Penghu, China 1921
“Hornsby,” blared Commissioner Sir Edmund Goodwin. “We have just received a nice murder case on which you can cut your teeth. It’s here in our British Zone of the Penghu International Settlement, so falls under our jurisdiction.” He slid a note across his desk to me. “I know you’ve only been in China a few weeks, but a good homicide will get you up to speed. I’ve sent for Fan Po, and he says he’ll give you a hand.”
“Thank you, Sir. Sitting around for the two months has been instructive, but tedious. I welcome something a little more active than reading municipal rule books.” I glanced at the note. “It says Malcolm Blackfield was shot to death in his own home.” I thought for a moment. “Isn’t that where my welcome aboard party was held?”
“Yes, it is. And you may remember Mrs. Blackfield. A strikingly beautiful Chinese woman, about twenty years the Squire’s junior.”
“If memory serves, Blackfield was about fifty, a bit on the robust side, gray hair, sideburns, and a rather impressive mustache.”
“And Mrs. Blackfield?” Commissioner Goodwin raised his eyebrows.
“As you say, a beautiful woman. I believe she wore a tight yellow dress, and her hair was done-up in an elaborate style with gold filigree combs.”
“You have a keen eye, Hornsby, and a memory for details. That ‘tight yellow dress’ is called a mandarin dress, and is becoming all the style here among the Chinese and British women.”
“It was very becoming, Sir.”
“Well, it appears that beautiful woman is now being held for the willful murder of her husband. You better get out there and see what’s what before the Penghu Municipal Police find out we’ve got her under house arrest. The squire is British and she’s Chinese, so we’ll have a fine stew to sort out before all is said and done. Interracial marriage is still not fully accepted by either the British or the Chinese.”
I saluted and made to leave. At the door, I turned and walked back to the Commissioner’s desk. “By the by, Sir, just who is Fan Po? Is he a government translator?”
Commissioner Goodwin chuckled. “Government translator? No, Hornsby, he’s a private citizen, but once Inspector Fan Po was known as the smartest detective on the Penghu Police force. I call him in when a Chinese is involved in some criminal activity in the Settlement. Or when our own men are at a loss.”
I nodded. “I understand, Sir. Thank you.”
I had reached the door when the Commissioner called, “You might do well to watch how he works, Hornsby. This is a long way from London.”
I was not pleased with working with a Chinese, even “the smartest detective on the Penghu Police force.” In London, I had been a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard, and had disliked working with any of the local force in the Providences. I may not have been “the smartest detective,” but I had had my successes.
And here I was, saddled with a Celestial on my first murder case in China.
As a Deputy Commissioner of Police, I’m allowed my own car and driver, so in about twenty minutes, we approached the Blackfield estate.
To me, the French Colonial Style of the Blackfield manor was ostentatious, short towers and red brick walls. British plane trees lined the drive which ended in a circle. I had my driver drop me at the massive dark oak front door, which was guarded by a British Colonial constable in white uniform and pith helmet.
The officer saluted and swung open the door. As I entered, I noted an elderly Chinese man in the foyer, speaking quietly to a younger man, also of Chinese appearance. The older gentleman was dressed in a dark brown English suit, beige vest, and gray fedora. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back.
The other man, much younger, was nodding respectfully. His dress was more traditional, a blue print Mandarin jacket, wide pants, and a small skull cap of red and black. He carried a canvas bag in his right hand.
As I stepped forward, both men stopped speaking, turned to me, and bowed.
“I’m Deputy Police Commissioner Hornsby. Who are you gentlemen?”
“Your servant, Fan Po, stands before you. Ling Yee, my son-in-law, is this young man. The esteemed Police Commissioner Sir Edmund Goodwin has asked us to assist you.”
I took off my hat, scratched my head, and sighed. “Very well. Where is the British police officer? I’d like to speak to him.”
We moved into a carpeted hallway, the walls displaying framed paintings of English country scenes on dark wood paneling. A few Chinese vases with dried flowers on small tables added some color.
I could be in an English manor in Kent, I thought, as I glanced around.
Just then, a tall police Sergeant appeared from a room at the end of the passageway. He strode towards us with long strides, came to an abrupt stop, and saluted. “Sergeant Reynolds, Sir.”
Fan Po and his son-in-law stood quietly to one side.
“Well, Reynolds. What happened here?”
“The deceased is the squire himself, Malcolm Blackfield. Looks pretty open and shut, Sir,” Reynolds began. “The staff prepared dinner for the couple, but there was such an angry commotion coming from the library, that the House Steward, Wing Ho, felt it would be disrespectful to interrupt the battling couple.”
“What do you mean, battling? Was this a physical altercation, Sergeant, or something else? Be precise, my man.”
“No, Sir. Just yelling. No crashes or sounds of violence. Just screaming. At least at first.”
“A gunshot, Sir. That got the staff moving. They pounded on the door, and tried to open it, but it was locked from within. The House Steward stated he heard the key turn in the lock, after which the door flew open, and Mrs. Blackfield, wife of the deceased, stood in the doorway holding a revolver at her side.”
“Well, Sir. It seems Lady Blackfield made one utterance.” Here the Sergeant read from his notebook. “ ‘My husband appears to have been shot,’ she said. ‘Send for the doctor.’ ”
“That’s what she said? My husband appears to have been shot?”
“Yes, Sir. All of the staff agree to that. That and ‘Send for the doctor.’ ”
I glanced at the two Chinese men who stood quietly listening.
This was a crime in a British household, and I was uncomfortable with foreigners being privy to British family troubles.
But, they had the trust of Commissioner Goodwin, so I couldn’t very well expel them from the proceedings.
“Where is the murder weapon now?”
“The House Steward, Wing Ho, took the gun from the woman and kept it in his possession until he handed it to me upon my arrival. I have it tagged and placed it under guard in the library.”
“Very well, Sergeant. Show me the body.”
We passed a dining room, and I noted the table was set. Smells from the kitchen made me realize, with a pang of regret, that I had skipped lunch to take a quick Indian Club workout.
“In here, Sir. This is the library,” Officer Reynolds said. A uniformed police constable, standing guard, saluted, and swung open the dark wood door.
We were shown into a room with only the one door, bookcases prominent on one wall, and a variety of framed English oil paintings of fox hunts, and stags at bay.
The windows on the far wall were mullioned, and latched.
“Dr. Jeffers, who lives within ten minutes,” the Sergeant continued, “came immediately and said Mr. Blackfield’s wound was fresh. He had died less than a half hour of Dr. Jeffers’s examination. The doctor said the apparent cause of death is a bullet wound to the forehead.”
As I was taking in the crime scene, Fan Po was studying the murder weapon the Sergeant had placed on a table. Surprisingly, he didn’t pick up the revolver, but bent down to better see it. He then examined the window latches, and finally came to stand over the body of Malcolm Blackfield who lay sprawled on his back, arms thrown out, his head back. He was fully dressed in tweeds, vest, dark trousers, and shiny black Woodbridge lace-ups.
“If I may?” Fan Po looked at me. When I nodded, he squatted and began a detailed examination of Blackfield’s body, sniffing near the wound in the forehead, lifting one arm and letting it drop, examining the hands, bottom of the shoes, and pulling the dead man’s eyelids up to observe the open eyes. Fan Po patted the pockets of Blackfield’s jacket and vest, after which his son-in-law helped roll the body onto its side so he could better see the exit wound at the back of the head, which was not as large as I had expected. Strangely, he continued to sniff the dead man’s coat, and the rug under the body.
“That’s enough,” I directed. “We will arrest Lady Blackfield, and contact the Penghu Municipal Police. They can keep her in custody until the Consul can sort this out.” I started towards the door when Ling Yee, who had moved to the table holding the revolver, spoke rapidly in Mandarin.
“One moment, if you please, Deputy Commissioner,” Fan Po said.
Another burst of Chinese talk. Ling Yee handed the revolver to Fan Po, using a cloth.
“The Lady may have shot her husband,” Fan Po said. “But not with this weapon. It hasn’t been fired in many months. Perhaps years.”
“The barrel is rusted, and has dust inside it. The loads have not been fired.”
I seized the weapon, broke open the cylinder and found the loads undischarged. I then checked the barrel. He was right. The gun hadn’t been fired recently.
Fan Po pointed to the gun in my hand. “Webley British Bull Dog, forty-four caliber.”
Then he pointed towards the dead man. “Wound of twenty-five caliber, maybe Derringer.”
“That’s impossible,” I said. “Unless the entire staff is in on the murder.” I turned to Sergeant Reynolds. “Sergeant,” I said, perhaps louder than necessary as he was standing close by. “did you search Mrs. Blackfield?”
The Sergeant straightened into a brace. “No, Sir. It would have been inappropriate. However, when I heard a woman was involved, I brought Mrs. Smithbury from the Dispensary. She searched Lady Blackfield, and found nothing.”
“She of course could have hidden the gun before you arrived, Sergeant?”
“Yes, Sir. But a search of her room and the house has revealed no other gun.”
“I see. And you spoke to the House Steward and staff. Was it your impression they lied?”
“No, Sir. We separated them into different rooms and spoke to each in turn. Their stories all matched.” The officer held his brace.
“And this gun has been in your possession, or under guard, since receiving it from the House Steward?”
“Yes, Sir. Until moments ago when I put it on that table.”
“You diligently searched for secret panels and hidden rooms?”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll swear on my badge these walls are solid.”
“Then we have a conundrum. We’ll arrest the entire staff and get the truth out of them. The House Steward, what’s his name, Wing Ho, must have switched guns, and the whole lot may be in on it.”
By this time, I was pacing and had begun to breath hard. What would the Commissioner think of me if I failed to solve my first case? Was I making a complete cock-up of it?
“One moment, Deputy Commissioner Hornsby,” Fan Po said, with a slight bow.
"There is perhaps another solution to this unpleasantness.”
“Oh? Are I you saying someone other than Lady Blackfield fired the shot?” I know my face was getting red, as I took off my hat and ran my fingers through my hair. “If the Lady is shielding someone, a paramour perhaps, that person would have had to exit through the door into a crowd of staff members. You examined the windows yourself. They’ve been latched and bolted. They cannot be opened, and they have decorative bars on them. No exit, there.”
“The murder weapon is still missing, esteemed Deputy Commissioner. The good Sergeant Reynolds says the woman did not have it on her person. Someone else was in this room. Someone else changed the murder weapon for this unfired revolver.” Fan Po was speaking quietly, I stopped my pacing and bent over to hear him.
“And who would that be, Mr. Fan Po? Since no one besides the wife was in this room, and since she handed this revolver to Wing Ho, and since we’ve searched for hidden panels and secret doors to no avail, solid British logic, Inspector, tells us the guns were switched before the police arrived. Hence, Wing Ho is our man.”
“No, Deputy Commissioner Hornsby. I believe this was a planned, cold blooded murder, involving, as you say, British logic. Nothing was left to chance.”
“What do you mean?”
“After the beautiful Mrs. Blackfield fired a small caliber revolver at her husband, killing him instantly, she placed the gun under the body, picked up this much larger caliber weapon, and unlocked the door. She then sent for Dr. Jeffers.
“While examining the body, the doctor picked the murder weapon up from under the body, and placed it into his medical bag. If you wish, I will show you the powder residue and the imprint on the carpet of a small gun under the body.”
“Why exchange the weapon, Mr. Fan Po? I’m in the dark here. Why the unfired Webley?”
“If you brought Mrs. Blackfield into your courtroom with this weapon, I believe your barristers would be able to throw sand into the eyes of the jury. It would be proven not to be the gun that killed the gentleman. British logic would prevail, and the beautiful lady would go free.”
I thought for a long moment. “Of course. That means there is something more than a patient/doctor relationship between Mrs. Blackfield and Dr. Jeffers.”
“Yes, Deputy Commissioner Hornsby. And I humbly suggest the time to search Dr. Jeffers surgery is rapidly passing. He will be disposing of the weapon as soon as he is able.”
And so it was. We found the murder weapon, just in time, in the surgery of Dr. Jeffers. I knew it would prove to be the vital piece of evidence to send both the wife of the victim and the besotted doctor to prison.
Two days later, with the conspirators safely locked away, Commissioner Goodwin summoned me to his office. The Commissioner has a furnished veranda behind his office. Fan Po and Goodwin were sitting at a table, tea cups in hand.
Fan Po rose and bowed, while the Commissioner rose and grabbed the teapot.
“Let me pour you a cup of tea, Hornsby. Inspector Fan Po and I were about to discuss your little domestic shooting. I read your report, but still have a few questions.”
For the next quarter hour, I answered questions as we sipped our Oolong, and went over details of the case.
I put down my empty teacup, and said, “The different bore size of the two guns was the first clue Fan Po and his son-in-law spotted. The Webley was a forty-four, but the wound was much smaller.”
Fan Po smiled. “As a policeman in Penghu, I have seen the wound a Webley forty-four caliber makes. The unfortunate Mr. Blackfield would have much of his head missing if shot with such a revolver.”
“What else made you suspicious, Fan Po?” Goodwin asked.
“The odor of food, esteemed Police Commissioner. If the Webley had been fired in the closed space of the library, we would have noticed a strong smell of cordite. Perhaps Deputy Commissioner Hornsby would confirm my observation. The only fragrance was of cooking Moo Soo Gong.”
“That’s true, “I responded. “The smaller gun must have left only a faint odor, gone by the time we arrived. And the strong smells coming from the kitchen was all I noted.”
I shifted in my chair to face Fan Po. “If I may, I have a question for you, Inspector. Why did you not suspect Wing Ho of switching guns? To me, he seemed the obvious choice.”
“The crime itself, Deputy Commissioner, was one of inflamed passion. Chinese women are seldom impulsive. They plan well before important events, and often have a partner to help clean up their crime. I suspected a man, seduced by a fox spirit, had a hand in this murder, a Gibbon King of our stories.”
“I’ve heard many stories, Inspector,” Commissioner Goodwin said, “and the Gibbon King can be a real villain. He gets seduced by a woman who has been taken over by a fox spirit.”
“The Gibbon King is often good, but when under the fox spirit’s spell, he becomes evil. When evil, very smart and very dangerous.”
“Wing Ho is a man, elderly it’s true. But still a man,” I said.
Fan Po smiled. “Wing Ho, an honorable gray beard, is no Gibbon King. So I needed to look further. Who else would fit the role of both a lover, under the spell of a fox spirit, and one who also had access to the room after the crime? The doctor immediately came to mind.
“I then searched the unfortunate Mr. Malcolm Blackfield for evidence of a hidden weapon, and found what I sought. Both the gunpowder smudge and the gun’s imprint were visible under the body. And only Dr. Jeffers touched the body, according to Sergeant Reynolds.”
“It seems so simple,” I said, “when you explain it today. But it wasn’t so clear to me at the crime scene.” I turned to the Commissioner. “I’ve a lot to learn here in China, Commissioner.”
Commissioner Goodwin guffawed. “British logic, Hornsby, will take you only so far. Here in the Far East, the world of crime is one of human complexities, motives more nuanced, the threads more tangled than in London.”
“I agree, Sir. And, with Fan Po’s help, I believe I can come to learn to probe its many layers of intricacies.”
Jiujiang Road, Shanghai, 1921, in public domain
Master Bao rode his great Ox, Xi, along a tract through a thick grove of wide-leaved trees. His pupil Ping walked alongside, a large smile on his face.
“Master Bao,” Ping said. “These leaves on the trees are red, brown, and golden. They are beautiful, especially where the morning sun strikes them.”
The monk smiled back at Ping. “Yes, Ping. And the mist in the forest holds the sunbeams so we can witness an enhanced beauty of Nature.”
The two traveled in silence, the only sound the birds on branches, and the crunch of dry leaves under the hoofs of the ox.
“I remember in the winter when the branches were bare,” Ping said. “The forest we were traveling through was dark and cold. And in the Spring, the buds turned the forest into a green world, before it became the golden grove of autumn, as it is now.”
Master Bao simply smiled and nodded.
The Village of Lanchow
After about another mile, Master Bao turned to Ping. “We should be in Lanchow Village in another hour, Ping. It was ravaged by war, and has seen some hard times.”
Soon, the chirping of the birds and the breeze in the branches were replaced by the deep thump of a large drum.
“Master Bao. That is a funeral drum. It must be coming from Lanchow Village.”
Shortly, Master Bao and Ping entered the gate of the Village of Lanchow and made their way to the Inn of Peaceful Repose. All through the street, the shops were closed and people stood in groups speaking quietly. Some of the villagers were openly weeping.
After stabling the ox, the two entered the inn. Behind the counter, the innkeeper sat on a tall stool, but his shoulders drooped and he sighed heavily as the two travelers approached his desk.
“You’ve come on a sad day, Monk. Our Village elder, the kindest man in the Empire, has passed away and his burial is today. The people of the village and the farmers from the land surrounding the town are here to pay their respects. We have only one room with two beds left in the Inn, and it is not our best so you can have it at no cost.”
“Thank you for your kindness, Innkeeper,” Master Bao said. “But tell me about this man who has died. He must have been well liked to receive such an outpouring of grief.”
“That he was, Master. He gave food to all who were hungry, clothing to the needy, and shared his wealth with the town. Until his age became heavy on his shoulders, and enfeebled by the passing years, his counsel was sought by rich and poor alike.”
The next day, Master Bao and Ping left the village of Lanchow and journeyed into an area rich with fields of grain, and well-tended rice patties.
Master Bao explains the change called death
“Why is death so painful, Master?” Ping asked as they made their way through the land.
“Life and death are both in the Flow of the Dao, Ping. It is our human perception of death as an end to existence, rather than just a change, that brings grief.”
Pei Lei Village
By evening, Ping noted the land was drier, the fields showing stunted plants and there were hovels for houses.
“Master,” Ping asked with a worried glance toward a grove of trees blackened by a long-ago fire, “will we be staying in a village tonight, or sleeping under the stars?”
“The village of Pei Lei is just ahead, Ping. The Inn of Weary Travelers is on the main street. It was once the most comfortable place to spend a night. But much has changed in the years since I first visited Pei lei.”
The sun had dropped behind the distant dark hills when Master Bao and Ping arrived at the Inn of Weary Travelers. The stable was still open and the ox, Xi, was turned over to the stable lad.
A small oil lamp hung over the curtain-door to the inn, and, by its dim light, Master Bao pulled the curtain aside and he and Ping entered the small lobby. Behind the counter, a squat, hulking man with a rough ringbeard sat scowling at the travelers. He wore an open dark vest that left his muscled arms and broad hairy chest bare. Two smoky candles on the counter gave the only light. A strong odor of burnt grease filled the air.
“We have no rooms, Monk. But for a string of coppers you and your servant can sleep in the barn with the animals,” the man growled. “A bowl of noodles goes with the straw, if you’re not too particular.”
Master Bao gave a slight bow. “Thank you for your kind offer,” Master Bao said. “Your price is too high.”
As Master Bao and Ping left the inn, they were approached by a lean man holding an oil lantern. He was dressed in a patched coat that had been in style some years past, and his thin face was lined with worry.
“Please excuse the lout in the inn,” the man said with a deep bow. “I recognized you from your visit here back when I owned this very inn. Your wisdom and kindness made a great impression on me.”
Master Bao responded with a bow. “I greatly enjoyed my stay here.”
“This humble person is named Meng Gai, and I invite you and your student to stay at my miserable dwelling. Your presence would be a great honor. It is just a hovel, but much more comfortable than the flea-filled straw in the stable.” He gave another deep bow.
Later that evening, after a meal of rice and vegetables, the Monk and Ping sat at a table with their host drinking a dark tea.
“Much has happened to Pei Lei since you passed through here years ago. A warlord by the name of Liu Pen took over the village and all farms in the area. Our magistrate is corrupt, and Liu Pen bribed him to stay out of this part of the Prefecture. The Inn of Weary Travelers became his headquarters after tossing me, and my staff, out the door.”
“I can see the difficulty, Mr. Meng. Have you petitioned the Governor to right this wrong?”
“Yes, Master. I’ve been told that troops are on the way, and an Imperial Inquisitor will arrive to look into the activities of the corrupt magistrate. If you stay for another week, you will witness the fight.”
“Ping and I will be leaving tomorrow. It sounds like the situation here will be changing.”
Ping understands the lesson of change within the Dao
The next day, Master Bao and Ping left Pei Lei and continued their journey. When they stopped for their noon rice, Ping bowed before the Monk, his hands clasped in his capacious sleeves.
“Master, please enlighten this ignorant pupil. The first village, Lanchow, had been ravaged by war, but is now a friendly and happy place, with rich fields and content citizens.
“The second village, Pei Lei, was once prosperous and rich, but is now miserable. How does this happen in our great land of the Dragon Throne?”
Master Bao thought for a moment. “The most honored tenet of those of us who follow the Way is the acceptance of change. All changes are within the flow of the Dao. The forest we traveled through was changing from its summer to autumn beauty, and we accepted that change as the Will of Heaven.
“The death of the kindly village elder in Lanchow is part of the cycle of Nature, again, we accept the Will of Heaven.
“Changes wrought by the vagaries of humans can be of benefit, as in Lanchow, or destructive, as in Pei Lei.
“The Dragon Throne, as it exists under the Mandate of Heaven, will restore harmony to the village of Pei Lei. That is change its citizens will happily accept, and it follows the Will of Heaven.”
Ping thought long and hard about change. Finally, just as Master Bao was climbing onto his ox, Ping spoke up.
“Because all change is in the flow of the Dao, Master, we therefore accept all change as we accept the sun rising and setting, the seasons passing, and the death of elders.”
Master Bao smiled at his pupil. “Yes, Ping. The seasons change, the moon waxes and wanes, dynasties come and go, and people are born and die. A pond empties while another fills, as the endless becoming of yin and yang. All the Universe is in constant transition, yet always in balance and harmony.
“The eternal lesson, Pupil Ping, is that when we simply observe what’s happening from within our inner stillness, and wait upon the Will of Heaven, we reflect the equilibrium and balance of the Universe.”
Photo by Lev Fraser on Pixabay
Master Bao, wearing a wide hat, rode his ox, Xi, along a trail that led across the vast grassland of the district of Sung. His student Ping walked alongside, holding a simple umbrella to ward off the summer sun.
“We are approaching the forest just ahead, Ping. It will provide us with shade and coolness.”
At the edge of the forest stood a large farmer’s hut, surrounded by several other buildings. The fields nearby were ripe with grain, and the place had a look of prosperity.
But a large group of men and women had gathered in the road that went past the house, and were talking loudly among themselves, several pointing toward the woods.
The Warden of the district village was in the center of the group, his metal helmet reflecting brightly in the sun.
As the monk and Ping approached, one of the citizens recognized Master Bao and shouted to the others. The crowd became silent, and the Warden stepped forward and bowed deeply.
“Master, you come at a difficult time. Bandits have stolen the little girl that lives here, and will sell her or keep her for a slave. This woman is the girl’s mother.”
A weeping woman came forward and dropped to her knees. She knocked her head three times on the roadway in respect. “Please, Master, save my daughter. The bandits will soon be out of this district. Tell me what to do to save my child.”
Master Bao dismounted, helped the woman to her feet, and bowed.
“Please, tell me exactly what happened, Madam. Did you recognize the bandits?”
“No, Master,” the woman said. “My daughter was playing in the yard with her baby goat. I heard the horses of the bandits on the road through the grasslands. When I came out, my child and her pet goat were gone, and the dust from the bandits’ horses filled the air.”
The Warden spoke up. “The tracks of the hooves of the villains’ horses show there were ten men. They must have grabbed the girl and the goat and fled into the woods. I immediately sent for twenty soldiers from the garrison, and we will chase the bandits and save the girl.”
A heavy man dressed in a fine robe stepped forward. “I am Yee Pen, head of the Silver Workers Guild, and I offer ten pieces of silver to any man who brings back the girl unharmed.”
A second man, dressed even better than the first, stepped forward. “ I am Hou Kiang of the Gold Workers Guild, and I offer two gold bars to any man who brings back the girl unharmed.”
A third man, dressed in a fine leather coat, stepped forward. “I am Ma Hong of the Leather Workers Guild, and I offer ten strings of copper to any man who brings back the girl unharmed.”
Finally, a fourth man, dressed in a patched gown and worn shoes, stepped forward. “That’s a safe bet from all you fine gentlemen. The girl was already harmed when she was taken by these villains. I am Chaio Fong of the Beggars’ Guild and I will give my two silver pieces to the man who brings back the girl, harmed or not.”
Other men began to offer more bounties, but Master Bao simply looked at the farm. “Tell me,” he said to the Warden. “What is that building over there, behind the house?”
“That is the stable, Master. But the bandits did not go to the stable. Their hoof-prints show they fled into the woods.”
“Come with me, Ping,” Master Bao said. He walked to the door of the stable and pulled it open. He and Ping disappeared inside.
Within minutes, a small girl carrying a baby goat appeared, followed by Master Bao and Ping.
The girl’s mother gave a cry of joy and fainted into the arms of the Warden.
“She was asleep in the straw pile,” Master Bao explained, “holding her goat.”
The crowd gathered around the monk and Ping, trying to hand them bags of coins. But Master Bao shook his head. “We are poor traveling monks,” he said, “Except for a meal and bed at a comfortable inn, we have no use for gold or silver. All we require is provided by The Dao.”
He climbed onto his ox. “Come, Ping,” he said. “We must reach the inn at Pei-lie before dark.”
Later that evening, after a meal at the Inn of Bountiful Rest in the village of Pei-lie, Ping stood before the monk and bowed, his hands clasped inside his voluminous sleeves.
“Please enlighten this ignorant student, Master. How did you know the girl was inside the stable, and not stolen by the bandits?”
“You noticed, Ping, that some men offered to pay to rescue the girl. The Warden saw the soldiers as the way to follow the bandits and save the girl. Each man saw only what he had become accustomed to see.
“But no one looked for the girl.
“Her faint footprints were visible in the grass. She had seen the bandits coming a mile away across the grasslands, and had taken her goat to hide in the stable. Because she was tired from playing, she fell asleep and heard none of the commotion outside.
“The lesson for you, Ping, is to understand that joy and success cannot be bought or forced. When faced with a distressing event, quiet the clamoring of your mind, be keenly aware of all that is around you, and wait on the Will of Heaven to reveal its solution.”
Painting by Fan Zeng (born 1938) of China. The artist is a National Treasure of China.
Master Bao and the Warlord
Master Bao rode his ox, Xi, along a trail that led through a forest of vibrant colored leaves, and flowers.
His pupil, Ping, walked beside his master.
“This is a most glorious forest,” Ping said. “And the day is sunny, with no clouds in the sky.”
Master Bao smiled. “How do you feel, Ping, on such a day in such a forest?”
“My heart is overflowing, Master, with peace and joy. My feet and my pack feel light, and the road feels smooth.”
“Feel the breeze, Student Ping, the warmth of the sun. What do you taste, hear? Bring those impressions into you, and keep them as a part of you at this time.”
That night, the Master and his pupil stayed at the Inn of Pilgrim’s Rest in the small village of Han. On there way to the inn, they saw a large number of soldiers camped outside the village, and the flag of the Imperial Censor flying from a pole outside a large tent.
The next day, they traveled to the endless grassland in the district of Han-Lu.
As the two travelers moved onto the vast plain, the monk noticed Ping watching the clouds gathering in the sky, and often shifting his small pack from one shoulder to the other.
“How do you feel, Ping, on such a day on this grassy plain?”
“My heart is overflowing, Master, with apprehension,” Ping replied. “My feet and my pack feel heavy. And the road is rocky.”
With a nod, Master Bao turned to Ping. “Feel the breeze, Student Ping, the scent of the grasslands, the warmth of the sun. What do you taste, hear? Bring those impressions into you, and keep them as part of you at this time.”
Master Bao dismounted from Xi and stood looking out over the grassland. “Yesterday is past, Ping, and you have deep memories of a beautiful forest, colorful flowers, and a smooth road. Tomorrow, the road may be smooth or rocky, the sky filled with sun or rain.
“Yesterday and tomorrow are mere wisps of mist, Student Ping. We cannot change yesterday, for it is past. And we don’t know what the road ahead will be, for the future is not known to us mortals.
“This moment is all we have. To follow the Dao, and be truly free, we must let go of the future and the past.
“Come, Ping, the clouds are gathering and it will soon rain. While much of the future is hidden, I know what the clouds mean when they darken. I also know the next inn is only a short distance from here.”
Master Bao climbed on his ox. “We learn from the past, Ping, so we can plan for the future.”
That evening, the travelers were warm and dry in the Inn of Happy Repose, when the sky opened and rain poured down.
The next morning, the innkeeper, Ma Wing, approached Master Bao as he and Ping were having their morning rice. A thin man with a short gray beard, Ma had been standing near the door to the dining hall, shifting from one foot to the other.
“Kind and wise Master,” the innkeeper began, bowing deeply with his hands clasped in front of him. “This insignificant person has a vexing problem and would greatly appreciate any counsel you would care to give.”
“Of course,” the monk replied. “I’ll do what I can to help solve your problem.”
The innkeeper glanced toward the door and swept his eyes around the empty hall before sitting down. Leaning foreword, he kept his voice low. “We have great trouble in this district of Han Lu. A warlord named Kang has taken over all authority that rightly belongs to the Emperor. Our magistrate has retired into his Tribunal, and does not oppose this evil man .
“Because Kang has his thugs roam the streets and beat anyone who looks like he might be a thief, the shopkeepers’ guild does not oppose him. ‘It is good to have order in Han Lu,’ they say.”
“What about the other guilds?” Master Bao asked.
“Because Kang’s thugs beat up all the Japanese and Koreans in the Foreigners’ district of Han Lu, and drove them from the district, the beggars’ guild does not oppose him. ‘Without the foreigners, there is more money for us Chinese beggars.’
“And the Goldsmiths’ and Silversmiths’ Guild? Have they made a complaint to the Dragon Throne?”
“Kang has made a treaty with the Barbarians who roam the desert and they will not rob the merchants on the road , so long as the gold and silver dealers pay a large bribe. ‘The Barbarians will not attack our city, so let us give them their tribute,’ they say. Before Kang arrived, there were very few attacks by the Barbarians.
“But the farmers, the well-diggers, and innkeepers like me are being taxed more than the big guilds, because we have no guilds to protect us. We are beaten whenever we show up to follow our trade, and our meager earnings are taken for taxes.
“The farmers cannot sell their products, and the Japanese who were driven off had helped them work their land. The well-diggers cannot dig wells without the help of the Koreans, and you see how bare my inn has become. I cannot get the spices in the city that I need to make my cooking more delicious, so only a few travelers stop by here.”
Master Bao studied the innkeeper’s drawn face.
“As you know, Mr. Ma, any citizen of the Empire can beat the gong outside the Tribunal and the Magistrate will open a session immediately. That is where you should address your injustice.”
“We have beaten the gong outside the tribunal, Master. But Kang’s thugs attacked us and drove us off.
“Please, Master Bao, give me some words of wisdom to make right this horrible situation.”
Master Bao thought for several minutes before speaking.
“You will not have long to suffer, Innkeeper. The Dragon Throne has an army in the village we passed through yesterday. The Captain of One Hundred is a man known to me to be a good and loyal subject of the Emperor. With him is an Imperial Censor who will impeach the magistrate for not obeying the rules of administration, and the army will arrest Kang and his thugs.
“You have suffered from the rule of an arrogant man who has misled the wealthy guild masters, and those who think they can profit from chaos and poor administration.
“But by this time tomorrow, the truth will be known and the guilty will pay for their crimes.”
Later that day, Master Bao and Ping were sitting on the bank of a river that was choked with weeds.
“This river once ran clear and clean, Student Ping. But it is now filled with refuse, and poisons. This is the result of the poor administration of which the innkeeper spoke.”
Ping stood and bowed deeply, his hands clasped inside his copious sleeves. “Master, please enlighten this ignorant student. How did the people of this district become so tolerant of the evils of Kang, the warlord?”
“Ah, Ping. A story from ancient times may help you understand.
“Once there was a hunter who was wise in the ways of monkeys. He knew monkeys are greedy by nature, and so he planned to use this knowledge to catch one.
“Boring a hole into a large coconut, the man cleaned out the inside, then put large tasty meats into it. After tying the coconut tightly to a tree branch with a strong cord, the man left and went home.
“Soon, a monkey smelled the delicious meats and his nose led him to the coconut. Reaching inside, the monkey grasped the meat, but, when he tried to pull out his hand, he found he couldn’t do it. If he let go of the meat, his hand came out easily. But he really wanted the meat so he was stuck.
“Later, the monkey heard the hunter approaching. If he gave up the meat, the monkey could live, but he really, really wanted the meat, and so waited until it was too late.
“The hunter’s family had a tasty meal of monkey for dinner that night.”
Ping bowed again. “Ah, I understand, Master. It is greed for gold that keeps the people tolerant of the warlord.”
“Kang used the peoples’ greed for gold, Ping, and fear. Just as the monkey feared the loss of the tasty meat, the merchants and beggars feared the loss of their gold and silver.
“When the Dragon Throne’s army has captured Kang and his outlaws, their reward will be the beheading field outside the city walls.
“Come, Ping,” Master Bao said, as he climbed into the saddle of the ox Xi. “We have had enough of warlords and greed. It is a beautiful day, and we have a long way to travel to reach the Inn of Peaceful Comfort by nightfall.”
Photo by Christian Joudrey on Unsplash
“Mr. Goodfoote?” A small, round man in white shirt with stripped pants and leather suspenders stuck his head around the office door. I had been in the waiting room for the better part of an hour. Most of the time, I stared out the long window that faced onto Randolph Street watching the drays haul heavy wagons through the mud. Chicago was mostly mud at this time of the year.
"Mr. Charles Goodfoote?"
“That’s me,” I responded, although there was no one else in the antechamber.
“Come in, come in, Mr. Goodfoote. I’m Mr. Philpot,” he stuck out his hand, shook quickly and scurried down a short hallway. “I’m the Assistant Manager of Pinkerton’s,” he explained as he entered a small office plainly furnished with a desk and two chairs.
Philpot bustled behind his desk. He didn’t sit down and didn’t ask me to.
“I’ve looked over your application and I’m afraid we can’t use you,” Philpot said. He seemed to be looking over my left shoulder, unable to meet my gaze. I’m accustomed to that, for I’ve been gifted with one brown eye and one blue. Some folks find it disconcerting.
“Nonsense,” I said, with a wave of my hand. I sat down into a cushioned chair right in front of his desk, forcing him to either sit down or look like a fool.
He sat down.
I tossed my hat onto his desk.
“We’re not really hiring just now. All of our slots are filled.” He was beginning to sweat and I wondered why. It was warm, but not hot in the room.
A stream of sunlight came in the window, around a large eye that had been painted on the outer pane.
I pulled a cigar case out of an inner coat pocket and offered Philpot a hand-wrapped Havana. He refused but sat quietly while I lit one for myself.
“Really, Mr. Goodfoote, it’s nothing personal.”
Which meant it was.
I took a long pull on my cigar and blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. “The newspaper says you’re looking for a couple of men to replace the ones who got killed in Missouri. I’m here for the job and you say you’re not hiring.”
“Well, yes. It's just there are other people who have applied for the positions, and, frankly, they are better qualified.”
“How's that, Mr. Philpot?”
The round man squared his shoulders, and opened the drawer in the middle of his desk. He produced a folder, and dropped in onto his desk blotter.
With a sigh, he flipped it open.
“Well, first of all, you stand out in a crowd. You’re well over six feet tall and it would be hard for you to go unnoticed if you were following someone.
“ And here, it says your mother was a Blackfoot Indian. Now, much of our work is in Indian country and your loyalties may be divided.” He adjusted his glasses. “And, in truth, Mr. Goodfoote, your behavior since the War has been somewhat dubious.”
“Dubious?” I asked. “In what way?”
“Please don’t be offended, Mr. Goodfoote,” Philpot said. He flipped through several pages. I could see he stopped when he came across some newspaper clippings. “There was the matter of some unpleasant business in New Orleans a couple of years back. You had part in the whole business, even under suspicion for murder at one point, I believe. These newspapers are full of the incident, which it says had to do with poison darts and a rather suspicious death at a bordello. Prominent citizen died, according to the clipping here.”
He turned a page to glance at another clipping. “Tut, tut, Mr. Goodfoote. A shooting in Texas earlier this year. Most distressful.” His lips pursed as he read. “Oh dear me, this reporter in Austin describes you as “… a half-breed man-killer, known for your dalliance with the ladies.” Philpot shook his head in disapproval. “Yellow journalism is given to exaggerations, but this is hardly the record of a man selected to represent The Pinkerton Detective Agency.”
I felt I should defend myself. “The shooting you mention was self-defense, as the court pronounced. I was shot at from a dark alley and simply returned fire. And the Chief of Police of Austin hired me to clean up the city. That was after I put the Reedley Gang into the ground, which prompted the newspapers to print those lies about me. It was all politics." I waved my cigar into the air, dismissing his newspaper reports like a bunch of pesky flies of no importance. But I felt it prudent to get his gaze off the yellow literature. "My years at Harvard surely must count for something.”
“Ah, yes,” he responded, going back to an earlier page. “Harvard. You left suddenly after two years. We next find you a civilian fighting for the Union during the Southern Succession. No record of your ever joining the Army.” He looked directly at me, his head cocked to one side. The sun pouring in the window glanced off his glasses making them opaque. “Why is that, Mr. Goodfoote?”
“I have reason to hate the Army, Mr. Philpot,” I responded. “But I also had reason to fight in that war.” I straightened the crease on my trousers. “I believe Mr. Pinkerton himself fought as a civilian for the Union.”
Philpot sat back in his chair and folded his hands across his wide stomach.
“That is correct, Mr. Goodfoote. Our founder collected information for General Grant and President Lincoln. The story of his capture of Lily Rose, the notorious Rebel spy, is well known. Were you a spy, Mr. Goodfoote?”
“No sir, I was not. I joined to help out a friend from Harvard who had a habit of getting himself shot. My job was to keep him alive as long as possible.”
“And who is this friend, Sir? You list no one under personal references.”
I had the distinct impression he already knew the friend I spoke of was really my foster brother, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. The man we both called father had asked me personally to keep Wendell from harm and I had done my best. I owed the famed poet and physician much, and gladly accepted the task. Besides, Wendell and I were closer than many kin, having been raised together since about the age of twelve.
“The friend’s name is unimportant,” I said. “And my record stands on its own merits. I see no need to drag my friends into this.”
Philpot leaned forward so I could see his eyes once more, blue and large behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “On its own merits. Well, let’s go on then.” He turned another page and read for a few moments.
“After the war, you became a US Marshall and went off to Arizona Territory.” Philpot looked up. “Your departure from the Marshall’s Service was rather abrupt and final, I understand. A falling out with Federal Judge Jefferies. Is my information correct, Mr. Goodfoote?”
I must have looked surprised. Philpot’s smile showed yellowed teeth. “We are thorough here at Pinkerton’s, Mr. Goodfoote,” he bragged. “Yes, we are thorough.”
I sat forward in my chair and placed an elbow on Philpot’s desk as I gave him my hardest look. “Then tell me what in hell this is all about. I’ve met some of your agents and I’m a schoolmarm compared to them.”
I leaned back in my chair. “Two are currently on trail for murder. They burned down a house in Missouri with a woman and child inside. You have at least two other convicted felons on your payroll and an uncommon number of drunks. Your founder Alan Pinkerton himself left Scotland with an arrest warrant chasing him.” I gave him my slit-eyed stare. “I pride myself on my own thoroughness, Mr. Philpot.”
Philpot wiped his forehead with a white handkerchief, then shuffled some papers on his desk. “Yes, well, we have been a bit careless in the past. And believe me, this has nothing to do with your character. We simply have nothing to offer you at this time.”
Philpot cleared his throat. “However, we would like to keep your application on file in case we have need of your special talents.” He looked back at my application. “You speak several foreign languages?” Philpot read it like this was the first time he laid eyes on my resume. “It says you studied Mathematics at Harvard?”
He was incredulous. How could a man raised until 12 years of age with the savages possibly know anything about the Calculus?
“But there are some gaps in your application. You lived with the Blackfoot Indians until the age of twelve. Then there is a blank until the Civil War, some six or eight years later. Where were you during those formative years?” Philpot now was truly interested. He stared at me in a sort of awe.
“I believe I put down Boston.”
“Yes, but who did you live with during those years? We would want to have that information. Someone raised you and taught you civilized behavior and sent you off to school. You have deliberately withheld much information. One must wonder why.”
I stood to go. I had about enough of this business. My application was strong enough without a lot of irrelevant personal history. I suspected I was just too ‘Indian’ for this bunch.
“Apparently your fabled ‘thoroughness’ is overrated,” I said as I clapped my hat onto my head. “Or you’re a damned liar. Either way, this interview is now terminated by my choice, not yours.” I left without shaking his hand, heading downstairs and out into the September sunlight. My collar was about as tight as it gets without something getting broke, and this puissant of a paper-pusher was not worth the trouble a brawl would bring.
Besides, there was something about the interview that bothered me. Something that had nothing to do with my Indian- ness. Philpot had only skimmed my application, although he had weeks to peruse it. I had the feeling Mr. Philpot was only the mouthpiece. Someone else was giving him orders, telling him to get rid of me.
None of this matched with what I had heard about Pinkerton's Detective Agency.
Or, I thought with a grimace, maybe my head was just too big and I really didn't fit in with this bunch. A solid lunch at the Languor would take the edge off my frustration.
Whenever I’m in Chicago, I stay at the Languor Hotel. It’s comfortable without being extravagant. I dismissed the carriage at the door, and tipped the doorman as I entered the large lobby. Approaching the desk, I noted they had hired a young woman as an apprentice clerk. She smiled brightly when I asked for my key. Her nametag gave the name of Miss Brown, and her large eyes matched her name.
My mood was already being repaired.
“Oh, Mr. Goodfoote, you have a message. A telegram came for you while you were out,” she said looking up at me through long lashes.
I returned her smile. “Thank you, Miss Brown.” To the best of my recollection,
I hadn’t told anyone I was coming to Chicago, other than the Pinkerton Agency. I opened the envelope and read.
‘COME TO GALENA AT ONCE RM AT DESOTO RES IN YR NAME STOP’
It was signed “OWH”.
Now, here was a mystery. Was it Oliver Wendell Holmes, the elder, or his son? Either way, although it was a summons I couldn’t refuse, the train didn't leave until the next day.
I walked back to the counter and smiled sincerely at Miss B
Randolph Street in Chicago in mid-1800's
A common street sign read "No bottom to this mud."
The Illinois Central pulled into the Galena station at noon. After I had gathered my luggage, I stood on the sidewalk and gazed across the Galena River, a tributary of the Mississippi, at the city. Built in the hill region of the Great River, Galena had once been the most populous city in the upper Midwest due to lead mining, and was still a thriving community. The need for the vast quantities of lead ended with the close of fighting in the Civil War, of course, but the city still maintained a vibrancy I found attractive.
A full nine generals in the Union army called Galena their home, including the current President, Ulysses S. Grant. His house on Bouthiller Street, given to him by a grateful citizenry, was within sight of the train depot.
It was only a short carriage ride to the DeSoto House Hotel, a substantial five story structure containing some two hundred and fifty rooms. The hotel, only a few blocks from the Galena River, fronts onto the busy Main Street, crammed with carriages, wagons, and bicycles at this hour, the sidewalks a flowing river of pedestrians.
The lobby, while not large, was elegant without being ostentatious. A large curved staircase swept upward, a hallway past it led to dining rooms. A billiards parlor stood across from the front desk
As I registered, the clerk, a young man dressed like a banker, handed me a folded piece of paper. “A letter, Mr. Goodfoote.”
“Meet me in the dining room,” was the laconic message . I recognized the handwriting as that of my foster brother, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.
Like the lobby, the dining room was not large. Perhaps ten tables, half occupied, were arranged in the center of the space, and long counters holding fresh flowers and other plants lined two of the walls. The far wall featured large windows admitting bright sunlight.
I spotted Wendell immediately at a table near the door, as he rose to greet me. Other then letting his military mustaches grow long, my brother was unchanged. Rail thin, he was dressed in his usual black suit and gray vest, with a Harvard Law pin dangling from a gold watch chain. The years had been good to him, as his clear blue eyes shown beneath heavy eyebrows and thick, dark hair.
Wendell grasped my outstretched hand and we laughed together. Finally, after our warm greeting, we sat at the table as the waiter poured coffee from a silver server.
For the next half hour we discussed the health of his family, his Boston law practice, and my duties as in the U.S. Marshal Service. Somewhere in that time, we ordered lunch, and watched in silence as it was served.
After we finished and the table was cleared, we sipped our brandy and smoked Havana cigars.
“Charles,” Wendell said as he leaned forward, “your country needs your help again. It’s the reason I’m in Galena.”
“This must be serious, Wendie. It must be near a weeks trip out here from Boston.”
“Five days, actually. And, yes, it is serious. What I’m about to tell you must be held in absolute secrecy, not a word to anyone.”
“Well, as I’m not associated with any agency, I can certainly agree to that.”
“Yes, well. I’m afraid it was I who kept Pinkerton’s from hiring you. It was necessary for you to be a free man for what I'm about to ask of you. But, please, be assured, you’ll have a position with that agency when this matter in Galena is completed.”
We sat in silence while I pondered this bit of news.
“All right,” I finally said, “let’s hear it.”
“First, you must be aware I am not only a member of the Bar in Boston, but I’m also a special, secret envoy for President Grant. And it’s in that capacity that I recommended and sought approval from the President to hire you as a free agent.
" I know your talents and courage, Charles, and this task will challenge both before it is finished.”
Goodfoote and the Galena Puzzle
“Have you heard of a Frenchman, Louis Pasteur, and his theory of ‘germs’ as the cause of disease?” Wendell’s blue eyes bore into mine.
“Of course, Wendell. We discussed John Snow and cholera and Pasteur’s work, right before we left for the War.” Where was this going, I wondered. Professor Hayrick at Harvard had been a foremost advocate of Pasteur’s theory, and Wendell has sat next to me in his lecture.
“I wasn't sure you recalled the class, Charles. You mention Snow, so you recall the cholera epidemic of London in the 1850’s, and The Black Death of the Middle Ages that took a full three-quarters of the population?” He glanced around the room.
“Yes, I have a recollection of those disasters, Wendie. Just as I have a recollection of you being somewhat distracted by Lucy Hale. What’s this about?”
“To be brief, there’s a man who has made the ‘germ,’ as Pasteur calls it, into a deadly weapon, and he’s here in Galena.”
“What? What are you trying to tell me?” I looked around the room and lowered my voice. “Someone is thinking of starting the Black Death here in Galena?”
“Yes. Galena as a testing ground, and the big cities later. I need you to find him and stop his madness before this city becomes a ghost town.”
“If you have this much information, you must have someone close to him passing you clues. Why hasn’t this villain been arrested?”
“We’ve been keeping an eye on the main actor in this drama, hoping we could find his storage of these germs. He’s been followed, spied on, and his room in this hotel has been searched three times. But we still haven’t seen a vial or tube of this deadly disease.”
I sat back on my chair, and thought about the smallpox that swept across the prairie thirty- five or so years back. Shortly before I was born, it hit the Blackfoot people and killed maybe half in little more than a week. The rest of my People scattered into the mountains to escape the spotted death. From what I had read, the Black Death was worse, slaughtering men, women, and children across Europe and Asia.
Now there was someone who wanted to unleash this horror on the population of Galena. How and why popped immediately to my mind.
“We have some idea who the madman is, and his motives are as mad as he.” Wendell answered my questions before I asked them. “He was a gifted man of natural science, a genius, but now he’s just a monster with a mind filled with hatred.”
“I’ll need a name, Wendell. And an idea where he can be located.”
“His name is Karl Wilhelm Buch. That much we know. But he disappeared from this very hotel, a week ago. He was being watched by Army men, day and night, yet he slipped out without them the wiser.”
“And you want me to find him?”
“Well, yes, but that’s not the only reason I sent for you.”
It was my turn to scan the room before I spoke. “Let’s hear it, Wendell. What am I doing in Galena, if not to chase down this Buch. I thought you needed my marshaling skills.”
Holmes shook his head. “No, Charles. It’s your mathematical skills I need.”
Here was a puzzle. My mathematical skills are hardly worthy of an assignment of this magnitude. My classes at Harvard were rudimentary. Having been tossed out after a couple of years, I never got past some basic tenets of numbers.
“You were considered precocious, Charles. And you enjoyed breaking ciphers.”
“Ciphers? Is that what this is about? You have a code you need broken?”
“Yes, Charles. One the Army Signal Corps considers unbreakable. We intercepted it before Buch could send it off.”
“So it means he’s communicating with others. Which means a conspiracy. Which means more trouble than just a single madman.”
I took a pull on my cigar and let my eyes drift to the ceiling and thought about the extent of this problem. “How did you come by this cipher? You said you intercepted it. Was it your spy who got it for you?”
“No, our spy has disappeared also. We’ve had no communication for a month.”
“We had another man watching Herr Buch. When Buch went out one night for a stroll down Main Street, our man was not far behind. Soon, Buch turned into River Street, and stopped to tie his shoe at a dead tree that’s fallen over next to the walkway. There is no street lamp nearby, but our man was close enough to see Buch take a slip of paper out of a burr hole, and put another in. After Buch strolled back toward this hotel, our man grabbed the note.”
“And that’s the cipher you want me to break?”
“That’s it, Charles. And now that Buch has disappeared, it becomes even more urgent. He may even now be getting ready to poison this whole city, by some heinous method we haven’t been able to fathom. We have little time to lose.”
“Let me see the cipher.” I took the folded piece of paper from Wendell and studied the note. “On first glance, this could be any of several codes. If the Army couldn’t break it, it means the simpler substitution codes are out. It’s letters, in groups of five. Hmm mm. If the plaintext is in German, I may have even more trouble with it.”
“I have every confidence that you’ll do your best, Charles. And that’s all I ask.”
“So, Wendell. You want me to break this unbreakable code, find Karl Wilhelm Buch before he sets the Black Death upon Galena, and uncover whatever criminal conspiracy his diseased brain has devised.” I nodded as I studied the cipher. “I predict a long night ahead of me.”
Lobby of the De Soto House Hotel in Galena, Illinois
Goodfoote and the Galena Puzzle
“Step over to my office, Charles. There are some men I think you should meet,” Wendell stood and dropped his napkin onto the table.
I nodded. As much as I enjoy working alone, the idea of a team helping with this dangerous affair could be of benefit, I thought.
Wendell had his office in a room on the first floor. Three men were seated on chairs surrounding a large desk with a window at the back.
They stood as we entered.
I recognized one immediately, although I hadn’t seen him since the War.
“Charles, this is Colonel Francis Waxman of the War Department’s Signal Corps,” Wendell said.
“We’ve met. You look fit, Colonel. I believe you were a Major when last we saw each other,” I shook his outstretched hand.
Wendell had a puzzled look on his face. “Where did this meeting occur, Charles? Surely not during the War, for you were with me throughout the conflict.”
I chuckled. “Not the entire time, Wendell. After you ran into that Confederate bullet at Ball’s Bluff, you went back to Boston to heal. With time on my hands, I took myself over to the War Department and helped break a few enemy codes. The Colonel here was the Major in charge.”
“You never fail to surprise me, Brother,” Wendell said as he shook his head. “We all wondered where you spent the four months during my convalescence.”
I turned to the other two men in the room, and immediately recognized the taller of the two.
“This is Lieutenant Brannon, Mr. Goodfoote,” Colonel Waxman said, motioning with his hand to the taller of the two men. “He’s the current chief cryptographer for the United States.”
"I remember the Lieutenant,” I said as I shook his hand. "You were the sharpest analyst in the department."
“Thank you, Sir. But it's not like during the war,” he responded. “It’s a lot quieter now. Mostly commercial codes from Europe.”
“And this gentleman is Sergeant Mulligan, temporarily attached to the Lieutenant and me for logistical purposes.” The sergeant’s hand, I noted when we shook, was heavily calloused.
All three were dressed like proper men of commerce in three piece suits, traveling in mufti. I took a fourth chair as Wendell stood behind his desk, leaning forward with his hands spread on the green blotter mat.
“The Lieutenant here and his men studied the cipher for the past two weeks and can make neither head nor tails of it,” the Colonel reported. He shook his head. “Without some clue, we’re afraid it can’t be broken.”
“It must be broken if we are to keep this maniac from killing the population of this city,” Wendell said. He tossed a thin file on the desk. “This is all we know about Buch. From his birth in Austria to his university affiliations. I’m turning it over to Charles. Give him all you’ve done in your attempts to break the cipher so he won’t need to plow the same field.”
Colonel Waxman hesitated, looked at me briefly, then turned to Sergeant Mulligan and nodded. Mulligan pulled a thick folder from his briefcase and handed it to me.
“And what do we do in the meantime, Mr. Holmes?” Waxman asked. His expression looked like he had swallowed a pork pie past its prime.
“Colonel, I want you and your men to check every hotel, boarding house, and bordello in this city. If he’s still in Galena, and we don’t know that for sure, he has to lay his head somewhere out of the rain. Find him.”
“He was staying here, in this hotel. We had a man in the lobby day and night, until he slipped out. We figure he went out the window on the fire rope, then headed for parts unknown.”
“We know he didn’t take the train out, Mr. Holmes,” the Lieutenant added. “I was watching the depot myself. That means he’s still here, or he slipped by the guards we stationed on the roads out of Galena.”
“We’ll get right on it, Mr. Holmes,” Waxman said as stood. “We’ve already hit the hotels, but we’ll expand our search to the shanties. I’ll report back to you as soon as we find something.” With that, the men trooped out of the room in single file.
After the door closed behind them, I picked up Buch’s folder and put it under my arm with the Army’s packet of papers on their attempts at breaking the cipher.
“I’ll need a ream of paper and about twenty pencils, sharpened, Wendell,” I said. “And I’d appreciate a pot of coffee sent to my room.”
Wendell nodded. “I’ll send the lot up immediately, Charles. And thanks. I know we’ll get through this.” He gave a rare smile. “Remember, I’ve seen you in action.”
So with that ringing endorsement of my meager abilities, I climbed to my room on the second floor, opened the window wide, and lit my first pipe of the day.
My tobacco smoke swirled in the breeze from the open window while I waited for the paper and coffee. To get started, I sat and stared at the cipher.
It consisted of rows of random English alphabet letters, five in a row across and five rows down to form a square of twenty-five letters. Some were vowels, I noted, and the rest consonants.
I opened the file from the Army Code-breakers and checked the frequency of each of the letters, for I knew that was the first thing they would have done. Then I looked for repeating letters, and letters clustered around a certain letter, often a vowel in some codes.
Despite it’s apparent complexity, there was something that struck me as familiar about this cipher.
And if I was correct, and it proved to be what I thought, this case was about to turn even more deadly.
The DeSoto House Hotel in Galena , Illinois. That's Abe Lincoln giving a speech from the balcony.
Goodfoote and the Galena Puzzle
I almost knocked over the boy bringing up my coffee and foolscap on a serving tray as I tore open the door to my room and ran down the hall to the staircase. People scattered like pigeons as I flew down the staircase and dashed to Wendell’s office.
Wendell rose from the chair behind his desk when I rushed into his room. Two tough looking men wearing derbies were sitting in the chairs recently occupied by the Army men. They came to their feet, startled looks on their faces.
“Charles,” Wendell cried. “What…”
“I need some information, Wendie, and I need it fast. Where’s Waxman staying?”
“Right in this hotel. Just down the hall from your room.”
I glanced at the two strangers. “These men look like Pinks. Is that right?”
Wendell nodded as he came around the desk. “Yes, I thought we might need some extra help so I sent for two Pinkerton detectives.”
“Are you men armed?” I almost shouted, turning back to the door.
They glanced at Wendell before nodding.
“Then follow me. I’ll explain later. Right now, we have to get to Waxman. I hope to hell we’re not too late.”
We shot out of the room, took the stairs two at a time, and raced down the hall. Wendell pointed out Waxman’s room, and I pounded on the door. Other guests gave us a wide berth.
After pounding twice, I tried the handle, found the door unlocked, and pushed inside. We found the Colonel face down on the floral carpet, not ten feet from the door. The back of his head was covered in blood. Wendell carefully turned him over.
“He’s still alive,” Wendell said. One of the detectives put his folded white handkerchief over the wound on back of Waxman’s head as we sat him up. “Get some brandy from that table,” Wendell ordered. In a few minutes, the Colonel opened his eyes and was able to sip some of the liquor. A doctor was found and Waxman was made comfortable.
“He had a nasty knock on his head,” the doctor reported. “But he’s a tough old bird, and, other than a hell of a headache, he’ll be fine in a couple of days. Don’t bother him now, though. Let him rest.”
“All right, Charles. What’s going on?” The two Pinkerton men and I had accompanied Wendell back to his office.
“I tumbled onto something that needs a lot of explaining,” I said. “But first, let me see that list you have of prominent people living in Galena.”
Wendell pulled a sheet of paper from a file on his desk, and handed it to me. It contained a list of about twenty men.
“You know, Charles. This town is full of general and colonels from the Union Army.”
“Yes, I know. But I’m looking for someone special, even more prominent. Here, for example, is the ambassador to France, a man by the name of Washburne.”
“Well, his family is living here, wife and six youngsters. But he’s in France at the moment,” Wendell said. “Wait a minute. I have a telegram that he’s to return sometime this week. Let me check.”
Wendell went back behind his desk and pulled a stack of telegrams from a middle drawer. “Yes, here it is. He’s due back today. In fact, he’s arriving on a special train from Chicago in just a few minutes.”
I didn’t wait, and was through the lobby and out the door even as I heard the two Pinkerton men pounding along behind me. As we raced up Main Street to the footbridge across the river, the scream of the inbound Chicago Special split the air.
The platform was crowded with well-dressed men and women, and it took a few precious seconds before I spotted Branson and Mulligan. The Lieutenant was carrying a cane in one hand and a satchel in the other, while Mulligan had a small suitcase. My shout caused both men to turn, but it was Mulligan who pulled a revolver and pointed it at me.
The platform cleared as people dove through the door of the station, giving me and the Pinkerton men a clear shot at the Sergeant. Wisely, seeing our armament, Mulligan quickly dropped his gun and raised his hands. We were on them in a second, knocked both men to the ground, and pinned their arms behind them.
“Don’t touch that cane,” I yelled. “Leave it lay.”
“What is this?” came a voice dripping with authority. Elihu Benjamin Washburne, the United States ambassador to France, who had just stepped off the train, stood gazing down at the two prone men as the Pinkerton's worked to put them in handcuffs.
“Just a couple of thieves, Sir,” I lied. “These men here are detectives. We’ll be cleared out in a minute.”
Just then, Wendell came running up. He had brought a carriage and we loaded the two criminals aboard and took them to the Galena jail, to be held until they could be transported to a court in the nation’s capitol.
Finally, I learned the names of the Pinks who had stood by me facing Mulligan’s gun: Doyle and Johnson.
I took possession of Branson’s cane, and carried it with great care. The satchel Branson carried also never left my side. Johnson carried Mulligan’s suitcase.
“You have a tale to tell, Charles,” Wendell said as we left the jail. “I’ll need every detail, but we still haven’t found the stockpile of deadly germs, or Karl Buch.”
“I can lead you to both, I believe,” I responded. “Let’s head back to the hotel and I’ll make everything clear as this blue sky.”
I nodded at the two Pinkerton men. “You’re welcome to come along and hear this. I’m sure your boss will want a full report.”
“Let’s go,” was Doyle’s response.
“First of all, I said, as we sat in Wendell’s office. I put the cane and satchel carefully next to my chair, and took Mulligan’s suitcase from Johnson. “I’d like you to describe Karl Wilhelm Buch in as much detail as possible. Was he short, tall, fat, thin? I know you’ve never seen him, but others have and you’ve read their observations.”
“Well,” Wendell began. “He’s of average height, stocky build. Full beard and mustache. Hair is medium length.”
“How does he dress?”
“Now that’s an unusual feature of the man. Every description mentions three things. One, he has eyeglasses tinted blue. The second thing is his hat, floppy. And, third, he’s never without a cape.”
“So no one knows his eye color because of the tinted glasses,” I remarked. “And the hat probably covers part of his face, with the full beard covering the rest. The cape may just be to get attention, but I’ll bet he carries a walking stick.”
“Yes. I see where you’re going with this.”
I put Mulligan’s suitcase on the desk and popped it open. “Here’s Herr Buch himself,” I said holding up a false beard. “And this looks like a cape and here’s some blue tinted glasses.”
Wendell was on his feet. “So, Charles. Your saying there never was a Karl Buch.”
“Oh, I think there was. Once upon a time.” The four of us pawed through the remainder of the clothing.
Finally, I put everything back and put the suitcase on the floor.
Carefully, I placed Branson’s small leather satchel onto the desk. Slowly, I undid the buckles and eased up the flap. Inside, I could see a glass vial, stoppered with a cork, held in place by a metal wire cage and soft cloth. “This, unless I’m completely wrong, is the one vial of The Black Death bacteria.”
All three men peered into the satchel.
“Let’s close this up, Charles,” Wendell said, “and get it to our expert on infectious diseases. He’s been twittering his thumbs in an expensive room for the past month, and driving me insane with his pestering. Now, he’ll earn his keep, and get this material rendered safe.”
I closed the flap, secured the buckles, and set the satchel next to my chair.
I was about to reach for the cane when Wendell asked, “Now, Charles. Tell us. When did you first suspect Branson and Mulligan of being involved with this scheme?”
“It was the code. The unbreakable code that wasn’t.”
“So you broke the code?”
“No. It wasn’t necessary to break it. All I did was recognize it.”
“You better explain that, Charles. We have two men in jail, and a lot of questions.”
I paused to gather my thoughts.
“During the few months I spend in the cryptography section of the War Office, Colonel Waxman was the head of the department. Lieutenant Branson was the best code-breaker in the agency, quickly deciphering some pretty tough codes.
“Now, mind you, the South didn’t match the North in secret communication, but they had one cipher that was used often. It was a type of the Vigenere cipher, the one considered unbreakable. Each of the senior Confederate officers had a brass wheel disk. This disk had the normal English alphabet on one wheel, and the secret letters on a disk that could be turned. If you knew the key word, and could set your disk to that keyword, you could then encode a message that could be read in plain American by someone who knew the keyword.
“Without the keyword, the message was unbreakable.
“While I was serving in the code section, Branson figured out a way to find the keyword, no matter what it was, and break the code. I saw him break maybe fifty of these “unbreakable” codes in four months.”
Wendell nodded. “We agree, then. He’s an accomplished cryptographer.”
“His title was Crypt-analysis Chief. He broke ciphers for a living, and was damn good at it. But he didn’t expect to find anyone else able to duplicate his feat.”
“But wasn’t Colonel Waxman the head of the department?” Doyle of the Pinkerton’s asked. “Couldn’t Waxman break this code?”
I shook my head. “Waxman was the administrator, not working on codes or ciphers. He wrestled with budgets, requests from generals, administrative functions. He’s a fine man, but couldn’t break an egg, let alone a poly-alphabetic cipher. And Branson depended on that.”
Again, I paused. “The cipher you handed me was the same Confederate cipher Branson had analyzed maybe a hundred or more times. His claim that it was unbreakable was a bold lie, and it made everything else about him a lie. That’s why I wanted to talk to Waxman and get some answers. I suspected Branson knew I’ll break the cipher, but he was depending on me taking all night. By morning, their plan would be sprung, and they would be lost in the wind.”
“So what is this all about? What were these men up to? Beating Waxman like that?” Wendell was shaking his head.
“If we could get some coffee and a few sandwiches in here, I’d be happy to discourse on where I think this was going.”
Cipher disk used to break codes. It requires a key word or it's useless.
Goodfoote and the Galena Puzzle
Subsequently, Doyle, Johnson, and Wendell helped me clear a sandwich tray and down some strong coffee before I resumed.
“My guess is that the whole idea behind their plan was to blackmail the US government. To do that, they needed something a government fears. What could be as bad as a foreign invasion or economic collapse? What could kill more citizens than even the Civil War?”
Wendell nodded again. “A plague so virulent that it can’t be stopped. Thousands, maybe millions, of American citizens rotting in the streets.”
“That’s right,” I said. “And along comes a man who steals a vial of bubonic plague and offers to sell it to the highest criminal bidder. Karl Wilhelm Buch, I suspect, was probably that man., He is also probably dead. I don’t know when Mulligan began to impersonate him. Maybe it was part of the original plan, or maybe Buch started to become a nuisance.”
Wendell sat back in his chair, as if weary. “We’ll be able to find out more about Buch. I’d like to know where he got the germs. We may discover he was one of those crazed anarchist, as well as greedy.
“What do you think they were planning to do with the disease, Charles? If they spread it here in Galena, it might have sickened a few, but there wasn’t enough to do real damage.”
“Fear makes cowards of us all, Wendell. And the government would be terrified that a maniac could put this deadly disease in the drinking water, or the river. But from what I remember about plague, ingesting it doesn’t do any good. The acid in your stomach will kill it. Typhoid and cholera are catastrophic in a well or food, but plague must enter through broken skin.”
“That’s right,” Johnson agreed. “It was the bite of rat fleas that spread it in Europe.”
I poured myself another cup of coffee. “That walking stick has a needle on the end,” I said, “and I’ll wager it’s soaked in bubonic plague germs. I suspect they were going to give the Ambassador to France a poke, get on the train and disappear. After Washburne came down with the disease, and spread it to his family, they would contact the President or someone high up and threaten the entire city of New York or Chicago with The Black Death unless a few million in gold was paid.”
“I see,” Wendell said. “And who would be assigned to deliver the gold? None other than Branson and Mulligan, who would split it with Buch, then disappear with their booty.”
Doyle was shaking his head. “There’s still a lot we don’t know. What about the secret agent who was keeping tabs on Buch? Why didn’t he tumble to the disguise if he had been watching the man so closely?”
I put down my coffee cup and shrugged. “He didn’t report Buch because there was no agent. Again, I’ll wager these two men were just keeping the US government on tether hooks to build the suspense. By suggesting a conspiracy with a stockpile of deadly disease germs, the fear would become palpable.”
“So your arrival here the day their plot was to come to fruition was just luck on our part,” Wendell said. “It must have made them jittery, knowing you might be able to break the cipher.”
“That’s the way I see it,” I said. “The code was to ensure Branson would be sent to Galena. As the government’s chief cryptanalyst, he was the logical choice. Again, I’m just speculating, but by that time, Mulligan had taken over for Buch and knew he was being followed. He made sure the man tailing him saw him hide the code in the dead tree.
“Waxman coming along was the first surprise, but Branson knew he posed no threat as a codebreaker. As Waxman is a superior officer, the President sent him to lend weight to the Army’s investigation.”
I stood to go. “Now,” I said, “I have a couple hours before dinner, and I’d like to see if I can get that cipher broken. It may just be gibberish, but I’d like to solve it.”
When I did discover the key word, and ultimately the message, it was of such a rude nature that I won’t sully these pages with it.
Lieutenant Branson made it clear, during his confession, that he was infuriated that he was still a lieutenant, while men like Waxman were promoted to higher ranks. When he stumbled on Karl Buch, he felt he could get back at the Army that had wronged him, and make a fortune at the same time.
Mulligan was hanged, but Branson’s death sentence was commuted to life imprisonment. President Grant felt the lieutenant’s work during the Civil War should be considered.
Karl Wilhelm Buch, it turned out, had worked as an assistant to the doctors studying the plague bacillus in Paris. He was fired for fiery screeds he produced, and for associating with a gang of radical anarchists. A vial of plague germs went missing around the same time.
Although he was never located, a body roughly matching his description was discovered a year later in some woods up near the Wisconsin River.
You won’t find this tale in any history books, for President Grant himself issued an order to keep us all quiet on anything to do with the Black Death nearly rearing its head in Galena.
For my part, within a month, I was a full-fledged Operative for the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, and dispatched to Wyoming Territory to help put down a spat of bank holdups. It was two years before I returned to Chicago, and the home office, only to be dispatched to Arizona Territory as a bodyguard for a British lad.
But that’s another story.
The train depot in Galena where Goodfoote captures the bad guys.
Master Bao and the Bandits
Master Bao rode his ox, Xi, through the hushed, dripping forest, and Ping, his student, walked alongside. After two hours, Ping noticed that only a small patch of gray sky was visible among the overhead branches, and it was becoming difficult to see through the rising mist. He began to cast glances at the green curtain of trees bounding the narrow road, for bandits were common in the kingdom of Tatung, and this road was noted for road agents robbing travelers.
To add to his unease, his brown traveling robe was already soaked through, and the sky had darkened in the past hour. Perhaps the mist will turn to rain, he thought.
Master Bao halted his ox and dismounted. He stood next to his steed, seeming to gaze at the road ahead. Just then, four men crashed out of the woods, the lower part of their faces covered. Shouting unintelligible words, they waved swords and sticks in the air as they ran onto the road towards Master Bao and Ping.
The tallest of the men, dressed in a patched shirt, stepped forward. He pointed his sword at the elderly Sage.
“Give us your gold, old man, or I’ll take your head!”
Master Bao bowed. “We have no gold. Only a few coins for which to purchase lodging. It is too wet to sleep comfortably outdoors. Perhaps you could direct us to the nearest inn.”
“You can’t fool me,” the man replied. “All you old rich men travel with servants and gold. Now, give it up.”
“I have no servant. This boy is my student, and I’m his teacher. And, we have no gold.”
The bandit thrust his sword at Master Bao, but the monk turned sideways so the sword slid harmlessly past. “I do not wish to contend with you. I’m but a poor monk traveling to the village of Pang-Li. We have no gold.”
As the outlaw made more attempts to stab or chop Master Bao, the monk seemed to know where the blade was going and simply moved aside.
Breathless, the road-agent yelled, “Men, attack this man. Kill him.”
But the three other bandits shook their heads. “He’s a holy man, Boss. It would bring evil upon us if we did him harm.”
“Then I will kill this boy,” the big man growled. He turned toward Ping who had not moved during the encounter.
“I cannot allow that, Swordsman,” Master Bao said. He gripped the man’s shoulder, using a technique the Chinese Boxers call “praying mantis seizing ant,” and the man dropped his sword and sank to his knees. The three other road-agents fled into the woods.
“Come, Ping,” the monk said. He released the bandit and climbed aboard Xi. “I don’t believe this man will help us find the nearest inn.”
Later that day, as Master Bao and Ping sat in the dining room of the Inn of Quiet Repose, Ping rose from the table, and bowed deeply, his hands clasped inside his copious sleeves.
“Please enlighten this ignorant student, Master. How did you avoid the bandit’s blade so easily?”
“As you know, Ping, I am but a vessel, an empty jug. When I looked into the man with the sword, I saw his anger. And anger is the child of fear. I simply filled myself with air and floated away from his fear.”
Remember what Master Lao Tzu said,
"I've heard of those who are good at cultivating life.
They are not harmed by weapons.
Rhino have nowhere to thrust their horn,
Tigers have no place to clasp their claws.
Soldiers have nowhere to stick their swords."
Art work by Fan Zeng (b. 1938)
Master Bao and the Red Turbans
By Tom Hanratty
Artwork by Fan Zeng (b. 1938)
“Master,” Ping shouted, as he wiped his face with his sleeve. “The rain has been pouring down for two days, and the snow in the mountains has melted. Do you think the bridge over the Peng-Li River will last?”
Master Bao, riding his ox, Xi, turned to face his student Ping who was trudging alongside on the muddy road. “The fate of the bridge lies in the future, Ping. And the future is promised to no person and no bridge. The truth will be revealed when we get to the river later today.”
Soon, the raging flood of the Peng-Li River came in sight through the curtain of rain, and there was the wooden bridge, still intact.
“The water is rising fast, Ping. We will cross before the bridge is washed away.”
Ping fixed his eyes on the opposite bank, for he became dizzy if he looked at the raging torrent of brown water swirling just under the wooden planks. He gave a sigh of relief when they were safely on the road on the other side. They had gone only a short distance when, with a crash, the bridge was struck with a large tree caught in the flooded river, and was washed away downstream.
“ Ahead is an inn where we can sleep in comfort, Ping. Perhaps this rain will stop by tomorrow, and we can be on our way. The village of Half Moon is still another two days of travel.”
The black clouds in the darkened sky roiled and boiled as the rain continued to drench the land and the men, turning rice paddies into lakes, roads into quagmires, and drainage ditches into cascades of brown water. With heads bent into the storm, the two travelers approached a small building on the side of the road. Although the wooden sign bounced in the wind, Ping could read the characters proclaiming this to be the Inn of Happy Travelers. After getting the ox into the stable and wiped dry, Master Bao and Ping were nearly blown into the lounge of the inn. A fire blazed in the fireplace, and the smell of cooking spices welcomed the two men.
“Welcome, Master,” the round-shaped innkeeper said. “We have just two rooms still available. One on the top floor and one behind the kitchen. We have many guests washed up into our small wayside, but we always have room for more pilgrims. Step up to the fire to dry while I bring plates of food.”
After drying near the fire, Master Bao and Ping pulled a bench up to a table while the landlord and his daughter brought them bowls of steaming spiced rice. But before they could begin eating, the door to the inn burst open and a man dressed as a craftsman stumbled into the room. “The Red Turbans have broken through the Emperor’s troops and are headed this way. They are killing anyone they come across, men, women, and children. Even cows and geese,” he trumpeted.
“Surely the flooded river will stop them,” one of the guests shouted, as many voices in the crowded restaurant cried out in alarm.
“No, no,” the man gasped. “They are coming from the other direction, the village of Half Moon.”
“We are trapped,” someone screamed. “The bridge is washed out, and the fields are flooded. We will all be murdered by the Red Turbans.”
Ping watched the turmoil in the room, then looked at Master Bao who was peacefully eating his rice. “Master,” Ping exclaimed, “how will we escape the Red Turbans? We can’t go back the way we came, and we can’t escape across the fields. They will slaughter us, along with all of these good people.”
Master Bao put down his chopsticks. “This is a good lesson for you, Ping. The bridge is out and the river is too high and swift to cross. Therefore, we can’t go back. Just like in life, Ping, we can’t go back to the past to escape the present. Ahead on the road awaits death. Just like in life, Ping, the future we must all face is death, sooner or later. But, right now, in the present, we are dry, we are warm, and we are enjoying some of the tastiest rice I have ever eaten. Both the past and the future are ghosts, Student Ping, for neither exists at this moment, so worrying about either is pointless."
As for the Red Turbans, trust in the Will of Heaven to keep us safe.”
Seeing the calm face and attitude of the Sage, the rest of the patrons went back to their eating and drinking. The conversations were quiet and peaceful.
The next morning, dawn broke with a cloudless sky, bright sunlight, and cool temperatures.
The door to the inn burst open, and a man dressed as a craftsman stumbled into the room. “His Excellency the Emperor’s troops have rounded up all the Red Turban gang and arrested them. The road to Half Moon Village is safe.”
Later, Master Bao and Ping took their leave of the landlord of the Inn of Happy Travelers, and set out for Half Moon Village. The sun had dried the mud and Ping smiled as he thought of the lessons he was learning about the way of the Dao. “The past and the future are ghosts, for they don’t exist in the present,” Ping remembered. “And trust in the Will of Heaven.”
Right now, he thought, I’m warm, dry, and safe. And that is enough.
Master Bao and the Mountain Pass
Artwork by Fan Zeng (b. 1938)
Master Bao rode his ox, Xi, along a trail leading to a mountain pass. His pupil, Ping, walked along side. At one end of the pass was the village of Kang, while miles away through the mountains, was the village of Yan. A border guard stood watch at a small rest area, called the Kang garden, and here the two stopped to refresh themselves.
“It’s time for our noon rice, Ping. Prepare the setting on that large rock so we can gaze at the magnificent mountain while we eat. The peaceful scene will help our food digest.”
After Ping had spread the bamboo mat on the large, flat rock, and arranged their chopsticks and bowls, he uncovered the clay travel urn and ladled out rice for Master Bao and himself. The men ate in silence, enraptured by the beauty of the scene before them. White clouds floated in an azure sky, and the lower purple mountain slopes were covered in dark pines.
Ping was about to ask a question regarding the flow of the Dao, when they were approached by a man of middle years, with a pinched face and dark circles around his eyes. “Excuse, me, Sir,” he said. “I’m traveling from the village of Kang, and wonder if you know anything about the people in the village of Yan.”
“Yes,” Master Bao replied. “I’m very familiar with the people of Yan, for I’ve traveled there many times.”
“Well, I’ve come from that horrible village of Kang, where the people made me angry. It’s time I moved on.”
Master Bao nodded. “How did the people of Kang make you angry?”
“They made noise when I wanted to sleep. They were dirty and have trash in the streets, and they treated me poorly, with no respect.”
“That is terrible, Sir. How did you respond?”
The man sneered. “I punished them by sleeping during the day and making racket all night. And I collected my garbage and dumped it in the streets to teach them a lesson. And when I encountered them, I treated them as rudely as I can, just to show them how it feels.”
“Well,” Master Bao said, “I’m afraid the people of Yan are much like the people of Kang. You will find they treat you the same way”
The man gave a deep sigh. “I knew it,” he said, as he turned and walked away. “But somewhere is a place where the people are kind and will treat me with respect.” With that he went through the border gate, and took the trail to the next village.
Ping cleaned the bowls, rolled up the bamboo mat, and packed away the meal containers. Just as Master Bao was about to mount his Ox, a young man entered the small garden and approached the Sage.
“Excuse, me, Sir,” he said bowing low. “I’m traveling from the village of Kang, and wonder if you know anything about the people in the village of Yan.”
“Yes,” Master Bao replied, “I’m very familiar with the people of Yan, for I’ve traveled there many times.”
“I really hate to leave the village of Kang, for the people there are kind and good. They are quiet and clean, and treat me with great respect. Better people are hard to find. But I must find better work, for Kang is a poor village.”
“Well,” Master Bao said. “The people of Yan are the same. They will treat you with respect, and you will find them kind and good.”
“Thank you, Kind Sir,” he said with a deep bow. “You’ve been most helpful.”
After the man left, Ping approached Master Bao. “Excuse this ignorant student, Master,” he said with a deep bow. “You gave opposite information to two men about the same village. Please enlighten your dull student as to your reasons.”
“Look at the mountain, Ping. Tell me what you see.”
“I see a beautiful mountain, with wonderful trees on the lower slopes. The upper slopes are full of colors, purples and grays. The clouds drift along its peak and their shadows make interesting designs on the slopes.”
Master Bao nodded. “There are those who only see a blockage to their passage. They see they must walk further to find a pass, and complain about the hard stones of the trail upon which they will walk. The mountain doesn’t change, but the way people see the mountain depends on what is deep inside them.
“The man who found the people of Kang difficult will find the people of Yan, and any other village, the same way because of the way he treats people. The anger and hate is deep inside him, not in the village of Kang.
“The young man, who found the people of Kang respectful, will find people kind and good wherever he goes, for that is what is deep inside him.”
Ping bowed, his hands folded inside his wide sleeves. “I understand, Master. The village, like the mountain, hasn’t changed, but everything we either hate or love comes from deep within us. And that is what we see.”
“Yes, Ping. As Master Lao Zi said, ‘Those who are with kindness, kindness will be pleased to have them, and those who are with loss, loss will also pleased to have them.’ Now, we will travel to Yan and find a suitable inn for the night. ”
Thanks to Derik Lin for the idea. His work is to be found online in Tao Stories by Derik Lin.
Master Bao and the Caged Bird
Master Bao and his pupil Ping sat in the rock garden of the White Crane Temple in the Peng Lai district of the Empire. They had finished their morning rice and sipped their Longjing green tea, waiting the return of their host. This was the third day of their visit to the head monk, Abbot Fang Ho. Tomorrow, the two travelers would be moving on, down from the mountains to the valley of the Yong River.
The Abbot, a tall, thin man with a peaceful smile, returned from conducting an interview with an unexpected visitor. The two guests stood and bowed in greeting to the Abbot, their hands clasped inside their copious sleeves.
“I trust your visitor brought you good news, Abbot Fang,” said Master Bao.
As the Abbot returned Master Bao’s greeting, Master Bao thought the usually placid face of the head monk held a hint of concern. “The man was a messenger from Magistrate Lee who heard of your presence in his district and asked you to call on him at noon today. I must tell you, Master Bao, the Magistrate is known as a kindly man, but a bit overbearing at times. He was most insistent and is sending a palanquin for you and your pupil.”
“It is a major tenant of our Daoist creed to always accept whatever comes one’s way. Ping and I will be honored to visit the Magistrate,” Master Bao replied. “There is little crime and no unrest among the citizens of this district which means the Magistrate is a fair and just administrator. However, we will walk to the tribunal. Being carried by other men in a litter is not in keeping with my philosophy.”
Upon the hour of noon, Master Bao and Ping presented themselves at the gate of the large tribunal building. Master Bao explained to Ping, “It is a rule in China that anyone with a grievance can strike the large gong in the courtyard at any time, and the Magistrate will immediately open a court hearing. Regularly scheduled sessions are held in the morning, at noon, and again in the early evening. The hearings are open to the public and are a major attraction for many citizens who wish to keep up on the happenings in the district. The guard will strike the gong three times to announce the opening of the noon session"
The gong sounded three times just as Master Bao and Ping entered the court room. The Magistrate, a large man dressed in the dark green brocade robe of his office, pushed through a curtain behind an ornate chair at the far end of the room. He sat without ceremony, hammered the desk with a wooden gavel called “the wood that frightens the hall,” and ordered the clerk to read out the cases the court was to hear.
Ping had never been in a tribunal before and stared at the court personnel. The Magistrate, called “the mother and father of the People” sat behind a raised bench covered with a white cloth. On either side of the high dais, two clerks occupied lower tables, and were getting their ink-stones and brushes ready to take down the testimony of witnesses. Below the platform, in front of the dais, stood six constables, three on each side. They carried the torture instruments of their office, whips, chains, and wooden presses with screws to crush ankles and wrists if the suspect didn’t confess to his crime. A large constable stood to one side, slowly swinging a heavy leather whip, a scowl on his face. Student Ping had heard of the terrible consequences for anyone accused of a crime and the fearsome power of the Magistrate to mete out justice. One didn’t come to court for minor problems, Ping thought.
Two young men approached the bench and dropped to their knees. After knocking their heads on the tiled floor three times, one of the men looked up at the judge. “This miserable person is Koo Meng, the son of the late Koo Pin, and the brother to this disgraceful man next to me. On his death bed, our father insisted we split his property evenly between the two of us brothers, but now this ungrateful cur has taken the best of the land and buildings, leaving me with only a paltry piece of worthless land and decrepit structures. Right this wrong, Your Honor, and force my brother to divide up our holdings evenly.”
The Magistrate looked from one brother to the other. Both were dressed in good quality clothing and appeared well-fed and healthy. He addressed the second brother. “What have you to say to this?”
The second brother looked up at the judge. “This worthless person is Koo Pang, the younger son of our venerated father, Koo Pin. It’s true our father was a wealthy landowner, but he didn’t leave a will. And it’s also true that on his death bed, he told us to split the property evenly. But my lying brother here has it completely wrong about the land holdings and the buildings. He received the most productive land and the out buildings in the best repair. I was left with barren slopes on rocky mountains with run-down huts, while he took the best for himself. Right this wrong, Your Honor, and force my brother to divide up the holdings evenly.”
Magistrate Lee put his chin in his hand, rubbing his short beard, he appeared deep in thought. Finally, he said loudly, “Here is my decision. You, Koo Meng, will give all of the land and buildings your father left you, to your brother Koo Pang. And you, Koo Pang, will give all of the land and holdings your father left you, to your brother Koo Meng. Since you both insist the other has gotten the better of the deal, this should satisfy you both.”
As the brothers knocked their heads on the floor again, the audience in the filled court room roared with laughter. It was a wise settlement for the greedy brothers. Master Bao smiled at the clever way the Magistrate had solved this difficult dispute.
With the resolution to the case, and as no one else came forward, the Judge rapped his gavel and closed the session.
The Magistrate, recognizing Master Bao in the audience, sent one of his assistants with instructions to bring the monk and Ping to his private chamber through the curtain behind the dais. As he was removing his black cap with stiff wings and the heavy robes of his office, Magistrate Lee had the two travelers sit at a low desk. In a few minutes, tea was served and the Magistrate made small talk for several minutes before broaching the subject that troubled him. He glanced at Ping, decided to let the student remain in the room, and addressed the monk.
“Master Bao, I am a steadfast follower of the teachings of Confucius and believe our dark-haired people are well-served by his writings. One of his most revered instructions, and one I have followed my entire life is, ‘treat others as you wish to be treated.’ But I have run into a problem when I try to apply this sacred wisdom to women.” Here, the Magistrate paused and took a deep breath. “I simply don’t understand them at all.”
“Ah,” said Master Bao. “It is usually one lady in particular that brings this confusion to a learned mind. Can you give me more details?”
The Magistrate leaned back in his chair and let his eyes drift to the ceiling. He blew out a deep breath, then looked at Master Bao before he spoke.
“Two weeks ago, I was out riding in the rural country near the river Lan that borders our neighboring district to the South. At a small village, I came upon the most beautiful girl I had ever laid eyes on. I won’t even attempt to describe her beauty and personality for it is beyond any words. Sufficient to say, I immediately approached her father, a poor farmer, and purchased the girl, called by the name of Peach Blossom, to be my concubine. As you know, she has the right to refuse, so I think the price I paid was more than her family would make in ten years. The welfare of her kin may have persuaded her to join me. I already have four wives, which is the most a Magistrate can have, but I’m allowed as many concubines as I please.
“You may find it strange that I would buy a peasant girl. Usually, a concubine is a courtesan trained in art, music, poetry, and pleasant conversation, a skilled consort for a man in my position of responsibility. But so taken was I by Peach Blossom’s comeliness and wit that nothing mattered but for her to live in my home as my companion.”
The Judge finished a cup of tea, then another, before resuming his tale.
“I took her to my home in a closed palanquin, gave her two personal handmaidens to dress her in the finest silk, had the most skilled musicians play the most beautiful music for her, and gave her only the most delicious morsels to eat. She never has to work another day in her life.
"After she stayed in her room crying for the first few days, I brought her mother and father in to visit and talk to her, thinking she was homesick for her parents. But her sadness and grief did not abate.
"This beautiful girl has become pale and ill. She refuses to eat and spends time in her room, either weeping or staring out of her window at the clouds in the sky. When I approach her, she clings to me as she weeps. I treated her as I would have wished to be treated, as the August Confucius said, but I have only brought pain to this woman I love.”
Silence filled the room as Magistrate Lee, his head hanging down, finished his story.
“I’m sure there is a solution to this problem, Your Honor,” Master Bao said. “The Daoist Zhuangzi tells a story of a Sea Bird and a king, and we may receive some insight from it. Let me speak with Peach Blossom.”
Word was sent to the Magistrate’s personal quarters located in a villa behind the tribunal. It is forbidden for any males to see the wives of a Magistrate except on certain ceremonial occasions, and the women had withdrawn into a special chamber. Concubines, on the other hand, did not have this restriction, so the three men walked to the villa and, once inside, approached an ornate door at the end of a long hall. After knocking, the Judge entered the chamber of a beautiful young woman who was introduced as Peach Blossom. Her two handmaidens were dismissed and the Magistrate left Master Bao and Ping alone with the concubine.
Tea was elegantly served and Peach Blossom smiled bravely while speaking of her life on the small farm near the river.
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate what Magistrate Lee is doing for me. In his mind, he took a young woman from a life of poverty and hard work and placed her in a palace. But I long for the music of the birds and the sound of the river gently flowing over rocks. The food I eat on the farm is from plants I have raised and nourished, prayed over, and cared for like friends. When rain comes, I run out into it to feel the power of the storm. Here, I am confined to my chamber when the weather is anything but sunny.
“My work at home made me strong and full of energy. Here, I am expected to do nothing, not even dress myself. The women here are very nice, but they talk only of men they have lain with, or new colors of fashion. At home, I have sat with a cow all night when she was having trouble giving birth, and rejoiced when the calf came forth into this world. My joy is different from that of the women of this house. Digging my hands and feet into freshly dug soil gave me a great pleasure. But now my fingernails grow long and my feet are wrapped in cloth.” As if too heavy to hold up, Peach Blossom’s head dropped forward and tears flowed onto her silk gown.
“And yet my family was in great debt to the tax collector and we would have lost the farm if Magistrate Lee hadn’t found me attractive. So I will stay with him and do my best to please him.” She sighed as her tears coursed down her rouged cheeks.
Master Bao gave Peach Blossom some words of encouragement. He and Ping returned to the Tribunal late in the afternoon and met with Magistrate Lee after the evening session of the court.
“It is time for Zhuangzi’s story of a Sea Bird and a King,” Master Bao said to the Judge. “A beautiful Sea Bird came ashore in a small kingdom. The people all marveled at the beauty of the bird, and it even had a melodious song. Most sea birds are rather plain and have a rasping call, but this was a special bird. The king heard about this beautiful bird and sent his men to bring her to his palace, where the bird was given silk to sit on, delicious food, and beautiful music from a special group of the best musicians to surround her. But to the bird, the music was strange and disturbing, the food not something she herself had caught, and the silk was uncomfortable to a bird who had sat on rocks her entire life. Within a week, she sickened and died.”
The Magistrate hung his head. “Is this what I have brought to pass because of my love for this beautiful girl?” he asked.
“The two brothers in court today saw only their lack when compared to their brothers’ holdings,” Master Bao explained. “And you saw only the poverty and a life of labor for this beautiful girl, when compared to the rich life in your mansion. As an honorable man, you wanted to repair this injustice. But each of us has a different nature, and Peach Blossom is nourished by the freedom and connection to the Earth, rather then the riches of your world.
“You must honor her nature, the clear spirit that resides inside her. Let the bird out of her cage sometimes. Let her return to her family’s farm every month, and she will return full of energy and strength.”
Magistrate Lee smiled for the first time in many days. He stood and clapped his hands. “I’ll do it, Master Bao. Maybe, in time, she’ll come to like it here as well and will spend even more time with me. You are truly a wise man, Master. Thank you for your counsel.”
Later that day, as Master Bao and Ping again reposed in the rock garden of the White Crane Temple, Ping raised his clasped hands above his head and bowed deeply to Master Bao. “Please explain to this ignorant pupil how Magistrate Lee caused such pain to Peach Blossom, even though he was following the virtuous rule of treating others as you would wish to be treated?”
“Ah,” replied Master Bao, “but he imposed his will on the young lady. That was something he wouldn’t have wanted done to him. When dealing with other people, Student Ping, one must assess what is best for their personal nature, not what we would desire. That is the lesson of Zhuangzi’s story.”
Chinese Wisdom: It is the beautiful bird that is caged.
Thanks to Zhuangzi (4th century BCE) for the idea and Sea Bird story.
Art work by Fan Zeng (1938 - ) of Beijing, China
Rex Granite Takes a Case
Rex Granite, Private Eye, sat behind his wooden desk and stared at the back of his office door. It was a good door for a Shamus, frosted upper with his name and trade in black lettering, backwards from where he was sitting. That door hadn’t admitted any new clients today and that was just fine with him. Too many unhappy people had been bothering him with meaningless, boring cases, most of which he refused. Someday a good, mind-bending mystery would walk in, rather than these people with their petty troubles cluttering up his office.
He had plenty of dough from his last case, an interesting matter of a dame setting him up for a murder rap. But he had turned the tables on the little minx and collected a fat fee. The lady, if you could call the homicidal floozy a lady, was now doing twenty to life in the Big House for Dames.
With a sigh, Granite opened his laptop and booted up Number 31465 on a FreeCell website. For two days, he had been unsuccessful in winning this game, no matter what combinations he tried. But now, he was going to change his tactics completely, and just as he was making headway, a shadowy silhouette darkened the glass upper of his door, and the brass handle turned.
Granite immediately disliked the man who entered. Everything about the guy spelled trouble. From the way he strolled into the room, scanning the office like he was going to buy it, to the way the sunlight from the window behind the desk bounced off the copper sharkskin suit the man wore.
Shorter than Granite by a half foot and built like a beer keg, the prospective client finally met Granite’s eye.
“You Granite?” the man said with an upward jerk of his head.
Granite had risen to greet the man, but didn’t offer his hand. “Just like on the door,” he replied as he sat down. His last case had involved just this kind of slugger, mob torpedoes working for some syndicate. Same greased hair, same dark eyes, same three day beard. And no neck.
“My wife is cheating on me.”
“I don’t do divorce cases.”
“She stole ten grand from my safe.”
“I don’t do petty thefts.”
The man paused, then nodded. “Ten grand is petty theft, huh?” He plopped down in one of the two client’s chairs, took off his flat hat and crossed one leg over the other. “You know who I am?” He began to jiggle his foot.
“No. You haven’t introduced yourself yet.”
“I think the broad is dead.” Still no introduction.
“I don’t do homicides. That gets me in trouble with the cops.”
The man nodded again. He dropped both feet to the floor and leaned across the desk, rising slightly from his chair. “I’m August Pentipelli. I do real estate. Hell, I own half this city.” He looked around the office again. “Matter of fact, I think I own this building, It’s the kind of dump I specialize in.”
Granite said nothing.
“Look, I did some digging on you. Your real name ain’t Granite. You’re Eugene Potsum, and you’ve never been a cop or military. You got some lavender degree from a lefty school. I’m here because some friends of mine say you can figure things out.”
Granite remained silent.
“So, Gumshoe, what the Hell do you do?”
“I solve mysteries, that’s what I do.”
Pentipelli again nodded. “Yeah, well. I got one of them, too. She took my dog. She hates my dog, but she took him when she split. That’s a mystery, eh?”
“What kind of dog is it?”
“What the ? You give a rat’s ass what kind of dog? My wife is probably laying somewhere with her throat cut, and you’re asking what kind of dog? What are you, some kind of nut?”
“Poodle, Shih Tzu, what?”
The man just stared at Granite. Finally, “It’s a Rottweiler.” Granite noted Pentipelli hung his head, maybe showing some emotion for the first time. “Names Conon. Dog weighs more than the old lady.”
Granite shoved a printed paper across the desk. “This is my fee schedule. Plus daily expenses. I’ll find your dog.”
TO THE READER;
This is the start of a story for you to finish. Devise a mystery for Granite to solve based on what has already transpired.
Remember, kids read these stories so no explicit sex or profanity.
Post it in the comment section on the Home page of the website (www.thomashanratty.com) and I’ll put up a separate page with the mystery you devise. Sorry, no prizes or rewards, other then seeing your story in print.
Go get ‘em.
Artwork by Fan Zeng (b. 1938)
Master Bao and the Intelligent Ghost
Master Bao and Ping sat on the balcony of the Kingfisher Restaurant overlooking Lake Hulang in the Northwestern empire of Tong. Piles of purple and pink clouds floated through the darkened sky, reflected in the smooth surface of the quiet pool. Dusk was coming on, and the two men, having finished their evening rice, were contemplating the peaceful scene.
“Master,” Ping began. “I see the flow of the Dao in the quiet water and the movement of the clouds. The water is now in its Yin state, quiet and yielding, and the clouds, with their movement, are in their Yang state of being. Is this correct?”
“Yes, Ping. The way of the Dao is change and flow, and when we follow the patterns of the ten thousand things of nature, we avoid misfortune that seems to plague some men.”
Just then, a clamor on the wooden stairs heralded the arrival of a man dressed as a wealthy guildmaster. His hat was askew on his head, his gown too large for his thin frame, and his pale face was lined with worry. He dropped to his knees before Master Bao and knocked his forehead on the floor three times.
“Master Bao,” the man whined in a strained voice. “You must help me. I’m going mad.”
“Pour this man a cup of tea, Ping,” Master Bao said to his student. Then, to the mad man, “Please, Sir, have a seat at the table here and tell us your story.”
Slowly, the man climbed into a chair and gulped a cup of tea. “You’ll think me mad also, but I must end this curse that has fallen on me. I have not slept for days, and barely eat enough to keep me alive, so distraught have I been.”
He quickly drank a second cup of tea. “I am Lo Chien, the proud owner of the largest jade shop in Tong,” the man began. “Many years ago, when I was quite young, I fell in love with a beautiful woman and, after an appropriate time, we married. My wife was not only beautiful, she was a brilliant businesswoman. But had kept her talent hidden, for women are kept out of sight and not allowed in business in our village. I was a jade craftsman and we prospered greatly from the first day due to my wife’s business sense. For many years we lived happily, making large amounts of money and enjoying each other’s company. The only regret we had was we were unable to conceive a child, and so I had no sons to bring into the business. But it caused no rift in our happiness.” At this point, Lo Chien began to weep and placed his head in his hands.
“Order some rice for our friend here, Ping” Master Bao said. “And have the waiter bring another pot of tea, for I believe we have only begun this story.”
Lo Chien thanked Master Bao and gobbled up his bowl of rice when it arrived. After another two cups of tea, he resumed his tale.
“After many years of happiness, my wife became sick. I brought in several doctors, all well respected for their knowledge, but they all said my wife was going to die. There was no cure for her ailment. Within weeks, she became so weak she could no longer rise from her bed, so I sat with her and bathed her forehead. On the last day of her life, she motioned for me to draw close and, in a voice so soft I had to strain to hear, she said, ‘I love you and don’t want to leave you. You must promise me you’ll always be faithful to me, and won’t love or marry another woman even after I’m dead. If you break your promise, I will come back as a ghost and make your life miserable.’ With that, she died.”
Lo Chien shook his bowed head slowly .
“I was wonderfully faithful for many months, “ he resumed. “Then, I met a beautiful woman who seemed as smart as my wife. Soon, although I resisted as much as I could, I fell in love with this woman, and she with me. It has been two years since my first wife died, and I have become engaged to marry this lady. A week ago, when we gathered some friends to announce our betrothal, my first wife appeared before me in my bedchamber as I was dressing for the party. ‘You have not kept your promise,’ she said. ‘I know all about you and this woman.’ Then, she repeated everything I had said, word for word, from that day. Every word that had passed between me and the woman I am to marry was thrown in my face.”
Gulping another cup of tea, Lo Chien uttered a great sigh. “Each night since, she has appeared to me and told each word that passed between my love and I. She also told me where we had gone, who we had met, and even how much money I had made that day. She knows everything. Nothing can be kept from her.”
Master Bao looked at the thin, pale face of Lo Chien. “What time does she appear each night?”
Lo Chien gazed at the sun as it sunk behind the shore of Lake Hulang. “Just about this time. No matter where I am. If you wait for a few moments, you will see her yourself. What can I do to throw off this curse, Master Bao?”
Master Bao called the waiter over and asked him to bring a small bag of uncooked rice to the table. When he had it in hand, he leaned close and whispered to Lo Chien. “Your wife was very intelligent in life, and now she is a very intelligent ghost. When she comes tonight, hand her this bag of rice and ask her how many grains are in the bag.”
Within minutes, a mist formed on the balcony and slowly materialized into the ghost of a beautiful woman. “I know all about you and what you have been saying,” she said. “I know everything.”
At this point, Lo Chien held out the bag of rice. “If you know everything, tell me how many grains of rice are in this bag.”
The ghost turned blue, then red, then green, finally disappearing in a cloud of mist.
“I think you have seen the last of your wife’s ghost,” Master Bao said. “Once she realized she didn’t know everything, she simply went back to the place where ghosts go.”
After profusely thanking Master Bao and Ping, Lo Chien clomped down the stairs singing with joy.
Ping folded his arms in his copious sleeves as he bowed deeply to Master Bao. “Please Master. Where does one go after one dies?”
“Now, Ping,” the old man said. “How would I know that?”
Ping bowed even deeper. “Because you are a Master.”
“Yes, Ping,” the monk replied, “but not a dead Master.”
Thanks to John Suler for the idea, Zen Stories to Tell your Neighbors, True Center Publishing, PA.
The Track and the Boy
Ohtoh of the Piegan band of the Blackfoot People knew the track was there.
It was across the shorter grass of the beginning prairie, near the buffalo trail that skirted the woods. Yesterday, when hunting rabbits, the boy had spotted the track, but had no time to read its message. So today he rose before dawn and crept out of the sleeping camp to the trail.
Now he waited for Creator Sun to send him the knowledge of the animal that made the track. The impatience of youth was something he had learned to push aside, not unusual for a Blackfoot boy of ten summers of age. He pulled his elk robe closer around him to keep out the early Spring chill of the great grassland, and thought about what was to come, how his patience and vigilance would be rewarded.
It was the Moon When the Ice Breaks Up, and soon Stands-in-Thunder, the main chief, would decide the day for the small band to leave their winter camp in the trees along the river, and move out onto the plains, joining other bands for a great buffalo hunt. Ohtoh was still too young to hunt the huge shaggy beast, but his grandfather often took him to hunt smaller game, and he had proven he could be quiet on the trail, and read the wisdom of the tracks. Studying this print, and reporting his findings to his mentor grandfather, would show he practiced the knowledge of the tracker/ hunter.
The boy watched while the sky shed its stars, sending them to follow the Night Light Moon over the tall mountains to the West. Then, the tall buffalo grass, higher than a man sitting on horse, was now seen black against a pale gray smudge of light in the East. The hollows of the prairie were still filled with darkness, but the higher undulations slowly appeared first gray, then blue. A light breeze brought the scent of the wild prairie sage, and the rustle of the grass with blue stems, as the silence deepened, and the world of the prairie awaited daybreak
Now, the boy saw the track on the trail before him, visible as a dark spot on the Earth, where the animal had left part of its spirit for the boy to marvel at. And as the light became the color of the skin of the spotted fish called salmon, the birds began their welcoming chorus, and the track began to fill with meaningful shadows. Cracks and ridges told of the animal’s passage, when it walked through this place, and a score of other pieces of knowledge Creator Sun now gave to the boy. The World is a track, the old man had told him. But only those who pay attention can know its mysteries.
The track of the great mountain cat, Omakatyo, lay before him, where the heaven softly touched the Earth. The chirp of the blue feathered jay sounded once at his back in the dark forest of tall cottonwood high over thick underbrush that stretched to the Swift-Running River. In front of him, the endless grassland, and behind him, the eternal forest and mountains.
The boy shifted his gaze to a spot a near the print of the cat. Here was a different track, a footprint that sent a quick jolt of fear through him. He breathed softly though his mouth, and his hearing became sharp enough to note the scampering of a rodent several feet away. He studied the new track, that of a moccasin print. He knew the Blackfoot People had footwear with parfleche soles, the dried hide of the buffalo carefully stitched onto the moccasins by the women of the tribe. But this was a soft soled print, the wearer’s toes slightly visible.
When the Piegan warriors raided enemy camps, they returned with moccasins from each of the tribes. Ohtoh’s grandfather would make tracks wearing the foes’ footwear so Ohtoh could learn the difference between the sign of many of the enemies on the plains. And the boy knew this was the rounded, wide footprint of the hated Cree. And it was fresh.
Ohtoh’s heart beat fast. If the enemy who made this track was scouting out the Piegan camp, he may be nearby watching. Slowly, the boy rose from his crouch, turned, and started to walk back towards the trees. Thoughts of an arrow in the back made him want to run like an antelope, but if the Cree scout thought the boy hadn’t seen the track, he may let him go. Nearing the cottonwood forest, however, Ohtoh’s resolve failed him and the boy burst into a sprint, trampling the long grasses, racing into the camp, past the barking dogs to his grandfather’s lodge.
That night, as the stars called the seven buffalo slowly moved toward their mountain resting place, Ohtoh sat with his grandfather in the shadow of their lodge. Early that morning, a counsel of the Crazy Dogs Warrior Society was called to discuss plans to deal with the Cree. Several warriors had gone to find the Cree scout after Ohtoh breathlessly told his grandfather of his discovery of the footprint, but no enemies were found. No one doubted the word of the boy, and the track was studied by the best trackers in the village. It was decided that the footprint had been made sometime near dawn. The boy had come close to losing his life, but the scout had since departed. An attack was most likely, as the scout had not noticed the boy reading the track. This was the conclusion of all the warriors.
“We will move the horses into the trees, and our warriors will hide and wait for the Cree to come into the forest. Then we will strike.”
And so it was. When the Cree war party slipped into the woods, they were met by the Crazy Dog men, and soundly defeated. It was a great victory for the Piegan people.
It was two days later that Ohtoh’s grandfather called the boy into the center of the camp. Lone Coyote, the leader of the Crazy Dog warriors, rose in front of the entire village to make a speech.
“Many winters ago,” he began, “before the time of our grandfather’s grandfathers, a great tracker lived among the People. It is said he could follow the trail of a spider across bare rock, track the birds in the sky, and see a footprint of an enemy before it was made. This man was named Looks-at-the-Ground.
“Today, we have a young man who shows the same gifts from the Sky People. Our Man-of-Knowledge, the Shaman Dancing Bear, has said the one blue eye of our little brother makes him a great tracker, one who sees the footprint of the enemy.
“It is said the eagle sees far and the jumping mouse sees up close. But the hawk looks far and near, so the hawk is called “The Bird Who Looks at the Ground.” We honor our little brother Ohtoh with this feather from the wing of a Sun Hawk, and give him the name “Looks-at-the-Ground.” Although young in years, he will grow into this sacred name and bring honor to his People.”
Ohtoh stood tall when Lone Coyote fixed the hawk feather into his hair. He knew great knowledge was a gift from Creator Sun not for the boy or man, but for the well being of all the People. And it would take many years of hard work to earn the gift. Looks-at-the-Ground, as he faced the smiling people of his Piegan Blackfoot village, was ready to begin.
Behind the boy, his grandfather felt pride, but also sadness. He knew, as sure as the thunder rolls in the mountains and the wind sweeps the tall prairie grasses, that change was coming. Already the vast buffalo herds were smaller, and the number of lodges fewer each year at the Summer Sundance. But for now, Looks-at-the-Ground has earned the right to dance his joy, and let the old men fret about the coming storm clouds. The Piegans would be here, the grandfather thought, as long as the grass grows and the waters flow. And Looks-at-the-Ground would be a Blackfoot forever.
Master Bao and the Golden Peach
Artwork by Fan Zeng (b.1938)
“Ping,” Master Bao said to his apprentice, “we will stay the night at the Hostel of Blissful Repose in the town of Linsang. Tomorrow, we will visit the famous Monastery of Immortals, where the sacred Golden Peach of the ancients is kept.”
“I look forward to seeing this most sacred relic, Master,” Ping said as he walked next to his mentor who was riding a water buffalo. “I understand the peach is solid gold and holds the secret to immortality.”
Master Bao smiled. “Yes,” he replied, “I have heard that also.”
Purple evening was coming on when the travelers reached the Hostel. After putting Master Bao’s ox in the stable, the two entered the lobby of the inn and approached its front desk. The clerk, a heavy man with a large paunch and a ring beard chewed on a toothpick as he leaned his elbows on the rough surface of the counter. Just off the lobby was a dining room abuzz with men huddled around several tables talking in undertones. Suspicious glances were cast at Master Bao and Ping.
“There’s one now,” a thin man expounded loudly. He sat at a nearby table and was surrounded by five men whose dress showed them to be craftsmen. All eyes turned to stare at the Monk and Ping.“Maybe he can tell us who stole the Golden Peach and robbed our town of its income. What do you say, Monk? People come from all over the Empire to see the sacred peach, and the people of this town earn a living from the silver the travelers spend. Maybe one of your followers took it.”
“A true follower of the Way would not steal even a rice cake,” Master Bao said. “But if you give me more information, I may be able to help find the thief and return your relic.”
“Perhaps I can enlighten you, Master, on the details of the crime.” A tall man wearing the leather vest of the town warden came in from a room behind the desk. He bowed deeply to Master Bao, his hands folded respectfully in front of him. “I’m Warden Ma and I would greatly appreciate your assistance in this most distressing matter.”
“Of course, Warden Ma,” the Monk said, bowing his head in greeting. “My student and I would welcome the opportunity to serve the people of Linsang.”
The warden led the way to a small private dining room on the opposite side of the lobby from the public eating hall. A dish of fresh vegetables and fruit was quickly placed on the table in front of the men.
“The Golden Peach is thought to be thousands of years old, given to a famous monk by the Jade Emperor of the Mystical Cloud Heaven. When the monk left this world and became pure spirit in the Dao, the orb was passed down from one immortal to another. Each keeper of the relic, after living one hundred and fifty years on this earth, disappeared into pure spirit, leaving only their sandals behind. Finally, the last monk had no followers worthy of immortality so he had the monastery built and donated the Golden Peach to be kept until a worthy monk should appear.”
“This is a famous story,” said Ping excitedly. “It is said whoever possesses the Golden Peach will live a long life on this earth, then join the immortals in the Jade Emperor’s Empire in the Heavens. But surely a thief would not be worthy of such a reward.”
“Perhaps not,” the warden said, shaking his head. “A group of five Enlightened Monks keep the Golden Peach in a strong safe at night, then bring it into the viewing room in the morning. In front of all five, it is placed on a red silken cloth on a silver stand behind a chain. Visitors may view it, but no one, other than the five monks can touch or handle it. But now the Golden Peach is gone, and we have only three men who could have taken it. None of them are monks.”
“When was it taken, Warden?” Master Bao inquired.
“This morning,” the warden replied. “After the relic was placed on the stand, three visitors begged permission to view it. Each was taken, separately, into the viewing room, where they sat or knelt alone to meditate before the relic. The monk remained outside the room, also in a state of meditation. Each visitor is then escorted from the room and the next person is admitted.”
“Were these three men the only ones near the relic today, other than the Enlightened Monks?”
“Yes. When the five monks entered to move the relic back to the safe this evening, they noticed the Golden Peach was not the one they had placed in the viewing room this morning. This was a lead ball coated with gold paint. No one but these Enlightened Monks would have noticed the difference, but to them, who had handled this sacred item, it was obvious. They reported the loss immediately and I quickly arrested the three visitors.”
Master Bao thought for a long moment. “When we entered the lobby, I heard the song of a nightingale. Does the innkeeper keep such a bird?” Master Bao asked.
“Yes. It sings nearly constantly,” Warden Ma responded, looking a bit confused.
“Please have the innkeeper bring the birdcage with the nightingale into this room. Have him bring another platter of fresh fruit and vegetables. And I’ll need a flask of wine and three rice cakes. Then, when I signal, bring in the three men. You can wait in the next room where you will hear all that transpires.”
The perplexed warden did as asked.
Within minutes, the innkeeper brought a large birdcage with a loudly singing nightingale into the private dining room. A tray containing fresh fruit and cooked vegetables followed. A flask of wine and several cups was next, and finally, a plate full of dry rice cakes was placed on the table. Master Bao put the plate of rice cakes on a low stool behind him. When all was set, the monk motioned for the warden to bring in the three men.
The first man bowed respectfully and said his name was Yang. He was an elderly apothecary from the capitol city. The second man was named Fong, a middle-aged boss of the silver-workers guild in a distant town. The third man was Li, also middle-aged and the head clerk in a government office in a large city.
Master Bao put the men at ease with a glass of wine and some fruit and cooked vegetables. The men told of their adventures on the road, and their ideas of life in general. After a short time, Master Bao asked each to see if they could sing as well as the nightingale that was trilling away. All three men puckered up and whistled loudly, if not harmoniously. When they had finished, Master Bao spoke about the theft of the Golden Peach. He then produced the plate of dry rice cakes and had each place a cake in his mouth, chew, and swallow it. Then the monk told them to whistle. Only two of the men could produce any whistle at all. Fong, the silver-workers guild boss, couldn’t make a sound, although he blew as hard as he could.
“This is your man, Warden Ma,” Master Bao said. “His mouth is dry because of the guilt he feels.”
Fong dropped to his knees and knocked his forehead on the floor three times. “You are right, Master,” he exclaimed in a strained voice. “I have a fatal disease and am afraid of death, I heard about the Golden Peach of Immortality and decided to steal it and leave a substitute in its place. I didn’t think the theft would be noticed. I hid the relic in a secret compartment in the clothes trunk in my room.”
After the warden led Fong away, Student Ping approached the monk, his hands folded inside his copious sleeves. “Please Master,” he began. “Enlighten this ignorant pupil. Are the stories of the Golden Peach true? Can you obtain long life and immortality by possessing this relic?”
“Sit here and share this food, Ping. Have you not heard the story of the monkey who stole the Golden Orb? Or the tale of the novice Hsi who tried to produce the Golden Pill of Immortality with roots, herbs and precious stones? These are tales told to instruct the young who hope to follow the Way.
“All the tales end the same way. An Immortal whose eyes are bright lights speaks to the novice and tells him to do the Qigong exercises, learn acupuncture and meditate for hours each day. These are the ingredients of the Golden Peach, and they lie in your head, just above your eyebrows. After years of learning to move within the Dao, the completed Golden Peach of Immortality will be deep inside you, behind your navel. Living a life of stillness, completely in accordance with the Dao, will allow you to enter the Shadowy Portal (Hsilan Men) to pass beyond this world of dust into the realm of the Immortals.
“But you must leave your sandals behind to let others know not to look for your body.”
Master Bao and the Three Riddles
Artwork by Fan Zeng
I was a cold evening in the small country of Xen (Chen) in the Northern part of China. Master Bao and Ping were approaching the town of Pang Lo, when the wind began to howl from between the mountains, and the snow began to fall in great swirls.
“We will stay at the inn in the next street,” Master Bao said over the sound of the wind. “Cheer up, Student Ping. We will soon be warm and well fed.”
The sign on the wooden flap over the door was blowing in the strong wind, but Ping could read the characters for “Inn of Happy Travelers.” He pulled his cape closer around him and hurried forward behind Master Bao’s great ox.
The ox was put into the stable, and the stable lad said he would rub down the beast and feed it. Master Bao and Ping then entered the foyer of the “Inn of Happy Travelers” and walked up to the counter. A jovial-looking man, of stout build, with a ring beard, smiled at the two men.
“And you’d like a room for yourself and your companion, Master?” the man said, “But we are all filled up.” He paused. “Except for our most expensive room at the top of the stairs. And I doubt if a poor traveling monk could afford such luxuries.”
“Perhaps,” Master Bao replied, “we could sleep in the straw in the stable, for a small fee?”
The man rubbed his chin, then smiled widely. “Seeing as how you are a traveling monk and therefore a wise-man, I’ll make a bargain with you. If you can answer a riddle I propose, I may find a soft bed for you and a second bed for your companion.”
Ping almost jumped for joy. “Master, there is no riddle too difficult for you. Perhaps I can answer the puzzle myself.”
“We’ll see, “ said Master Bao. “Good Sir, what’s the riddle?”
The Proprietor smiled. “You see that master potter in the corner of the restaurant. He is amazing, and can make five small pots in an hour. If he can make five pots in one hour, how long would it take 100 potters, equally skillful, to make 500 pots?”
Ping tugged at his Master’s sleeve. “Please, Master. Let me answer this question. It is so easy, just simple numbers.” Ping could barely stand still with his excitement.
“One moment, please Landlord. Let me speak to my student in private.” Master Bao took Ping to one side and spoke softly for several minutes. Then, with Ping shuffling behind, Master Bao approached the Landlord.
“One hour,” the Monk said.
“You are right. Your student probably would have said 100 hours. The room at the top of the stairs is yours for the night. Your companion can sleep in a room downstairs. Both of you can enjoy a great meal, compliments of the Inn of Happy Travelers.”
The next morning, after the Monk and his Student had their morning rice, Ping approached Master Bao.
“Please, Master” Ping said, his hands folded inside his copious sleeves. “Enlighten this ignorant student. How did I get the wrong answer to so simple a riddle?”
“The answer, Student Ping, lies in listening carefully to the words of the riddle, for it is in the details of the puzzle that the answer is revealed.”
Two months later, the Master and his student arrived in the town on Kang Ming, in the small country of Gong. The town was located in the Southern part of China, and was noted for its heat and vast swamplands. They approached a large inn beside the road.
“We have gone far today, Student Ping,” Master Bao said. “Perhaps we can find a room at this inn.”
The painted wooden sign over the door hung by two brass hinges, and Ping could read the characters for the “Inn of Heavenly Peace.” After seeing to the ox, the two travelers entered the foyer and stepped up to the long, polished counter. A thin, cadaverous man behind the desk dressed in a simple robe of good quality gave them a sidelong look. He studied the patched robe of the Monk and the barefeet of the student.
“We have only one room available,” he snarled. “And it costs a silver piece for one night.”
“Perhaps we could make our beds in the straw in the stable,” Master Bao said, “for a small fee.”
A tall man dressed in fine clothes was standing near the desk, leaning on a pillar, idly watching the guests in the adjoining restaurant. He was solidly-built, with a full beard and side whiskers. He turned and stared at the Monk.
“Wait, Innkeeper. This is a traveling monk and known for his wisdom. I’m stuck here in this hot town and bored. If this monk can answer a riddle correctly, I’ll put him and his student up in your available room.”
“Oh yes, Dr. Mozi,” the innkeeper said, bowing solicitously. “A riddle, of course. Whatever you say, Sir.”
“Come outside, Monk, and bring your companion. I’ll compose a riddle as we go, so I know it won’t be one you’ve heard. It won’t be easy, as I’m a lecturer in complicated numbers at the School for Enlightenment.”
The three men went onto the long porch and looked out across the road at a pond that lay among the weeds.
“Here’s one for you. See that pond with the patch of lily pads? Every day, the patch doubles in size. If it takes 48 days for the patch to cover the entire pond, how long would it take the patch to cover half the pond?”
Ping was beside himself with excitement, and he tugged at his master’s sleeve. “Please, Master, let me answer this question. It is so easy, just some simple number calculations.”
“One moment, Dr. Mozi. Let me speak to my pupil is private.”
Master Bao took Ping over to one side and conversed quietly for a few moments. Then, with Ping shuffling along behind, Master Bao approached Dr. Mozi.
“47 days,” the Monk said.
“Exactly right,” Dr. Mozi said with a large grin. Your student would have said 24 days. I’ll have the Innkeeper put you both in good rooms, and I’ll buy you both a fine supper,”. “And, if you’ll be so kind, I’ll enjoy a long conversation with you to pass the time.”
The next morning, after the Monk and his Student had their morning rice, Ping approached Master Bao.
“Please, Master” Ping said, his hands folded inside his copious sleeves. “Enlighten this ignorant student. How did I get the wrong answer to so simple a riddle?”
“The answer, Student Ping, lies in listening carefully to the words of the riddle, for it is in the details of the puzzle that the answer is revealed.”
Two months later, Master Bao and Ping were approaching the village of Lang, in the small country of LiFan. It was a thriving village near the Silk Road and noted for its vibrant business in trade.
“We’ve had a long journey, Student Ping. Perhaps we can find a room at the inn just up ahead,” Master Bao said. The painted wooden sign above the door swung in the gentle breeze, but Ping could make out the characters for “Inn of Restful Repose.” After seeing to the ox, the two travelers entered the inn and stepped up to the polished counter. A short bald man behind the counter was calculating on his abacus, but put it aside and scurried around from behind the desk when he recognized Master Bao.
“This poor inn is greatly honored by your esteemed presence, Master Bao,” said the innkeeper as he deeply bowed, his hands folded inside his copious sleeves. “You and your companion are welcome to stay as long as you wish, at no cost to you.”
“Thank you for your generosity, Innkeeper, but we insist on paying our way,” the Monk responded.
The Innkeeper looked crestfallen. Then, he brightened and smiled widely. “I have it, Master. We have a riddle on the sign on the wall behind the counter. As you see, it says whoever solves the riddle, stays overnight at no cost. That would apply to your companion as well.”
Master Bao read the riddle.
As I was going to Li Ives,
I met a man with seven wives.
Each wife had seven sacks,
And each sack had seven cats.
Each cat had seven kits.
Kits, cats, sacks, wives,
How many were going to Li Ives?
Ping was beside himself with excitement, and he tugged at his master’s sleeve. “Please, Master, let me answer this question. It is so easy, for I have read it carefully.”
“One moment, Innkeeper. Let me speak to my pupil is private.”
Master Bao took Ping over to one side and conversed quietly for a few moments. Then, with Ping walking respectfully behind the Monk, Master Bao approached the innkeeper.
“My student Ping has solved the riddle. You may give the answer now, Ping.”
Ping smiled widely. “One,” he said. “Only one was going to Liang Ives. The rest were returning.”
“Correct,” the Innkeeper said. “Now you both can stay for no cost, and a large dinner is part of the package.”
Later, after a delicious meal of cooked vegetables and fresh fruit, Student Ping approached Master Bao, his hands folded inside his copious sleeves. “Esteemed Master,” he began holding his clasped hands above his downcast eyes. “This ignorant student now listens carefully, but suspects a deeper lesson is yet to be learned. Please enlighten him.”
Master Bao thought for a long moment before he spoke. “When presented with a problem, be it a riddle or some difficulty in our daily lives, most often we jump to a solution before we have considered the entire problem from many angles. The initial answers are the most appealing, quick and simple, especially if the problem seems simple. But if one studies even the most innocent appearing problem from other angles, and listens or reads the problem carefully, the true answer will make itself known. Just as Master Lao Tzu instructs us, the Superior person will reflect on a situation before rushing to a conclusion, leaving ambition, anger, frustration, and greed far behind.
“You have learned a valuable lesson, Student Ping, to be mindful of the problem presented and not to jump to a simple solution because it appears easiest and quickest.”