Resilience

The sky was burning that day.

It had not burned for many days—cooked, yes; simmered, yes; smothered, yes; and froze, yes. But burning—scorching black wind, the sky turned black as the artillery fired.... The flames glowing red...it was something that had been seen for quite a while. Perhaps it was the cry of the monks as their home was burned, as the lotus and incense melted away.

Yao's sobs were small, like the crickets; his tears were too dry in the heat, but it was enough for him to taste the salt on his tongue. He sipped the ocean sands, closing his eyes, briefly, briefly—his guard must stay up.

They banged open, of course—he sprang upwards, his back creaking in protest, and it was then that he realized that he was a puppet; armed with such a thought, he called for the monks, and without speaking they charged the enemy together. The air was thick with steel, and his nostrils full of smoke. His head was crammed with its fiery scent as he slashed at one man, before a bayonet met his shoulder; he was lucky, because many others were shot down before their blades met flesh. Wincing, he reached forward—joints popping—and was almost satisfied with the way his jian stabbed through the stomach, through the stiff uniform.

Pulling the rifle away with his other hand, he backed away from the spurt of blood, its scent taking him to a place far above the clouds. With a shake of his head, he descended to the horizon, crying out as a bullet shattered his hand, and he gave a quick thanks to the heavens that it was not his right. Screams filled his vision and blood filled his ears, but he leapt into dance—one man was felled, another collapsed. Leaping back, he flailed the shining metal of his jian, twirling it around with his supple wrists, taking down one, taking down another.

More gunpowder spread across the sky, and another bullet was lodged in his shoulder. Prayers forgotten, he ducked, rolling across the ground, then submerged as a geyser, the heat of his sweat falling in his eyes. What a picture he made, if he only had the time to think of it!

"Sha!" he cried, punching a man so hard that he flew like a bird. Panting, he twisted in a tornado kick, jian slashing three men in half; with a flare of pride, he noted that his strength had not faded with age.

Ducking, he ran towards the other monks, as silver flared at their sides—bayonets. Another slashed his foe before falling in a burst of smoke—bullets, a curse on them all! I never should have made gunpowder! Yao thought, his blade shoving itself into a stomach with a squelch.

"WANG YAO!"

His eyes widened; quickly, he unsheathed his jian from the man's torso, ignoring the spray of blood; turning, he looked to the other monks, a number of whom were staggering. They were fighting to the death, and here...they were lucky enough. Some would need to survive this massacre, and preserve—

Preserve...what? Yao thought, bitterly. With a jump, he performed an aerial, the wind whistling through his clothes—his clothes, still baggy, still loose. Not like the mass of stiff uniforms beneath him...

"Yao?" Two monks surged forward and caught him; in his reverie, his stance had been broken. The earth broke beneath his feet; stumbling, he looked up, breathing in dust. "Are you all right?" Eyes glanced over his wounds as they helped him behind a gate, as far from the madness as they could take him. They were not cowards, nor warriors licking their wounds; they were just helping their nation. Their nation, whose voice rasped in the hollow of his throat—

"Flee."

"Wang Yao." The monks withdrew, startled; and yet, Yao's gaze never broke, and he followed their eyes with his. "You are injured. Let us help you with your wounds—"

"No!" he hissed, bristling; his glazed eyes, so dark and dusted, slit like those of a cat, or a tiger. He could hardly speak, much less over the roar of the bombs. "Shifu-men, leave! Leave now! Jiang Jieshi thinks you are a threat, and that's why he wants you all dead. He fears you. But you..." Yao paused, letting his eyes brush the stunned faces of the two monks; one of them, with his bald forehead burned nine times. "Shaolin has existed much longer than this. Before Guomindang, before Sun Yixian...you are in my early memories, and I have lived long. Go," he groaned, sinking back. It was only now, with the acuteness of the battle, the artillery screaming black on the monastery, that he tasted the pain of his wounds. His skin was alive, tingling, writhing. The bullets were still lodged in his flesh.

Blinking back tears, he saw the two monks, the two shifu looking at him, stunned. "Go now," he pleaded.

And on that last note, his breath caught in his throat. As if someone had cut off his windpipe, one large hand fisted about his neck, choking him. Throttling him. Leaning back, he coughed to clear away the obstruction. His fingers came away red; he tasted the next layer of metal.

When his vision cleared, his tears wiped away, the monks were still there—and, by miracle, still alive. No one had spotted them, no blaze of fire had swept them away. Weeping, Yao extended his hands to them—it was abrupt, a sudden sobbing that shocked them and stunned him into fresher tears. He knew not where this strength was coming from, only that his veins were filled with an electric blaze, blue and red and gold. He was burning up and overwhelmed, though this attack was nothing new to him.

There was hardly time to think it through, because the miracle was still occurring—he was still in this corner, and he felt so weak, but so grateful for this blessed oasis, within the inferno. This was nothing new—death and blood and injustices—but the last century had come so abruptly—he had been a great empire for so long, whether it be by his own hand or a foreigner's, and the world was changing. He was shaken from his own peace and conflicts, into a realm of machine and metal, something he could not quite grasp until recently. And now, even his Shaolin Si, his gong fu, this was being snatched from him. And as always, always, always, he could only stand by, torn, and hope he could aid.

This was not the first time Shaolin was burned, not the first time it was suppressed...but now...this.... Gasping, he looked up, eyes glimmering, and wondered if shaolin quan would be so resilient. This time, this time...

"Wang Yao." And here, even in hell, he could hear. He could hear the gentle tone of the monk that spoke now. With shame and watery eyes, China nodded to show that he was listening. He breathed, pulling at the qi in the pit of his stomach, from his navel, above his abdomen. He remembered, still. "We will still fight." He looked up at the speaker, who nodded firmly as a shell burst in the heavens above his head. The air was thick with gunpowder, and blood was thicker than water. It all scattered over the grounds.

Stupefaction. Yao blinked, unbelieving.

"We will fight," the other monk said, firmly. "This is our home, and we die for it. Shaolin.... Wang Yao, Shaolin will not die. A number of us have fled already. They will preserve it for us."

"But—!"

"Wang Yao," said the other, speaking faster now. "Shaolin is strong. Shaolin will last. We will never die, never truly die. And so..." The three looked at each other, wearied gazes taking in the contours of faces—the shapes, the ridges, the pores, the angles. Trying to remember, even while time ticked by. Their fo could only buy them so much time. Yao slumped back, the bullets smarting in his body.

"Go then," he whispered. "Go." The ocean sands trickled into his eyes. And his eyes, they lingered on the nine globes shining on the first monk's head, where incense had burned. The same head beaded with sweat as he had practiced Luohan fist, as he sweltered in the heat now. With a sigh, he reached out and clasped their hands, before releasing and falling back. He was fading, and he knew it; a few moments more, and he would be gone. He would never see these two again. "Go. Jiang Jieshi won't let me die, even if I have fought by you." And he put his hands together, in a gesture timeless as the sky. Recognizing it instantly, the two monks, the two shifu repeated the gesture. And three in unison, they intoned the familiar sound—

"Amituofo."

That was when one of the shifu—and it would haunt Yao forever, because he would never know which—was shot in the head, blood peppering his clothes, and China knew no more.

羅漢睡覺。