JILI by Kat Chamberlain
Part I
The Fortitusion
1
Somewhere in the burial music, I can still hear his voice.
Once I die, burn me right away. And I mean right away.
Old Tan had given very definite instructions. With his usual smile.
What met him was a roomful of shocked but restrained expressions from our good clansmen and women. It was the monthly clan dinner again, one of those formal occasions I tried to get out of but never could. You don’t get out of much in the clan. You can’t avoid Duty. Togetherness. Famility.
And the man who found me as a toddler in the Grass and raised me to be more like his best friend than his daughter had tried to include me in everything he was a part of, from the Chun clan he led to the home he built. But even Old Tan’s influence as the Honor couldn’t earn me love from the other members of the clan. Probably because I had to earn it for myself. Love operates in the funniest ways.
The first rule of love: be from the clan. Don’t be from the Grass with no parents.
I happen to have the distinct misfortune of being the only person I know who has an “unknown” clannage. It just doesn’t happen in Ping. Everyone is from somewhere.
If I have to guess, I’m anywhere from fifteen to seventeen years old. Nobody has told me or can confirm with any certainty the circumstances of my birth. I am puny - or elfin, as Old Tan had insisted. Before people hear me talk they often take me to be as young as thirteen years old. My clansfolk are no giants; I just make them look so.
To make things worse, I don’t look like my clan either. Although the Pings have all kinds of hair colors and skin complexions, I still manage to have a mix that people cannot describe but tend to stare at.
Where should I begin? My hair stands out the most. The colors are a mess - strands of gold, copper, burgundy, and purple like a jewel-toned rainbow that glistens. I can’t even dye or cut it - that’s no longer done in our Nature way of living. I look pale where others look healthy, even though I glean in the Grass daily. My eyes are, quote, “spooky”, because they look like shimmering amber. Old Tan says they spit fire when I get mad. I can get mad just hearing him say that.
To be fair, I probably haven’t made it easy for the clan.
“How can you have no parents?” other kids would ask me, probably innocently enough the first time.
I would give them a challenging glare with my big eyes and reply coolly, “because I don’t need them.”
Because I had Old Tan. I thought I’d always have him.
At that dinner at the clanstead, his remarks stunned the soft chatty laughter into silence. But he pressed on. “I don’t want to leave anything behind that I have no control over.” He had this booming voice that was perfect for a clan Honor. His words, often unorthodox, were usually made palatable by a warm glow and humor on his face. Not this time. Was he joking about dying, or seriously commenting on departing from our world unnaturally? Either was disturbing. We don’t do such things in Ping. Death is a solemn affair. A clan affair. There are traditions to hold up. And traditions demand the utmost respect.
Respect, as everyone told me, was something I sorely lacked. I felt compelled to point out to him, “But you will not leave nothing behind. You’ll have ashes.”
That got me an evil eye from Dutin, Old Tan’s then Honor Holder and self-appointed protégé. Dutin wasn’t one to succumb to whims and spontaneous commentary. I often wonder how he could worship happy Old Tan while following the Ping Principles to the last cold letter.
Old Tan, as always, gave out nothing but serenity on his face, and that particular smile when he talked to me. “Ah, but they will disappear in the wind, in the earth, in the water. You’ll see, my little fish.”
I was ready for a good comeback on the matter of ashes but didn’t get the chance. The ever-so-wise Su intercepted me.
“Come, come,” the ancient lady gently sighed, having known Old Tan and me forever. “We won’t have to worry about it for many years yet, thank Famility.”
But Old Tan didn’t even live out that month. As soon as he passed the clan took him away for a grand preservational burial that would last two long weeks, exactly what a proper Ping funeral dictated. How Old Tan would have hated it. I protested so furiously Dutin barred me from the burial entirely.
I’ve been trying hard not to listen to the music, playing non-stop from the clanstead since the burial started.
Old Tan was only fifty one. His nickname just an endearment on his cuddliness. People typically live to seventy now, a vast improvement from the mere thirty-year life expectancy immediately after the Clouding. Living with Nature has really saved us. People don’t just get sick and die young any more.
So how could he?
I have this outrageous sense of being wronged. Terribly selfish, un-Ping feelings.
The music stops and I lift my head. It couldn’t have been fourteen days already, could it? My sense of time seems to have died with the daily rhythm that used to beat with Old Tan’s heart. It’s like you wake up one day and find your eyes gouged out, and you don’t even know why. All you know is that you will never see again.
There are a few days I surface in the middle of the day from a daze, my legs numb from sitting too long in the lotus position. Stinging pain then bursts through my entire body. I welcome the pain. It clears up my head enough to function. I could have just died of thirst from my daze.
I get up, wobbly at first, and walk to the window. I won’t see much of the clanstead from here, but the thought of Old Tan moves my feet in his direction, to get closer to him.
I see Dutin. He’s taking resolute steps up my path. I inhale deeply and clamp down the small, angry spark that threatens to flare up in me. He’s the last person I wish to see, yet the first person to expect.
He knocks on my door - it had been mine and Old Tan’s, I guess it’s only mine now. I open it.
“The clan wishes for the rightful return of your clan Ink,” he says.
Without greetings or condolences. I didn’t expect much, but certainly not this. I’m being kicked out before Old Tan’s name dries on the Honor scroll.
I get out what I can. “My respect, Honor Holder Dutin.”
His handsome, severe hazelnut eyes flicker at his title. He’s not yet our new Honor, which I just made a point of reminding him.
“My respect,” he seems reluctant to call me by my name, “The clan wishes for the rightful return of your clan Ink,” he repeats.
How many years has he waited to say those words?
“To Famility,” I say. It’s a formal reply to any kind gesture, and my saying it now brings a twitch of a muscle onto his face. His knuckles are white when he points at my Ink. I should feel some measure of satisfaction, instead my arm stiffens under my Ink.
The Ink is an arm band made from dry, flattened tree bark, with a carved clan motif in the shape of one big circle containing three smaller ones. Four different size circles touching one another. The carved lines were stained with gold ink. Old Tan had tied the Ink onto my upper left arm. At the time the little me hated having yet another thing to wear. Clothing items get in the way when you run around the Grass as much as I do.
I untie the bamboo leaf strings with my right hand and my teeth. My left arm feels cold with the sudden loss of the one thing that you don’t take off even when bathing. I hand the Ink over. Dutin takes it with two fingers without touching my upturned palm.
“My respect,” Dutin says. My eyes challenge him to say more. He presses his lips. “The clan has decreed that all Honor Tan’s belongings return to the clan. The audit starts tomorrow morning.”
So I have one last night of shelter in the only place I know to be home. It’s just like Dutin. He loved Old Tan like every clansman, and hates me more than any clansman. He couldn’t quite bring himself to resent Old Tan for bringing me back from the Grass. Yet he has never forgiven me for staying.
For being part of his precious clan when I don’t belong.
And I’ll never forgive him for proving that indeed I don’t. So I close the door soundlessly and gently in his face. My final act of defiance.
I am now clanless. I don’t know why my chest is so tight and my eyes burn, when I have known all along this could happen. Old Tan was the only link I had with his clan.
But somehow I thought I had, over the years, carved out a little niche in the clan for myself. All clan matters are decided by consensus. Surely I got some support even when I wasn’t Surveyed.
Wrong. They all want me to go. I don’t know which hurts more - the break itself or the unity behind it.
Well, then. I will go.
But where to?
2
Where to? It’s an even more difficult question when you don’t know where you’re from to begin with. But anywhere is better than a place where people don’t want you.
I haven’t thought much about things outside our clanhold before, which is about fifty fields in its entirety. I was taught a great deal by Old Tan, as well as at Artschool, about the world outside. Mostly about how toxic most places are out there. Outside holds an appeal for me no stronger than, say, our dark sun. I’m the practical sort. Old Tan worked hard and lived a solid life, and I was going to follow suit. But things happen. Now I’ll just go.
I finish packing and look around the house Old Tan and I worked on just about every day we were together. I decide to clean it up as one last gesture to Old Tan’s memory. There’s not much to clean up, but I guess his teaching stays with me even when he doesn’t. I’m working up a sweat wiping the wall down when someone knocks on the door. I stop. Just one knock. Must be about clan business, because no social calls are conceivable. Has Dutin thought of something else he would like to take from me?
A white scroll is pushed in under the door, the board’s bottom edge an easy one-finger clearance from the dirt ground. The visitor doesn’t bother to speak out or knock again, so I don’t bother to receive them. I pick up the scroll.
Jili of Trun clan, summoned for a Famility matter, is to be present at the Inner Hall at ten stars, six suns, period one, first light.
That’s tomorrow! I’m dumbfounded. What’s so urgent that needs me on such short notice? Last time some clansfolk got summoned, it was for the Arts curriculum. They had one month to prepare before the date.
All official communication has to go through the Honor Holder. I can just imagine Dutin’s face when he saw my name still connected to the clan.
As Famility would have it, from out of nowhere I get sent for by the Sum. Do they know I’m being kicked out? Of course they do. The Sum knows everything, the hundreds of Clans that form our Famility being so tightly-knit.
Now I really don’t have time. As soon as I get back from the summon I’ll have to leave. And I want to take some of Old Tan’s writings with me. The clan will not take all his scrolls; I’ll make sure of that. I’ll hide what little belongings I have in the woodshed. Not Dutin, not the clan, and not even the Sum, can take away the memory of Old Tan from me.
3
It’s a great distinction and honor when a Ping is summoned by the Sum. Our Primers – Sum leaders - are chosen and approved by all the Clans, and the respect is genuine.
I dress up for the event, but only in Old Tan’s honor. I don’t like wearing clothes I can’t glean in as a rule. The clan girls like to wear dresses and skirts made from pure cotton or hemp or silk, further softened by citrus essence and dyed pastel colors. On special occasions they put on dresses that showcase superior craft: hand-painted ancient motifs of clouds and oracles, or intricately embroidered patterns. I can’t honestly say I don’t like the look of those clothes, but I’d feel all hemmed in for fear of messing them up. A run in the Grass and the clothes would be all torn up. I told Old Tan - Famility knows how many times - that I wouldn’t put one on even if he made me. But he got me a fine shirt anyway.
I put on the gift shirt now. I had dug it out last week while the music was still on. True to my word I had not once put it on since I was given it last year. Even now I am reluctant because it’s snow white. You don’t wear white anything in the Grass. I have no idea what Old Tan was thinking.
It’s still dark outside but I look positively shining. I cover my unruly hair with my favorite piece of clothing: my only hat of a natural shade of brown. Rain or shine, the hat is on, so nobody has to stare at my hair. It’s a good thing I don’t have a mirror.
I put on a short black cloak and leave before dawn. I take a hidden path through the Grass. I run when I can, but the journey still takes almost ten-incense time. The Sum meets in the Inner Hall, our most formal and public place. I’ve heard that it looks like a giant stone garden, with artful sculptures and lush plants.
It does not disappoint. I’ve imagined something grand and majestic, but the serene bareness of the white low walls, giant yet softly white-curtained entrance, the simple swirl of carvings on the wooden door frame, the natural light pouring in to chase away shadows, and the spring blossoms of plum and cherry peeking in from the windows… I have the sensation that I’ve arrived at an abode of, if not one of those gods in the scrolls, a master of some kind.
I usually feel old amongst my peers, but when I enter the Inner Hall I feel for the first time like the awkward, know-nothing youngster that I’m supposed to be. The Hall is for the people. Everyone can come, and many have. I’ve never had the inclination to “pay respect.” It just hasn’t been real enough for me.
It’s real now. It’s also wide open. People mill about and point at this and that. I don’t see guards or anyone official-looking. I’m startled when a middle-aged man approaches me as I reach the final step of a long stairway.
“Jili,” he greets with a formal look, no nod. He’s about fifty, like Old Tan. He has a gentle air, though no one would confuse him with anything other than a very distinguished man. “My name is Gen, and I represent the Sum in your summon.”
“My respect, Primer,” I automatically reply, not sure what else to say. I’ve never dealt with anyone official before.
“How are you faring, my child?”
The condolence is not unexpected. Old Tan was an Honor, a clan leader. My heart contracts for a short beat. I haven’t shed a tear in front of the clan. I certainly will not do so in front of a Sum Primer. I look into his eyes and say quietly, “I’m well, my respect.”
He studies me. I have a strange feeling that he has seen me before. It’s recognition I see in his eyes.
“We do not interfere with clan affairs, but if you wish, you can go to the clan Holding and request a hearing.”
“My respect, but why would I wish to do that?” I’m surprised.
“Your clan has not provided for you adequately. Before you reach sixteen, you are entitled to their care.”
“But surely you know - my respect again - that my age has never been established?” Old Tan first found me wandering in the Grass, as naked as a baby fawn. He said I could have been anywhere from three to five years old then, and what’s more - for the next three years I didn’t grow all that much either.
Freaky, that’s what. And all the clansmen thought so. I have no memory prior to Old Tan. Also freaky. Old Tan celebrated my birthday the week before he died. He picked a random day each year. He said I was lucky to get to be whatever age I liked.
Maybe this Primer can tell me once and for all, if nothing else, just how old I am.
He shakes his head. “All the more reason for them to fulfill their obligation, since your age of sixteen is not yet officialized. We will look into the care situation if you request it.”
I’m alarmed. “Oh, no! I mean, my respect, but there is no need.”
I can just imagine Dutin’s face if the clan has to convene a hearing and the Sum sends a Primer to preside over it. No doubt in Dutin’s mind an imposition upon his turf. A great insult! I almost want the Sum to do it just to see the expression on that cruelly handsome face.
“Why not, my child?”
Because I don’t wish to stay, I say to myself, but of course that’s not entirely true. “Because Old Tan taught me better,” I say, and my heart tightens up again. Indeed he had. He says that at the end of the day the clan looks out for the whole and not the individuals, the sum and not the parts, the forest and not the trees. You have to learn to survive on your own, if only to not become a burden to your clan. The clan may take care of those truly in need, but not an idle body.
That’s not what the Artschool taught us, which is the clan takes care of everyone. But that’s Old Tan for you. I wouldn’t repeat half of what he told me to anyone else.
“You were close to Honor Tan.”
“Everyone was.”
Gen shakes his head again.
“You do not let down your guard easily, do you?”
I stiffen.What does he mean by that?
“That may serve you very well indeed. Brace yourself, my child, for what must be asked of you.”
He gestures for me to follow him down the hall. My heart drops to my stomach and then leaps to my throat. I have speculated on the summon, but cannot come up with anything concrete. Now I’m about to find out and it’s not going to be good.
I stay two steps behind him, trying to keep my walk as soundless as his is. The Hall makes you feel that you should. The tranquility of the place suddenly turns eery.
We go into a chamber with the same stone walls as those in the great hall. The room is no more than ten arms length each way. I halt my steps barely two steps past the open metal door and cannot hold back a gasp.
In the center of the chamber stands a stone bed. A man lies on it.
Old Tan!
4
I rush to the side of the bed and touch him, before any thought of decorum – or the shock of finding him here - occurs to me. It’s Old Tan and I want to reach him. He looks - and I’m almost afraid to think so - like he’s only in a sound sleep.
“Old Tan?” I whisper. My trembling fingers feel warmth on his cheeks, and I pull back as if burned. I look back at Gen and ask urgently, “is he... ?”
“Yes,” Gen says quietly.
“How can he still be...?” Again I cannot finish my question.
“Because we’ve pulled together our best Helpers and Remedies, and measures we haven’t even tested out. We’ve basically thrown everything at him, because he was - is - too important to us not to try. If he had made his condition known we could have intervened sooner.”
Old Tan would hate the word intervene, but right now I’m too happy to quibble with the Sum. All power to them if they could do anything at all for Old Tan.
“So he’s okay now? He’ll get well soon? When will he wake up?”
It’s probably a good thing nobody from Chun clan is associated with me anymore, this frantic girl throwing questions at a Primer in the most revered space of the land. But I don’t care.
Gen’s face turns sad and my heart almost stops.
“What?”
“He is barely with us and will not be for long,” Gen says. “He has two dozens or so days under the best circumstances. But you don’t even have that, my child.”
“What?” I croak.
“We need to go somewhere else so as not to disturb Honor Tan.”
I don’t want to leave. Part of me still cannot fully absorb the situation, and I have this terrible fear that if I were to leave now, I would never see Old Tan again.
“You can come back to visit him again,” Gen says, sensing my struggle.
We step down the hall, and the numerous doors and hallways remind me of my secret Hollow in the Grass. With Old Tan here, the Inner Hall feels less like a public space, and more like Gen’s home.
The chamber we finally enter is a beautiful library. Thousands of scrolls, carefully labeled and sorted, line the shelves which are themselves pieces of art. Ancient motifs of mythical creature Qilin and tortoises I’ve seen in Old Tan’s collection adorn the structures that intricately utilize wood, iron, stone, and gold.
How Old Tan would love to spend time in here. If only he could wake up to see it.
Gen walks toward one of the blank stone walls, and suddenly the wall turns transparent, revealing a sharp image.
The imagery technology startles me. Not from its wow factor: the Sum has all kinds of Tools. Each clanstead stores them. But we can only use them there, and only with clan permission. We are told from birth that the Tools are two-edged swords, and that they brought down our previous world. So all the awe inspired by the Tools is well tempered by caution.
What startles me is the image itself. It shows a huge crowd of smiling faces. That’s not the only weird thing; the people’s attire is not so much clothes as it is gadgets, Tools.
Small, strange, but pretty Tools, in colorful metals and materials that I cannot identify. People have stuff on their necks, in their hands, on their forearms. Their shoes look more like overly decorated cakes than footwear.
I’ve never seen anything like that, not even in the Artschool.
“Who are they?”
5
“How much do you know about Caerus?” Gen asks instead.
The name Caerus barely registers. It’s one of those infamous past civilizations, with a typically uncivilized end.
“I know that it’s long gone.”
“It’s not,” he says almost lightly, “but you will not divulge this information.”
“It’s not?” I’m truly astounded. “Where are they?”
“You have to vow not to divulge any information given to you henceforth.”
“Yes, of course.” Who am I going to tell any of this to, anyway?
Gen gazes at me for a long while, and finally proceeds.
“They are out there, on the other side. They have been there all this time,” he says. “After the Clouding the survivors were divided about how to live on and start over. There were those who believed that we needed to preserve and follow Nature’s ways, and then there were those who insisted upon moving forward with more advanced technology. The two sides disagreed so fiercely that a new war nearly broke out that would have finished the world off for good. Luckily, cooler heads prevailed. Both sides agreed that our respective ways of life should not - and could not - mix. The only peaceful choice left was separation. An accord was struck and a spectrum shield was put in place that renders the other side invisible.”
“That’s... incredible,” I say.
“It is indeed,” he nods, “and for the longest time, the accord has held. Our forebears - and theirs - were smart.”
I notice that he doesn’t say ‘wise.’ “What happened?”
“A separation does not mean the end of mutual-monitoring. The two nations are more or less aware of the other side’s current state of affairs, and that’s probably for the better. Total ignorance can never be bliss.”
Old Tan loves politics - or what he terms, the Art of ‘people living together’. From the countless stories he’s told me I learned how people often could not live together. What Gen’s telling me sounds all too familiar.
Not that the Artschool, or Old Tan, dwelled much on Caerus. It’s nothing but ancient history - well, about two or three generations ancient. It was a rancid and insidious pot stew of a land made of greed and envy. Its legacy fuzzier than a vague dream. They vanished shortly after they turned their own land toxic beyond inhabitation.
Now which part is true, if any?
I ask the question that a lot of clansfolk might have in mind if they knew anything about this.
“Why do we not know about them?”
“It’s part of the accord,” Gen says.
The forebears on each side agreed to deceive their own people? I’m outraged. “Shouldn’t people have the right to all facts, and be free to make decisions? What happened to the ‘total ignorance can never be bliss’ thing?”
Gen looks at me, and I instantly regret my sharp sarcasm. We’re brought up learning how to control our most base emotions and their various manifestations: outbursts, profanity, name-calling. And those are just the verbal ones. Physical violence spells outright self-defeat. All of those expressions display mental deficiency and emotional disability. “Inner Cultivation” is the most basic learning that starts before potty training, weaning off mother’s milk, or sitting up.
A lack of self-control is like going back to infancy.
Deep down I’ve always suspected that’s why Chun clan shuns me. They think I’m unruly, willful, and lack discipline.
What really shames me, however, is that my behavior reflects badly on Old Tan.
And why am I venting on Gen? He didn’t sign the pact, yet shoulders the heavy duty of adhering to it.
“My respect,” I say quietly with feeling and humbleness.
“It’s an extraordinary circumstance,” Gen’s tone doesn’t turn gentler, but I feel much better.
“Why are you telling me about Caerus?” My heart starts to pound again.
“Because they may have what Honor Tan needs. A programmable gene that can potentially mend anything.”
“A programmable gene?”
“Caerus invents and produces. Cutting-edge technology - and anything goes,” Gen says with a neutral tone. “Yes, they’ve produced such a gene.”
“Then what are we waiting for? The Caerus don’t wish to... trade?” I don’t know how the Caerus do things and I don't care. I’m only anxious for Old Tan.
“They cannot know that we may want it,” he says. “In fact they cannot know that we know. They haven’t released anything about what they call the ‘perfect gene’. They’re planning on a big reveal to all the Caerus, and then on beginning the production.”
“The mass production of the gene?”
“Worse,” Gen’s voice gets even quieter.
I get chills. The Caerus in the scrolls produced and then destroyed everything - if I can still believe the scrolls.
“Like I said, Caerus is all about production: perfect gadgets, machines. Tools. Even the air, the sun, and the environment. But now they have created the gene that will produce the ultimate: the perfect human.”
Human!
“They want to make real people?” I’ve never heard anything crazier.
“Not just real people, but perfect people,” Gen says. “It’s conceivable that all newborn Caerus will end up meeting their parents’s ideal of perfection. Perfect health, to be sure. But other things as well. We don’t know the details, of course. And we have learned about this way too late. We have only twelve days to take action.”
“Twelve days!” I’m incredulous. “We have to get the gene before they start production?”
“We have to stop the production.”
I finally get it. “You want the gene too? To make Pings?”
“We do not wish to make humans. The perfect Caerus gene may mend Honor Tan’s heart - and there’s no guarantee - but it will most definitely not make a perfect Ping. We Pings believe in Nature and its ways. There’s no such thing as a perfect Ping.”
Gen doesn’t have to tell me that. We learn from our first conscious moment that Nature nearly died by human’s own hand and we have to guard against all threats to it. Follow Nature. Do not make Nature.
It’s on the Ping scrolls: Nature is life itself. We are but a speck of dust in its realm.
“My respect,” I say. Gen has this solemn aura that makes any accusation seem obscene. He represents the Sum well. He represents the Pings well. I feel foolish.
He doesn’t seem to take offense. “We have our Nature and Caerus has their technology. They’ve rebuilt the world anew, hoping this time they’ve got it right.”
“Haven’t they?” I ask. “They’ve even come up with the perfect gene!”
“Which will lead to their ruin; this time it may be final.”
The air seems cold all of a sudden. Gen’s words sound like prophesy.
“We’ve been put into a peculiar position,” Gen continues. “The world as a whole may be in peril. We can sit back and hope for the best, or we can try to prevent the ruin. But what can we do? The Sum has decided to do the unthinkable: we will steal a copy of the gene and study it. We may or may not succeed in preventing its production, but we will learn what we can. How? We’ll try it on Honor Tan. We will try to save him and hopefully learn from the process.”
If we’re not Ping, I’d wonder why we don’t just sit back and watch the Caerus fall on their own folly. But we’re Ping.
No harm ends on one side. Ping scroll says.
What harm one side does will harm all sides in the end.
Gen’s next pronouncement hits me like a brick. “This is where you come in.”
“Me?”
“You must obtain the gene, and stop its reveal.”
I’m frozen on the spot. Calling me to a summon, and telling me about Old Tan, has not prepared me for this announcement.
Me? How can I obtain some perfect gene? It’s like telling me to obtain the dark sun, or whatever little is left of it.
“Do you want me... to go over there? I’m not a soldier, or a spy, or a thief! Surely you have people who can...?”
My incredulity is not born of some moral objection, but a sense of absolute inadequacy. What can I do? What have I ever done that comes even close? According to Old Tan I have a talent for “being impulsive and unpredictable.” He was laughing when he said it.
The urgency of it all adds to my disbelief. “Please, don’t play with his life. You can’t just keep him hanging! He’s dying. Why haven’t you sent someone over already?”
Gen is as calm as the stone wall behind him. “We have, my child. And they are all dead.”
Part I
The Fortitusion
1
Somewhere in the burial music, I can still hear his voice.
Once I die, burn me right away. And I mean right away.
Old Tan had given very definite instructions. With his usual smile.
What met him was a roomful of shocked but restrained expressions from our good clansmen and women. It was the monthly clan dinner again, one of those formal occasions I tried to get out of but never could. You don’t get out of much in the clan. You can’t avoid Duty. Togetherness. Famility.
And the man who found me as a toddler in the Grass and raised me to be more like his best friend than his daughter had tried to include me in everything he was a part of, from the Chun clan he led to the home he built. But even Old Tan’s influence as the Honor couldn’t earn me love from the other members of the clan. Probably because I had to earn it for myself. Love operates in the funniest ways.
The first rule of love: be from the clan. Don’t be from the Grass with no parents.
I happen to have the distinct misfortune of being the only person I know who has an “unknown” clannage. It just doesn’t happen in Ping. Everyone is from somewhere.
If I have to guess, I’m anywhere from fifteen to seventeen years old. Nobody has told me or can confirm with any certainty the circumstances of my birth. I am puny - or elfin, as Old Tan had insisted. Before people hear me talk they often take me to be as young as thirteen years old. My clansfolk are no giants; I just make them look so.
To make things worse, I don’t look like my clan either. Although the Pings have all kinds of hair colors and skin complexions, I still manage to have a mix that people cannot describe but tend to stare at.
Where should I begin? My hair stands out the most. The colors are a mess - strands of gold, copper, burgundy, and purple like a jewel-toned rainbow that glistens. I can’t even dye or cut it - that’s no longer done in our Nature way of living. I look pale where others look healthy, even though I glean in the Grass daily. My eyes are, quote, “spooky”, because they look like shimmering amber. Old Tan says they spit fire when I get mad. I can get mad just hearing him say that.
To be fair, I probably haven’t made it easy for the clan.
“How can you have no parents?” other kids would ask me, probably innocently enough the first time.
I would give them a challenging glare with my big eyes and reply coolly, “because I don’t need them.”
Because I had Old Tan. I thought I’d always have him.
At that dinner at the clanstead, his remarks stunned the soft chatty laughter into silence. But he pressed on. “I don’t want to leave anything behind that I have no control over.” He had this booming voice that was perfect for a clan Honor. His words, often unorthodox, were usually made palatable by a warm glow and humor on his face. Not this time. Was he joking about dying, or seriously commenting on departing from our world unnaturally? Either was disturbing. We don’t do such things in Ping. Death is a solemn affair. A clan affair. There are traditions to hold up. And traditions demand the utmost respect.
Respect, as everyone told me, was something I sorely lacked. I felt compelled to point out to him, “But you will not leave nothing behind. You’ll have ashes.”
That got me an evil eye from Dutin, Old Tan’s then Honor Holder and self-appointed protégé. Dutin wasn’t one to succumb to whims and spontaneous commentary. I often wonder how he could worship happy Old Tan while following the Ping Principles to the last cold letter.
Old Tan, as always, gave out nothing but serenity on his face, and that particular smile when he talked to me. “Ah, but they will disappear in the wind, in the earth, in the water. You’ll see, my little fish.”
I was ready for a good comeback on the matter of ashes but didn’t get the chance. The ever-so-wise Su intercepted me.
“Come, come,” the ancient lady gently sighed, having known Old Tan and me forever. “We won’t have to worry about it for many years yet, thank Famility.”
But Old Tan didn’t even live out that month. As soon as he passed the clan took him away for a grand preservational burial that would last two long weeks, exactly what a proper Ping funeral dictated. How Old Tan would have hated it. I protested so furiously Dutin barred me from the burial entirely.
I’ve been trying hard not to listen to the music, playing non-stop from the clanstead since the burial started.
Old Tan was only fifty one. His nickname just an endearment on his cuddliness. People typically live to seventy now, a vast improvement from the mere thirty-year life expectancy immediately after the Clouding. Living with Nature has really saved us. People don’t just get sick and die young any more.
So how could he?
I have this outrageous sense of being wronged. Terribly selfish, un-Ping feelings.
The music stops and I lift my head. It couldn’t have been fourteen days already, could it? My sense of time seems to have died with the daily rhythm that used to beat with Old Tan’s heart. It’s like you wake up one day and find your eyes gouged out, and you don’t even know why. All you know is that you will never see again.
There are a few days I surface in the middle of the day from a daze, my legs numb from sitting too long in the lotus position. Stinging pain then bursts through my entire body. I welcome the pain. It clears up my head enough to function. I could have just died of thirst from my daze.
I get up, wobbly at first, and walk to the window. I won’t see much of the clanstead from here, but the thought of Old Tan moves my feet in his direction, to get closer to him.
I see Dutin. He’s taking resolute steps up my path. I inhale deeply and clamp down the small, angry spark that threatens to flare up in me. He’s the last person I wish to see, yet the first person to expect.
He knocks on my door - it had been mine and Old Tan’s, I guess it’s only mine now. I open it.
“The clan wishes for the rightful return of your clan Ink,” he says.
Without greetings or condolences. I didn’t expect much, but certainly not this. I’m being kicked out before Old Tan’s name dries on the Honor scroll.
I get out what I can. “My respect, Honor Holder Dutin.”
His handsome, severe hazelnut eyes flicker at his title. He’s not yet our new Honor, which I just made a point of reminding him.
“My respect,” he seems reluctant to call me by my name, “The clan wishes for the rightful return of your clan Ink,” he repeats.
How many years has he waited to say those words?
“To Famility,” I say. It’s a formal reply to any kind gesture, and my saying it now brings a twitch of a muscle onto his face. His knuckles are white when he points at my Ink. I should feel some measure of satisfaction, instead my arm stiffens under my Ink.
The Ink is an arm band made from dry, flattened tree bark, with a carved clan motif in the shape of one big circle containing three smaller ones. Four different size circles touching one another. The carved lines were stained with gold ink. Old Tan had tied the Ink onto my upper left arm. At the time the little me hated having yet another thing to wear. Clothing items get in the way when you run around the Grass as much as I do.
I untie the bamboo leaf strings with my right hand and my teeth. My left arm feels cold with the sudden loss of the one thing that you don’t take off even when bathing. I hand the Ink over. Dutin takes it with two fingers without touching my upturned palm.
“My respect,” Dutin says. My eyes challenge him to say more. He presses his lips. “The clan has decreed that all Honor Tan’s belongings return to the clan. The audit starts tomorrow morning.”
So I have one last night of shelter in the only place I know to be home. It’s just like Dutin. He loved Old Tan like every clansman, and hates me more than any clansman. He couldn’t quite bring himself to resent Old Tan for bringing me back from the Grass. Yet he has never forgiven me for staying.
For being part of his precious clan when I don’t belong.
And I’ll never forgive him for proving that indeed I don’t. So I close the door soundlessly and gently in his face. My final act of defiance.
I am now clanless. I don’t know why my chest is so tight and my eyes burn, when I have known all along this could happen. Old Tan was the only link I had with his clan.
But somehow I thought I had, over the years, carved out a little niche in the clan for myself. All clan matters are decided by consensus. Surely I got some support even when I wasn’t Surveyed.
Wrong. They all want me to go. I don’t know which hurts more - the break itself or the unity behind it.
Well, then. I will go.
But where to?
2
Where to? It’s an even more difficult question when you don’t know where you’re from to begin with. But anywhere is better than a place where people don’t want you.
I haven’t thought much about things outside our clanhold before, which is about fifty fields in its entirety. I was taught a great deal by Old Tan, as well as at Artschool, about the world outside. Mostly about how toxic most places are out there. Outside holds an appeal for me no stronger than, say, our dark sun. I’m the practical sort. Old Tan worked hard and lived a solid life, and I was going to follow suit. But things happen. Now I’ll just go.
I finish packing and look around the house Old Tan and I worked on just about every day we were together. I decide to clean it up as one last gesture to Old Tan’s memory. There’s not much to clean up, but I guess his teaching stays with me even when he doesn’t. I’m working up a sweat wiping the wall down when someone knocks on the door. I stop. Just one knock. Must be about clan business, because no social calls are conceivable. Has Dutin thought of something else he would like to take from me?
A white scroll is pushed in under the door, the board’s bottom edge an easy one-finger clearance from the dirt ground. The visitor doesn’t bother to speak out or knock again, so I don’t bother to receive them. I pick up the scroll.
Jili of Trun clan, summoned for a Famility matter, is to be present at the Inner Hall at ten stars, six suns, period one, first light.
That’s tomorrow! I’m dumbfounded. What’s so urgent that needs me on such short notice? Last time some clansfolk got summoned, it was for the Arts curriculum. They had one month to prepare before the date.
All official communication has to go through the Honor Holder. I can just imagine Dutin’s face when he saw my name still connected to the clan.
As Famility would have it, from out of nowhere I get sent for by the Sum. Do they know I’m being kicked out? Of course they do. The Sum knows everything, the hundreds of Clans that form our Famility being so tightly-knit.
Now I really don’t have time. As soon as I get back from the summon I’ll have to leave. And I want to take some of Old Tan’s writings with me. The clan will not take all his scrolls; I’ll make sure of that. I’ll hide what little belongings I have in the woodshed. Not Dutin, not the clan, and not even the Sum, can take away the memory of Old Tan from me.
3
It’s a great distinction and honor when a Ping is summoned by the Sum. Our Primers – Sum leaders - are chosen and approved by all the Clans, and the respect is genuine.
I dress up for the event, but only in Old Tan’s honor. I don’t like wearing clothes I can’t glean in as a rule. The clan girls like to wear dresses and skirts made from pure cotton or hemp or silk, further softened by citrus essence and dyed pastel colors. On special occasions they put on dresses that showcase superior craft: hand-painted ancient motifs of clouds and oracles, or intricately embroidered patterns. I can’t honestly say I don’t like the look of those clothes, but I’d feel all hemmed in for fear of messing them up. A run in the Grass and the clothes would be all torn up. I told Old Tan - Famility knows how many times - that I wouldn’t put one on even if he made me. But he got me a fine shirt anyway.
I put on the gift shirt now. I had dug it out last week while the music was still on. True to my word I had not once put it on since I was given it last year. Even now I am reluctant because it’s snow white. You don’t wear white anything in the Grass. I have no idea what Old Tan was thinking.
It’s still dark outside but I look positively shining. I cover my unruly hair with my favorite piece of clothing: my only hat of a natural shade of brown. Rain or shine, the hat is on, so nobody has to stare at my hair. It’s a good thing I don’t have a mirror.
I put on a short black cloak and leave before dawn. I take a hidden path through the Grass. I run when I can, but the journey still takes almost ten-incense time. The Sum meets in the Inner Hall, our most formal and public place. I’ve heard that it looks like a giant stone garden, with artful sculptures and lush plants.
It does not disappoint. I’ve imagined something grand and majestic, but the serene bareness of the white low walls, giant yet softly white-curtained entrance, the simple swirl of carvings on the wooden door frame, the natural light pouring in to chase away shadows, and the spring blossoms of plum and cherry peeking in from the windows… I have the sensation that I’ve arrived at an abode of, if not one of those gods in the scrolls, a master of some kind.
I usually feel old amongst my peers, but when I enter the Inner Hall I feel for the first time like the awkward, know-nothing youngster that I’m supposed to be. The Hall is for the people. Everyone can come, and many have. I’ve never had the inclination to “pay respect.” It just hasn’t been real enough for me.
It’s real now. It’s also wide open. People mill about and point at this and that. I don’t see guards or anyone official-looking. I’m startled when a middle-aged man approaches me as I reach the final step of a long stairway.
“Jili,” he greets with a formal look, no nod. He’s about fifty, like Old Tan. He has a gentle air, though no one would confuse him with anything other than a very distinguished man. “My name is Gen, and I represent the Sum in your summon.”
“My respect, Primer,” I automatically reply, not sure what else to say. I’ve never dealt with anyone official before.
“How are you faring, my child?”
The condolence is not unexpected. Old Tan was an Honor, a clan leader. My heart contracts for a short beat. I haven’t shed a tear in front of the clan. I certainly will not do so in front of a Sum Primer. I look into his eyes and say quietly, “I’m well, my respect.”
He studies me. I have a strange feeling that he has seen me before. It’s recognition I see in his eyes.
“We do not interfere with clan affairs, but if you wish, you can go to the clan Holding and request a hearing.”
“My respect, but why would I wish to do that?” I’m surprised.
“Your clan has not provided for you adequately. Before you reach sixteen, you are entitled to their care.”
“But surely you know - my respect again - that my age has never been established?” Old Tan first found me wandering in the Grass, as naked as a baby fawn. He said I could have been anywhere from three to five years old then, and what’s more - for the next three years I didn’t grow all that much either.
Freaky, that’s what. And all the clansmen thought so. I have no memory prior to Old Tan. Also freaky. Old Tan celebrated my birthday the week before he died. He picked a random day each year. He said I was lucky to get to be whatever age I liked.
Maybe this Primer can tell me once and for all, if nothing else, just how old I am.
He shakes his head. “All the more reason for them to fulfill their obligation, since your age of sixteen is not yet officialized. We will look into the care situation if you request it.”
I’m alarmed. “Oh, no! I mean, my respect, but there is no need.”
I can just imagine Dutin’s face if the clan has to convene a hearing and the Sum sends a Primer to preside over it. No doubt in Dutin’s mind an imposition upon his turf. A great insult! I almost want the Sum to do it just to see the expression on that cruelly handsome face.
“Why not, my child?”
Because I don’t wish to stay, I say to myself, but of course that’s not entirely true. “Because Old Tan taught me better,” I say, and my heart tightens up again. Indeed he had. He says that at the end of the day the clan looks out for the whole and not the individuals, the sum and not the parts, the forest and not the trees. You have to learn to survive on your own, if only to not become a burden to your clan. The clan may take care of those truly in need, but not an idle body.
That’s not what the Artschool taught us, which is the clan takes care of everyone. But that’s Old Tan for you. I wouldn’t repeat half of what he told me to anyone else.
“You were close to Honor Tan.”
“Everyone was.”
Gen shakes his head again.
“You do not let down your guard easily, do you?”
I stiffen.What does he mean by that?
“That may serve you very well indeed. Brace yourself, my child, for what must be asked of you.”
He gestures for me to follow him down the hall. My heart drops to my stomach and then leaps to my throat. I have speculated on the summon, but cannot come up with anything concrete. Now I’m about to find out and it’s not going to be good.
I stay two steps behind him, trying to keep my walk as soundless as his is. The Hall makes you feel that you should. The tranquility of the place suddenly turns eery.
We go into a chamber with the same stone walls as those in the great hall. The room is no more than ten arms length each way. I halt my steps barely two steps past the open metal door and cannot hold back a gasp.
In the center of the chamber stands a stone bed. A man lies on it.
Old Tan!
4
I rush to the side of the bed and touch him, before any thought of decorum – or the shock of finding him here - occurs to me. It’s Old Tan and I want to reach him. He looks - and I’m almost afraid to think so - like he’s only in a sound sleep.
“Old Tan?” I whisper. My trembling fingers feel warmth on his cheeks, and I pull back as if burned. I look back at Gen and ask urgently, “is he... ?”
“Yes,” Gen says quietly.
“How can he still be...?” Again I cannot finish my question.
“Because we’ve pulled together our best Helpers and Remedies, and measures we haven’t even tested out. We’ve basically thrown everything at him, because he was - is - too important to us not to try. If he had made his condition known we could have intervened sooner.”
Old Tan would hate the word intervene, but right now I’m too happy to quibble with the Sum. All power to them if they could do anything at all for Old Tan.
“So he’s okay now? He’ll get well soon? When will he wake up?”
It’s probably a good thing nobody from Chun clan is associated with me anymore, this frantic girl throwing questions at a Primer in the most revered space of the land. But I don’t care.
Gen’s face turns sad and my heart almost stops.
“What?”
“He is barely with us and will not be for long,” Gen says. “He has two dozens or so days under the best circumstances. But you don’t even have that, my child.”
“What?” I croak.
“We need to go somewhere else so as not to disturb Honor Tan.”
I don’t want to leave. Part of me still cannot fully absorb the situation, and I have this terrible fear that if I were to leave now, I would never see Old Tan again.
“You can come back to visit him again,” Gen says, sensing my struggle.
We step down the hall, and the numerous doors and hallways remind me of my secret Hollow in the Grass. With Old Tan here, the Inner Hall feels less like a public space, and more like Gen’s home.
The chamber we finally enter is a beautiful library. Thousands of scrolls, carefully labeled and sorted, line the shelves which are themselves pieces of art. Ancient motifs of mythical creature Qilin and tortoises I’ve seen in Old Tan’s collection adorn the structures that intricately utilize wood, iron, stone, and gold.
How Old Tan would love to spend time in here. If only he could wake up to see it.
Gen walks toward one of the blank stone walls, and suddenly the wall turns transparent, revealing a sharp image.
The imagery technology startles me. Not from its wow factor: the Sum has all kinds of Tools. Each clanstead stores them. But we can only use them there, and only with clan permission. We are told from birth that the Tools are two-edged swords, and that they brought down our previous world. So all the awe inspired by the Tools is well tempered by caution.
What startles me is the image itself. It shows a huge crowd of smiling faces. That’s not the only weird thing; the people’s attire is not so much clothes as it is gadgets, Tools.
Small, strange, but pretty Tools, in colorful metals and materials that I cannot identify. People have stuff on their necks, in their hands, on their forearms. Their shoes look more like overly decorated cakes than footwear.
I’ve never seen anything like that, not even in the Artschool.
“Who are they?”
5
“How much do you know about Caerus?” Gen asks instead.
The name Caerus barely registers. It’s one of those infamous past civilizations, with a typically uncivilized end.
“I know that it’s long gone.”
“It’s not,” he says almost lightly, “but you will not divulge this information.”
“It’s not?” I’m truly astounded. “Where are they?”
“You have to vow not to divulge any information given to you henceforth.”
“Yes, of course.” Who am I going to tell any of this to, anyway?
Gen gazes at me for a long while, and finally proceeds.
“They are out there, on the other side. They have been there all this time,” he says. “After the Clouding the survivors were divided about how to live on and start over. There were those who believed that we needed to preserve and follow Nature’s ways, and then there were those who insisted upon moving forward with more advanced technology. The two sides disagreed so fiercely that a new war nearly broke out that would have finished the world off for good. Luckily, cooler heads prevailed. Both sides agreed that our respective ways of life should not - and could not - mix. The only peaceful choice left was separation. An accord was struck and a spectrum shield was put in place that renders the other side invisible.”
“That’s... incredible,” I say.
“It is indeed,” he nods, “and for the longest time, the accord has held. Our forebears - and theirs - were smart.”
I notice that he doesn’t say ‘wise.’ “What happened?”
“A separation does not mean the end of mutual-monitoring. The two nations are more or less aware of the other side’s current state of affairs, and that’s probably for the better. Total ignorance can never be bliss.”
Old Tan loves politics - or what he terms, the Art of ‘people living together’. From the countless stories he’s told me I learned how people often could not live together. What Gen’s telling me sounds all too familiar.
Not that the Artschool, or Old Tan, dwelled much on Caerus. It’s nothing but ancient history - well, about two or three generations ancient. It was a rancid and insidious pot stew of a land made of greed and envy. Its legacy fuzzier than a vague dream. They vanished shortly after they turned their own land toxic beyond inhabitation.
Now which part is true, if any?
I ask the question that a lot of clansfolk might have in mind if they knew anything about this.
“Why do we not know about them?”
“It’s part of the accord,” Gen says.
The forebears on each side agreed to deceive their own people? I’m outraged. “Shouldn’t people have the right to all facts, and be free to make decisions? What happened to the ‘total ignorance can never be bliss’ thing?”
Gen looks at me, and I instantly regret my sharp sarcasm. We’re brought up learning how to control our most base emotions and their various manifestations: outbursts, profanity, name-calling. And those are just the verbal ones. Physical violence spells outright self-defeat. All of those expressions display mental deficiency and emotional disability. “Inner Cultivation” is the most basic learning that starts before potty training, weaning off mother’s milk, or sitting up.
A lack of self-control is like going back to infancy.
Deep down I’ve always suspected that’s why Chun clan shuns me. They think I’m unruly, willful, and lack discipline.
What really shames me, however, is that my behavior reflects badly on Old Tan.
And why am I venting on Gen? He didn’t sign the pact, yet shoulders the heavy duty of adhering to it.
“My respect,” I say quietly with feeling and humbleness.
“It’s an extraordinary circumstance,” Gen’s tone doesn’t turn gentler, but I feel much better.
“Why are you telling me about Caerus?” My heart starts to pound again.
“Because they may have what Honor Tan needs. A programmable gene that can potentially mend anything.”
“A programmable gene?”
“Caerus invents and produces. Cutting-edge technology - and anything goes,” Gen says with a neutral tone. “Yes, they’ve produced such a gene.”
“Then what are we waiting for? The Caerus don’t wish to... trade?” I don’t know how the Caerus do things and I don't care. I’m only anxious for Old Tan.
“They cannot know that we may want it,” he says. “In fact they cannot know that we know. They haven’t released anything about what they call the ‘perfect gene’. They’re planning on a big reveal to all the Caerus, and then on beginning the production.”
“The mass production of the gene?”
“Worse,” Gen’s voice gets even quieter.
I get chills. The Caerus in the scrolls produced and then destroyed everything - if I can still believe the scrolls.
“Like I said, Caerus is all about production: perfect gadgets, machines. Tools. Even the air, the sun, and the environment. But now they have created the gene that will produce the ultimate: the perfect human.”
Human!
“They want to make real people?” I’ve never heard anything crazier.
“Not just real people, but perfect people,” Gen says. “It’s conceivable that all newborn Caerus will end up meeting their parents’s ideal of perfection. Perfect health, to be sure. But other things as well. We don’t know the details, of course. And we have learned about this way too late. We have only twelve days to take action.”
“Twelve days!” I’m incredulous. “We have to get the gene before they start production?”
“We have to stop the production.”
I finally get it. “You want the gene too? To make Pings?”
“We do not wish to make humans. The perfect Caerus gene may mend Honor Tan’s heart - and there’s no guarantee - but it will most definitely not make a perfect Ping. We Pings believe in Nature and its ways. There’s no such thing as a perfect Ping.”
Gen doesn’t have to tell me that. We learn from our first conscious moment that Nature nearly died by human’s own hand and we have to guard against all threats to it. Follow Nature. Do not make Nature.
It’s on the Ping scrolls: Nature is life itself. We are but a speck of dust in its realm.
“My respect,” I say. Gen has this solemn aura that makes any accusation seem obscene. He represents the Sum well. He represents the Pings well. I feel foolish.
He doesn’t seem to take offense. “We have our Nature and Caerus has their technology. They’ve rebuilt the world anew, hoping this time they’ve got it right.”
“Haven’t they?” I ask. “They’ve even come up with the perfect gene!”
“Which will lead to their ruin; this time it may be final.”
The air seems cold all of a sudden. Gen’s words sound like prophesy.
“We’ve been put into a peculiar position,” Gen continues. “The world as a whole may be in peril. We can sit back and hope for the best, or we can try to prevent the ruin. But what can we do? The Sum has decided to do the unthinkable: we will steal a copy of the gene and study it. We may or may not succeed in preventing its production, but we will learn what we can. How? We’ll try it on Honor Tan. We will try to save him and hopefully learn from the process.”
If we’re not Ping, I’d wonder why we don’t just sit back and watch the Caerus fall on their own folly. But we’re Ping.
No harm ends on one side. Ping scroll says.
What harm one side does will harm all sides in the end.
Gen’s next pronouncement hits me like a brick. “This is where you come in.”
“Me?”
“You must obtain the gene, and stop its reveal.”
I’m frozen on the spot. Calling me to a summon, and telling me about Old Tan, has not prepared me for this announcement.
Me? How can I obtain some perfect gene? It’s like telling me to obtain the dark sun, or whatever little is left of it.
“Do you want me... to go over there? I’m not a soldier, or a spy, or a thief! Surely you have people who can...?”
My incredulity is not born of some moral objection, but a sense of absolute inadequacy. What can I do? What have I ever done that comes even close? According to Old Tan I have a talent for “being impulsive and unpredictable.” He was laughing when he said it.
The urgency of it all adds to my disbelief. “Please, don’t play with his life. You can’t just keep him hanging! He’s dying. Why haven’t you sent someone over already?”
Gen is as calm as the stone wall behind him. “We have, my child. And they are all dead.”