Huang huddled beneath the central stairwell of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, clutching the ancient scroll in his hand. Doors banged open and shut. Screams ripped through the air. Gunshots rang out across the many marbled floors.
The Red Guard had stormed the building, determined to fulfill China’s Cultural Revolution by any means possible. Out with the old and in with the new. Their hatred of old customs, culture, habits and ideas had made the diplomatic corps a likely target. If Huang’s bunkmate had not warned him that morning of the Red Guards’ plans to kill diplomats who clung to those ideals, he would not have had the opportunity to rescue his precious find.
Footsteps pounded on the stairs above. Huang retreated further back into the shadows and sat down with his back against the wall. He stuffed the scroll carefully into his faded blue proletarian’s overalls. In anguish, he listened as great sculptures were toppled, paintings were slashed, and tapestries ripped in two. The Red Guards chanted their mantra rejecting the old ways again and again.
The China of Lord Yu was gone. Crushed in a revolt of perilous power mongering, swathed in false promises to the masses. Violence wrecked the streets. Troops of Red Guards killed and maimed anyone who did not fit the ideals of their leader, Chairman Mao. A man who claimed to want great peace and prosperity for his people.
But who acted no better than Lord Yu’s enemies. At times, Huang wondered if indeed Mao Zedong and his ferocious Red Guards were not Anubis or Apophis in disguise.
Huang drew in his legs and rested his head upon a knee. He had made a grave mistake coming to China, allowing his rescuers to do what they believed to be the right thing. When Sir Edmund Hillary discovered him in Antarctica, Huang hadn’t the strength to out-run the Tau’ri. Hillary belonged to a land called New Zealand and along with his countrymen, he had come to reclaim the frozen land. To build bases of operations that would be known as Scott and McMurdo.
In broken Chinese, Hillary had insisted Huang return to what he believed to be his homeland of China. Huang had tried to tell Hillary the truth of his origins. He tried to convince him of the threat to the Tau’ri, of the being of light, but the explorer had only laughed and escorted him to a primitive craft called an airplane. Huang resigned himself to his situation in the hopes that upon returning to the land of his ancestors, he might find the means one day to return through the Chappa’ai and share both news of China and the being of light.
Ten years later, no opportunity had arisen. Huang learned to speak modern Chinese, was given a position as a gardener, and told to be thankful that he had food in his belly and clothes on his back.
Far off in another part of the building, gunshots rang out. Believing himself safe for the moment, Huang withdrew the stolen scroll from his overalls. Upon hearing that all ancient artworks were to be destroyed by the Red Guards, he had taken the scroll from the wall outside the office of the Vice Minister of European Affairs.
He unrolled the scroll carefully. A few black painted pictograms covered the top half of the eight-foot long red cloth. The bottom half showed a man standing by a golden river, its banks swollen. The waters appeared ready to break from their boundaries, but the man appeared calm. Serene.
He bore an imperial tuft upon his chin. Dressed in a red mianfu, the horsehair tail of Lord Yu’s green hat was longer than Huang remembered. Nonetheless, the scroll gave Huang solace. Assurance that his master and lord’s eternal nature might someday allow Huang to return. To be forgiven. To once more take up his mantle as Dragon Guard or perhaps even First Prime.
A door slammed open at the top of the five-story stairwell. Voices murmured. Three, perhaps four men. They began their descent, speaking in calm, hushed tones amidst the chaos.
Huang quickly rolled up the scroll, secreting it once again in his overalls. Creeping forward, he peered up the stairs. Black shoes and blue pant legs climbed downward. He glanced across the stairwell to the exit. The door led out into the rear gardens overlooking a barricaded street. He’d used it often as a means to enter the building when in need of the facilities.
Huang slid along the wall to the door, flattening himself against the cool stone.
Let your rapidity be that of the wind, your compactness that of the forest.
With a silent prayer, Huang opened the door. He slipped outside, carefully closing the door behind him.
Blooming flowers, budding trees, and great bushes lined the long white building of the Foreign Affairs Ministry. Huang had spent much of his time working in these gardens, along with a half-dozen others. Today, however, the gardens were empty, the other workers hiding in their homes in fear.
Behind him, the door began to open, the men’s voices loud with laughter. Huang picked up his gardening pail with its pruning shears and scurried to the closest tree he could find. He pulled out the shears and set to work, stowing his anxiety behind the most placid face he could muster. A worker’s face.
“Halt!” A Red Guard yanked the shears out of Huang’s hands.
Forcing himself to remain calm, he turned toward the guard. Young, with a terrible haircut, baggy blue pants and a green shirt, the man was little more than an over-aged boy, at least fifteen years younger than Huang. Perhaps twenty, maybe twenty-five. Red squares lined each side of his collar.
“Wait, comrade,” said another man behind him. Older, fuller of face and body, the man wore a blue-collared tunic. He had a vigorous manner about him, his eyes darting across the garden, seemingly assessing everything in mere moments.
He gestured for the guard to back away. Narrowing his eyes, he approached Huang. “You are a gardener? A worker for the Foreign Ministry?”
Huang nodded, afraid to say anything that might encourage the Red Guard to attack him with the shears.
The man scowled. “Gardening is a leisure of capitalistic classism. A look backwards, not forwards.”
Huang wanted nothing more than to proclaim his truth. To tell his origins. That by his very nature as a clone of the great Sun Tzu, he was a ‘look backwards’ to what was great, or rather, what had been great about China.
Knowing he must survive, Huang held his tongue. He glanced up into the tree he had been working on. It was a cherry tree.
He returned his gaze to the man and offered a hesitant smile. “I look toward the future, sir. This tree shall bear fruit. Sustenance for those in need.”
The man bowed his head in respect. “An admirable and necessary work. One that we will not keep you from, comrade.”
The man gestured to the guard to return his shears. Huang nodded his thanks and the man walked off, his companions in tow.
Huang allowed himself a silent, but deep sigh of relief.
It was short-lived.
“One more moment,” the man said, striding back to the tree. “Do you know who I am?”
“I — ”
The man raised his hand once more, an almost imperial gesture. “I am your Chairman. The work you do here is good, and I will remember your words. Gardening for sustenance is something China’s people should achieve.”
“Yes, Chairman.”
“Can you read?”
“I can write my name, but reading?” Huang pressed his lips together. He had tried to learn the modern symbols of China’s language. So far, the task had been difficult.
“I have not the time, Chairman.”
“If you haven’t read, then you are not familiar with the old ideologies. I approve.” The Chairman pointed at the Red Guard who took Huang’s shears earlier. “Bring him inside.”
“Chairman?”
“As a worker, he will — What is your name?”
“Huang.”
“As a worker, Huang represents the people. He will make a fine diplomat.”
Huang staggered backward. “But, Chairman, I know little — ”
“You know enough. Learn to read, but read sparingly. Care only for the people, and you will do well.”
“What office should I take him to?” asked the guard.
“Assign him to the new Vice Minister of the Americas.”
“Americas?” asked Huang.
The Chairman beamed. “Have you never heard of the United States?”