corner, and found a dark sedan parked under the Red Dragon. As they approached she got out and, ignoring her uncle, said to Dillon in Cantonese, “Are you all right?”
“I am now.”
“I am sorry for my behavior.” She bowed. “I deserve punishment as my honorable uncle pointed out. Please forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Dillon told her and from the direction of the river a scream sounded.
She turned to her uncle. “What was that?”
“The little worm with the white hair, the one who shamed you before us, I told them to cut off his right ear.”
Su Yin’s face didn’t alter. “I thank you, Uncle.” She bowed again, then turned to Dillon. “You will come with us now, Mr. Dillon,” and this time she spoke in English.
“Girl dear, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said and got in the back of the car.
“If you have studied judo or karate you will have heard of kiai, the power that makes a man perform miracles of strength and force. Only the greatest of masters acquire this and only after years of training and discipline, both mental and physical.”
“Well you certainly have it,” Dillon said. “I can still see that steel bar bounce off your arm.”
He was immersed to his neck in a bath of water so hot that sweat ran down his face. Yuan Tao squatted against the wall in an old robe and peered at him through the steam.
Dillon carried on, “Once in Japan I was taken to see an old man of eighty, a Zen priest with arms like sticks. I think he might have weighed seven stone. He remained seated while two karate black belts repeatedly attacked him.”
“And?”
“He threw them effortlessly. I was told later that his power sprang from what they called the tanden , or second brain.”
“Which can only be developed by years of meditation. All this is a development of the ancient Chinese art of Shaolin Temple Boxing. It came from India in the sixth century with Zen Buddhism and was developed by the monks of Shaolin Temple in Hohan province.”
“Isn’t that a rough game for priests? I mean, I had an uncle, a Catholic priest, who taught me bareknuckle boxing as a boy and him a prize fighter as a younger man, but this . . .”
“We have a saying. A man avoids warfare only by being prepared for it. The monks learned that lesson. Centuries ago members of my family learned the art and passed it down. Over the centuries my ancestors fought evildoers on behalf of the poor, even the forces of the Emperor when necessary. We served our society.”
“Are you talking of the Triad Society here?” Dillon asked. “I thought they were simply a kind of Chinese version of the Mafia.”
“Like the Mafia, they started as secret societies to protect the poor against the rich landowners and like the Mafia they have become corrupted over the years, but not all.”
“I’ve read something about this,” Dillon said. “Are you telling me you are a Triad?”
“Like my forefathers before me I am a member of the Secret Breath, the oldest of all, founded in Hohan in the sixteenth century. Unlike others, my society has not been corrupted. I am a Shaolin monk, I also have business interests, there is nothing wrong in that, but I will stand aside for no man.”
“So all this and your fighting ability has been handed down?”
“Of course. There are many methods, many schools, but without ch’i they are nothing.”
“And what would that be?”
“A special energy. When accumulated just below the navel, it has an elemental force which is infinitely greater than physical force alone. It means that a fist is simply a focusing agent. There is no need for the tremendous punches used by Western boxers. I strike from only a few inches away, screwing my fist on impact. The result may be a ruptured spleen or broken bones.”
“I can believe that, but deflecting that steel bar with your arm. How do you do that?”
“Practice, Mr. Dillon, fifty years of practice.”
“I haven’t got
“I am now.”
“I am sorry for my behavior.” She bowed. “I deserve punishment as my honorable uncle pointed out. Please forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Dillon told her and from the direction of the river a scream sounded.
She turned to her uncle. “What was that?”
“The little worm with the white hair, the one who shamed you before us, I told them to cut off his right ear.”
Su Yin’s face didn’t alter. “I thank you, Uncle.” She bowed again, then turned to Dillon. “You will come with us now, Mr. Dillon,” and this time she spoke in English.
“Girl dear, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said and got in the back of the car.
“If you have studied judo or karate you will have heard of kiai, the power that makes a man perform miracles of strength and force. Only the greatest of masters acquire this and only after years of training and discipline, both mental and physical.”
“Well you certainly have it,” Dillon said. “I can still see that steel bar bounce off your arm.”
He was immersed to his neck in a bath of water so hot that sweat ran down his face. Yuan Tao squatted against the wall in an old robe and peered at him through the steam.
Dillon carried on, “Once in Japan I was taken to see an old man of eighty, a Zen priest with arms like sticks. I think he might have weighed seven stone. He remained seated while two karate black belts repeatedly attacked him.”
“And?”
“He threw them effortlessly. I was told later that his power sprang from what they called the tanden , or second brain.”
“Which can only be developed by years of meditation. All this is a development of the ancient Chinese art of Shaolin Temple Boxing. It came from India in the sixth century with Zen Buddhism and was developed by the monks of Shaolin Temple in Hohan province.”
“Isn’t that a rough game for priests? I mean, I had an uncle, a Catholic priest, who taught me bareknuckle boxing as a boy and him a prize fighter as a younger man, but this . . .”
“We have a saying. A man avoids warfare only by being prepared for it. The monks learned that lesson. Centuries ago members of my family learned the art and passed it down. Over the centuries my ancestors fought evildoers on behalf of the poor, even the forces of the Emperor when necessary. We served our society.”
“Are you talking of the Triad Society here?” Dillon asked. “I thought they were simply a kind of Chinese version of the Mafia.”
“Like the Mafia, they started as secret societies to protect the poor against the rich landowners and like the Mafia they have become corrupted over the years, but not all.”
“I’ve read something about this,” Dillon said. “Are you telling me you are a Triad?”
“Like my forefathers before me I am a member of the Secret Breath, the oldest of all, founded in Hohan in the sixteenth century. Unlike others, my society has not been corrupted. I am a Shaolin monk, I also have business interests, there is nothing wrong in that, but I will stand aside for no man.”
“So all this and your fighting ability has been handed down?”
“Of course. There are many methods, many schools, but without ch’i they are nothing.”
“And what would that be?”
“A special energy. When accumulated just below the navel, it has an elemental force which is infinitely greater than physical force alone. It means that a fist is simply a focusing agent. There is no need for the tremendous punches used by Western boxers. I strike from only a few inches away, screwing my fist on impact. The result may be a ruptured spleen or broken bones.”
“I can believe that, but deflecting that steel bar with your arm. How do you do that?”
“Practice, Mr. Dillon, fifty years of practice.”
“I haven’t got
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