Peter sat by the edge of the lake, skipping stones across the placid surface.
"May I... join you?" Peter looked up, then nodded, throwing another stone. "You are... troubled." Peter nodded. "Because of what happened... What do you remember of Sun Gwai's possession?"
The young Caine frowned and looked out over the water. "I don't know. I remember... I remember Tan more than Sun Gwai. I imagined that I was a child in the Temple, practicing Kung Fu, and Master Dao was telling me that I wasn't trying hard enough. That I was letting everyone down, not living up to my lineage..."
"A memory?"
Peter picked up another rock and threw it. It hit the water with a splash, sending ripples all across the pond. "I don't think so," he said. "I don't really remember much of the Temple, those memories always... turn into smoke when I try to catch them. I wish I remembered. I wish... I'm sorry. I just don't know."
His father nodded, placed a hand on his shoulder.
"The thing that really bothers me," he said quietly, "is that I think Master Dao was right. Memory or not, I... I let Sun Gwai take control over me. You had to come and save me." He shook his head. "But I'm an adult. I shouldn't need saving."
The Shaolin priest smiled. "My son... I saved you, but you also... saved me. If not for you, I would not have found the strength to defeat Sun Gwai."
"You're just saying that."
"You think so little of yourself. And of me."
It was an observation that Peter didn't think his father liked. The priest offered him a stone, which Peter accepted and tossed it in his hand a few times while shaking his head.
"We fought evil— the kind of evil I didn't believe existed— and I failed. I failed you, I failed Lo Si, I failed myself. A line of great men before me, but I can't live up to it. Tan was right." Peter threw his stone, watching it skip over the water a few times. "He was always right," he muttered, then shook his head. "I'm sorry. I don't think I'm in the mood for conversation, Dad."
"Master?" Kwai Chang Caine entered the room with a brief knock.
The Ancient was at his writing desk, carefully writing words of protection on a strip of cloth. The room was well lit, but still, the old man had several candles in front of him, each flickering in the breath of air from Caine's arrival. The Ancient motioned for Caine to sit while he carefully completed the work. His lips moved, but the words were soundless, prayers that would resonate with the words on the talisman.
Only when he was finished did the old man verbally acknowledge the presence of his student. "Kwai Chang Caine. You are late."
The priest nodded. "I apologize, Master. I was... attempting to speak with my son."
The Ancient sighed. "You must find a way to communicate with him, Kwai Chang Caine. It is important, both for yourself and for him." The elder Caine nodded slowly, but looked hopeless. Helpless. It would not do— such worries would hamper his spiritual growth. "You are Shaolin," said the Ancient sharply. "And you are his father. You will find a way."
Caine shook his head slightly. "I returned too soon. He has not resolved the issues with Tan—"
"He is not Shaolin." Caine frowned and the Ancient shook his head. "He requires guidance, and you have always been a teacher. You require someone to guide for your own growth. Or do you think your training requires nothing but meditation and learning to battle on higher planes?"
Caine raised an eyebrow. "It does seem to be what we have focused on, Master."
The Ancient shook his head. Before he'd lost his son, Caine would have understood without explanation. "It has been many years since your Temple," he said, sadly. "Many years of progress that you have forgotten. I must hope that you will be ready..."
"All are ready in their own time," replied Caine.
"Yes. But you may need to be ready before that." Caine looked at him questioningly. "There have been portents. Words of destiny have been spoken in the high winds of the mountains. A great darkness comes towards us, Kwai Chang Caine, and we must be prepared."
"Yes, Master." The tone of his voice made it clear that the words had not satisfied the Shaolin priest, but the Ancient did not have all the answers. Not yet. "Did you not say that I have created the darkness by embarking upon this path?"
"Yes. But perhaps," said the Ancient with a slow nod, "the darkness embarked upon a path that created you." Caine's eyebrows rose and he regarded the Master dubiously. The Ancient shook the words away. "Regardless, the darkness approaches."
"If it is not meditation, or battling on higher planes, what is it that you require of me, Master?"
That was certainly the question.
"Last night, I dreamed of a place I have not been in many, many years..." The old man stood and placed the talisman on the doorway. "A place of great light." He made certain that the talisman was secure before he turned and looked at Kwai Chang Caine. "A sanctuary that must not be given over to darkness: Shamballa." He sat down beside his student with pursed lips. "There is a book that is not a book. Do you remember it?"
"I recall that there was a book about Shamballa in the library at the Temple," acknowledged Caine. "But it must have been destroyed in the fire; it could not have survived."
"I have seen this book," said the Ancient. "In Peter's hands."
Caine frowned. "He took it from the Temple? Or... Tan did so." His voice twisted with anger, and the Ancient winced.
"I am... uncertain." The old man shook his head, closing his eyes to picture Peter's hands. They were the unmarked forearms of an adult in the memory of the vision, hands closed around the fine white leather cover; everything was so familiar, and yet it was not. The book was covered in dirt.
Such visions as he had were rarely literal. "It may still be in the Temple— you must go there."
"If you saw it with my son," said Caine slowly, "should he not be the one to go?"
"Perhaps he will," came the reply. "I think it would be good if he did, but you know well that a vision can have many meanings. Will you go there and attempt to retrieve the book?"
"Yes, Master."
"Ganbei!"
Peter glared at his drink as he picked it up. Baijiu. Who the hell had brought the damned baijiu? Just because they were in Chinatown didn't mean they had to follow Chinese customs— but maybe being a Triad celebration did meant it. He steeled himself and smiled as he clinked his glass with Uncle Li Sung on one side, and Jack Wong on the other.
He threw the drink back, trying not to taste it, but it was quickly filled back up as soon as he put it down.
"Tell me something, Peter," called out one of the men at the far end of the table, his words only slightly slurred. "How much did you miss us while we were gone?"
"As much as you missed me, Hou!" Peter spoke carefully, unwilling to betray his own state. "Where'd you all go, anyways? I know, I'll guess: To Hong Kong!"
"I'll drink to that!" called out one of the guys at the end of the table.
"To China!" A clinking of glasses around the table. "To Taiwan! Ganbei!"
"Ganbei!" More cheers around the table, and Peter downed another drink with all the rest of them. He hadn't done this in years, and he wasn't sure he'd enjoyed it then. How many had he had? He wasn't... exactly sure. Waiters kept coming by to remove the old bottles and put new ones on the table, and his cup kept filling up with the strong alcohol.
Were they Triad, too?
He grabbed a piece of beef, concentrating on keeping his hand steady.
"I think we should drink to our fallen friends and family," said Li Sung after things quieted down a bit. His voice was steady as well, more so than even Peter's. "To our former Dragon, Tan."
The rest of the group took small sips from their cups, going around the table with happy words and remembrances of their former leader. Peter knocked his drink back and stared at it. It was Tan's own fault he'd been killed. He must have understood that trying to pit Peter against Pop had been a bad move in retrospect.
Or had he? What kind of Triad leader went up against a priest, anyways? Hell, what kind of man attacked a Temple? Some small loss of face, and he'd become... what, exactly? So obsessed with revenge that he'd found time to hate the man who was being toasted as his son.
Peter glanced at Uncle Li. He'd known Tan better than Peter had. He must have known exactly how the man felt about his so-called son, so why was he running this farce? After the incident with what Pop had claimed was a demon's invasion of Peter's body, why had Uncle Li accepted any compromise? The Tse Liang still hadn't replaced the glass in the entrance, so why?
Maybe Uncle Li was just like Tan. Maybe he was just waiting to kill Peter, waiting for a chance to do it without losing face or risking the organization. But if he was doing that, why were they all here, with Peter as the guest of honor? It made no sense.
"Peter! Say something about your father!"
He shook his head, but Jack insisted, and suddenly the whole table was at it, asking him for some words about the great man. Yeah, so great he'd spent fifteen years of his life hating a man he thought he'd killed. So great that he'd wasted years of his life taking that dead man's son in, spent a decade doing everything he could to kill the dead man's memory.
Peter hated him.
"To the Dragon, Tan: a man whose vengeance came before his family." The table went quiet, and Peter shook his head as Jack started to protest. "No, really. If he hadn't gone after my— after Kwai Chang Caine, he'd still be here leading us to victories." Maybe it was for the best: if he hadn't gone after Pop, Peter might never have known about his worse crimes. How long would he have been able to keep people like the Ancient safe? Did the Ancient even need anyone to keep him safe? Peter shook his head, trying to get the questions out of his head. He didn't like them. When Tan had been around, he'd had certainty, and now— "How did getting himself killed help any of us?"
The table of people were looking at each other with confusion, and Peter stared at them all in turn. One of them was sure to challenge his words, and he was going to rip into them. But it was Uncle Li that put a hand on his shoulder. "To the Dragon, Tan: he died honorably for what he believed in."
"Ganbei," muttered Peter, draining his drink.
Jack looked at him for a moment more, then turned to the rest of the group. "All right, how about a game of finger counting!" The other Triad members all cheered, beginning a round of wagering on how many fingers each man was holding up.
Peter grabbed some of the pork belly from the center of the table. Damn the man: even in death, Tan was making things hard for him. Li Sung's hand fell from his shoulder, and the man refilled Peter's cup. "I will not tolerate that disrespect at my table again, Peter."
Peter nodded and let the pork go down around the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry, Uncle," he said quietly. "Things have been hard since he died. Balancing two fathers who hated each other was tough while they were both alive, and now that Tan's dead—" Peter shook his head.
"I would have expected Kwai Chang Caine to help you with your grief. He is, after all, a priest."
"You'd think that, but..." Peter shook his head. "No. He went off wandering." Peter reached for his teacup, only to find it empty. He poured a bit for his Uncle, then refilled his own. "I started off with two fathers, but when I needed one..." He laughed bitterly. "I must have done something really wrong in a past life."
"The line of Caine is cursed."
"You sound like father," Peter muttered. His eyes roved around the room, looking at a knife stuck in the wall. The destruction he'd somehow caused was terrible, but here he was, drinking with the men. Finally, he laughed. "You're right, Uncle. And yet, you're willing to put up with me! To you: may you live a long and prosperous life."
The older man sipped his drink, and smiled. "You are the son of a dear friend."
"Hardly." Peter shook his head. "No, Uncle Li, you're wrong. I'm not Tan's son. Fath— Tan didn't want me. He just wanted to hurt Pop. He wanted to hurt a man he thought was dead. Spent a decade raising me to be the opposite of what he thought Pop would have wanted."
"That's what you think?"
Peter shrugged and grabbed the baijiu, letting it slide down his throat without tasting it. One of the guys across the table raised an eyebrow at him, and Peter glared for a moment until he looked away. "He chose to throw himself at Pop. They could have worked it out. When he died, he left me with nothing but the clothes on my back."
Uncle Li nodded. "It must have been very difficult."
Peter huffed. "But you know, even with all that, I wanted to... to be a good son. I wanted to go to his funeral, to... to see him off. I don't know... Burned him a paper car or something. Do you know, you can't even get anything like that here?" He scowled.
"I could help you with that. Perhaps a weapon..."
"That'd be... nice, if he even wanted it from me."
"He would."
"You think that, but..." Peter took a deep breath. "Xia wouldn't talk to me— she still won't— and he left me out of the will. Buried himself in Hong Kong while I was broke. So I couldn't even... I couldn't be a son. And that's because he never wanted me to be."
"You miss your father," said Uncle Li after some quiet thought. "I thought that you had cast him off in favor of Kwai Chang Caine."
"Pop..." Peter shook his head. "Pop doesn't give a damn, either. As soon as Father was dead, he took off, and he only came back because the Chiru were here." Peter squeezed his eyes shut. "So much for Tan's plan for hurting him. I'm not a useful pawn to either of them."
"You were not his pawn. You were Tan's son." Uncle Li stood up. "Come with me. I'm bringing you to someone that might be able to help you speak to your father."
Peter stood, steadying himself on the table for a moment. "You... you want me to speak to Pop?"
"No. To Tan."
The effects of the alcohol were definitely kicking in; Peter found he just couldn't get comfortable in Li Sung's well appointed luxury car. Not that it mattered much: the low ranking Triad member in the front seat had turned off the engine, and Uncle Li was getting out. Peter sighed and did the same, letting his car door close behind him with a loud thump.
He looked up at the small house. It was an unremarkable house in a line of unremarkable houses. Old, with brick siding, a small post-war house with drab looking curtains visible from the lights in the street. A small neon sign declared that fortunes could be found here.
Peter stared at it for a moment in disbelief before he turned to look at Li Sung. "Uncle," said Peter quietly. "It's past midnight."
"She'll see us," said the older man. Peter held back his sigh as Uncle Li rapped on the door.
A young woman opened it, then bowed. It was clear she recognized Li Sung immediately, though she did give Peter a brief, questioning look before she led them past the front room with its dark green curtains and obvious trappings, through a dimly lit hallway, and down a set of stairs.
"Yuen Yee," said Uncle Li. "Be respectful. She is Wu."
"Wu." Peter paused for a moment, then had to stifle his laughter. "What, like the movies? A sorceress? Is she going to divine Tan's last message to me?"
Uncle Li looked at him impatiently. "You have recently had an experience. Do you think there is nothing in our world beyond what you can see?"
"Well, that—" Peter felt the laughter drain out of him. "I don't know what that was," he said uncertainly. "I just know I didn't like feeling helpless. If she's real, why would we put ourselves in her hands?"
"Not all such powers will be antagonistic to you."
The door opened suddenly, and Uncle Li pulled him inside.
Peter looked around, trying to bring his skepticism back to the forefront. The room was decorated in blacks and whites. A small bookcase held various books on Daoism: the I Ching held a prominent place in it. A white table with low, black chairs was in the center of the room.
"Is that the Goddess of the West?" asked Peter, looking closely at the small statue that sat on the table.
"It is Xiwangmu," confirmed a woman's voice. Peter blinked and looked at the woman who had seemingly arrived from nowhere. She looked like she'd stepped out of the third century, a woman in a red robe, long black and white hair bound with ribbons, and oversized sleeves with cloud script written in gold. "She is my patron."
"Ah. Um... Peter Caine."
"Caine... The son of the priest in Chinatown?" Peter nodded slightly, eyes roving over the strange items placed everywhere: shells, yarrow sticks... "He has taught you of the old Chinese gods?"
"He— he's got a statue or two." Peter grinned. "And Fa—Tan... Tan had several antiques. Mostly the martial ones, though."
"The Dragon was your father, Peter. You don't need to deny him." Peter nodded absently as he squinted at the wallpaper. He'd thought it was simply white, but in fact... there were subtle gradations, tiny differences in the white that he could almost see. There was writing here. "Our Peter wants a reading. He needs to know how his father felt about him."
"Does he?"
Peter shrugged, his interest consumed by the walls. "This is the Dao De Ching, isn't it..."
"Sometimes," she replied. He could hear her behind him, the silk of her robes rubbing against itself. He could feel her, too. There was something— the power of her chi, perhaps? The Ancient would have words for what he felt from her, but Peter did not.
He turned and found himself caught suddenly in her eyes. She stared at him, then reached into her voluminous sleeves and pulled out a peacock feather, pressing it into his hands before she turned. "You have not asked for a fortune teller, Li Sung. What I provide in this room is not for observers. I will speak with him alone," she said.
Uncle Li said nothing for a moment, silence descending upon the room until Peter broke eye contact with the woman and looked over to the Triad leader. His gaze was met with a reluctant nod from Sung. "What passes between a son and the ghost of his father is not of interest to me," he said. "But I want to know if the gods speak with him."
"As you wish." She bowed, and Uncle Li backed out the door, leaving Peter alone with the Wu. She left her back to him for some time before walking to her table. She sat down and threw a pair of seashells in the air.
"What are you doing?" asked Peter curiously.
She smiled. "I am not what you expected, am I."
It wasn't an answer to his question, but in Peter's inebriated state, he hardly noticed. "I guess I expected... Tarot. Crystal balls. Maybe one of those old grannies that does palm reading on the side of the road. Like your sign says." He looked around. "I wasn't expecting all this." He paused and stared at the wall again. It felt like the white text was moving, changing...
Perhaps he was just drunker than he thought.
He turned away from it, trying to shake the magical feeling out of his head. "Look, I know I'm the son of the Shaolin priest. I'm sure you have expectations of what I must believe, but... this is a bit far for me."
"A man like Li Sung enjoys the pageantry. It is not strictly needed... but... this is not what makes you uncomfortable. You understand the rules of the physical world, and you are aware of what lies beyond— but you do not understand it. You are frightened of it."
"I am not afraid of anything."
She smiled. It did not look unkind; if anything, it looked akin to pity, and Peter turned back to look at the walls. It looked like the Diamond Sutra now— Peter frowned as he touched the characters. A star at dawn, a bubble in a stream, a flash of lightning in a summer cloud... "Why are you here, Peter Caine?"
"Ah..." He looked at her over his shoulder for a moment, then turned, his back against the strange white glyphs. "Uncle Li thought I should see you."
Yee frowned and tossed her shells. She studied them for a moment, then huffed as she looked back at him. "You were injured recently." Peter shook his head, but Yee stared intensely. "You were displaced. It leaves signs." His skin was crawling at the words. "But you are under the care of the priests. You do not need my help."
He felt very uncomfortable. "I don't need anything," he said. "If it's all the same to you, let's just sit here for a few minutes. You can tell Uncle Li that the gods think I need to tend to my spiritual growth."
"Is that what you believe?"
"I'm not sure what I believe has anything to do with it." He felt so, so uncomfortable. He felt like crawling out of his own skin. "This place is... something else."
"You're feeling the injury still," she said quietly. "It's like a sunburn."
Peter shook his head. "I think I'll go now," he said. She stood, beside him in a heartbeat, and put her arms around him. He stiffened for a moment before he realized: it had gone. A terrible pressure, all around him, had gone. It was like morphine kicking in after being in a hospital bed, not even realizing you were in pain until it was gone. "How... how did you...?"
"I cannot help you for long, little Yazi."
"What did you call me?" Peter tried to pull away, but she was stronger than she looked.
"Do you remember when your sister first called you that? You were fourteen, back from your trip to see the Temples in China. She only called you by that name in private."
Peter swallowed. That wasn't when she'd first called him that. But it had been the first time Tan heard— "I don't think I understand."
"I think you do, son."
Peter stared at her for a moment before he clenched his teeth and shook his head. "How dare you impersonate him! You don't know me, you don't know him— you'll be lucky if you just get killed for impersonating him!"
"And you will not hear from me again." Peter glared at her, and suddenly, her face moved in a way that looked very much like Tan when he was most disappointed in his adopted son. "You want her to be a fraud so you do not need to apologize."
"Apologize? For what? You— He chose vengeance instead of me!"
"The vengeance was for your sake, you ungrateful brat! You swore vengeance on the man that destroyed your Temple—"
"That was you!"
"No, Peter. That Temple was destroyed when Kwai Chang Caine became the abbot."
Peter grabbed her arms and tried to pull them away. "Let go."
She did— only— she moved suddenly, quickly, throwing Peter like a ragdoll into the table, using one of the more advanced Shaolin techniques. The terrible crawling sensation was back, surprising Peter with its intensity. Thrown into frigid water— She was on top of him, and the crawling subsided. He knew his face showed his confusion.
"I was also a priest, Peter," she said. He said?
Peter shook and stared with wide eyes. "I don't believe you. Sun Gwai said he was my father, too. He was messing with my head. So what are you? Another demon?"
Suddenly gentle, her hand lay on his cheek. It was so very much like what Tan would have done, tossing him about and then treating him with gentleness. "Kwai Chang Caine did not protect you from a demon? If he could not protect you, he should not have involved you," she said in a whisper. "I would never have allowed you to be in that danger."
"I made him involve me," said Peter. "After the Chi'ru..."
"The Shadow Assassins? You must remain hidden from them."
"Too late."
Peter closed his eyes. If only it was his father's hand— but he could feel the woman's nails, the lack of martial artist's calluses... how? How had a woman with those soft hands thrown him like a man with over forty years of experience?
"You made the wrong choice, my son. But it is in me to forgive. Tell me you understand your mistakes."
Peter lay quietly, trying to put his thoughts in order, but they seemed to fly away. All he could remember was Tan, standing with butterfly swords in his gut. The way his face had drained of blood and of life, the way his Father had collapsed in front of his Pop... "I didn't have a choice," he said, holding back a sob. "I couldn't do it. I could never have killed my father. I'm sorry, but... Y-you should have known that. You shouldn't have involved me."
There was a huff of breath. "I will find a way... I cannot stay here longer. Visit me again."
Peter was quiet, staring up into the woman's eyes until Yee took a deep, deep breath and stood, smoothing her robes and the golden writing on them. Peter sat up and looked at her. The itching sensation was back, but nowhere near as bad as it had been when his father had been there.
"He said... I should come back," said Peter uncertainly.
"Hm." She bent down and picked up the statue of her goddess, looking at it critically for a minute. "Peter Caine, what you received here is not the work of a fortune teller. This service is dangerous, and difficult, and expensive."
"Of course it is." Peter stood, trying to get his bearings back. Expensive? That made it all make sense. That couldn't have been Tan talking to him. Tan was dead. "A performance like that deserves... a standing ovation. Really. You should be on television. Or at least doing phones with Miss Cleo." Yuen Yee's silence was unnerving. "How'd you know that nickname, anyways?"
"I don't." She shook her head. "If you don't believe, it's best that you don't return."
"What, you'd give up the money?"
She smiled for a moment. "Reading Tarot for tourists is much easier than being the host to another person's soul." Her eyes narrowed for a moment, and then she shook her head. "You, of all people, know that. Do as your father asked, or don't. That is between you and him."
Peter stared at her for a moment, then turned and walked out the door, all his thoughts turned so far inward that he didn't even hear Uncle Li ask him what had happened. Could it possibly have been Tan? And if it had been, did he want to see the old man again?
Yes.
Yes.
He hated that the answer was yes.
