RED SUN YELLOW RIVER
January 1839
At first he did not hear the voice behind him. The red sun was glaring in his face as he rode across the center of the world.
Forty miles since dawn. Hundreds to go. And not much time, perhaps no time at all. He did not know.
Soon the huge magenta sun would sink, a melancholy purple dusk would fall, and he would have to rest. Then on again at dawn. And all the time wondering: Could he reach his father, whom he loved, and say he was sorry before it was too late? For his aunt’s letter had been very clear: His father was dying.
“Mr. Jiang!” He heard it this time. “Jiang Shi-Rong! Wait!”
He turned his head. A single rider was urging his horse along the road. After the glare of the red sun in his eyes, it took Jiang a moment to see that it was Mr. Wen’s servant, Wong. What could that mean? He reined in his horse.
Wong—a small, plump, bald man who had originally come from the south—ran the house for the aging scholar, who trusted him completely, and he’d taken young Jiang under his wing as soon as he’d come to stay there. He was perspiring. He must have been riding like an imperial messenger to catch me, the young man thought.
“Is Mr. Wen all right?” Jiang asked anxiously.
“Yes, yes. He says you must return to Beijing at once.”
“Return?” Jiang looked at him in dismay. “But my father’s dying. I have to go to him.”
“You have heard of the lord Lin?”
“Of course.” All Beijing had been talking about the modest official, little known before, who had so impressed the emperor that he had been given a mission of great importance.
“He wants to see you. Right away.”
“Me?” He was a nobody. Not even that. An insignificant failure.
“Mr. Wen wrote to the lord Lin about you. He knows the lord Lin from when they were students. But Mr. Wen did not tell you, did not want to raise your hopes. When the lord Lin did not reply…” He made a sad face. “Then this morning, after you left, Mr. Wen received a message. Maybe the lord Lin will take you on his staff. But he needs to see you first. So Mr. Wen tells me to ride like a thousand devils to get you back.” He looked at the young man intently. “This is a big chance for you, Jiang Shi-Rong,” he said quietly. “If the lord Lin is successful in his mission, and you please him, the emperor himself will hear your name. You will be on the path to fortune again. I am happy for you.” He made a little bow to indicate the young man’s future status.
“But my father…”
“He may be dead already. You do not know.”
“And he may be alive.” As the young man looked away, his face was a picture of distress. “I should have gone before,” he muttered to himself. “I was too ashamed.” He turned to Wong again. “If I go back now, it will cost me three days. Maybe more.”
“If you want to succeed, you must take chances. Mr. Wen says your father would certainly want you to see the lord Lin.” The messenger paused. “Mr. Wen told the lord Lin that you speak Cantonese. Big point in your favor—for this mission.”
Shi-Rong said nothing. They both knew it was thanks to Wong that he could speak the servant’s Cantonese dialect. At first it had amused the young mandarin to pick up some everyday expressions from Wong. He’d soon discovered that Cantonese was almost like another language.
