Minghua University left Shangtan a few days after the last bombing. Officially, six members of Minghua University were reported as missing, presumed killed, a list that included Liu Shaoming, Hu Lian, and Sparrow Chen. Professor Kang consoled himself in the secret knowledge that the three had already left town when the bombs fell. Perhaps by now they had reached Shanghai.
But there were three other young lives to mourn and the next leg of Minghua’s evacuation would be hard enough already without the memory of lost comrades weighing down upon them all. They were making the final push for Chengtu, more than a month of walking, the longest continuous journey they had ever faced. They would stop only to rest and sleep.
The professor, however, had another duty to fulfill and would not be with the main group. Colonel Chung, their liaison officer in Changsha, had loaned him a truck and driver. The purpose was to deliver the Library of Legends as quickly and safely as possible to the caves near Zunyi. Both Minghua University and the government were in complete agreement on this.
Riding up front beside the truck driver, Professor Kang decided he would not think of this as one of the saddest days of his life, the day he relinquished his last link to the celestial. Instead, he would remember this as the day he guaranteed the safety of a national treasure. He glanced behind him, where Old Fan, the laborer, and Bantien, the cook’s assistant, rode on the truck bed, steadying the stacked crates whenever the vehicle jolted out of a pothole.
The ride from Changsha to the caves near Zunyi, with an overnight stay at an inn, felt too short a journey to the professor. The truck pulled off the main road, tires grinding as they came off hard-packed earth and began scrabbling along a stony single-track road. Through the sparse undergrowth he caught glimpses of a creek. The professor hoped the gentle stream was all that remained of any water that eroded caverns into the limestone, that the caves no longer dripped with moisture.
“This isn’t a road,” the driver growled, shifting gears to climb uphill. “It’s barely a trail.”
“Please bring the truck as close as possible to the caves,” Professor Kang said. “The boxes are heavy.”
He ignored the driver’s muttered complaints as the truck lurched its way along. Another ten minutes and the driver stopped.
“This is as close as we can get to the caves,” he announced.
“You’ve done your best,” the professor said. “Thank you.”
The driver got out and lit a cigarette, idly standing by while the two servants carried the crates up to the cave entrance.
The cave entrance stood just a few feet above the track, but high enough on the hillside to be safe from floods. Professor Kang directed the two servants in stacking the crates of books against cave walls. The watertight boxes rested on wooden pallets that kept them from directly touching the cave floor. Then they threw a large tarp over the stacks.
Old Fan and Bantien had offered to stay in the cave. They would be caretakers for the Library. They would make the cave their home until the end of the war. They had brought supplies of food, a few pieces of furniture, and kitchenware. The cook’s assistant planned on growing vegetables and there was a village halfway to Zunyi where they could buy other necessities. Zunyi itself was only four hours away.
“Remember to check every day for rodent droppings,” the professor said. “Get a cat if you must. And be discreet. If anyone sees these books, they mustn’t know how valuable they are.”
“Don’t worry, Professor,” Old Fan said. “We’re just one of the many who lost our homes, living in a cave until the war ends.”
“Your wages will be sent to the bank at Zunyi,” Professor Kang said, “and I’ll do my best to come by every so often to see how you’re doing.”
Old Fan chuckled. “Ah, we’re not fooled,” he said. “You want to see how the Library of Legends is doing, and fair enough.”
“Next time you come, we’ll serve you a meal,” Bantien said. “There’ll be a proper latrine and a vegetable garden. Running water, even. I’ll find a way to divert that stream.”
The two had been happy to volunteer for this role. Living in the caves, they were safer from air raids than the students or any townspeople. With no one to look after but each other, their daily lives would certainly be more leisurely. And they believed that in return for protecting the Library of Legends, the gods would protect them.
“Mothballs,” Kang said. “You have the mothballs?”
The servants laughed. “Professor, you sound as though you’re leaving your firstborn grandson behind,” Old Fan said. “Don’t worry.”
Professor Kang knew he was delaying. He shook their hands, the men suddenly shy but pleased at this gesture, more accustomed to bowing than being treated as equals by an employer.
“You’re following in the footsteps of a great philosopher of the Ming Dynasty who made his home in a cave, right here in this county,” he said, climbing back on the truck. “Also, the feng shui here is very good. Farewell.”
“May favorable winds attend your journey,” Old Fan called out.
The truck started up and the professor turned to look behind. The two servants stood on the road, waving until the truck dipped around the bend, out of view.
As soon as they were off the stony track, the driver pushed down on the gas pedal, eager to get back to civilization. Minghua was setting out for Chengtu the next day. Thanks to the truck, the professor would get there ahead of the main group, but he had to. There was work to do at the new campus, making sure all the arrangements would be ready. Some of the administrative staff were there already, meeting with banks and government officials.
Professor Kang did his best to get comfortable on the hard seat and ignored the smoke from the driver’s cigarette. From the pocket inside his tunic he pulled out a small notebook to review the notes he had been jotting down since he first met the Star. He turned to the question he had been pondering most recently.
The exodus of immortals. “Long overdue.” Why are they leaving? When should they have gone?
The truck bounced in and out of a pothole, making him wince. His spine might not survive the trip. It made writing difficult, but he penciled his thoughts.
Hypothesis based on hierarchy of the universe. The gods in heaven, the emperor here on Earth. Emperors sacrifice to heaven to mediate on behalf of the common people. Fall of the Qing Dynasty 1912. No more sacrifices by an emperor. Gods were therefore freed from their obligation to hear our prayers.
Another jolt. He sighed and waited for a clear stretch of road. The road showed no signs of getting any less bumpy. The professor gave up, put away the notebook and pencil. Closed his eyes. Closed off his sadness at parting from the Library of Legends. Stopped thinking about the Willow Star. Concentrated on his responsibilities to the students, to the university.
IN CHENGTU, IT didn’t take long for Professor Kang to realize how much he disliked the new director of student services. Mr. Lao’s lanky frame, long face, and large teeth gave him a horsey look. He was austere in his habits and drank only hot water, as far as the professor could tell. Kang had yet to hear him laugh. He contrasted this with Mr. Lee, who had enjoyed a good joke and a mug of fine tea. Lee had been genuinely fond of the students. A director of student services appointed during a simpler political climate.
Supposedly Mr. Lao had been working with the rest of Minghua’s administrators to get their offices organized. But mostly, he read student files and took charge of the mail. Letters were beginning to arrive in Chengtu for students and faculty.
“There is nothing quite so good for morale as word from home,” Professor Kang said, when he poked his head into Lao’s office. “Anything for me?”
Mr. Lao was working his way through a small pile of envelopes. Lao pointed to a stack at the corner of his desk. “I believe so. Letters for faculty.”
Kang wondered whether Lao opened staff mail or just the ones for students. Perhaps some other unknown person was tasked with spying on the professors.
“Hmm.” Lao frowned and slit open an envelope with a razor-sharp letter opener. “This one is for that girl who was killed. Hu Lian. From her mother. With a return address. Now I know where to send the official letter of condolence.”
“I hope that letter takes its time arriving,” the professor said, “although mail to and from Chengtu has been relatively quick. The postal service seems nearly back to normal.”
“It helps that our campus address is now fixed,” Lao said. “And, of course, we benefit from the fact that many high-ranking officials have moved their families here. Did you know this Hu Lian well?”
Lao held the letter out to Kang.
My dearest daughter, good news. I am working at the Southern Baptist Mission refugee camp in exchange for meals and a place to sleep. Perhaps even some small wages soon. Such good fortune! Send mail to this address. I want to know all about your adventures. It’s such a comfort to know that by now you must be safely in Chengtu with your university . . .
Lao opened his desk drawer, took out some newly printed letterhead, and began to write. He copied the words from a draft, the same words he’d used before to the parents of other students killed in Shangtan. If nothing else, the man was conscientious when it came to duty. The professor took his small bundle of mail and hoped the letter to Lian’s mother would end up lost in a post office, abandoned at the bottom of some mailbag. At least until Lian had found her mother.