China

 

The cold winds blew fiercely along this treacherous path that wound its way up the mountain.  The Konka Mountain range was well known in this land as a decidedly inhospitable place to be.  One hundred fifty miles to the north lay the city of Chengdou.  It was from there that this determined party had come, this was the last leg of a journey that had brought them from Honan.

 

The entourage was comprised of a polyglot of marchers. Bundled tightly in their furred winter gear, only the slightest portions of their faces could be seen to differentiate them.   Still, there were those of Chinese, Indian, Pakistani and Egypt decent.  They were all men.  There was only one female in the group, and it was obvious that she was in command.  She carried herself with an air of majesty.  She did not carry any of the supplies or the immeasurably precious cargo contained in the long, ornately decorated box at the end of the column.  It was she who had decided to begin this endeavor and she was determined to see it through to the end.

 

As the party rounded another corner, the wind became markedly less biting.  The snow stopped stinging their eyes with its force.  As their vision cleared, their ultimate destination came into view.

 

“Mistress!’ one of the marchers called out.  “I can see it now.  There lies the monastery.”

 

Beneath her thick wrappings, the leader felt her heart beat even faster.  The journey had ended.  Truth be told, she had not been certain that the monastery would still be standing.  So much of the Earth had been laid waste by the Martian invasion.  Her own home in the city of New York was only molten slag.  However, the mountains must have been protected from the aliens’ destruction by their isolation and inhospitality.  Now she was even more certain of her quest.  The aliens had ravaged the world, but that which lay in the dragon-encrusted box would rebuild it.

 

“He will rebuild it as it should be,” she thought.  “As is his right.  And this time, I will be by his side.”  She looked at the stout stone walls that surrounded the monastery.  “Go forward and announce our arrival,” she commanded fiercely.  “Let them know that we have come to the monastery of Rache Churan!”

 

---

 

Thousands of miles away, yet still in China, a solitary figure sat in contemplation.  This cave had been his home for many long months now.  To many, this place was a nameless legend, but to him it had been an all-too-welcome reality.

 

A ring of imposing peaks had created a flourishing valley beneath the summits.  Protected from the typical inclement mountain weather, it was blessed with a very favorable climate.  Lush vegetation was fed with streams supplied by underground glacial springs.  There was some fauna, but it only served the residents’ amusement, not their appetites.  The few inhabitants all abstained from meat as a part of their inner quests for enlightenment.

 

Rising to his feet, Shang-Chi stepped out of the cave and climbed down to the bountiful valley below.  He wore a simple red gi, the same outfit in which he had arrived, albeit beneath some warmer outer clothes.  His body was lean but his physical strength was much more than appearances might suggest.  His precise skill was apparent even has he made his way down the incline.  Every step was sure, every movement measured for maximum effect with minimum effort.  As he reached the bottom, he allowed himself the unnecessary pleasure of an aerial double-somersault back flip to reach the floor of the valley.

 

“That such a place could exist,” he thought, “in an otherwise ever-turbulent world.”  At least he assumed the world to be unchanged in this respect.  Since he had arrived those many months ago, he had not ventured outside of this tranquil place.

 

No arrivals had followed him since.  Given the nature and location, this was not surprising.  Shang-Chi himself had been the first new arrival in years.

 

“Good evening to you,” a fellow resident called out.

 

Shang-Chi tuned to see one of his closest friends here, Atma Chung, greet him.  Atma was draped in typical monk garb of hood and robe.

 

“How is your spirit today?” Atma asked.

 

“Rising and advancing, my friend,” Shang-Chi responded with a smile.

 

“As befits your name,” Atma nodded.  “This place suits you, does it not?”

 

“It does,” Shang-Chi admitted.  “This place is serenity.  All who reside here are earnest in that pursuit.  It has been so refreshing to be surrounded by so much truth … by so much life.”

 

“As you had not been in the outer world, eh?” Atma probed. Shang-Chi had been ever reluctant to speak of his life previous to his time in this place.  In that respect, Atma felt, Shang-Chi was chaining his spirit.

 

“Too many games out there,” Shang-Chi sighed as he looked to the sky.  “Games of deceit and death.”  Having reached Atma’s side, the two walked along a well-worn path that led to one of the glacial-fed streams.

 

“Here there is purity,” Shang-Chi dipped his hands into the stream and drank deeply of the icy water.

 

“This is not a place of forever, Shang-Chi.”  Atma dipped his own hands but did not drink.  He drew curious shapes in the water.  “It is but a point on the continuum.   This stream is fed by a spring somewhere far beneath here.  It flows through the valley and then continues to the outside world.  All is connected.”

 

“My studies have taught me that,” Shang-Chi admitted.

 

“Then you know you cannot standard against the current.  Eventually the current must take you downstream.  Such is life.”

 

“I know,” Shang-Chi nodded grimly.  “But that day is not today.”  A smile quickly returned to his face.  “But who are you to talk?  You, who have been here for many, many years?”

 

Atma rose and shook the frigid water from his hands.  “Yes, but I already lived many years outside.  From the little you have told me, your childhood was rather … sheltered.  And your adulthood outside has been short.”

 

Shang-Chi took a deep breath and closed his eyes.  Indeed, his first nineteen years had been in his father’s house in Honan.  He had been taught by the finest minds and the most skillful of warriors.  None, however, were on par with his own father.  He had been trained to become a living weapon, but his mind had not become one of simple subservience.  When he was sent out for the first time on a mission of death, he soon realized the truth behind his upbringing.  He had rebelled and the ensuing years had seen him eventually return to that same house in Honan, where the circle was completed and the great struggle ended, seemingly for all time.

 

“That is past,” Shang-Chi said quietly.

 

“It is a point in the stream.  It cannot be erased,” Atma countered.  “You may not say so, but I can see as much.  You have found happiness here, but it is not the true happiness that you seek.  It is out there, you will not find it here.”

 

“Why must one seek the ultimate happiness, when sufficient may be found more readily?” Shang-Chi retorted.

 

“Because then progression stops, advancement stops.  You would not be true to your name, you would not be true to yourself,” Atma replied.

 

Shang-Chi folded his arms and shook his head.  “Your words cut deeply, old friend, but only with the edge of truth.  I must ponder this.  I think I forego will eating and return to my cave in contemplation.”

 

Atma put his hand on Shang-Chi’s shoulder.  “Meditate well then, my friend.”

 

“Thank you.”  Shang-Chi placed his hand on Atma’s shoulder and then bowed.  He turned and headed back up the path to the meagerly furnished cave.   Once inside, he lit a row of candles.  Assuming a lotus position, he cleared his mind to ponder Atma’s words. 

 

After a few hours of contemplation, Shang-Chi blew out the candles and returned to the blanket that rested on the floor adjoining the wall.  It was the only treasured memento that he had brought to this place.  It was a gift from long ago, made by hands whose touch h he had treasured but knew that he would never have forever.  “Leiko,” he muttered as he dropped off to sleep.

 

---

 

The doors of Rache Churan had not opened to the arrival of the party.  Their presence had been announced, but no response from inside had come.  By this time, the entire group was gathered beneath the walls.  The prized box had been brought to the forefront.

 

“Open the gate!” the leader called out.  She was growing impatient.

 

Finally a voice called out in response.  It was a deep voice, with a foreboding power in its tone.  “I am Thugben Sung, High Lama of Rache Churan.  This monastery is only open to those who are worthy.”

 

“I bear the seal of the President of the Council of Seven!” she responded firmly.  “Could anything establish our worthiness better?”

 

“That we will see,” Thugben answered.  The doors to the monastery creaked open, and Thugben Sung emerged.  He was an older, bald man.  He was draped in a simple monk’s robe of brown, cinched at the waist with a red sash.  He paid no heed to the fearsome men of the party but went straight towards the leader.  “You are not known to us.”

 

“Yet you will acknowledge this.”  She dug into her coat and pulled out a rolled scroll.  She handed it to Thugben.

 

The lama eyed her suspiciously and then accepted the scroll.  He unrolled it and perused its contents.  He nodded his head.  “This does indeed prove your bona fides.  What you have here in Rache Churan, favored one?  Sanctuary?”

 

She shook her head.  “It is what I envision Rache Churan can do.  Magick is in the air the world over.  Magick and science harnessed together.  She pointed towards the box.

 

Thugben approached the box cautiously.  The designs on the outside told his trained eye that something precious was contained therein.  A stern look told the carriers to put down the box.

 

Carefully, Thugben unfastened the row of latches.  Slowly he opened the lid to see the contents.  It was what he had expected, what he had feared, what he had hoped.

 

“You bring a great treasure.”  Thugben bowed towards the leader.  “Rache Churan will be honoured to server as the final home.”

 

“No,” she retorted.  “This is not to be the end.  This is to be a new beginning.”

 

“You have some idea regarding this?” Thugben queried, his tone dripping with condescension.

 

“I was not proclaimed as biologically perfect because I was a simpleton.  Only a cunning mind would have suited him,” she answered sharply.  “Let us go inside and I will reveal all.”

 

With a gesture from her, the box was raised again and the party marched inside of the walls of Rache Churan.

 

---

 

While Shang-Chi slept, his mind was anything but restful.  Images of his past life sped though his brain.   The constant struggles, the disappointments, the charades, the hollow victories.  Happiness and contentment were rarities, but when they did arise, they were ever-so-sweet.

 

His subconscious then shifted, mixed those images together, along with events about which he had only read, thus forming new sequences.  These dreams were foreign to him – fighting alongside costumed adventurers in New York, knights battling evil urbane and magick.  Another vision was of rejoining old friends to stand against the descent of hellfire.

 

Shang-Chi awoke with a start.  His spirit was sorely troubled.  Memories of the past had tinged his dreams before, but never in such a way as this.  In a way, he felt that his spirit had touched the All, and that there was a deeper meaning for him.  Atma’s words came to mind, and the conclusion was made clear.  He gathered up his meager thing and packed them.  Donning the thick clothes that he would need for the environment outside of the valley, Shang-Chi departed.

 

In the days that followed, Shang-Chi made steady progress over the barren wilderness that marked this area of China.  It seemed more barren than expected, since encounters with others were a rarity.  Encounters might have been too strong of a term, since no one seemed to desire contact with a stranger.  Shang-Chi found this puzzling, along with the lack of typically omnipresent Communist Party paraphernalia.  Could something have happened to the state during his seclusion?

 

Unlike his father, he had never sought the demise of the Reds.  Still, the notion that the people would be free from the dictates and enforced secularism of Communism was a welcome one.

 

As the days went by, Shang-Chi finally was able to engage in real conversation and found out what had been happening as of late.  A somewhat reluctant villager had explained to him about the creation of the Barrier that had surrounded Europe and the subsequent invasion by the Martians.  The Communist control of China had been broken, but the land, as was much of the world, was in disarray.  It was only in Britain that there was any semblance of order.

 

It took Shang-Chi a few moments to digest these revelations.  The world had indeed changed during his months of retreat.  It was almost beyond imagining the scope of it yet.

 

“To Britain, then,” Shang-Chi decided.  “Of the few friends that I have, most will likely be there.”

 

---

 

In Rache Churan, many preparations had been made, and more were continuing with every moment  The dragon-encrusted box had been placed in a chapel dedicated to Kali.  The Dacoits and Phansigars who had been among the travelers stood as an honour guard around the receptacle.  The lid had been removed, and the monks of the monastery had doused the inside with any number of strange liquids.  The air of the chapel was suffused with potent incense.  Every corner of the monastery was filled with the persistent sounds of gongs, ringing at an ominous tempo.

 

Outside of the chapel, Thugben Sung stood with the originator of this nefarious scheme.  “You are committed to this, then?  What will be required of you may be more than your body can give.”

 

She looked at him firmly.  Clothed in a fine silk robe, she was now a far cry from the bedraggled traveler who had arrived here.  Her face was experienced but showed little of the lines of age beneath the veil that draped over her head.  “My body is as strong as my will.  I am committed to this.”

 

“Your mind is as exemplary as your will,” Thugben said with a slight bow of his head.  “Your blood, mixed with his, aided by our dark rituals should produce the intended result.”

 

“He had said that blood of his blood was needed to revitalize the Elixir Vitae,” she explained.  “So I have been told.  The blood of our traitorous son would have sufficed.  Blending mine with his, uniting it with magick, should therefore produce the same effect.”  She opened the doors to the chapel and strode towards the box.  Thugben followed close behind.

 

A monk placed a chair for her alongside the box.  She sat down and Thugben handed her an ornate curved dagger.

 

“The mixture is set,” Thugben announced.  “But there was scant of his blood to be found among the ruins in Honan.  Much may be required of this brave woman, which we most humbly acknowledge.  Only she can provide new life.”  He bowed to her.

 

She took the dagger and laid it across her wrist.  Without hesitation, she drew the edge across the skin and let the blood flow.  Crimson drops began to fall onto the coffin.  As they dispersed into the mixture already there, an alchemical reaction began.  Bubbles formed and wispy mist rose into the air.  She watched as the blood continued to flow, as her life continued to ebb, her body continued to droop.  In contrast, the reaction inside of the box became progressively more energetic.

 

Finally, the strong hand of Thugben Sung gripped her above her wrist.  “It is enough,” he declared solemnly.  His grasp stopped the bloodletting.  He motioned with his other hand and a few monks came forward.  They bandaged her wrist and then carried her limp body away to recuperate.

 

Thugben looked down into the box, seeing though the mist, past the bubbles.  The arcane alchemy was doing nothing to the tatters of clothing inside, but that which the rags inadequately covered was another matter.  The joining of blood was enhancing the Elixir Vitae as had been hoped.  It was no longer a set of cold bones that lay in the box.  Tissue, muscle, and skin had reformed around the skeletal structure.  Veins and arteries could been seen pulsing with blood.  Tiny shivering movements wracked the body.  Suddenly the figure inside sat up, splashing the alchemical soup onto the stone floor.  The room became deathly silent.

 

He sat up, his hairless skin glistening with the magickal mixture.  His proud brow and facial features were hauntingly reminiscent of the Pharaoh Seti.  He remained in that position for anxious minutes, his eyes closed, his nose bringing in slow, deep breaths of air.  Finally, his mouth barely cracked open as he whispered.  “So.  Once again, the world has not seen the end of me.”

 

The room erupted in triumphant celebration.  A giant cheer came from the monks, the Dacoits, the Phansigars, and all the others gathered here.  The adulation eventually condensed into a single deafening chant.  “All hail the Celestial One.  All hail the Celestial One.”

 

The figure slowly raised his hand, and the room fell silent once again.  His eyelids slowly rose, revealing the sinister cat-green eyes that they had hidden.  A thin smile formed on his lips.  “Yes … All hail … Fu Manchu!”

 

---

KUNG FU WRITING

Once upon a time, I wrote a three-part story for Marvel Volume One called “Deadly Hands of Kung Fu.”  After that, I wrote twelve issues of “Master of Kung Fu” for Marvel Dark Lore.  For months, I’ve been toying with ideas that I could write for the Pendragons Universe.  There’s so many Marvel UK characters that I’d like to write.  I decided to continue on “Shadow of Dracula” and finally came to the conclusion that MOKF would be a good fit.  Fu Manchu was the creation of the British writer Sax Rohmer, after all.  Most of the other recurring cast was British – Sir Denis Nayland Smith, Black Jack Tarr, Clive Reston, and others.  Look to see some familiar faces with the next issue.

 

I hope you like the teaser.  The sound is from the opening sequence of the “Adventures of Fu Manchu” television series from the 1950’s.

 

You can reach me at goosegansler@yahoo.com

Bob Gansler

10/19/06

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