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"The Initiation of Furious Buddha"
May. 27th, 2022 02:56 am"Initiation of Furious Buddha"
9/1/2018
I.
The second hour at the feast was about all that Sheng could handle. He was growing increasingly uncomfortable. His problem was that he looked Chinese, probably hailing from the North considering his cheekbones and eagle-beaked nose. He only spoke barely passable Cantonese and he was here with his Uncle Pao, who was so thoroughly Chinese that he couldn't be taken for anything else. So everyone spoke to him with puns and references that he had no clue about.
But in fact, Sheng Mo-Yuan had come from the adjacent realm of Chujir. Tel Shai lore claimed that Chujirans were the distant ancestors of what had become the Han people, though this had no evidence to support it. When they had met by chance, the old man Pao had immediately claimed Sheng as his nephew, partly because of the coincidence of their family names but mostly because both were lonely men with no true family, and both of them had accepted this.
Seated at the huge round table, Sheng found himself shoveling down great quantities of food as everyone reached past him or handed him samples to try. This won his hosts over. The saying was that Chujirans would eat anything they could pin down and he was a typical Chujiran in that regard. Even though he had told everyone he had unfortunately been brought up in the very white wilderness of Nebraska, his gusto at eating everything from chicken feet to clotted duck blood soup brought him credit. He would have eaten dog if it had been offered; back in Chujir, he had done so a few times.
Nearly all of the people at that table were Chinese men middle-aged or older. The one exception to his left was a young woman with amazing glossy black hair hanging straight past her shoulder blades. Not only was she asking Sheng about his career as a private detective, she sat attentively listening to his responses. This was an endearing trait and he was becoming fond of her.
The final scraps were being scraped together. The excited and rather loud conversations slowed as digestion began to bog everyone down. It seemed clear that the gathering was drawing to a close. One by one and then in pairs, the men thanked their host and left the house.
In a cluster at the other side of the table were four octogenarians including Uncle Pao. They wiped their mouths with linen napkins and rose together, perhaps a bit stiffly. The master of the house, Yen Li, was a stout old man with both black hair and beard streaked with white strands. He was impeccably dressed in a lightweight tropical suit and tie. "Young Sheng, will you join your Uncle to the hospitality of my den?"
Standing up himself, seeing the nod of approval from Uncle Pao, Sheng replied, "It would be my honor." To be honest, he would rather have spent some time with that friendly girl. His romances had been spaced way too far apart to suit him. But all his instincts told him something big was underfoot, maybe a major case for his Fist For Hire Agency.
The four old men led Sheng and Pao to a room at the rear of the mansion. High-ceilinged, wood-paneled, its walls were filled with bookshelves broken by a few traditional scrolls or small bronze figurines. Comfortable overstuffed leather armchairs were arranged in a circle around a table holding a humidor, bottles of wine and gleamingly clean glasses.
As the elders settled gratefully into the comfort of those chairs, Yen Li gestured for Sheng to join them. Two of the old men selected cigars and puffed away for a few seconds before settling down. Yen Li unbuttoned his brocade vest with relief before speaking.
"I have known Sheng Pao-Wang only a few years," Yen began. "Yet I have learned he is a man of honor who harms no one and who is always ready to help those in need. A better friend can hardly be found."
"Stop, stop, I blush," Uncle Pao laughed.
"And he had told me many colorful tales of you, Sheng Mo-Yuan. Sometimes known to the whites as Argent. You are said to be a knight of Tel Shai, that ancient order whose origins are lost in time. Not only are you a Master of Kumundu, you are said to have the remarkable ability to make your body hard as rock, to increase your speed and strength beyond limits of what even Chi can enhance. But you can only enact one of these properties at a time. Have I been misled?"
Sitting upright at the edge of the plush chair, Sheng shrugged. "No, sir. All that is true. I have been given a gift for which I am most grateful."
"That is good to hear, since you may walk on a perilous road soon. My other friends here tonight have enjoyed long lives and survived hard times. We do not choose to go to the police with our problems. It is better to handle our troubles ourselves and let the outsiders remain unaware."
A few murmurs of agreement sounded from the three old men in the circle. The eldest there, with long silver hair and sunken cheeks spoke, "We represent the Chinese-American Benevolent Society of Lower Manhattan, young man. To be blunt, we are a Tong much like those founded nearly two hundred years ago in this country. Where the authorities will not help us, we help each other."
Sheng kept his face grave and hoped he would not say the wrong thing now.
Yen Li continued, "I must speak names better left unmentioned, names stained with many crimes and much wickedness. Wu Lung. The Manchurian. The Spinner of Webs. They have been quiet in recent years, perhaps occupied elsewhere or perhaps finally gone from this life. A new would-be threat has surfaced. We would wish to keep him from putting down roots in our community."
Uncle Pao spoke up for the first time. "My nephew is discreet. He will not volunteer information to the authorities. Secrets remain behind his teeth."
"So we had hoped," Yen Li admitted. "Young Sheng, you are said to be familiar with the many schools of assassins who trouble this unhappy world. One of the worst of these has been reported here, in our Chinatown. Have you ever heard," and even behind the closed door of his own den, he lowered his voice and leaned forward, "... have you ever heard of the Furious Buddha?"
( the rest of the story )
9/1/2018
I.
The second hour at the feast was about all that Sheng could handle. He was growing increasingly uncomfortable. His problem was that he looked Chinese, probably hailing from the North considering his cheekbones and eagle-beaked nose. He only spoke barely passable Cantonese and he was here with his Uncle Pao, who was so thoroughly Chinese that he couldn't be taken for anything else. So everyone spoke to him with puns and references that he had no clue about.
But in fact, Sheng Mo-Yuan had come from the adjacent realm of Chujir. Tel Shai lore claimed that Chujirans were the distant ancestors of what had become the Han people, though this had no evidence to support it. When they had met by chance, the old man Pao had immediately claimed Sheng as his nephew, partly because of the coincidence of their family names but mostly because both were lonely men with no true family, and both of them had accepted this.
Seated at the huge round table, Sheng found himself shoveling down great quantities of food as everyone reached past him or handed him samples to try. This won his hosts over. The saying was that Chujirans would eat anything they could pin down and he was a typical Chujiran in that regard. Even though he had told everyone he had unfortunately been brought up in the very white wilderness of Nebraska, his gusto at eating everything from chicken feet to clotted duck blood soup brought him credit. He would have eaten dog if it had been offered; back in Chujir, he had done so a few times.
Nearly all of the people at that table were Chinese men middle-aged or older. The one exception to his left was a young woman with amazing glossy black hair hanging straight past her shoulder blades. Not only was she asking Sheng about his career as a private detective, she sat attentively listening to his responses. This was an endearing trait and he was becoming fond of her.
The final scraps were being scraped together. The excited and rather loud conversations slowed as digestion began to bog everyone down. It seemed clear that the gathering was drawing to a close. One by one and then in pairs, the men thanked their host and left the house.
In a cluster at the other side of the table were four octogenarians including Uncle Pao. They wiped their mouths with linen napkins and rose together, perhaps a bit stiffly. The master of the house, Yen Li, was a stout old man with both black hair and beard streaked with white strands. He was impeccably dressed in a lightweight tropical suit and tie. "Young Sheng, will you join your Uncle to the hospitality of my den?"
Standing up himself, seeing the nod of approval from Uncle Pao, Sheng replied, "It would be my honor." To be honest, he would rather have spent some time with that friendly girl. His romances had been spaced way too far apart to suit him. But all his instincts told him something big was underfoot, maybe a major case for his Fist For Hire Agency.
The four old men led Sheng and Pao to a room at the rear of the mansion. High-ceilinged, wood-paneled, its walls were filled with bookshelves broken by a few traditional scrolls or small bronze figurines. Comfortable overstuffed leather armchairs were arranged in a circle around a table holding a humidor, bottles of wine and gleamingly clean glasses.
As the elders settled gratefully into the comfort of those chairs, Yen Li gestured for Sheng to join them. Two of the old men selected cigars and puffed away for a few seconds before settling down. Yen Li unbuttoned his brocade vest with relief before speaking.
"I have known Sheng Pao-Wang only a few years," Yen began. "Yet I have learned he is a man of honor who harms no one and who is always ready to help those in need. A better friend can hardly be found."
"Stop, stop, I blush," Uncle Pao laughed.
"And he had told me many colorful tales of you, Sheng Mo-Yuan. Sometimes known to the whites as Argent. You are said to be a knight of Tel Shai, that ancient order whose origins are lost in time. Not only are you a Master of Kumundu, you are said to have the remarkable ability to make your body hard as rock, to increase your speed and strength beyond limits of what even Chi can enhance. But you can only enact one of these properties at a time. Have I been misled?"
Sitting upright at the edge of the plush chair, Sheng shrugged. "No, sir. All that is true. I have been given a gift for which I am most grateful."
"That is good to hear, since you may walk on a perilous road soon. My other friends here tonight have enjoyed long lives and survived hard times. We do not choose to go to the police with our problems. It is better to handle our troubles ourselves and let the outsiders remain unaware."
A few murmurs of agreement sounded from the three old men in the circle. The eldest there, with long silver hair and sunken cheeks spoke, "We represent the Chinese-American Benevolent Society of Lower Manhattan, young man. To be blunt, we are a Tong much like those founded nearly two hundred years ago in this country. Where the authorities will not help us, we help each other."
Sheng kept his face grave and hoped he would not say the wrong thing now.
Yen Li continued, "I must speak names better left unmentioned, names stained with many crimes and much wickedness. Wu Lung. The Manchurian. The Spinner of Webs. They have been quiet in recent years, perhaps occupied elsewhere or perhaps finally gone from this life. A new would-be threat has surfaced. We would wish to keep him from putting down roots in our community."
Uncle Pao spoke up for the first time. "My nephew is discreet. He will not volunteer information to the authorities. Secrets remain behind his teeth."
"So we had hoped," Yen Li admitted. "Young Sheng, you are said to be familiar with the many schools of assassins who trouble this unhappy world. One of the worst of these has been reported here, in our Chinatown. Have you ever heard," and even behind the closed door of his own den, he lowered his voice and leaned forward, "... have you ever heard of the Furious Buddha?"
( the rest of the story )
