Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 3 2018 | Page 37

The monk looked at the general, confused.
“Well, he was about eight feet tall,” the monk replied. “He was of very large statue, and had a beard. His
face was red, as if drunk, and had a tuft of red strands adorning his helmet. Some sort of officer, I suppose.”
The general’s face paled.
“By the gods,” the general groaned. “What trickery is this?”
The monk stared at him, empty-eyed.
“I believe you,” the general replied. “I believe that you have indeed been chosen by the Guanyin , and that
every word you have told me is true.”
The general paused. Perspiration was sliding down his forehead. He wiped at it, and continued:
“Do you know why I say this?”
“I do not,” the monk replied.
“The man of explicitly large statue,” the general said, “was the lieutenant who was put under my
command a month ago.”
The color drained from the monk’s face.
“What you saw,” he continued. “Every last bit of it was real.”
“Quan Yu was a soldier with massive potential,” the general told the monk. “He was an abomination on
the battlefield, a one-man army. It was thus no wonder that he was made lieutenant in only a year after
joining the army.”
“He was a most enthusiastic soldier; the battlefield to him was as if wat er to a fish. His passion for war was
unrivaled; he rose through the ranks so quickly he could have surpassed even me had he been given some
more time.”
“His thirst for battle was unquenchable; about a while ago, the fighting on the northern front intermitted
for about a week or two. And so he decided to look for sport.”
“He left for the village nearest the camp about a week ago, claiming to be wanting a drink. Even though
this was forbidden, the soldiers under my command did not dare stop him. He had a drink at a local eatery,
then went in search of what he was truly thirsty for.”
Beads of cold sweat cascaded down the general’s forehead.
“He was a monster,” the general said. “He saw a villager hoisting a meager little sack of silver to the bank,
hoping to deposit it for interest. He strode forth, and snatched the sack from him. It was a small amount to
him, but a colossal sum for the villager. Not knowing who he was up against, the villager tried to retrieve
his sack. He was no match for the lieutenant, and left in defeat. But the lieutenant was not satisfied – his
thirst for bloodshed had not been quenched. And so he drew his sword, and decapitated the villager in one
swift stroke.”
“We have tried our best to cover up this incident,” the general said. “We paid the villager’s grieving wife a
hefty sum, and pleaded with the villagers not to spread news of the killing. I even had the lieutenant
executed.”
Having ended his narrative, the general turned to Xuanzang.
“You could not possibly have known of this incident,” the general explained. “This is why I believe you.”
The general barked a command, and two soldiers stepped forward. With a great heave, they lifted the heavy
wooden stopper, and gave the doors a big push each. The doors swung back to reveal a great horizon of
green, and a fiery golden orb peeking out from the peak of a faraway hill, dyeing the lapis sky a shade of
amber.
“The Gokturks assault the Wall at night, under the cover of darkness. It is almost dawn – this would be the
optimum time for your departure, since the Emperor has banned foreign travel. You must not be
discovered, so be careful.”
“May the Guanyin bless you, general,” the monk said, grateful. “You will not regret your decision.”
“May the wind be always behind your sail,” the general said to the monk. “I wish you good luck on your
journey.”
And with that, Xuanzang stepped out the wooden doors. Very soon, the silhouette of the monk had
shrunk into but a tiny black speck in the embrace of the rising sun.