Unintended Cultivator

Lunch was a quiet affair. Uncle Kho was busy studying a scroll that had captured his full attention. He’d only stop reading to idly put some food in his mouth every once in a while. Feng was utterly concentrated on the meal. He seemed to make a point of thoroughly chewing every bite before swallowing. Sen only noticed these things in the back of his mind. The forefront of his thoughts was consumed with strange characters that seemed to twist or melt together as he tried to remember them. The longer it went on, the more certain he became that he’d never learn to read. If he didn’t, would the cultivators send him away? Would they kill him?

At that last thought, Sen shook his head. Neither of the old men had done anything to make him think they would kill him. It was just the stories. Perhaps other cultivators would kill him for failure, but Master Feng and Uncle Kho seemed wholly uninterested in killing for things they considered minor slights. In fact, that awful pill aside, both of them had shown him a great deal of kindness. It was then that Sen committed to learning what they would teach him. If he could learn to read, to write, to cook, he had a name now. He would always be street trash in Orchard’s reach, but he didn’t plan to go back there to stay. He could find work elsewhere. He could visit the sea. While that idea didn’t make the things that Uncle Kho had tried to teach him that day any less confusing, it did make the tasks ahead feel a little less impossible.

His heart a little more at peace, Sen followed Master Feng outside in the afternoon. Feng took on the same relaxed posture he always adopted when his mind was elsewhere. He looked Sen up and down and frowned a little.

“How old are you, Sen?”

“I don’t know, master.”

“No one to keep track and tell you, I suppose. Well, your best guess then.”

Sen thought hard. He had clear memories that went back perhaps ten years. That was how many winters he had survived with help from Grandmother Lu. Before that, though, it was just a haze. Had there been parents in that misty before time? A home? He didn’t think he’d ever learn the answers to those questions. Certainly, no one could remember his parents by the time he’d been old enough to think to ask. As for his age, he only had his size and the sizes of other boys to go by.

Sen shrugged one shoulder. “Fourteen or fifteen, maybe.”

Feng nodded as though that was what he thought as well. “This training normally starts at a much earlier age.”

“Master?”

“I mean that you’re starting late. I’ll expect you to work three times as hard to make up the lost time.”

“I will,” said Sen, bowing deeply.

“That’s the first thing we need to fix. That’s how you bow to someone who’s of a higher station than you. It’s not how you bow to other warriors or martial instructors. For them, it’s like this.”

Feng pressed his closed fists together and bent forward slightly. Sen mimicked the motion. Feng snorted.

“Did I do it wrong?” Asked Sen.

“No, but you should bow more deeply to your teachers and those with more training or experience.”

“I’ll remember.”

“Good. Now, show me how you punch.”

Sen hesitated for a second, looking around for something to punch at. “What should I punch, Master?”

“Me, Sen. You should try to punch me. I promise you won’t hurt me.”

Sen hesitated again but decided that Master Feng probably knew better than he did about all of this. Sen drew back his fist and swung at Master Feng. Feng batted the blow aside with no effort. He frowned again, which made Sen a little nervous.

“Now,” said Feng, “kick me.”

Seng lashed out with a foot, only to have it redirected by one of Feng’s feet. Sen waited for some comment. Instead, Feng did a slow walk around him, weighing, considering, and finally deciding.

“Well, at least I know what I’m working with here. You don’t know how to throw a punch or how to kick, but nobody did a lousy job of teaching you a half-right form either.”

“Is that good?” Sen asked.

“It’s not good that you don’t know how to punch or kick. It is good that you didn’t train the wrong things. That means you won’t have to unlearn anything. It’s a much easier process if you learn it right the first time. So, first things first, you need a proper stance.”

Sen spent an excruciating afternoon contorting his body into what Master Feng called a proper stance. He had to spread his legs out wide, then bend his knees, all while keeping his back straight. It felt wrong, unnatural, and very uncomfortable. Master Feng made him get into the stance over and over again. Each time, he’d correct whatever minor errors he found in Sen’s posture. Once Sen finally managed to take the stance correctly, Master Feng had him simply hold it. As difficult as he found the process, Sen found himself very annoyed with the ghost panther. It lounged in the courtyard, soaking up the afternoon sun and watching him work. When it got to the point that Sen was drenched in sweat and ready to collapse, Feng said they were done with that for the day. Feng let Sen drink a little water before he pointed to the gate.

“Run around the walls thirty times, then get cleaned up. It should be time for food by then.”

Sen could barely stand, but the stern look that Master Feng gave him brooked no arguments. He stumbled out the gate and began running. The ghost panther seemed to find this interesting and padded along beside him as Sen made his overworked legs carry him around the walls of the enormous manor. After fifteen times around the walls, Sen started to slow down. The big cat looked back at him with eyes that seemed very judgmental.

“Hey,” he wheezed. “You laid around all afternoon while I worked. You don’t get to judge.”

The cat just picked up its pace a little, as if to mock Sen.

“I hate you,” he called after the feline.

After doing the full thirty loops, Sen stumbled into the manor, found some clean clothes to put on, and stumbled back out to the small bathhouse. It seemed that a touch of pity lived inside Master Feng because Sen found a tub of hot water waiting for him. The boy sniffed at the water. Master Feng had added something to it, something with the telltale scent of medicine. That made Sen’s heart race a little. He put a hand in the water and braced himself, but nothing terrible happened. Heaving a sigh of relief, Sen lowered himself into the bath and soaked for a while. His tired mind drifted for a while, but angry noises from his stomach brought him back to reality. He slowly scrubbed himself off and dressed. It took a lot to convince himself, but Sen dragged the tub out of the gate and emptied it.

When he made it back into the house, he was overjoyed to see that there was food and lots of it. Master Feng and Uncle Kho chatted throughout the meal, but Sen didn’t hear a word of it. He ate and ate until his stomach stopped screaming at him to give it more. Then, he sat in a half-doze, only rousing himself to drink more tea whenever Feng or Kho refilled his cup. All he could think about was sleep. He was so tired. At least he could go straight to bed after they cleaned up. Yet, as he started off toward his room, Uncle Kho called after him.

“Don’t forget to practice.”

Sen wanted to cry. His body ached for sleep. His mind was exhausted from the morning’s lesson. He reminded himself, several times, that this was how he got a better life for himself. He went into his room, pulled out the paper and ink, and started to practice.

That became Sen’s routine. He spent mornings learning the basics of reading. He spent afternoons with Master Feng. He spent his evenings trying to not to fall asleep on his writing practice. It didn’t always work. He spent more than one day with ink stains on his cheeks. Of course, the days weren’t identical. After a time, he did begin to learn the characters and how they combined. Uncle Kho would give Sen the day off from reading, occasionally, and teach him how to cook something. Sen learned to make rice porridge. He learned to steam vegetables. He even learned how to make noodles. By mid-winter, he still couldn’t make a full meal on his own, but he could be helpful. Uncle Kho had kept his promise that he’d teach Sen enough that he wouldn’t starve if left to his own devices. He might not eat well if he cooked for himself, but he would eat.

Master Feng didn’t keep him in that stance forever. He showed Sen how to throw a basic punch, followed by countless practice punches. Then, there was a kick, followed by countless practice kicks. Then, there were blocks. Eventually, Master Feng put them into a set pattern, and that became a new torment. Just when Sen thought he had a handle on that, the process started over with new punches, kicks, blocks, and merciless stretching exercises that taxed Sen’s entire body. Always, though, always there was the running. Sen ran in the summer heat, then in the autumn chill, and then he ran through the snow. The ghost panther always accompanied him while he ran, ever just ahead, ever out of reach, and ever spurring Sen on to greater speed and iron endurance.