Telling Tales

The Great Wall sits, a diadem, a brawn of an ancient brutality, an undying miracle. The moutains soar, their shadowed shoulders lolling from one jagged jade to another. The sky is seven-seas of blue, with wisps of clouds trailing low. The Wall, the Moutains, the Sky―three stanzas to a timeworn haiku; words are reduced to dust.

I ignore the tourists, and the barbed, apical clicks of cameras. I block off foreign voices and the rapid-fire delivery of tour guides. I lay a careful hand on the sun-drenched wall: the old stones are warmed and smooth, polished by the elements, and luminous with age.

'The majesty of history―how small it makes us!' Brother Yu―I've taken to calling him that, despite the fact that he's one of the journalists I'm hosting on this trip to China―bellows, his ruddy complexion glowing under the September sun. We are at the first watch-tower: here, at the northen section, the snaking lines of the wall dips into the deep bellies of the valleys, before diffusing up the steep, russet ridges.

'How much blood must have been spilled here,' I mumble, looking at the watch-towers and battle-forts that are dotting the wall, regular fixtures for the regularity of battle-deaths. I can almost see the sky: no longer blue, but a deep amber, a bloody sun for a bloody war. The ghostly orchestra: the clang of the weapons, metal on stones; the flap of the flags, wings of the troops, thrashing in the wind; the warring cries of the soldiers, jumbled voices of the Chinese, the Turks, the Mongolians, no longer human, but death-warriors programmed to kill; the sick, soft yielding of flesh to steel; the calligraphy of blood, splitting from veins like broken fabric.

'History is written by blood, my young friend,' Brother Yu says, the Chinese lilt to his voice lyrical and sagely. The sky is blue again.

'The country is broken, but the mountains remains,' I quote the opening line of a famous Tu Fu verse.

A satisfied smile break across Brother Yu's face. 'Spring comes to dress the grass with its deep green colours,' he continues.

'The flowers are drenched now with my tears,' I go on, his grin an infectious warmth.

'The farewell causing grief, too, to the birds. The battle-fire burns, a three-month reign, but nothing is worth more, than a letter sent from home.' We finish in unison.

'It's wonderful that a young girl like you can still recall Tu Fu. Very, very rare.' Brother Yu beams.

But rarer still is friendship forged quickly and naturally, and rarer still is that at 23, I think I've found someone to call my brother.