Old Enemies in the Snow Part 1

The eighty-second winter of the Kunlun era, twelfth month.

Ming Buxiang had been at the Right View Hall for a little over a year.

After the Dragon Boat Festival, another mishap struck Shaolin Temple: a disciple of the Right Action Hall hanged himself.

The affair raised an uproar, much as the Bugui matter had, and just as quickly the Right Action Hall closed the case as "suspected suicide over an affair of the heart."

Juejian, the abbot of the Right Action Hall, seemed to find this contemptible. With a cold laugh he said, "That it was suicide, no one doubts. But where was there any affair of the heart?"

Those who knew the truth behind it sighed quietly to themselves.

There was another small matter: the Right Action Hall's head labor disciple had been replaced. Spotted Dog left Shaolin that month and took lodging at a temple in Buddha City, where he would wait out the year before returning to test his skills and claim his Hero's Warrant.

A labor disciple did nothing but the lowest work in the temple, and such a change was hardly worth remarking on.

Ming Buxiang swept and cleaned the Supernatural Power Vault, one month no different from the last. His life was the simplest thing. He chanted the sutras at sunrise, swept at dawn, returned to his room in the afternoon, borrowed one book every two days, and after the evening meal shut his door and rarely came or went. By rights, his was a room meant for two, but Liaoxin's disappearance was an unusual case, and besides, Abbot Juejian looked on the boy with favor and feared he might be dragged into the feud between Proper and Lay Monks — so Liaoxin's place had been left deliberately empty. Yet Juejian, it seemed, had worried for nothing. To all appearances, no one ever troubled Ming Buxiang.

Even Spotted Dog, who hated him most, never came to make trouble.

Beyond the daily three meals, Shaolin issued each disciple one set of clothes and one pair of cloth shoes a year, and four ounces of lamp oil a month. A labor disciple's monthly wage was only a hundred coppers, with a little extra for additional duties — though never much — and once his clothes wore out, or his oil ran low, or he needed anything else for daily life, he had to go down to Buddha City to buy it.

So nearly every month, Ming Buxiang made a trip to Buddha City.

Buddha City lay about five li from Shaolin Temple, reachable along the broad, newly rebuilt high road — a thoroughfare wide enough for eight carriages to ride abreast. Shaolin was not only the foremost of the Nine Great Houses but a holy ground of the faith, and on every great festival, especially the Buddha's birthday, pilgrims came in their thousands to bow before it, shoulder pressed to shoulder. To spare the temple's quiet, Shaolin arranged its various rites and observances to take place in Buddha City instead.

Even so, no small number of the faithful — some come to fulfill vows, some to pray for blessings — would prostrate themselves three times and kowtow nine on the high road itself, facing the distant Mahavira Hall. Wide as the road was, it still choked with bodies every Buddha's birthday.

The bustle of Buddha City stood in sharp contrast to the stillness of the temple. Here teahouses, taverns, inns, and shops crowded one against the next, and several thousand Shaolin disciples had made their homes in the city: lay disciples who had earned their Hero's Warrants but never taken the tonsure, householder residents who assisted with official business, and married Lay Monks. The Shaolin men who governed the affairs of the Zhengzhou region — Proper or Lay, householder or disciple — mostly lived in the southeastern corner of the city, a quarter known as the Nameless Temple. It was the very place where Ming Buxiang had lived as a boy with Liaoxin. For all his many trips to Buddha City, he had never once gone back to look.

That twelfth month, Mount Shaoshi was buried under several heavy snows. The sky hung gray and low, the north wind howled, and the heavens seemed to be brewing some fiercer storm still.

Before setting out, Ming Buxiang took a snow-coat from Liaoxin's wardrobe. He was at the age when bone lengthens and flesh fills in, shooting up fast, and the snow-coat Liaoxin had once bought him no longer fit; so he had pulled out its cotton wadding, stuffed it into his quilt, and taken to wearing Liaoxin's clothes instead. Liaoxin had not been tall, but he was thickset, and the padded coat hung loose on Ming Buxiang's frame.

Ming Buxiang lowered his head and breathed in the smell of the cloth, then pushed open the door. Fine snow still drifted outside. He took up a bamboo hat and set off into it.

The north wind struck his face. The mountain road lay deserted, as if he alone were braving the storm down the mountain — a storm that might at any moment turn savage.

The ever-burning lamp before the Buddha was about to go out. He meant to buy a wick.

Before long he reached Buddha City. Snow or no snow, the main street still saw plenty of people going to and fro. Ming Buxiang found a shop he knew and spent two coppers on a packet of wicks, tucking it inside his coat so the snow would not soak it.

On any ordinary day he would have turned for home then. But today Ming Buxiang took a turn instead and went to the Ganjiang Smithy.

The name of the Ganjiang Smithy was grander than its workmanship. It was nothing but a common smithy — a clumsy one, even — which of course also meant it was cheap.

Ming Buxiang made a circuit of the shop, which took only a few steps. The place was so small that, once you subtracted the racks of assorted weapons and the counter for settling accounts, there was barely room for two men to turn sideways past each other.

The smith's name was Yao, Yao Yunda, an outsider. He did not live in Buddha City — the rents were dear, and renting even this storefront strained him, never mind that business was slow. Seeing a customer enter, and a handsome youth at that, dressed in clothes that did not quite fit, he hurried over to greet him. "Looking for a weapon, young sir? A Precept Knife, a sword, a dagger, a Monk's Spade, a spear?"

Ming Buxiang ran his fingers lightly over the flat of a Precept Knife, his expression solemn, and asked, "I read in a book that a saber is poor for thrusting and a sword poor for hacking. Is that so?"

"It is," said Yao Yunda. The youth was so fine and gentle-mannered that no weapon in the shop seemed to suit his hand, and seeing how young he was, the smith picked out a short dagger that could be hidden in a sleeve. "Why not try this one, young hero? Good for self-defense — and out on the road, handy enough for splitting kindling or other odd jobs."

Ming Buxiang took it, weighed it in his hand, and said, "Too short, and too light. It can only cut and stab, and it chips easily."

"If you want something long, heavy, and good for striking, that would be the Monk's Spade. It can hack and thrust both — fell a tree thick as a bowl-rim in two or three strokes."

Ming Buxiang glanced at the Monk's Spade on its rack and shook his head. "Thank you, master. Let me think it over." With that he made a bow, courteous and respectful, and left the Ganjiang Smithy for the Chan Wind Teahouse across the way.

The Chan Wind Teahouse was neither the priciest nor the finest teahouse in Buddha City, but it was the largest. Shaolin held to the orthodox Chan school, and the monks under its sway far outnumbered those of any other house. The Hengshan Sect honored the Buddha too, but it mixed monks, Daoists, and laymen freely and did not require its disciples to take vows, so among the Nine Great Houses Shaolin's monks were still the most numerous.

Monks kept the precepts and abstained from wine, meat, and pungent foods, so teahouses serving vegetarian fare and tea had multiplied across Shaolin's territory. The Chan Wind Teahouse charged fair prices and was clean and plain, with no private rooms; its two floors held a full hundred and fifty-odd tables, and inside, naturally, it was loud with the din of voices.

When Ming Buxiang stepped in, the two rows of tables facing the door stood empty.

There were two reasons for this. One was that the seats facing the door caught a draft. The other was that the hall's left side mostly held lay disciples, and its right side mostly monks.

Ming Buxiang recognized several disciples of the Right Action and Right View Halls. The left was largely the Lay Monks' faction, the right the Proper Monks' line. As it happened, a good many in the room knew him, and his entrance drew their notice.

As if to draw it on purpose, Ming Buxiang stood in the doorway a good while, seeming to hesitate, and that only turned more eyes his way.

Left or right? Proper Monk or Lay?

In the end, Ming Buxiang chose a seat in the middle.

A few resentful glances came his way; so did a few approving nods, and a few looks of relief. At any rate, everyone went back to their own business, and no one paid him further mind.

Ming Buxiang ordered a pot of coarse tea and a dish of melon seeds.

He had been to the Chan Wind Teahouse before, back when the Right View Hall disciples were still on good terms. He and Bugui had both come. Since Bugui's death, this was his first time here — and the only one of that whole company to revisit the old haunt.

He passed over the seeds that were misshapen and might crack a tooth, choosing only the ones with clean, even shells, and set each empty husk flat on the table. Lost in thought, he carefully arranged the husks into a pattern.

It was a crooked, winding shape, something like a little ladle, something like a short dagger.

After a while Ming Buxiang noticed this had drawn other people's eyes, so he swept the arranged husks back into the small dish.

Then he noticed a man.

This man was about forty, with a sharp, narrow chin and a head of wild hair. Like Ming Buxiang, he sat alone at a table, seven or eight saucers stacked before him, stealing glances at the Ganjiang Smithy across the street — his gaze fixed there and never wandering far.

......

The man's name was Yin Sen. He had come to Mount Shaoshi not to worship the Buddha, nor to seek skill in arms, but to take revenge.

It had taken him twelve years to track down his enemy through one place after another. And the enemy was there, in the smithy across the street, plying his shoddy trade.

Of course it was shoddy — that half-baked craft of his, how could it turn out a decent weapon?

He turned his head, and his eyes met Ming Buxiang's.

Ming Buxiang gave a small smile — the polite kind meant to smooth over an awkward moment — and it was warm as sun melting drifted snow.

Yin Sen started, looked away, then peered sidelong at the youth again. Seeing Ming Buxiang absorbed in his tea, he decided it had only been chance and turned his gaze back to the smithy.

Winter days are short. Before long the smithy's owner gathered his things, set up the shutters, locked the door, and started up the mountain. Yin Sen hastily settled his bill, took up his sword, snatched his bamboo hat, and stole after him.

Yao Yunda walked up the mountain along the high road, seeming to head for Shaolin Temple; but soon he turned aside, cut through a stretch of woods, and climbed on by a narrow path.

The path was rugged — cliff face on the left, a sheer drop on the right, wide enough only for two abreast. A sudden gust nearly tore the hat from Yin Sen's head; he looked up, and a burst of driving snow lashed his face.

"Damn it — why now!" Yin Sen peered ahead. His enemy was walking faster now, plainly anxious to get home and out of the storm.

The snow had been expected, but it came down far harder than anyone could have guessed. Wind and snow swiftly buried the road and blotted out his sight, and Yin Sen had to close the gap to keep from losing his quarry. He hurried after — then his foot found nothing, and he nearly fell, throwing back his hips and twisting to barely catch himself. Lifting his eyes to the top of the cliff face, he saw snow heaped to the peak; should it slide, it would seal this path off entirely.

Walking through the snow was hard, the ground narrow and slick. Had he fallen just now, he might well have been dashed to pieces. Watching his enemy draw away, Yin Sen gritted his teeth, threw caution to the wind, and hugged the cliff face as he hurried on.

After another two li or so he made out a small cabin. Yao Yunda quickened his steps, pushed the door open, and went in. Light bloomed within. Yin Sen crouched outside and lifted a corner of the window to peer through.

The cabin was small, perhaps two rooms and a main hall, with firewood stacked by the door. Yao Yunda lit a brazier, took a little wine jug from a cupboard, and poured himself a small cup to warm up.

'Where's that little bitch?' Yin Sen wondered. 'Two rooms in this place — has he got a child now?'

He waited a while, but the one he wanted to see never appeared. The storm outside worsened, and he found himself shivering, afraid he would freeze solid before long.

No more putting it off. He began turning over how to strike. After some thought, he went to the door and knocked.

"Who's there?" the man inside asked.

"I'm a hall-monk of Shaolin Temple, out on an errand and caught in the storm." Yin Sen lowered his voice. "I beg shelter."

"Coming." Yao Yunda started for the door. Yin Sen gripped his sword fast, ready to strike the moment it opened.

"May I ask the master's dharma name?" Yao Yunda did not open at once, but asked the question warily. Yin Sen thought a moment and made up a name on the spot. "This humble monk is called Liaoming."

"Slide your Hero's Warrant under the door and let me see it," Yao Yunda said.

Yin Sen was caught off guard — he had not expected such care — and for a moment did not know how to answer. Yao Yunda asked again, and Yin Sen said quickly, "I'm only doing business nearby. I didn't bring my Warrant."

"Step up to the window and let me see you," Yao Yunda said.

Left no choice, Yin Sen faced the window and said, "All right. It's dark out — you'll need to come close to make me out."

Yao Yunda agreed. Seeing him reach the window, Yin Sen darted forward; the instant they came face to face, he thrust his sword through the window at Yao Yunda behind it.

The stroke split the window but was slowed by it, and Yao Yunda twisted aside to escape, losing his balance in the process. Fearing pursuit, he rolled twice along the floor to get clear of the window. Yin Sen kicked the window in, leaped into the cabin, raised his sword, and hacked down at Yao Yunda, roaring, "Die, you son of a whore!"

Yao Yunda had no weapon in hand and snatched up a stool to block. With a crack the sword lodged in the stool; Yao Yunda wrenched it hard, dragging Yin Sen off balance, and used the moment to scramble up and grab for a weapon.

Yin Sen pulled his sword free, and when he turned back Yao Yunda had already taken a saber down from the wall. Yin Sen rushed forward, driving a thrust at his enemy's back; Yao Yunda hastily raised the saber to parry, and Yin Sen at once drove a heart-piercing kick square into his chest.

Yao Yunda bore the pain and slashed down, the blade biting into Yin Sen's leg, and blood gushed at once. Heedless of the pain, Yin Sen brought out Wudang's Soft Cloud Swordplay. This was a high art of the Wudang Sect, prizing one thrust hard upon another, blow chasing blow in an unbroken stream. But Yin Sen's training was poor, each move walled off sharp from the last — clouds, perhaps, but scattered ones, broken into separate clumps.

Yao Yunda met each move as it came, parried a few, then brought down a Wudang stroke, Splitting Mountains and Rivers. This move prized raw ferocity, breaking the empty with the solid; land it cleanly and it could cleave a foe in two.

But Yao Yunda's own power fell short, and though the move was rightly made, Yin Sen slipped it. "Take it!" Yin Sen shouted, and his sword struck Yao Yunda full on the radius of the forearm, drawing a howl of pain. Yin Sen was about to press the attack when a sudden agony tore through him — the wound on his thigh, flaring. Yao Yunda seized the chance to kick out; Yin Sen flung up his arm to block, but in his haste failed to summon his inner force and was kicked into a roll across the floor before he could rise.

Yao Yunda dared not pursue either, and slumped against the wall, gasping. Yin Sen fell back to the doorway. The two glared at each other, teeth bared, every shred of their hatred laid plain in their eyes.

The wind drove in through the broken window, and the coals in the brazier burned all the fiercer.

Each weighed his own hurts. Two of Yao Yunda's ribs were broken, and his left hand had taken a sword-cut deep enough to show bone; from here on he would be at a disadvantage in any exchange. Yin Sen was no better off — the wound on his thigh poured blood and was sure to slow him.

Afraid Yao Yunda would flee, Yin Sen held the door close. The two glared, eyes all but spitting fire. After a long while came a sharp pop — the sound of a coal cracking in the heat — and both glanced reflexively at the brazier. And both went wide-eyed.

A handsome youth in an ill-fitting snow-coat had, at some unknown moment, come into the cabin, and now sat warming himself before the fire.

"Who are you?" Yao Yunda studied the youth and found him familiar; he remembered seeing him in the smithy that day, and wondered if the boy had come scouting. "You're his man?" he barked.

"I'm a Shaolin disciple. My name is Ming Buxiang." Ming Buxiang returned a mild smile, then added, "Out on an errand, and caught in the storm."

The reason he gave was word for word the same as Yin Sen's.

"This is no business of yours. Get out!" Yao Yunda snarled.

"The mountain path I came by is blocked with snow. I can't turn back, and there's no household nearby, so I've no choice but to stay a while. I beg your shelter." As he spoke, Ming Buxiang seemed not to notice the drawn weapons and bristling tension at all, warming his hands toasty over the fire, then leaning his face close and stroking it gently with his palms to warm that too.

By now the golden crow had sunk in the west, and the cabin was dark save for the brazier's glow. In the firelight Ming Buxiang looked finer and more comely still.

Yin Sen started at his words and said, half believing, "Don't lie! I just walked it — that path was fine!"

"It's true," Ming Buxiang said. "I came right behind you. The path really is buried in snow. Go and look, if you don't believe me."

Yin Sen's face fell at once. It had been a narrow path to begin with; with days of snow on it, and tonight's storm besides, it would be no surprise if it had truly been cut off. But if the only road out really was blocked, then how he would leave after his revenge became a thorny question.

"Why were you following me?" Yin Sen asked — for he placed the boy now too. "I saw you in the Chan Wind Teahouse!"

"You did," Ming Buxiang said, looking at him. "There were seven snack saucers on your table, all empty, so you'd clearly been there a long while. A man drinking tea alone, staring at the smith across the street — too suspicious." He looked back at the brazier. "I was curious, so I followed. I never expected that halfway up I'd hear a cracking sound, and when I turned, the path was buried in snow. No turning back, so I came on along."

"You're a Shaolin disciple — you've studied martial arts, then?" said Yao Yunda. "I know a fair number of the brothers. Which hall are you from?"

"The Right Action Hall." Ming Buxiang thought a moment, then added, "Or perhaps it should be the Right View Hall."

"I know Abbot Jueming! Help me kill this fellow, and I'll report it to Abbot Jueming and have you credited with a great merit!" Yao Yunda said eagerly.

"Horseshit! What grand personage would a worthless smith like you know?" said Yin Sen. "I've got five taels of silver on me. Help me kill him, and it's all yours!"

"I've got more silver than he does! Help me kill him and I'll give you ten taels!"

"Where would a poor wretch like you get ten taels? Ten taels of dog shit, more like!"

Back and forth they went, falling to cursing each other again.

"I came to wait out the storm," Ming Buxiang said. "I never thought of killing anyone." He looked at the fire and asked, "Aren't you two cold?"

The storm outside was raging now, the window broken, and cold wind and snow poured ceaselessly into the cabin. Both Yin Sen and Yao Yunda were feeling the chill, and the night was deepening — it would only grow colder.

Yin Sen, tucked behind the door, fared well enough, but Yao Yunda faced the window straight on, snow blowing into his face, and it was hard to bear. So, watchful as he moved, he edged over to a cupboard and nudged it a little to block some of the cold wind.

'Freeze to death for all I care,' Yin Sen thought.

'This can't go on,' Yao Yunda thought. 'He holds the door and won't let me out — am I to be trapped here and die?' His eyes drifted to the window despite himself.

Yin Sen caught his intent and felt a stab of alarm. If Yao Yunda slipped out the window, then with his wounded leg he would surely never catch him. Twelve years he had spent finding the man — how could he let him escape? He was casting about, finding no answer, when Ming Buxiang spoke again.

"Lucky your window's broken, or I'd never have known how to get in. Spend the night outside and I really would freeze to death."

Yao Yunda's heart jumped. 'This boy says the road's cut off — true or not, who knows. But if it's true, and I flee out this window, he need only hold the window, lock the door, and I can't get back in. In this killing cold, wouldn't I freeze to death out there?'

But he truly could not bear the cold, and could not help saying, "Little brother, can you think of some way to block up the window?"

A moment ago he had been counting on the window for escape; now, instead, he wanted it shut.

"Don't listen to him!" Yin Sen said quickly.

"You each have your own opinion. I don't know whose to follow," Ming Buxiang said. "Settle it between you, then tell me."

"It's my house — of course it's mine to say!" Yao Yunda said. "Shut the window, quick!"

Ming Buxiang looked at Yin Sen, who laughed aloud. "Don't mind him! Give it a bit longer and he'll freeze to death!"

The storm grew heavier, snow drifting into the cabin and wetting the floor, and before long the room turned colder still. Yao Yunda shivered all over, and Yin Sen too was suffering more and more, while only Ming Buxiang, warm by the fire, did not care in the least.

Yao Yunda reckoned that at this rate he would be the first to freeze. Suddenly he gave a great shout and slashed his saber at Yin Sen. Yin Sen swung his sword in counter. Knowing Yin Sen was hampered in his movements, Yao Yunda kept circling and skirmishing, until Yin Sen simply shrank into a corner and guarded it tight; unable to find an opening, Yao Yunda had to fall back again.

The exchange only set both their wounds to throbbing worse. Both understood now that if they truly fought it out to the death, the likeliest end was that both would die. A thought struck Yao Yunda; smiling, he walked over to Ming Buxiang and actually squatted down to warm himself, and Ming Buxiang did not stop him.

Yin Sen had not foreseen Yao Yunda going to warm himself at the fire, and was just raising his sword to go over when Yao Yunda at once lifted his saber on guard — and any move now meant another fight to mutual ruin. Yin Sen reckoned that if he retreated to his corner, he himself might well be the first to freeze tonight. He was wavering over whether to risk all on a desperate fight when Ming Buxiang suddenly said, "That firewood won't last long."

The words reminded Yin Sen, and he withdrew to his corner again — for the firewood lay there in the corner, and now it was his to guard.

With that the balance tipped once more: if Yao Yunda wanted the firewood, he would have to cross blades with Yin Sen. Yin Sen heaped the wood up, took his fire-starting kit from his coat — but the storm was too fierce, he had stowed it carelessly, and the tinder and flint had taken damp; try as he might, he could not strike a flame. Yao Yunda laughed aloud. "This is the will of Heaven! If you and I must freeze, then so be it! Better that than this — let's die together now!" And he raised his saber to advance again.

'Better to fight him to the death than freeze,' Yin Sen thought. He was about to meet him when Ming Buxiang suddenly said, "Not necessarily. Even freezing, there's always a first and a second."

The words reminded them both at once. 'I've got my back to the window,' Yin Sen thought, 'I'm not in the brunt of it the way they are. He's taken so much cold already — once my tinder dries I can make fire, and then I'll freeze him to death.'

But Yao Yunda thought: 'I'm warming myself here, recovering my strength, while he takes the cold. In damp like this, his tinder and flint may not dry even by dawn — he'll surely freeze first.'

Then another thought struck Yao Yunda, and he turned to Ming Buxiang. "Little brother, when the fire goes out, you'll freeze too. Why not join forces with me, kill this fellow, and once the storm passes I'll see you back to Shaolin."

"Your grudge is nothing to do with me," Ming Buxiang said. "I only came to borrow a place to wait out the storm. Help one of you kill the other — that I can never do."

"I'm master of this house," Yao Yunda said. "If you want shelter from the storm, you'll help me kill him. Otherwise, I'll throw you out."

"If you throw me out," Ming Buxiang said mildly, "I'll die the moment I leave this cabin, so I'll surely fight back. And the moment I fight back, that man will come to help me."

Yao Yunda saw the sense of it. The boy clearly knew some martial arts; he himself was wounded, and if pushed too hard the boy would join with Yin Sen instead, and then he stood no chance. "Without firewood," he said, "you'll freeze too."

"Perhaps," said Ming Buxiang. "But you two are wounded, and you've stood in the cold wind half the day — you'll bear it worse than I will. Once one of you is dead, things will be easier for me."

"Call yourself a Shaolin disciple," Yao Yunda raged, "with not a shred of mercy in you? You'd watch us die and not lift a hand!"

Ming Buxiang shook his head. "That's your own grudge. I'm only passing through. To help either of you would be wrong."

The fire dwindled and the cabin grew colder. Yao Yunda and Yin Sen shivered without cease, knowing they might well freeze to death — and with firewood right there before them, to freeze like this would be sheer folly.

"I'm getting cold," Ming Buxiang said. "Tell me — shall we shut the window or not?"

"I said shut it just now, and you wouldn't!" Yao Yunda raged.

"He didn't agree just now." Ming Buxiang looked at Yin Sen. "There are three people in this cabin. Without all of you agreeing, I can't shut the window."

Yin Sen dared not hold out now, and quickly said yes. Ming Buxiang pushed the cupboard up to the window and covered it over.

With the window shut, the storm stopped dead inside, only a faint cold draft slipping through the cracks, and the two men felt much warmer at once. The cabin was pitch black now but for the brazier's last glow; Ming Buxiang found two candles and lit them, and though the light was weak, it was at least a little brighter again.

Yin Sen and Yao Yunda stripped off their sodden outer robes. They had fought a spell, lost no little blood, and taken cold besides, and now found themselves hungry. Yao Yunda rose, opened the cupboard — it was full of steamed buns and flatbread and other dry provisions — took a piece of flatbread, and ate, paying the others no mind.

Ming Buxiang stood up too, walked over to him, and said, "I want half."

"Why should I give you any?" said Yao Yunda. He looked at Yin Sen. "If you're willing to help me, half of it is yours, no trouble at all."

Ming Buxiang shook his head. "I help no one. I ask only for a place out of the wind and snow. Anything not agreed by everyone in this cabin, I won't do." He turned to Yin Sen and asked, "Do you think he ought to give me half?"

Yin Sen laughed aloud. "Best you take it all!"

"Half is all I want," Ming Buxiang said. He looked back at Yao Yunda. "Now you're the only one against it."

Yao Yunda caught his meaning: if he did not give the boy half, the boy might side with Yin Sen against him. He had no choice but to hand over half the provisions.

Ming Buxiang took his half of the provisions and walked over to Yin Sen, who at once went on guard. "I want half this firewood too," Ming Buxiang said.

Seeing Yao Yunda's cold sneer, Yin Sen ground his teeth. "You'll share your fire-light with me, or you'll not have it though I die."

Ming Buxiang lit a candle, handed it to Yin Sen, and took away half the firewood.

He carried the brazier to a corner, heaped wood on the embers, and before long the fire blazed up again; then he sat before it to warm himself. When Yao Yunda made to come near for warmth, Ming Buxiang said, "This is my firewood — he gave it to me. If you want it, go to him."

Rage rose in Yao Yunda and he was about to move, but recalling Yin Sen watching like a tiger at his back, he only said, "What will it take for you to share a little?"

"Trade food for it," Ming Buxiang said. "Bring half your food and I'll give you half the firewood."

The storm still had not eased, and Yao Yunda was wet and cold; to hold out further might mean death by morning, so he traded half his food for firewood. Seeing that Yao Yunda now had both food and firewood, Yin Sen hurried to deal with Ming Buxiang too, trading half his firewood back for food.

Yao Yunda took the firewood and glared at Yin Sen; Yin Sen glared back; and so each kindled his own fire. Almost at the same instant, two fires rose in the cabin, and the two men, who had borne the cold half the day, felt as if reborn now in the warmth, and both let out a long breath.