The Imperial Alchemist Page 7

  Mark remembers with clarity the morning he finally made his ascent: it was a sunny day, and he made it to the top of the bridge in under two hours. It was nowhere near the tallest thing he’d ever climbed, but standing at the top, with the breathtaking view of the Sydney Harbour sprawled out beneath him and the endless blue sky stretched above, he felt a familiar sense of exhilaration unfurl in his chest. It is the same feeling he experiences every time he has conquered something, a sensation he has actively sought out all his life.

  The recollection of its first occurrence is never far from his thoughts: this sense of warmth that starts at his sternum and spreads across his chest, sending sparks of electricity through his arms to his fingertips, and tingles down his spine until his entire body is buzzing with energy. At moments like this, he is hyper-aware of everything around him: the flutter of butterfly wings metres away from him, the smell of an apple from across the room, the thunder of his heart beating rhythmically in his chest. All of his senses become acutely amplified, and a complete and all-consuming sense of contentment envelops him. It is only in these infrequent moments that he can quell the tenacious and fretful hunger in his heart.

  Unfortunately, the experience never lasts, and then he is left with the ever-increasing desire to recapture it again.

  A childhood memory resurfaces in his mind, the threads of its web curling around him to transport him back in time. He was thirteen, lying in his bed in the darkened room he shared with his younger sister. Nola was already asleep, her soft breathing soothing in the background. Mark was about to drift into slumber himself when he heard the loud slamming of the front door, followed by belligerent bellowing resonating through the house.

  Father was back.

  The walls of this small, dilapidated home were thin, and Mark could hear every single drunken word of abuse his father was hurling at his mum. Then, after her lack of response, came the predictable sound of loud crashing as things were being thrown around, followed by his mother’s muffled screams as the bastard began to beat her.

  Mark entire body tensed, and despite his mother’s previous warnings, he felt the urge to go out there and do something. He’d listened to this gruesome routine day after day for as long as he could remember, and sometimes these episodes were followed by his father coming into his room to give him a good beating too. He could still feel the bruises in his ribs from last week’s encounter.

  Mark hated his father, and he hated himself more for not being able to do anything about the situation. His mother had asked him, countless times, to forgive his father for his negligent ways. He was a sick man, she’d explained, and only God and his loving family could help him heal from the evil that had possessed his mind. She told Mark his father was not always this way, that once he had been a kind and loving soul. She asked Mark to pray for his father, promising that God would one day deliver the man she knew back to their family again.

  Mark was already old enough to know his father’s behaviour wasn’t a matter of demonic possession. The man was just a sadistic animal who enjoyed beating up those who were weaker than him. But his mother had tearfully made him agree to never dodge his father’s fists or fight back, for she feared it would only aggravate the situation and Mark, being thirteen and half the size of his father, would only get hurt even more.

  Reluctantly, he had to comply. He could not stand it when his mother cried.

  The sound of his bedroom door being opened made him freeze, and he closed his eyes to pretend he was asleep, hoping that the arsehole would just leave him alone. His father walked over to his bed, and Mark could smell the foul, sour scent of alcohol on his breath as he brought his face near. Mark braced himself for the beating that was to come.

  But it never came.

  Instead, his father turned and walked over to Nola’s bed. Mark heard the creaking of the bed as the scumbag climbed in.

  What the fuck.

  He heard Nola’s confused voice as she woke up, and her muffled question as their father hushed her. When Mark heard her squeal in protest, he got out of his bed.

  He couldn’t see what his father was doing. The man had his back turned to Mark, and his large frame blocked Nola. But Mark knew exactly what was going on, and it sickened him to the stomach. He slipped his hand under his bed and found the wooden cricket bat he kept there, and quietly walked to Nola’s bed.

  Without a sound, he brought the bat up high, and swung it down on his father’s head with all his might.

  The man fell out of the bed with a yelp, falling to the floor on his back. Mark kept bringing the bat down, attacking with everything he had. His father was a huge man, and on his better days would tower over Mark with impressive strength, but the blow he’d already received to his head left him dazed. He screamed like a wounded dog when Mark brought the bat down on his crotch.

  “Mark, stop!” His mother was yelling at him. At some point during this assault she had come into the room, and she was trying to hold on to his arm, sobbing. “Stop! You’ll kill him!”

  He halted, looking at the man beneath him. Curled up on his side, whimpering and whining with hands protectively over the groin, his nose was bleeding, and he was blubbering like a child. Mark had never seen his father like this before. At that moment, the man was no longer the formidable bulky giant that was full of loud abuse and raining fists. He was reduced to a pitiful creature, crying at Mark’s feet.

  “Leave,” Mark spat at the older man.

  Mark’s father got up with some difficulty, and limped out the door.

  Mark felt a growing warmth build within his chest. It turned into electric tingles and sent sparks throughout his entire body. He smiled triumphantly, almost laughed out loud with exultation.

  That day, he learnt if he could defeat his hulking brute of a father, then there was nothing in this world he could not conquer.

  11

  The Captain announces over the intercom that they are now descending towards Taiwan Taoyuan International Airport, advising passengers to follow the usual landing procedures. Georgia looks out the window and sees the familiar lush, mountainous terrain of her favourite island.

  Also widely known as Formosa, meaning “beautiful island,” Taiwan has a complex history of colonisation by the Dutch, the Spaniards, the Han Chinese, and the Japanese. It was finally taken over by the Chinese Nationalists led by Chiang Kai-Shek in 1949, when the generalissimo lost the Chinese Civil War against Mao’s Communist Party. Since then, Taiwan’s national identity has been an ambiguous one, with tense cross-strait relations and each side claiming itself to be the ‘true China.’

  These days, with mainland China becoming a formidable economic power, the international political status of Taiwan has become greatly weakened, with many regarding its sovereignty as undetermined. China, of course, considers Taiwan as part of Chinese territory despite its independent government, and is quick to quash any statements that may suggest otherwise. Many believe it’s only a matter of time before the island is reabsorbed into Chinese rule, with or without the consent of the islanders.

  As the plane touches down, Georgia’s thoughts trail to her grandmother, and a strong sense of homecoming overcomes her. Within an hour, she exits the airport with her bags and climbs into a yellow taxi, directing the driver to head towards Tamsui, a seaside suburb on the outskirts of Taipei.

  Growing up, Amah was the centre of her world. It was Amah who packed her school lunch and walked her to and from school every day, and it was also Amah who made sure she did her homework before bedtime. Her grandmother played a vital role in shaping the person she is today.

  Though Georgia is a second-generation Taiwanese immigrant in Australia, her grandmother ensured their rich cultural heritage was passed down to her only grandchild. Amah’s pride for her ethnicity is truly infectious. Whilst Georgia’s other Australian-born Asian friends were brought up with English nursery rhymes and fairy tales, her bedtime routines were instead filled with stories of old China. Some of the tales were of A
mah’s family and life in China before she moved to Taiwan. Others told of great emperors and conquerors, philosophers, scholars, and poets. There were also, of course, legends of dragons, powerful sorcerers, zombies, and vengeful ghosts. As a child, the latter were her favourites. She loved a good scare and Amah loved to oblige, much to the chagrin of Georgia’s mother.

  Once, after story time had finished and still yearning to hear more, Georgia asked Amah if the people she spoke of existed in real life.

  “What do you think, my darling girl?” her grandmother said in Chinese. Amah always insisted, and still does now, that Georgia speak to her in her native tongue.

  “I think some are real and some aren’t… But which ones are true, Amah?”

  “Ah, I guess that’s for me to know and for you to find out.” Amah winked, kissing Georgia on the forehead and leaving her to ponder that question.

  Perhaps it was this prompting that led Georgia to a lifetime of pursuit, searching for relics from an ancient past that gives her a momentary glimpse into that magical world her grandmother once conjured. Somewhere in her subconscious, Georgia must have decided it a worthy challenge to take on, solving the puzzle that has plagued her since childhood. Amah was not raised as an educated woman, but Georgia discovered later that her grandmother indeed knows her history well.

  Now, as the taxi slows to a stop before Tamsui train station, Georgia’s heart swells with excitement at the thought of surprising her grandmother with her unannounced visit. Getting out of the car, she walks towards the apartment building her grandmother lives in, her mouth watering as a delicious scent envelops her from a street vendor selling grilled sausages.

  It’s good to be back.

  She finds herself wandering over to the stall, having decided to pick up some snacks to share with her grandmother. The grey-haired woman standing behind the food cart smiles warmly at her, greeting her in the local Taiwanese dialect. Turning the sausages on the grill with great patience, the elderly vendor chats to Georgia affectionately as if she has known the younger woman all her life. By the time Georgia enters the elevator of her grandmother’s apartment building ten minutes later, she has caught up on the latest neighbourhood gossip.

  As the lift crawls slowly up the building floor by floor, Georgia begins to worry that Amah may not be home. She is a busy woman, after all, far more sociable than her bookish granddaughter. But the door is answered a few seconds after Georgia rings the bell. Opening it by a crack, a tiny old woman peers out, hesitantly squinting her cloudy eyes at Georgia.

  “Amah,” Georgia exclaims in Chinese, “it’s me, Georgia! I’ve come to see you!”

  “Georgia!” Amah flings the door wide open, throwing her arms out for a tight hug. “What a nice surprise! What are you doing here? Have you had lunch? Aiya, why didn’t you tell me you were coming? How come you only packed such a small bag?”

  “Oh, it was a last minute decision. I was in Okinawa for work,” Georgia explains as Amah ushers her through the door and to the small settee. She looks around the tiny apartment, noticing that nothing has changed over the last three years. There is something nice about having some kind of consistency in your life. Amah has always been that for her, a reliable refuge no matter what was going on at the time.

  “Okinawa! Tell me all about it.” Amah busies herself in the small kitchen adjacent to the living room, making tea for both of them.

  Georgia watches the older woman frown at the label of the tea canister, and asks, “How’re your eyes?”

  “Oh, you know, not great. But I can still see fine.” Amah shrugs. “I’m just putting off the surgery for as long as I can.”

  Amah has cataracts, worsening her already poor vision from a head injury she’d sustained as a girl. Judging from the cloudiness of her eyes, Georgia worries her grandmother will struggle to get around on her own very soon.

  “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about my eyes,” Amah says at Georgia’s frown, giving a dismissive wave of her hand and insisting instead: “Tell me about Okinawa.”

  “Oh, I’d rather not, it was just work. Boring work.” Georgia pouts, resting her chin in her palms and feeling like a child again. She watches Amah lay out the tea and snacks on the coffee table, shuffling around her apartment with efficiency.

  “Boring? Work is never boring for you.” She settles on the settee next to Georgia, pouring some oolong tea into their cups. Then she looks up and down at Georgia, assessing her closely and clucking her tongue. “You look skinny. Are you not eating well?”

  Georgia rolls her eyes. Her grandmother is forever trying to fatten her up. “I’m eating fine, Amah, don’t worry.”

  Amah furrows her brows, shaking her head. Then she pats Georgia on the knee. “Tell me then, how is everything at home? Everything settled?”

  The corners of Georgia’s lips slant down as she tastes the scalding tea to stall for time. Sighing, she says, “We’re finalising the divorce next week.”

  “Hm.” Amah puts down her cup, looking at Georgia intently. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “No.” Georgia’s throat constricts as the fissure of her carefully patched heart threatens to crack open.

  Her marriage didn’t exactly fail out of spite or acrimony. If she is honest, a part of her still loves Lucas. But after Jacqui’s death, everything about him reminded her of their daughter: his soft brown eyes, the subtle cleft of his chin, the slight cock of his head when he was trying to figure out something that puzzled him. Over time, she found his presence unbearable because it was a constant reminder of what they had lost.

  She suspects Lucas would have seen ghosts of Jacqui in her too. Jacqui was in the silences that had become the norm in their home, a void pregnant with words that went unsaid. In the early days after Jacqui’s death, her little figure hovered at the edge of Georgia’s vision everywhere she went, the ghostly sounds of gurgling laughter ringing through the house as it used to. Georgia would find herself at the door to Jacqui’s room, the air heavy with the little girl’s absence, and her heart would collapse in on itself with grief.

  As the months passed, the chasm between her and Lucas grew wider, each of them nursing their own wounds, and being in the other’s presence brought a pain neither could face. Eventually Georgia felt the need to get away from the insistent reminder of the guilt that has plagued her since the day Jacqui was diagnosed: the guilt of not being able to save her, of giving her baby an incomplete heart, of remaining alive long past the death of her own daughter.

  Georgia shakes her head, trying to dispel the gravity of her thoughts. “Anyway, let’s not talk about Lucas.” She reaches for some of the snacks on the coffee table, eating her bad mood away. “Enough about me, what have you been up to these last few weeks since I talked to you? Why aren’t you out with your friends today?”

  Smiling, Amah launches into a lengthy update of her social life, which makes Georgia’s seem pathetic in comparison. Georgia is happy and relieved that her grandmother has such an extensive support network here. Her family were initially worried when Amah insisted on moving back to Taiwan after Georgia’s grandfather died, but Amah wasted no time in reconnecting with old friends and making new ones. Despite their physical distance, Georgia and Amah have remained close, making regular video calls to check in on each other.

  “So that’s everything I’ve been up to, and I’m too tired to go out today after all that!” Amah laughs, finishing her report cheerfully. She pauses, redirecting her attention on Georgia. “How’s everything going at the university right now?”

  Georgia shrugs, knowing Amah is going to keep asking about work no matter how many times she dodges the question. “Work’s been tough. Sarah and I spent two months on a scavenger hunt for money to keep this China dig afloat.”

  Amah frowns. “Is your job safe?”

  “Yes,” Georgia says reassuringly. “Yes, it’s fine. I’ve picked up some freelance work on the side. That’s why I was in Okinawa. But—well, it was just all dead ends really.”
/>
  “Really?” Amah raises her eyebrows, curious.

  Georgia sighs. “Yeah. I really shouldn’t have taken the job in the first place, but the offer was one I couldn’t turn down.”

  Amah pats her hand. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out, Georgia. You always do.”

  They drink their tea and chat idly about the hot weather. Georgia considers for a moment how much to tell her grandmother about her search. After some time she ventures tentatively: “Amah, do you remember the bedtime story you used to tell me about Emperor Qin and the elixir of life?”

  “Yes.” Amah smiles from the memory. “That was one of your favourites.”

  “And about Hsu Fu who was sent to find the elixir, but ended up in Japan?”

  “Ah yes.” Amah nods, her filmy eyes focusing on something imagined in the distance. She whispers, “The man with the green eyes.”

  Georgia gapes at her grandmother. “Green eyes?”

  “Yes, green eyes.”

  “You never told me that Hsu Fu had green eyes.” Georgia frowns.

  “I didn’t?” Amah returns the frown, oblivious to the importance of this tiny detail.

  “How do you know he had green eyes?” Georgia presses.

  “Well.” Amah clasps her hands together, staring at Georgia as her voice takes on a mysterious tone. “The legend is that Hsu Fu was the bastard son of a powerful witch. No one knew who the father was, or why Hsu Fu had such eerie jade-coloured eyes. Villagers suspected he didn’t have a father, that the witch had conjured her baby from another realm. That was why he was both feared and shunned for most of his life. But his unique gifts in healing and sorcery won him a place in the community and in Emperor Qin’s court.”

  Georgia shakes her head. For a moment she feels as if she is a little girl, listening to ghost stories again. “No, Amah, these are just tales of superstition. There’s no reference anywhere in history that says he had those features.”