Volume One: Is There a Path for Humanity in Turbulent Times? Chapter 13: A Thousand Miles IV

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When the news of Deng San’s death reached him, Deng She felt as if the sky had collapsed. The world spun around him, leaving him unable to stand. The pitch-black forest, bathed in the pallid moonlight, was filled with dry branches and gaunt trunks, eerily silent, their twisted forms clawing at the shadows like beasts waiting to devour him. Deng San’s corpse lay before him, crimson blood soaking half his body. The corners of his mouth seemed to hold a peaceful smile, just as lifelike as when he was alive—yet he no longer breathed.

Since his arrival in this world, Deng She’s own father had died when he was just a boy of ten. Without Deng San’s care and protection, he would never have survived to this age, would never have lived so long. In his wandering, he had heard countless stories of those driven by hunger to lose all humanity, who relished most the flesh of children stewed in a pot.

Before hunger and violence, a child with a soul from the modern age was no different than those slaughtered and eaten by others. He knew all too well: in the face of absolute power, what did it matter that he came from the future? Before the butcher’s blade, he was as powerless as any of them.

Memories of the past flashed before his eyes. Deng San had taught him to ride a horse, to wield a blade, to forge his first spear; Deng San had led him into his first battle, to take a life. When he was wounded, Deng San tended to him with painstaking care; when he achieved something, Deng San would burst into hearty laughter. Every time he met a new friend or stranger, after three sentences Deng San would always turn the conversation to him, telling of the small deeds he had done that made Deng San proud.

For the first time, Deng She completely forgot his former life and was swept, body and soul, into this world. His own father had died in the rear-guard, and now Deng San had died there too. Both had fallen on the battlefield—what a cursed world this was! Since the moment he crossed over, everything he had witnessed was either man killing man, or man eating man.

He let out a howl, staggering backward from Deng San’s body. He dared not look again, the pain in his heart unbearable. He had to do something, or the suffocating rage within him would kill him. Clutching his chest, the pain overwhelming, he raised his head to the sky and spat out a mouthful of blood. Those around him jumped in fright, barely regaining their senses before he suddenly turned, seized the long spear tossed aside, and, through a haze of tears, went to find his horse.

“She-ge’er! What are you doing?” Wen Huaguo saw something was wrong and reached out to grab him.

Deng She shook him off with such force that Wen Huaguo nearly fell. Deng She slipped and crashed to the ground, but immediately scrambled up, only to fall again. Rolling and crawling, he rushed to his horse, shouting, “I’m going to kill that bastard!”

“He’s already dead! He’s already dead!” Wen Huaguo tackled Deng She to the ground, shouting into his ear, “Look, look! There by my saddle—see it? That hanging head is the one who fired the arrow. He’s dead—I killed him.”

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“Only one? Only one?” Deng She struggled furiously, his hands and face caked with mud, but he could not free himself from Wen Huaguo’s mountain-heavy grip; instead, he turned his head, glared at Wen Huaguo, and cursed him in anguish, “You only killed one?”

“Over a thousand Tartars!” Wen Huaguo protested, but seeing the bloodshot eyes and the torrent of grief and hatred about to burst from Deng She, he quickly changed his tone. “We’ll kill them slowly, all of them, understand? We’ll wipe them out, every last one, and avenge the old master.”

“They all deserve to die! Every last one!” Deng She grew frantic, fumbling for his waist-knife. “If you don’t get off me, I’ll kill you first!”

Wen Huaguo, faster than him, snatched the knife and flung it far away, shouting nonstop, “Calm down! Calm down! You’re a scholar! A true man always repays a grudge—so long as we live, we’ll have our chance.” As he spoke, he patted Deng She’s body, searching for any other hidden weapons.

The two of them rolled and wrestled on the ground, surrounded by a ring of onlookers, none daring step forward to help Wen Huaguo, especially seeing Deng She in such a crazed state.

Chen Hu stood silently before Deng San’s corpse for a moment, then knelt and bowed three times. He took the severed head from by Wen Huaguo’s horse, carefully flayed it, scattering bits of flesh on the ground. He picked up a piece and ate it raw, leaving the rest to Wen Huaguo and the other old brothers. Then he gathered the bare skull and placed it in Deng She’s saddlebag.

He then rose, crouched before Deng She, and said, “Next, we eat their commander.” His voice was low and guttural; having spoken, he ignored Deng She’s curses and struggles, and ordered the Red Turbans, still pale from watching him flay a man so coldly, “Find a rope and tie him.” He called several old brothers over, “We can’t take the old master’s body with us; burn it. Gather the ashes and make sure he’s buried in his homeland.”

These matters, these words, seemed to drain all his strength, and his body swayed. He quickly braced himself against a tree, then straightened up again.

It took five or six men and several ropes to finally bind Deng She. He watched helplessly as the fire was lit, watched as Deng San was consumed by flames. He twisted and fought with all his might, but could not move. He cursed Chen Hu, Wen Huaguo, the Red Turbans who bound him, the old brothers who lit the fire, the hundred-man commander who ordered Deng San to cover the retreat, Guan Shirong who fought beside Deng San. He even cursed Brother Yellow Mule and Monk Li for not saving Deng San and acting too late. Most of all, he cursed the Tartars, cursed this damned world.

For more than ten years, he had witnessed countless partings between life and death, but this time, it was his turn.

Cursing, his tears flowed unstoppably; blood trickled from the corners of his eyes, his arms bled from struggling against the ropes. At last, the hundred-man commander, unable to bear his foul language and mindful that Madam Wang’s carriage was nearby, ordered someone to shove a rag in his mouth. The woods fell silent again, and all present breathed a collective sigh of relief.

In the battle covering the retreat, Deng San and his men utterly routed the Tammachi cavalry. The casualties were not many, but the Yuan army’s morale was shattered; when Wen Huaguo recovered Deng San’s body and withdrew, they did not even attempt pursuit. Scouts reported the enemy fleeing a hundred miles or more, all the way back to the banks of the Black River.

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They dared not linger long in the forest. This victory was a matter of luck; should the Yuan army regain its strength, the hundred-man commander could not risk Madam Wang’s safety. After a brief rest, they set out again.

Their first destination was not Shangdu, but Xinghe, five or six hundred miles away. Xinghe lay between Shangdu and Fengzhou; east of Xinghe was all Red Turban territory, meaning that once they reached Xinghe, they no longer had to fear pursuit from behind.

With the help of several old brothers, Wen Huaguo moved Deng She from the tree to a horse and tied him securely. He hesitated, then left the rag in Deng She’s mouth—his cursing was too loud, carrying far in the night. Reluctantly, he said, “She-ge’er, bear with it a while longer. Once we’ve traveled eighty or a hundred miles and know for sure there’s no pursuit, I’ll take that thing out for you.”

Deng She’s injuries had only just healed, his strength was spent. If not for the force of his grief, he could not have struggled so long. After his outburst, the suffocating rage in his chest began to dissipate; now, he had little energy left, only glaring fiercely at Wen Huaguo, mouth muffled and muttering curses no one could understand.

Wen Huaguo sighed. “The old master is gone; we’re all grieving, all want revenge. If you want vengeance, I’ll go with you. But I can’t watch you throw your life away—how would I face the old master’s spirit? You know as well as I do, the wound on his right arm was taken to save me. I wish I could have died in his place. But now, even without him saying it, I know he’d want me to protect you.”

Those riding beside Deng She were all old brothers of the Shangma band. Hearing Wen Huaguo’s heartfelt words, thinking of Deng San’s past kindness and loyalty—on the battlefield, Deng San had saved more than just Wen Huaguo—many eyes grew red. Several joined in to console him: “Young master, Fourth Lord Wen is right. To have revenge, we must survive. The Tartars are strong now, but we must endure the present. When we’ve regained our strength, at your command, we’ll charge through fire and blade—whoever won’t avenge the old master isn’t worthy of their parents.”

Chen Hu, who had been silent, rode up and ordered the old brothers back to their units. In a low voice, he instructed, “Remember, keep your men under control.” Glancing at Monk Li not far off, gathering his followers and whispering among them, he added, “With the old master gone, we must hold our forces tight—don’t let anyone sell us out.”

He told Deng She’s personal guard, “Zhao Guo, take your men and protect the young master. When he calms down, call me.” He spoke each word with gravity: “No one is to approach him. If he loses a single hair, bring me your head.”

Before returning to his own unit with Wen Huaguo, Chen Hu hesitated, unwilling to look at Deng She’s state. He was never one for comfort, but he patted Deng She’s shoulder gently. “She-ge’er, if you want revenge, you must first survive.”

How to survive, he did not say. He didn’t need to. Deng She and Wen Huaguo both knew: with brothers, there is life; without them, there is none.

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