Flames lick up the face of an old cuckoo clock. The fire fuelled by wisdom of the words of thousands of years. Suddenly the trap door opens and the bird within finds itself overcome with the rising blaze, paint cracks under the extreme heat, and the clock is crushed under the weight of more books, a phonograph player and a golden Buddha.
The destruction of a trail of unique teachings, stories and wisdom, juxtaposed with the brevity of the new slogan seemingly repeated ad infinitum by the crowd en masse.
“破四旧立四新! 破四旧立四新! 破四旧立四新! 破四旧立四新! 破四旧立四新! 破四旧立四新!”“Destroy the Four Olds! Cultivate the Four News! Destroy the Four Olds! Cultivate the Four News!
Destroy the Four Olds! Cultivate the Four News! Destroy the Four Olds! Cultivate the Four News!
Destroy the Four Olds! Cultivate the Four News! Destroy the Four Olds! Cultivate the Four News!”
The pocketwatch ticked on once more.
Orson drifted awake from the poppy’s haze with the repetitious chanting from out in the street. His head lifted from the pillow which covered The Book of the Iron Fist, once his legacy, now his burden.
Every day he felt the sharp edges of the book, he was reminded of the day he’d taken the damnedable thing. After the wrath of K’un-Zi had been determined to be righteous. When his fate was to be sealed. His life forfeit.
He’d crashed through a sacred building to steal the tome, a man seeking to bring the cycle of violence to an end.
When he was kinder to himself he would call it the foolish action of a desperate man, drugged out of his mind.
But deep down he knew the poppy never hit that hard, due to the undying essence of what writhed within.
It was merely the stupid action of a desperate young fool.
Wisdom earned through the benefit of time made that much clear to him now. It changed nothing and was nothing but an unpleasant reminder, too dangerous to be left anywhere for just anyone to find, awkward both in size and weight to carry. A true burden earned.
The chanting grew louder. Orson would benefit from tea. Or perhaps something stronger. He sat up with the book in his lap and took the pocket watch from the small crate that functioned as a night stand and put it in his pocket. He’d reset the time on it and since got the hands moving again, it had returned to proper function as he’d begun to move on again. As he’d started his long trip West towards the returning city of his birth.
The chanting boomed louder still and there was a beating at the door. They were going to break his door in with whatever this nonsense was! Still more about these four ‘olds’ and ‘new’s he could make out from the echoing Mandarin.
He stepped to the door with the book in his hand, contemplating the door. For a second his hand glowed as he contemplated ‘unleashing the dragon within’ upon these men, but let his hand fall dim once again just as quickly.
When was the last time he’d taken of the poppy? How close was K’un L’un to realigning?
Whilst the power was his alone to wield, he wasn’t the only one who could sense the presence of the dragon’s life force. And as this world would realign with his old one, it would be quite possible for those who believed him dead to sense his presence if he allowed his own lifeforce to extend into the font of the chi of Shou-Lao the Undying. All the work in hiding himself for years ruined, for what? To halt the progress of a handful of unruly people beating down his door. No. He couldn’t allow this.
Orson turned the handle and the mob burst through, they never stopped chanting, they grabbed at the book, they grabbed at his clothes, his arms. Dozens everywhere! Taking his space!
<”Smash the four olds! Cultivate the four news!
Smash the four olds! Cultivate the four news!”>
Orson felt the book torn from him, he had seconds to turn this. He remembered the lessons of his Master Lei Kung the Thunderer. His words would always come when he needed them most. Always when his own nature seemed to be set against him in times of turmoil.
“Be like the water, Randall-Kai. You are so adept in the form of the Earth. Your blows are strong, as your foundation is strong. Punches rooted from the feet, developed in your legs, directed by your waist, and expressed through your hands. You have always taken for granted that the Earth can absorb water. But even with that which flows through your chakras… do you still believe you could best me?”Flow. It never came to him naturally. But he could master it within himself, if he had the forethought.
The men gripped him and pulled him towards the open door, he stepped willingly, arms gripped and pulled, he twisted and writhed, but not resisting. He twisted to find a comfort in this new reality, his arms turned, hands open. He felt something solid within a pocket of one of the men, grasped it and drew it forth.
He opened his mouth and chanted with the other men, his Mandarin perfect in pronunciation. He drew what was in his hands to the sky. It was a Little Red Book.
<”Smash the four olds! Cultivate the four news!
Smash the four olds! Cultivate the four news!”>
Orson chanted, the men chanted. The morass of humanity chanted.
The mob hit the street and the book was tossed into the fire. It was the early afternoon, Orson had mostly been travelling by night. He stood on the street holding the Little Red Book aloft and barked until the night came. Riding the flow until the moon presented itself and the crowd dissipated for another day.
Li Hong Jianguo raced home as the school's clock signalled the end of another day. He rushed, desperate to complete another chapter of his latest obsession. He'd found an old copy of some kind of manuscript containing an old tale in amongst his parents things and was desperate to see where the main characters' story would progress to next.
It seemed to be a story of some old monk journeying to the West, with his three servants. One a pig-man of some kind with another being some type of reformed water demon.
But the real character of interest, the real star of the show, was the other 'servant' called Sun Wukong - the Monkey King. He was clever, and brave, and an excellent fighter, and tricky and cheeky in all the right ways. In fact, Li Hong Jianguo could barely even talk about what he'd discovered to his friends without getting overly excited and talking a mile a minute. About this Monkey King who had been kicked out of heaven for being so naughty and wreaking havoc, and almost nothing could be done about him because he was such a powerful force. But now he was being taught a lesson and had to go back West to help this monk bring back these Holy teachings so he could get back in to heaven.
<"He can jump 108,000 li in a single leap! And he's mastered 72 earthly forms! And he can run faster than a meteor! And he can freeze his enemies! And he can avoid water so he doesn't drown! And he can avoid fire so he doesn't burn! And in fact--! In fact! When he was trapped in a furnace from this guy for 49 days he stayed in there safe! And when he came out he had--!>"火眼金睛!" Which the young boy stumbled over with his immature pronunciation, as "Hy--Huǒyǎn-jīnjīng!"
<"This fiery-golden eye glare! That makes all of his enemies be revealed in their true forms! So he can tell if they're demons--! And-- And fight them with his magical staff!">Li Hong Jianguo finally got home and called out for his parents, hearing no reply he went to where he'd stored the old manuscript and lay it out on the floor before himself to continue reading. Flipping through the wad of pages in search of where he left off it fell to a section in Chapter 87 where he was barely able to quickly get a glimpse of the writing before it was whisked away...
<"I did not raise you, Li Hong Jianguo, to waste away your time with this sanctimonious old drivel! Of all the things you could be doing, you fill your head with this nonsense! You shame--! You shame your name!> The older man snatched up the manuscript and started marching towards the front door.
<"Father, no! Where are you taking-- PLEASE NO, FATHER! Don't do that! FATHER!"> He chased him out the front door and watched as the manuscript was flung into the flames, rendering the boy speechless and aghast.
There was chanting all around but the boy heard nothing. He was too shocked. Trying to understand why he would be so quick to do such a thing. Why had they had it in the house if it could not be read? Chairman Mao was so strong, and he was helping make China so strong, so why were people so afraid of simple stories? What possible explanation could there be for everything that was happening in the world today? The boy watched it turn to embers before he returned to the house.
He tried to remember something of what he had just read. Hoping the burning words may have left their own scolding mark in his memory, as well as they had in the flaming pile.
He decided to write what he had just glimpsed. In some endeavour to try and cling to some meaning or memory from everything that had just taken place. He'd barely had time to register the characters, and hoped by writing what he could remember perhaps the rest would form some kind of sense.
When he lifted the pen from the paper he looked down at the characters for the meaning the poetic prose revealed:
<"One wish born in the heart of man
Is known throughout Heaven and Earth.
If vice or virtue lacks reward,
Unjust must be the universe.">
He uttered the words, and then sensing their power and ability to get him a thrashing within an inch of his life, he tore the page from his book and ate it. He made a silent vow to himself that he'd never forget the words, nor stop considering them.
Whatever the vow of an eight year old boy means...
Shadows cast a flat matte across all as night had fallen heavily in the town, and whilst the blaze no longer roared, the embers still glowed brightly, giving proof to the will of The People which had been done on this day.
Orson had decided he'd wasted enough time in this township, and under cover of darkness it was time to push on further West - to continue his Journey onwards to the Heavenly City. He'd collected all of his personal items into a makeshift bindle and wrapped the ceremonial mask of K'un L'un around the top half of his face in some small effort to hide his identity for what would have to come next.
A white man wandering around Mao's China already aroused more negative suspicion than he would have liked, without anybody recognizing him for anything actually negative. Which this certainly would be, if he was seen.
But again... this was his burden.
Li Hong Jianguo awoke from his fitful sleep, his cheeks salty dry from earlier tears. He stumbled to his feet and went to the bathroom. On his way back to bed he found himself walking to the front door. He didn't decide to, at least he didn't think he did. He just found himself there, watching on.
Perhaps it was in memory of how the Monkey King had survived Lao Zi's furnace? But that was just a story. Surely a character therein could not survive a similar crucible?
Orson knelt down and hunched over the smouldering embers, as if he were a poor man of the streets looking for warmth.
Li watched on as a hunched figure with something wrapped around his head huddled by the fire. Something wrapped around his head? Could it be the headband the monk Tang Sanzang gave to the Monkey King? Li Hong Jianguo gasped.
The figure turned...
Li covered his mouth as he saw the elongated eyes that seemed to extend as if crackling like fire. He saw the "staff" that held the man's bindle and gasped again, but this time muffled it into his hand.
<"Huǒyǎn-jīnjīng! The fiery-golden eye glare! And Ruyi Jingu Bang! The double golden banded staff! It couldn't be!">Orson could have sworn he heard something, but couldn't see anyone as his eyes still adjusted to the darkness. Nevertheless, the longer he spent here, the more dangerous things would become as his presence would be more likely to gain attention. Time being of the essence, both for what may lie waiting for him in this world as well as the other. No time to drag out what must come next.
He lets the icy calm flow over him once more, for when the flow of water meets the burning fire in equal proportion no harm can be done, and iron becomes tempered, not damaged.
He calls silently upon the will which writhes within him, heavenly chi which was never originally his, but he has earned by combat. By deed. That which has never left him, which forms the very core of his being, regardless how surpressed - he calls it forth, to flow, meld and merge into a single place.
Into his hand -- until it begins to smoulder and glow -- until it becomes LIKE UNTO -- A THING OF IRON!
Orson plunges his glowing hand into the hot embers of the still smouldering flame pit, and removes the book, glowing as it was reconnected with it's original source. The book remained unharmed, unburned.
For what damage could fire hope to do against pages comprised of the scales of a dragon?
Li was astounded. It seemed very much to him, like the Monkey King had himself managed to survive the burning of the books, and hid, only to return and pull
HIS OWN STORY from the flames! Which glowed golden with its power, and now he would continue on his Heavenly Journey West.
Orson gave one final cursory check around, as he let his hand fall dim. He tucked the book under an arm within the thick folds of his clothes, threw his bindle over his shoulder and took off West through the streets at a fleetfooted pace, eager to put some distance between himself, the fire and what had taken place.
The K'un L'un Mountains were still many miles away. The Heavenly City awaited, but would not wait long.
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