times it had been famous for its thoroughbred horses. Because of this, frequent conflicts over control of the area had arisen between the surrounding tribes and the natives. The Hsi-hsia had also continually invaded
this land to gain possession of it. In 1015 Hsi-hsia troops overcame the large landowners and held the territory briefly. However, the natives, aided by Uighurs, attacked the Hsi-hsia army, and it was forced to retreat. Despite that setback the Hsi-hsia continued making annual incursions, burning homes and seizing horses. They did not dare remain long, and for a reason—they knew China would certainly attack, since China had the most to lose should Hsi-hsia take over the area.

  Liang-chou was, therefore, a strategic point for China, for Hsi-hsia, and for the Uighurs. Both China and Hsi-hsia depended upon Liang-chou for the major supply of their horses, and the Uighurs made large profits from selling them.

  If an all-out war between Hsi-hsia and China were to erupt, the starting point would be in Liang-chou. Everyone familiar with the frontier conditions agreed on that point. Hsing-te’s request to enter Liang-chou had been refused because it appeared that Hsi-hsia might begin a full-scale invasion of Liang-chou any time, and China had stepped up the activities of her troops.

  It was not that Hsing-te was ignorant of these conditions; he simply did not think that war was imminent despite the increase in troop movements. In Liang-chou, a great number of the Hsi-hsia lived with the natives, the Chinese, and other tribes, and one could travel freely between Liang-chou and Hsing-ch’ing, the Hsi-hsia capital. Because he was Chinese, Hsing-te could not go directly to Hsing-ch’ing, but once he had entered Liang-chou he would be able to find a means of getting there.

  One morning Hsing-te arose before dawn and led his horse from the stable to the back door. This horse, which he had purchased in Kan-chou, was his third since leaving K’aifeng. He began to load his personal effects onto the horse. Just then the manservant employed by the temple arrived to question Hsing-te about his activities. Hsing-te faced the man, who stood there like a shadow in the half light, and told him frankly that he wished to go to Liang-chou and was planning to slip out by mingling among the Uighur caravans. The servant was astonished, but stared steadily at Hsing-te’s slight figure.

  “If you’re discovered, they’ll cut your head off,” he said.

  “If I were afraid of losing my head, I couldn’t do anything,” Hsing-te replied. He expected some danger, but he was not afraid.

  “Instead of worrying about me, won’t you help me load?” Hsing-te pointed to the bundles at his feet. To Hsing-te, who was not strong, the immediate problem was to load his goods onto the horse.

  As the eastern horizon began to lighten, Hsing-te joined one of the Uighur caravans setting off for the walled city. This caravan had twenty camels and thirty horses. Hsing-te followed at the rear of the line. He didn’t have an official permit, but he was able to slip through the gate without any problem since he had arranged for the caravan chief to bribe the guard with a bolt of Hang-chou pongee cloth.

  The caravan headed west across the plains. At first, the land was cultivated, and for a while budding trees could be seen all around, but as noon approached, they found themselves in a world of grayness. Nothing green could be seen anywhere. There was no wind, but the back of the caravan was hidden by clouds of dust. Toward evening the caravan reached the basin of the Yellow River. All during the second day they followed the river, at some distance from it. On the third day they reached the plateaus of the Ho-lan mountains. On the afternoon of the following day, the caravans finally descended from the plateaus and entered the rich plains. After leaving the plains on the fifth day they moved into the desert, the most difficult part of the journey.

  For two days the caravans plodded through the desert. Then the desert gave way to greenery as they began to approach Liang-chou. On the final night, as the men encamped for the last time on the slope of a hill, they were rudely awakened by the distant sound of hordes of riders.

  Hsing-te burst out of his tent and was met by a sight of hundreds, or thousands—he could not really tell—of cavalry forces passing by. The moon was not out, but there was a misty half light, in which the dark forms of men and horses galloping toward Liang-chou seemed like the flow of a great river. One after another these groups passed by.

  “It’s a battle, a battle!” someone cried.

  When they were sure that no more were coming, the Uighurs, who had been waiting with bated breaths, jumped into action. They folded up their tents immediately and rounded up their camels and horses. In the biting cold of the dawn air, the men frantically loaded their goods.

  As the caravan was about to change its course northward, away from Liang-chou, the men again heard the reverberations of hoofbeats and the whinnying of military mounts. This time, too, the cavalry was some distance from the caravan. The problem was that the troops were going along the same northward course that the caravan was about to take. It was hard to know whether the battle was taking place in the north or in the south. And neither could one tell whether the cavalry that had first passed and the one which had just gone by were enemies or allies.

  For a whole day the caravan kept changing course. When they went south, troops came from the south; when they turned north, military forces again appeared. The same situation faced them in the east and the west. They couldn’t distinguish which forces belonged to which country. Many other caravans were in a similar predicament. The tiny, distant outlines of these dotted the knolls and slopes of the hills.

  After wasting the whole day going around in circles, the Uighur caravan stopped on the slope of a hill similar to the one they had camped on the previous night. The group discussed their situation and decided to continue toward their original destination—Liang-chou. Late in the night the long caravan of camels, horses, and men set off toward the west.

  As before, the sound of troop movements, far and near, could be heard, but the men ignored it and pressed on. At the approach of dawn, the caravan was abruptly thrown into disorder. The horses reared, and the camels tried to run off. A hail of arrows fell around them.

  In the midst of this unexpected confusion, the caravan chief ordered his men to leave the camels, horses, and goods, and to try to escape. The men scattered into the plains toward the west.

  Hsing-te alone did not abandon his horse. He could not bear to desert the beast. Besides, it was loaded with all his daily necessities. Hsing-te started to run, leading the horse with its load. He was sorely tempted to ride, but he didn’t care to be a target for the arrows.

  When the sun was high, he found himself on a sandy, white salt dune. The sand glistened blue or white in the sunlight. Hsing-te stopped his horse and had some breakfast. Just then, he saw a group of horses and camels approaching from the direction he had just come. At first he thought that a caravan was heading toward him, but somehow the movements of the group appeared to lack leadership and the group was disorganized.

  As they came closer, Hsing-te jumped up in surprise. They were the same camels and horses that the Uighurs had left behind that morning in the middle of the plains. When these animals came up to Hsing-te, they stopped as though this was the most natural thing to do. One camel had an arrow stuck in its back.

  When Hsing-te had rested, he started to walk with the abandoned animals; this time he was at the head of a long caravan. That afternoon he heard war cries in the distance. The battlefield seemed to be close by. The whole area was full of hillocks undulating like waves, and Hsing-te thought that he might be very close to Liang-chou, but he could not see anything resembling that city.

  When he discovered a small spring surrounded by a few trees in a vale between the hills, he stopped the camels and horses and decided to camp there, although it was still early. He was completely exhausted. He slept on the grass with the strong sun beating upon him.

  He could not tell how much time had passed. His sleep was broken by the plaintive cries of the camels and the whinnying of the horses. The surroundings were so brightly lit up that they seemed dreamlike. It was undoubtedly night, but the bodies of the camels and horses appeared to have caught fire as they stood against the red glare. The resonant, earth-shaking war cries seemed almo
st hushed in the startling clarity.

  Hsing-te raced up a hill. From that vantage point, he saw a fiery column shoot into the air in the wide plains not far from where he stood. Reflected in its glare was the movement of a large cavalry force. This was unmistakably a battle between the main strength of the two armies, but Hsing-te could only see a small portion of the fighting. The scene reflected in the light was only the orderly advance of the cavalry troops thrusting forward; several units emerged from the darkness one moment, and then sank into the shadows again.

  Suddenly, the surroundings were illuminated twice as strongly as before. On the hill directly to the right of Hsing-te, another column of fire shot into the air. Simultaneously, frenzied war shouts, eerie and inhuman, rose up in the immediate vicinity. Then Hsing-te saw hundreds of cavalry-men advance; he could see so clearly that he could make out each figure leaning forward in the saddle. The battle cries now rose from all the valleys.

  Hsing-te rushed back to his campsite and began to walk, leading his horse. The camels and other horses followed. He felt he must somehow slip out of the battlefield. But there was nothing he could do about it yet. It was too bright. Fierce battles had developed in every direction; a stupendous number of men and horses were in violent motion. Frantically, Hsing-te tried to flee into the shadows. No matter where he went, however, the same scene was repeated. Whether enveloped in darkness or exposed to the blinding light, the battlefields were all around him. When all was dark, the whizzing of arrows penetrated the night with chilling sharpness.

  When Hsing-te resigned himself to the fact that he could neither help himself nor the camels and horses, he slackened his pace and meandered along in the direction his feet were pointing. He decided to go on without trying to avoid anything, no matter what obstacles lay ahead. Doing this could not possibly be worse than taking no action at all. Leading his horse, he went alternately from the blinding light of the fiery columns to the pitch-dark shadows, all the while walking steadily in what he thought was a westerly direction. Hsing-te passed through areas strewn with corpses, climbed hills, and cut through marshes.